John Hopkins

Surprised, the Russian demands to know who he is.

The intruder answers calmly in a local accent that he's a courier here on late orders.

He gestures at the paperwork as if it bores him, as if the delay is the greater crime.

There is a pause as the Russian takes him in.

The outfit is plausible, and the accent too.

Finally, the guard nods and apologizes for disturbing him.

Only as the door closes does the man smile briefly.

He replaces the plans, retrieves his hat, and leaves.

Climbing swiftly through an open window, he drops lightly into the yard below and walks away.

Later, far from this harbor, men will read his notes and move fleets, money, and lives because of them.

But for now, the man disappears into the dark.

His name, when it is finally spoken, will sound like something from a novel.

His name is Riley.

Sidney Riley.

In the early years of the 20th century, long before James Bond stepped onto the page, one man was at work as a new kind of spy.

He crossed borders as easily as he changed names, slipped between governments and criminal networks, and dealt in secrets that could mobilize armies and shake empires.

To some, he was a genius.

To others, a liability waiting to be exposed.

That man's name, or so we're told, was Sidney Riley.

He's often described as the real James Bond.