condensed master

The Reluctant Agent
A Compelling Story of Espionage
walked across the harbour front into the town.
He had an hour to spare, so he made his way into the centre to look through
the bazaar. These foreign ports were notorious for pick-pocketing, just about
everyone you knew had been "relieved" of something at one time or another. His
hand, which had been constantly in his pocket since leaving Port Said, gripped the
package more firmly. It would be a disaster to lose it at this critical time.
The activity in the bazaar had subsided somewhat, as was customary in the
middle of the day when the sun was as it's highest. It would start to spring to life
again around 4 or 5 p.m. getting busier during the cooler part of the evening. In
contrast to the dull austerity of wartime Britain, the bazaars had a distinct carnival
atmosphere.
Will looked at his watch. He had better get started, although it was only a few
minutes walk to the town square where he would get transport up to the Queen
of Sheba's Wells. There would be plenty of gharrys' - an open horse drawn landau
type of vehicle, which were popular with the tourists.
As he rounded the corner he was not disappointed, they were all lined up
around the square, ready for him to take his pick. As he approached, the usual
fight broke out between the drivers to get his business, and he had prepared
himself to be pulled and pushed in all directions until a particular driver won out.
With a wide beaming smile showing his stained and decaying teeth, the winner
bowed and with a sweeping gesture of his arm, like an actor on the stage taking
his final curtain, he directed Will into the well worn leather upholstered seat,
adorned with faded seat cushions.
Will sat precariously on the edge of the seat, trying not to make too much
body contact with the cushions, thereby giving the fleas the opportunity of a new
host, but the possibility of surviving even this short journey without picking one up,
would be a miracle.
By now, the heat was practically unbearable, the sweat was running in rivulets
down his body and legs, causing the dust thrown up by the movement of the
carriage to adhere to his skin and clothing. He was beginning to feel dirty and
bedraggled, and for this reason had not dressed in his usual shore going tropical
whites, but instead had remained in his work clothes.
He was still gripping the package in his trouser pocket which was now
saturated with sweat. Reluctantly, he transferred it to his shirt pocket. It would not
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