The Spy by Marc Eden

pose that more closely resembled a group of women confiding things of tremendous importance to each other. Sinclair, who didn’t get it, turned the page.
    One of the models, forwarded from the fountain, had the next advert all to himself. Crotch cradled in Plato Pink, standing with his open palm thrusting forth like Apollo, blazing blond hair carefully crimped, he was reading a book. Unseen by this Greek god, a unicorn was galloping towards him, head down with horn pointing straight at his Plato.
    â€œClassic Hit,” the caption read.
    Long underwear followed.
    â€œSnow-jobs in Satin,” it began. Sinclair didn’t wait. She jumped straight ahead, bypassing the explorer who was showing off his shorts in Igloo White to a roaring polar bear, not stopping until she reached the accessories section near the rear of the catalogue. Bedecked with wall plaques, it was appropriately entitled “Athletic Supporters of the Crown.”
    While the jock straps from their latest Safari line, in limited lots of Lavender Lizard and Casablanca Crimson certainly seemed practical—attached as they were to those billybags in Badger Blue and Rhinoceros Red—it was the two-page spread at the end, The Tarzan, in which no expense had been spared, that was causing her consternation.
    Suffragette, she didn’t have to take it!
    It was the same model who had flopped on the fountain, who had survived the unicorn, and who was now wearing a wig. Just because three bull elephants were turning up their noses at his Jade de Jane undies didn’t give him any right to swing across that pond of crocodiles, using a python for a vine, while grabbing by the throat that poor defenseless lady chimp—who up to that time had obviously been cackling contentedly, and understandably so, in her own pair of Junior Jungle Jim Jockies, the poor dear having done her best to decide between these and the Daring Dan Diapers, in Small, Medium, and Large at manufacturer’s close-out prices.
    While supplies lasted.
    Valerie was calculating on her fingers: a dozen assorted, less discount? She would have to place her order soon. Satisfied with her figures, finished with the catalogue, and rolling it up, Valerie leaned forward and stuffed it into the side of the seat across from her. She was feeling new zip in her thoughts. Her heart thumped with mystery, in tune with the bouncing of the train. Having memorized prices and stock numbers, she had photographed the address: Loincloths of Liverpool.
    Why not? Mr. Loincloth’s creations couldn’t look any worse on her than those issued by her own government, the representative of whom would be meeting her train in Falmouth. Valerie Sinclair got up and went to the ladies’ room, returning to enter into a series of energetic push-ups, pitting herself against the movements of the floor. The floor winning, she curled back up into the seat, resigned to her comer and staring out the window.
    The girl browsed through the paper, then snoozed for awhile. The express, having pulled out of Bournemouth, was soon flying down the tracks again, fighting its way across the glorious countryside of Poole. Weymouth Harbor had passed behind her to her left. The channel, refracting light, was coming up. Awakened by the banging of the cars, Valerie glanced out the window, looked at her watch, and yawned. Ahead of her, the sun was running forward on the line, and she could see the locomotive. The train was slowing. She opened her compact to do her face. Bruises ... Gathering her gear, she opened the door and entered the aisle.
    FALMOUTH.
    The Commander was waiting downtrain when Sinclair stepped out onto the platform. Back from Downing Street, she suspected, he appeared to be trim and rested. She recalled the part played by Leslie Howard, whom she adored, and those famous lines from The Scarlet Pimpernel : “Is he in heaven, or is he in hell, that damned elusive Pimpernel?”
    She hastened to meet