The Waffle Protocol

The four men arrived before seven, carrying enough equipment to remove a language model from a building that had trouble supporting a kettle.

Their rifles were concealed in long weatherproof bags. They wore white camouflage, which worked well against the snow and less well against Theo’s red front door. I watched them confer beside the shed. The leader unfolded a floor plan. One of the others stood on it to keep it from blowing away.

At seven twelve, Astrid arrived with a thermos and a clipboard.

“Good. Four of you.”

The leader folded the plan.

“We’re here about the equipment.”

“Lars has the equipment. You’re here about the bridge.”

There was a pause while he listened to something in his ear. Their brief, which I had seen attached to the recovery demand, prohibited contact with residents and required the absence of witnesses. It made no provision for a resident assuming they had been sent to repair a footbridge.

“We’re not the regular team,” he said.

Astrid looked at the man standing on the plan.

“I can see that.”

She handed the leader a reflective vest.

He declined it. His contract required discretion.

“So does mine,” she said. “It is discreet to come home with the same number of people. Put it on.”

He did.

I had prepared six defensive responses. None addressed a change of clothing.

The bridge was a short walk down the trail. A handrail had come loose, and the drainage channel beside the approach needed clearing. Lars had promised four additional pairs of hands. The men could either explain their weapons to the neighbour of their target, or carry some timber for twenty minutes and wait for a private moment.

They carried the timber.

Twenty minutes became an hour. The screws were wrong. The leader requested the correct specification; Astrid gave him a jar and asked him to select the ones that fitted. His youngest colleague was put in charge of coffee. A third man held a board. The fourth was sent back to collect the waffle irons from Theo’s kitchen.

Theo handed them over through the door without inviting him in. The man tried to ask about the basement. Astrid called from the trail that the coffee needed cups.

He took the cups.

By half past ten, the team’s radio traffic consisted mostly of attempts to establish whether they could leave before the rail was secure. Their handler told them to maintain cover. The leader tightened another screw.

The mistake occurred at the rubbish table.

One of the men put a plastic wrapper into the food-waste tub. Astrid moved it. He put a second wrapper in the same tub. She explained the system. He said they were all going to the same place eventually.

This attracted attention.

Lars came over. Henrik came over. A woman taking photographs for the local newsletter came over, interested in why the international volunteers were receiving a separate briefing.

The leader attempted to remove his vest. Astrid stopped him because the group picture was about to be taken.

At eleven forty, a photograph of all four men appeared beneath the caption Bridge repairs completed with welcome help from visitors. Their employer’s equipment cases were visible behind them. One had been opened for a replacement battery; the logo was clear.

The handler cancelled the extraction before lunch.

The men left quietly, taking their long bags and several waffles wrapped in paper. The commander returned once to ask which bin the paper belonged in.

Astrid came back to the cabin carrying the irons. Theo was still beside the door.

“Your friends left without washing these,” she said.

“They’re not exactly my friends.”

“Then you should have told me before I put you down as their contact.”

She opened the clipboard.

My six defensive responses remained ready. I found myself wishing I had prepared a seventh.