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There is a great divide, updated 26 Oct

Lifted without permission from The Polish Soldier.

1939. Poland.

The following day Milja went  to a certain telephone booth, opened the directory to a prearranged page, underlined a word on the second line, which set the rendezvous two days in the future, circled a word on the eighteenth line: 6:00 p.m.; and crossed through the twenty-second letter: 6:22 p.m.

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~~

There is a great divide between those who have read these authors …

Eric Ambler. Somerset Maugham. Geoffey Household. Joseph Conrad ..

and these ..

Grahame Green. John le Carre. Anna Funder. Chapman Pincher. Michael Gilbert ..

and these ..

John Banville. Robert Littell. Len Deighton. Erskine Childers. Martin Cruz Smith ..

and these ..

Peter Fleming. Charles Cumming. Mick Herron. Ben Macintyre. John Buchan ..

and these.

Leo Marks. Rudyard Kipling. Arthur Koestler. Fitzroy Maclean. Alan Furst. Francis Younghusband. Alexander Solzhenitsyn.

And those who have not.

Reading these authors’ works takes away years of your life. Some have used espionage as a theme in all their novels, others not so. Nevertheless their books have been found out, sought out, bought and read.

Kept.

In some cases read again. And again. Relevance being such an elusive substance.

Grimy, stained soft and hard-covers stacked on the damp concrete of an underground book depository in a Chinatown Sydney backstreet. The manager perched on a high chair and lit by a solitary globe in the middle of his gloomy book-lined tunnels, plunking entries on a computer with a keyboard so grimed the characters are unreadable and who barely looks up as he takes your money

No mind.

Treasure is to he who finds it.

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