There is a key scene towards the end of every spy film. The hero-outsider figure, on the run from a corrupt secret service cell (or similar), meets an old contact from inside the organisation, perhaps a bookish ally with a stammer, to share key information and have a wistful exchange in a scenic plaza.
Some terse dialogue happens. Hero-outsider starts to realise something. But too late. Bookish Ally looks sadly into the distance as a squadron of goons fan out from behind the balustrade. The undercover spook at the pavement cafe raises a pistol behind his newspaper. And it becomes clear the game is now up for hero-outsider who must, if American, shout goddammit and say something about the programme; or, if British, put on a noble, pitying smile before being cudgelled on the back of the head, caught by the elbows as his knees crumple, and bundled into the back of a brown Mercedes saloon.
