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

By (in the end as in the beginning) : Tom Shakespeare and Ian Parker

Chapter Twelve

As they burst into the tube station, ploughing through the rubble courtesy of the wheelchair ram, Stilton, Peel and Clementine were shocked to see three vaguely familiar figures haranguing each other on the platform, oblivious to the devestation around them, and the comatose audience. They caught fragments of the argument - "Private Finance Initiative", "Manifesto commitment", "democratic rights of Londoners" - and ducked, as the worried looking man with the white beard flung an immense pile of address labels at the other man with the genially wicked smile, as the third figure, a woman, strode down the platform declaiming as if she was on stage at the RSC. Clementine was confused and turned to Peel.

"Don't worry, Agent C. It looks like a husting for the Labour mayoral race. There must have been a slight leakage of gRIN. Let's get out of here!"

The three intrepid and well-coiffeured secret agents sped on their way, clinging on to Stilton's chair for dear life, as they followed the new tunnel which had been blasted through London's subterranean infrastructure. What a triumph for private enterprise, thought Stilton, wondering who would pay the repair bill. Probably not John Prescott. Perhaps it would be an opportunity to put some accessible lifts and ramps into this antiquated system.

Ahead they could hear intermittent snatches of maniacal laughter. Just as they were beginning to become concerned about the battery packs running dry, they saw the light at the end of the tunnel. It was worse than they could possibly imagine. As they emerged from the darkness into a cavernous hall, they knew that they had found Dr Yes’ lair, the command-centre of his nefarious international operation. Peel punched some coordinates into his palm-top computer, and sent out a mayday to the FRANTIC operatives waiting far above, at ground level. Outnumbered, without weapons, they needed back-up. But the danger was that they were already too late.

Beyond it, oblivious to their presence, the tall silhouette of Dr Yes, accompanied by his glamorous accomplice, and with them two figures gesticulating angrily. Obviously, the deal wasn't working out to someone's liking.

"We need a plan", whispered Orange, and rumaged in the holdall slung under his chair. He pulled out a can of hairspray and handed it to Clementine.

"And what exactly are you trying to imply?" retorted the American. Orange explained his idea. Peel nodded in agreement, and, sinking to his knees, crawled off between the rows of computer consoles and scanning devices towards the main entrance. As Clementine also disappeared from sight, Orange counted silently to fifty, grateful that he had at least learned something worthwhile in special school. Finally, tremulously, he stabbed the power switch, and moved forward, his wheels gliding silently over the parquet flooring.

The International Deaf Power activists couldn't hear him coming, and Dr Yes and Eva Brick were looking the other way. So, for once, surprise was on Stilton's side, as he switched on his loudhailer, having ensured that it was on ventriloquist mode:

"Stop right there please! We have you surrounded!" Okay, the Sweeney would have been less polite, but Stilton had never been one for assertiveness. As Yes and Brick swung round in confusion, all the lights in the control room went off. Thank God for Peel. That would silence the IDP mob. A few shots rang out, the bullets harmlessly embedding themselves in the hessian wallcovering. Dr Yes had always been rather stuck in the Seventies.

Suddenly, there was a blaze of blinding light. From the other side of the room, Agent Clementine stood with a can of hair spray and a cigarette lighter, her green occupational therapist's uniform glowing fluorescently. A fountain of flame was gushing from her hands, and screams were coming from Dr Yes and his assistant. A few seconds and it was over. The lights came back on. Somehow, in the confusion, Agent Prune and GG Horse disappeared. No one ever understood how they had escaped. But the real villains were dealt with. They rolled in agony on the floor, blackened with soot, festooned with tendrils of molten vinyl.

"Well done, Clementine!" shouted Peel, "Shall I finish them off?" He had picked up a gun, left behind by the retreating IDP activists.

"No need"’ said Orange. "To be honest, I think you'll find that they're tourniquet-ed, not flambéed. You see, that wet-look PVC just shrinks even tighter if you torch it. We've got the international man of mayhem nicely bubble-wrapped, thanks to fetish fashion and Agent C."

Within minutes, FRANTIC scientists were entering the room, dressed in bacteriological protection suits, and gingerly easing the flask of gRIN distillate to safety. It had been a close run thing. Perhaps this would finally persuade the boffins that researching genetic warfare was no joke, if the results fell into the wrong hands.

Later that evening, Keith Stilton reclined in the back of an accessible London taxi, which L had kindly booked for him several weeks in advance.

Beside him, his dishevelled American partner was getting to grips with his aching back muscles. He shivered with pleasure as she deftly undid the knots in his lumbar region. When the cheap shrills of the mobile phone brought him back to reality, he glanced briefly at the green display screen. It was the PM. He handed the phone to Clementine. She wound down the window and tossed it into a passing skip.

"Keep Britain tidy" she said, and went back to work.

THE END