“Tropical climate,” Smithers muttered. “There’ll be quite a lot of rainfall at this time of year. I’ve been developing a poncho that doubles as a parachute, but I don’t think you’ll need that. And I’ve got a marvellous mosquito coil. As a matter of fact, mosquitoes are about the only thing it won’t knock out. But you won’t need that either! In fact, I’m told the only thing you actually do need is something to help you keep in touch.”
“A secret transmitter,” Alex said.
“Why does it have to be secret?” Smithers pulled open a drawer and took out an object which he placed in front of Alex.
It was a mobile phone.
“I’ve already got one, thanks,” Alex muttered.
“Not one like this,” Smithers retorted. “It gives you a direct link with this office, even when you’re in America. It works underwater-and in space. The pads are fingerprint sensitive so only you can use it. This is the model five. We also have a model seven. You hold it upside down when you dial or it blows up in your hand-”
“Why can’t I have that model?” Alex asked.
“Mr. Blunt has forbidden it.” Smithers leant forward conspiratorially. “But I have put in a little extra for you. You see the aerial just here? Dial 999 and it’ll shoot out like a needle. Drugged, of course. It’ll knock out anyone in a twenty metre range.”
“Right.” Alex picked up the phone. “Have you got anything else?”
“I was told you weren’t to have any weapons…” Smithers sighed, then leant forward and spoke into a potted plant. “Could you bring them up, please, Miss Pickering?”
Alex was beginning to have serious doubts about this office-and these were confirmed a moment later when the leather sofa suddenly split in half, the two ends moving away from each other. At the same time, part of the floor slid aside to allow another piece of sofa to shoot silently into place, turning the two-seater into a three-seater. A young woman had been carried up with the new piece. She was sitting with her legs crossed and her hands on her knee. She stood up and walked over to Smithers.
“These are the items you requested,” she said, handing over a package. She produced a sheet of paper and placed it in front of him. “And this report just came in from Cairo.”
“Thank you, Miss Pickering.” Smithers waited until the woman had left-using the door this time-then glanced quickly at the report. “Not good news,” he muttered. “Not good news at all. Oh well…” He slid the report into the “out” tray. There was a flash of electricity as the paper self-destructed. A second later, there were only ashes left. “I’m bending the rules doing this,” he went on. “But there were a couple of things I’d been developing for you and I don’t see why you shouldn’t take them with you. Better safe than sorry.”
He turned the package upside down and a bright pink packet of bubblegum slid out. “The fun of working with you, Alex,” Smithers said, “is adapting the things you’d expect to find in the pockets of a boy your age. And I’m extremely pleased with this one.”
“Bubblegum?”
“It blows rather special bubbles. Chew it for thirty seconds and the chemicals in your saliva react with the compound, making it expand. And as it expands, it’ll shatter just about anything. Put it in a gun, for example, and it’ll crack it open. Or the lock on a door.”
Alex turned the packet over. Written in yellow letters on the side was the word BUBBLE 0-7. “What flavour did you make it?” he asked.
“Strawberry. Now, this other device is even more dangerous and I’m sure you won’t need it. I call it the Striker and I’d be very happy to have it back.”
Smithers shook the package and a keyring slid out to join the bubblegum on the desk. It had a plastic figurine attached, a footballer wearing white shorts and a red shirt. Alex leant forward and turned it over. He found himself looking at a three centimetre high model of Michael Owen.
“Thanks, Mr Smithers,” he said. “But personally I’ve never supported Liverpool.”
“This is the prototype. We can always do another footballer next time. The important thing is the head. Remember this, Alex. Twist it round twice clockwise and once anti-clockwise and you’ll arm the device.”
“It’ll explode?”
“It’s a stun grenade. Flash and a bang. A ten second fuse. Not powerful enough to kill-but in a confined space it will incapacitate the opposition for a couple of minutes, which might give you a chance to get away.”
Alex pocketed the Michael Owen figure and the bubblegum along with the mobile telephone. He stood up, feeling more confident. This might be a simple surveillance operation, a paid holiday as Blunt had put it, but he still didn’t want to go empty-handed.
“Good luck, Alex,” Smithers said. “I hope you get on all right with the CIA. They’re not really like us, you know. And heaven knows what they’ll make of you.”
“I’ll see you, Mr Smithers.”
“I’ve got a private lift if you’re going downstairs.” As Smithers spoke, the six drawers of the filing cabinet slid open, three going one way, three going the other, to reveal a brightly lit cubicle behind.
Alex shook his head. “Thanks, Mr Smithers,” he said. “I’ll take the stairs.”
“Whatever you say, old boy. Just look after yourself. And whatever you do, don’t swallow the gum!”
NOT SO SPECIAL AGENTS
Alex stood at the window, trying to make sense of the world in which he now found himself. Seven hours on a plane had drained something out of him which even the surprise of a seat in first class had been unable to put back. He felt disengaged, as if his body had managed to arrive but had left half his brain somewhere behind.
He was looking at the Atlantic Ocean. It was on the other side of a strip of dazzling white sand that stretched into the distance with loungers and umbrellas laid out like measurements on a ruler. Miami was at the southernmost tip of the United States of America and it seemed that half the people who came to the city had simply followed the sun. He could see hundreds of them, lying on their backs in the tiniest of bikinis and swimming trunks, thighs and biceps pounded to perfection in the gym and then brought out to roast. Sun worshippers? No. These people were here because they worshipped themselves.
It was late afternoon and the heat was still intense. But in England, eight thousand kilometres away, it was night-and Alex was struggling to stay awake. He was also cold. The air-conditioning in the building had been turned up to maximum. The sun might be shining on the other side of the glass but in this neat, expensive office, he was chilled. Miami Ice, he thought.
It hadn’t been the welcome he had expected. There had been a driver waiting for him when he arrived at the airport, a heavy-set man in a suit with Alex’s name on a card. The man was wearing sunglasses that obliterated his eyes, offering Alex two reflections of himself.
“You Rider?”
“Yes.”
“The car’s this way.”
The car turned out to be a stretch limousine. Alex felt ridiculous sitting alone in a long, narrow compartment with two leather seats facing each other, a drinks cabinet and a TV screen. It was nothing like a car at all, and he was glad that the windows, like the driver’s glasses, were darkened.
Nobody would be able to see in. He watched as the shops and boatyards on the airport perimeter slipped past and then they were suddenly crossing the water on a wide causeway that skimmed across the bay towards Miami Beach. Now the buildings were low-rise, barely taller than the palm trees that surrounded them, and painted astonishing shades of pink and pale blue. The roads were wide, but more people seemed to be sweeping half-naked down the centre line on roller blades than driving.
The limousine stopped outside a ten-storey white building with lines so sharp it could have been cut out of a giant sheet of paper. There was a coffee bar on the ground floor, with offices up above. Leaving Alex’s cases in the car, they went in through the lobby and took the lift (elevator, Alex reminded himself) up to the tenth. It opened directly onto the reception area of what looked Like an ordinary office, with two efficient girls behind a curving mahogany desk. A sign read: CENTURION INTERNATIONAL ADVERTIZING. CIA, Alex thought. Great!