Honey Trapping

It was a Zevon moment. I've had lots of these. Nothing to do with Werewolves, in London or elsewhere. No, the song was, as usual, 'Lawyers, Guns and Money'. Never been to Havana, but I have been home with the waitress. How was I to know, she was with the Russians too? Or the Stasi, or a shady Egyptian unit, or a Croat or Serbian non-governmental freelance consultancy? But she must have been. They invariably were. Even for the tiny cog that I was in the infernal machine that stretched through Berlin, the Middle East and Cyprus.

The biggest surprise is none of the photos have ever wound up on the internet. I flatter myself my reputation would have soared in certain circles. Perhaps that is vanity, or alcohol-tinted hindsight.

Anyway, this particular time, Veruschka, Valie or Bilharzia and I left the Crazy Parrot in Limassol in the later hours of the night when the streetlights were out because the sun was up. The flat was in a side-street, off Makarios. Far enough from the port to dispense with a sea-view of the tankers and the Russian destroyer. As it turned out, there's no need to spare you the details. I left her with the last of my Cypriot money when I saw the boy who answered the door.