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

By Tony Frances

Chapter Five

Hildegard had finished her briefing by the time the copper-bottomed kettle had begun to fill the kitchen with steam. She jigged around a little while, a half-hearted lambada, desperately trying to switch off the reception on her uniquely adapted hearing aid.

She moved now with surprising, if arthritic, vigour. Not for nothing had she been regarded the scourge of the local Socialist Workers Party (and even now, young idealistic students attending local meetings had been known to burst into tears from a hard stare through her bifocals). After briskly filling Bronstein's food tray with a mountain of dried food pellets, she grabbed her carpet bag and coat and made an all important call: "I want a ride in 10 minutes!" And the so-called 'Care Bus' receptionist knew from bitter experience not to argue.

An hour later the somewhat harassed driver screeched the adapted minibus to a halt in the middle of traffic outside the mainline train station.

Out Miss Smith staggered, wading into the pedestrians on the pavement and pulling out her trusty hatpin. "Wait here!" she screamed at the Care Bus then, amidst wails of agony, she pushed her way through the queuing commuters.

Within ten minutes she was back on the bus, her carpet bag somewhat lighter, and a self-satisfied grin smeared across her face. Mission accomplished, she took out her large knitting needles and picked up where she had left off.

That evening, at Club Thong, the audience roared as the star of the evening stalked onto the stage. The lights dimmed and a scantily clad, but heavily oiled, dancer erupted into the one remaining spotlight. The bronzed Adonis, a firm fleshed fantasy made real, gave the audience a quick moment to savour his appearance. Then abruptly the countless strobe lights began, music thumping in time to the flashing, as G.G. Horse began his frantic erotic dance.

And at the back of the smoke-filled room, two women and a man in plain black suits conducted their business. How could they know that the dancer on the stage was deaf, and that every word was being carefully watched?

G. G. didn't just work for Club Thong and had another job to do tonight.

Keith Stilton cradled the steaming coffee in front of him and looked across at his old adversary Bill Ingham, who was scanning the rest of the customers at the all night cafe. Ingham was the only other agent-on-wheels that he knew of - except Bill was strictly mercenary, working for anyone that could pay his price.

Agent Orange slowly looked at him, trying to work out from Inghamıs tanned hard face why he was here. Why now? What involvement did he have in the gRIN conspiracy? "A low fat decaf mocha over here" shouted Bill to a passing waitress.

"Bloody Brits! Youıve got no sense of style, thatıs your problem," he moaned, almost daring Stilton to challenge him.

Keith was ready with a witty retort, but just then the quintessentially English waitress turned up the volume on her counter-top TV set for a news flash: "And we bring you news of a strange disturbance. Police so far have been unable to explain the reason for..."

"Which reminds me," said Ingham, his Southern drawl out of place amongst the plastic table covers and squeezy sauce bottles, "I have some information that I think you'll find useful."

CHAPTER SIX

Tony tells us he's a disabled artist, but doesn't want his address published. If you want to contact him, please come to us!