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

By Tom Parker

Chapter One

"Call the P.M."
"We can't do that sir. He's still on holiday in Tuscany, staying at the luxurious villa of that international media mogul..."
"I don't care. This is serious. We have to tell him."

Things were not going according to plan in the offices of MI3 3/4. From the outside, it looked as if it was business as usual at the Fruit and Nut Transnational Import Company. But inside, things were frantic at FRANTIC.

In the beginning, Project Banana had seemed such a good idea. Britain had been doing so well in molecular biology. Okay, the Americans were ahead of the game, but dear old Blighty had a few tricks up its sleeve. It was all about irony. They'd never been very good at that across the pond, but everyone knew it was the British who led the world in humour. Whether it was Monty Python, Mr Bean or Benny Hill, exports of British television comedy were now the major currency earner for a once proud nation. After all, who'd ever heard of German comedy? Or Russian comedy, for that matter? Okay, the French had Jacques Tati, but he was yesterday's news. The future belonged to the Brits.

The Prime Minister was bemused.

"I mean, I'm sorry, but look, guys, you're going to have to start at the beginning, okay? To be honest, I don't have a clue what you're talking about!"

He smiled weakly at them. Cherie rolled her eyes impatiently. There was no doubting who was top banana in that department.

The Head of MI3 3/4 turned to his Chief Research Officer. "Professor Shorter, if you would be so kind..."

"Well, gentlemen..." said the elderly man with the fluffy white hair. "the idea was to combine the traditional British sense of humour with the latest genetic know-how to create a devilishly cunning weapon of hysterical power. We had our best man, Dr Concise, working to isolate the gene for comedy, which we call gRIN..."

"That's R for Rictus, Prime Minster, I for incapacitation, and N for Neuronal", interrupted the FRANTIC boss.

"The possibilities were awesome. Not only could we improve the quality of our comedy exports, by inserting the gRIN factor into previously sub-standard product..."

"You mean, like Jim Davidson?" suggested the Prime Minister.

"No sir. I don't think we could quite promise that. But certainly we could offer a whole new lease of life to Paul Daniels... Bob Monkhouse... and even Hale and Pace."

"Ingenious!" muttered the Prime Minster's wife, amazed despite herself.

"That's only the start, Sir." Professor Shorter was proud to be able to show off the FRANTIC achievement. "Dr Concise was on the verge of announcing that he had managed to generate a condensed strain of gRIN which could be freeze-dried and delivered in an aerosol spray!"

His audience were impressed.

"You mean...!" said the Prime Minister.

"Exactly!" said the Chief Research Officer. "We now have a weapon which can kill, immediately and painlessly, through humour."

"Concise has put the punch into punchline. The enemy would just die laughing." Said the Head of MI 3 3/4.

"It would knock them dead!" said the P.M. , turning to his wife.

"With a gRIN on their face!" said Cherrie, thinking her joke was rather better than his.

"Absolutely..." agreed the FRANTIC operatives, who never contradicted the Prime Minister. Or his wife.

"So, guys, what's the problem? It sounds great. Just what we're looking for... New Millenium... New Labour... New Joke. I like it."

"Well sir, the problem is that we had a slip-up on Project Banana..." said the Head.

"What ever do you mean?"

"Shorter, you explain."

"Actually, P.M., it's a bit embarrassing. You see, it's all gone pear-shaped."

"Project Banana has gone pear-shaped?"

"Yes and no, sir. I'm afraid that last night, Dr Concise was murdered. He was found, naked, except for a pair of American tan tights. On his face was a horrible grimace. We believe that someone had injected him with a lethal dose of the gRIN distillate. His laboratory had been plundered."

"The entire stock of gRIN, and the research data, and the methodology, have all disappeared," announced the FRANTIC boss. "We tried to track down the culprits, but the search was fruitless."

"I see why you thought it was serious enough to call me back from my villa," said the Prime Minister. "You must put your best agents into recovering this technology immediately."

"That's the problem, sir. All our best men have retired to write their memoirs, or have defected to the Sunday Times. Either that or they turned out to be bad apples. We've always had a problem with infiltration. If it's not the KGB, it's the Americans, or Bill Gates, or even Richard Branson..."

"So we're in a bit of a pickle?"

"Yes, Prime Minister. But we have one reliable agent. He's odd. But he's good."

"Well, put him onto it straightaway. We must recover our comedy advantage. This is no laughing matter, okay, guys?"

"Absolutely, sir. We'll call Agent Orange immediately."

Agent Orange was under cover. Deep cover. Cover so deep, that everyone around him thought he was no more than a dribbling idiot. But Agent Orange was no fruitcake. Although he spent his hours sitting quietly in a wheelchair at the Stanton Street Day Centre, drooling at the mouth and twitching uncontrollably, there was more to him than met the eye.

"Do you want another, Keith?" asked the volunteer.

Agent Orange nodded vigorously. He didn't really want anything to drink. He'd only just had a cup, and anyway, they always made it with sugar despite the fact that he'd tried to explain that he wanted it without. But sending them to make tea got them off his back for a minute, and quite frankly, they were getting on his tits. One of these days he'd switch on his electro-shock repellent device and blast them all to kingdom come.

That would show the patronising bastards. They thought he was some useless vegetable. But he wasn't. He was the best agent that the Fruit and Nut Transnational Import Company had, even if this was only because all the others had sold out.

Keith Stilton was feeling blue. It had been ages since his bosses at FRANTIC had called him up on his cunningly modified Care Alarm. The bright orange plastic device hung silently around his neck like a Fisher Price toy, and it was dragging him down. It had been months since he'd seen active service, and he'd had enough of sitting around in this bloody day centre, a victim of community care and condescending helpers. He wanted some action.

And he wanted it now. He'd show that stupid American occupational therapist, what's-was-her-name, Clementine Williams, that he could kick arse. That would make her pips squeak.

At that moment, his Care Alarm started vibrating silently against his chest. He quivered with excitement. The time had come. He banged his fist urgently on the arm of his wheelchair.

"Want to go to the toilet, Keith? You've been drinking too much tea, naughty boy!"

Keith grunted. As long as the stupid sod wheeled him into the lav, he didn't care.

As soon as the door had been pulled shut behind him, he staggered into action, turning on both taps to mask the sound, and pressing the button to initiate communication with FRANTIC HQ.

As he returned form the toilet, his head lolling, but an unmistakable look of triumph on his face, he caught sight of Clementine Williams looking at him suspiciously. That blonde bimbo suspected something, he was sure of it.

Well, she'd never guess his secret. The Stanton Street Centre might be a total hell hole of a place to spend his days, but it was a bloody good disguise for what he did at evening and weekends. Anyway, the head of FRANTIC was depending on him. He had to get the joke, and get it fast, before gRIN was sold to the highest bidder, whether that was a hostile power, a fanatical terrorist, or a ruthless international corporation.

He was sure he wouldn't be the only person after the genetic codes, but no one else would be able to rely on the sophisticated weaponry, high technology communications devices, and turbo-powered electric wheelchair (converting into micro-helicopter-hovercraft) which he had waiting back at the hostel.

It was time for Agent Orange to go to work.

CHAPTER TWO