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

By Tom Shakespeare and Ian Parker

Chapter Four

Meanwhile, in a small garden, an old lady was picking her roses.The bush to which she was defly applying her secateurs was a mass of bright red.

Nothing unusual about that, one might think, except that this bush was not a lone beacon of colour in a typical suburban garden.Every border, every window box, every bulb and shrub and tree at number 17, Molotov Crescent was the same distinctive hue. No wonder the locals called her the Scarlet Lady.

Despite lurid displays of her allegiance, Miss Hildegard Smith had never received the attentions of Her Majesty's security services. Perhaps it was the very obviousness of her identity which was the real disguise. These days, everybody knew that old ladies were never as innocent as they seemed.

No one who had read the newspapers was in any doubt that behind the pebble glasses of the average British septuagenarian lurked a fervent Marxist-Leninist. Miss Smith returned the secateurs to her bag, and rocked forward on her Zimmer frame towards the kitchen. By the path, a small cat gingerly rubbed its tortoise-shell fur against her leg.

"Stop bothering me, you sectarian bastard!" said the old lady, aiming a kick at the unfortunate animal. The cat, known for complicated ideological reasons as Bronstein, dodged out of the way and took refuge among the cold frames. At the same moment, a piercing howl emanated from the hearing aid behind its owner's left ear. For an instant, Miss Smith thought it was only Bronstein squealing.Then she realised, and fiddled with the controls on the earpiece.

"Comrade Prune here."

Anyone witnessing the following scene would have assumed she was dementing.

Miss Smith nodded vigorously, and issued occasional gutteral sounds. Finally, with an imperceptible click of her heels, she readjusted the earpiece, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Later that evening, at the secret laboratory of Dr Concise, Agent Orange was doing some detective work. Both the raiders and the police had given the wrecked facilities a thorough going-over. But only the meticulous Stilton bothered to search through the pile of letters and academic papers which were scattered on the tables.Gradually, he began to pierce together the sorry story of Dr Concise's final weeks on earth. Correspondence with one of Dr Concise's colleagues, a Glaswegian researcher named Dr Collins indicated that the gRIN vector could have been more unstable than anybody had thought.

"Crumbs!" whistled Keith Stilton. Not only did he have to regain the gRIN, he had to do it before any disastrous side effects were manifested. And he still had no idea who might have been behind the break-in. The information that L had supplied was incomprehensible. A small bag had been found on the scene, containing a map of the London underground, with three stations underlined, a book of matches from the Club Thong nightspot, on which a few words had been scribbled, and a small carton of grapefruit juice which was past its sell-by date.

Suddenly,there was a crash in the grounds to the rear of the laboratory.

Keith Stilton noticed torch beams waving up and down, and coming closer.

Company. Allergic to small talk, he hit the power switch and reversed his chair at full speed out of the building. Looking at the radar mounted on the arm rest, he noted the presence of a large four-wheel drive jeep immediately outside the gates. As he hit the pavement, the doors of the vehicle swung open, and someone ordered him to stop. Accelerating away, he jettisoned a tear gas grenade. He heard at least two people choking, and shots sped wildly past him into the cold night sky. Stilton shivered, and took the corner on two wheels. Ahead, he saw another vehicle coming straight towards him. It screetched to a halt inches from his chair. Was it time for Agent Orange to be liquidated?

The door opened.

"Bit late for you to be up, isn't it, Keith?"

The American accent was very familiar.

"It looks like you could use a lift. Get in!"

Tom spends his time researching and writing in the field of disability studies, and used to pop occasionally on the disability arts cabaret circuit telling rather poor jokes. This is the second comic novel he has started writing. The other one was also about disability, and wasn't much better, but one day he hopes it will make his fortune.

Ian spends his time waiting for the home help to arrive. Formerly he worked for a community arts organisation, and recently he has written a play about living with AIDS. Due to the effects of HIV on his brain, he has no memory and a warped sense of humour.

CHAPTER FIVE