THE CITRUS AFFAIR
A bitter-sweet tale of hi-tech espionage.

By Tom Shakespeare and Ian Parker

Chapter Ten

As Keith Stilton and Clementine Williams were putting their careers as international secret service agents back together again, leaving the cats behind, and stopping off for some restorative hair-dressing on the way, members of International Deaf Power were trying fruitlessly to contact Dr Yes. They'd heard the explosion, of course - who hadn't - but they were in the dark as to the dastardly doctor's devilish plan, or indeed his whereabouts. Eventually, GG and Prune - the renegade KGB agent, former Russian mafia mole, and erstwhile international terrorist - met back in the back room at Club Whiplash. In the red velour bar and cabaret area, men in mackintoshes with sexual domination fantasies were indistinguishable from other men in mackintoshes with world domination fantasies. Any one of them could have been Dr Yes himself, the international man of mystery and disguise.

"We've received a cryptic message to meet Yes and his thugs in a London Underground station" signed GG.

"The sick bastard", replied Prune, her arthritic fingers moving with surprising freedom, "he knows that disabled people can't follow him there."

"We've got no choice, Hildegard, this is no time for political correctness."

"You're right. And at least we'll avoid that cursed meddler, Orange. I thought we'd dealt with him years ago, and here he comes, nearly derailing all our plans".

"But we've got to get to Yes first. And if anybody else tries to join the party, weıll have no choice but to rub them out" signed GG, sliding the Klob automatic from the pocket of his leather trench coat. He didn't bother with silencers.

The Prime Minister had too much on his plate. The crazy beef thing was still rumbling on, and threatening to blow European cooperation out of the water. Then there was the whole pregnancy business. Okay, when Alastair Campbell had suggested the Blair Baby Project, he and Cherie had thought it was a great plan: it would be like Labour's Falklands War - just as the anti-New Labour backlash started, out would pop a gurgling kid in Downing Street to get the public back on their side.

But what if the baby had something wrong with it? They were both pretty old to be playing mummies and daddies, and the whole screening dilemma was more than he could cope with, particularly with all the Catholic thing too.

And now, there was gRIN. He strongly suspected that bloody Hague was behind it. There had been far too many jokes in his response to the Queen's Speech. Okay, everyone knew that Bob Monkhouse was a Tory, and probably feeding lines to the leader, but Hague's one-liners were of a much better vintage than that. And then there was the whole Archer fiasco. It all looked pretty fishy from where the Prime Minister was sitting, ruminatively picking out the chords to "Stairway to Heaven" on his guitar.

The ringing mobile phone caused Keith Stilton to duck his head from under the hairdryer and let his copy of Elle Decoration fall to the floor.

"Hello?"

"Orange. L here. P's boys have just managed to hack into Dr Yes's Hotmail account at long last. Apparently, he's meeting up with the International Deaf Power gang tonight. In Mornington Crescent Tube Station. You've got to get there and stop them. Use any means necessary to get the distillate back, or we're all toast by the morning. You understand? Come up with the results for us, and we'll get you a cushy number in HQ. Otherwise, you're stuck in Stanton Street for the rest of the days, and there'll be no cute CIA girls to massage your deltoids either, dıyou hear me?"

"Loud and clear, L, loud and clear. We're going to work." Stilton turned to his accomplice:

"You know the one about Jesus Christ and London Underground?"

"I'm sorry, I haven't a clue, Keith..."

"Me neither, girl, me neither... but we're going back in. And this time, it's serious."

CHAPTER ELEVEN