enough, we can even get it on the evening news. You’ll make the call to Scorpia. You can tell them that you shot Mrs Jones. You’ll sound nervous, on the edge of panic; you’ll ask them to bring you in.”
“You think they’ll come?”
“Let’s hope so. If you can somehow make contact with Julia Rothman, you may be able to find out where the dishes are located. And the moment you know, you get in contact with us. We’ll do the rest.”
“You’ll have to be very careful,” Mrs Jones warned. “Scorpia aren’t stupid. They sent you to us and when you go back, they’ll be very suspicious indeed. You’ll be searched, Alex. Everything you do and say will be examined. You’ll have to lie to them. Do you think you can get away with it?”
“How will I get in touch with you?” Alex asked. “I doubt if they’ll let me use a telephone.” As if in answer to his question, the door opened and Smithers came in. In a strange way Alex was pleased to see him. Smithers was so fat and jolly that it was hard to believe he was part of MI6 at all. He was wearing a tweed suit that was at least fifty years out of date. With his bald head, black moustache, several chins and his open, smiling face, he could have been anybody’s uncle, the sort who liked to do magic tricks at parties.
And yet, for once, even he was serious. “Alex, my dear boy,” he exclaimed. “This is all a bit of a mess, isn’t it!
How are you keeping? Are you in good shape?”
“Hello, Mr Smithers,” Alex said.
“I’m sorry to hear you’ve been tangling with Scorpia. They’re a very, very nasty piece of work. Worse than the Russians ever were. Some of the things they get up to—well, quite frankly it’s criminal.” He was out of breath and sat down heavily in an empty seat. “Sabotage and corruption. Intelligence and assassination. Whatever next?”
“What have you got for us, Smithers?” Blunt asked.
“Well, you always ask the impossible, Mr Blunt, and this time it’s even worse. There are all sorts of gadgets I’d like to give young Alex. I’m always working on new ideas. I’ve just finished work on a pair of Rollerblades.
The blades are actually hidden in the wheels and they’ll cut through anything. I’ve got a very nice Rubik’s Cube hand grenade. But as I understand it, these people aren’t going to let him keep anything when he turns up again.
If there’s anything remotely suspicious, they’re going to examine it, and then they’ll know he’s working with us.”
“He needs to have a homing device,” Mrs Jones said. “We have to be able to track him wherever he goes. And he has to be able to signal to us when it’s time for us to move in.”
“I know,” Smithers said. He reached into his pocket. “And I think I may have come up with the answer. It’s the last thing they’d expect … but at the same time, it’s exactly what you’d expect a teenage boy to have.” He took out a clear plastic bag and inside it Alex saw a small metal and plastic object. He couldn’t help smiling.
The last time he had seen one of these had been at the dentist’s.
It was a brace. For his teeth.
“We may have to make a few adjustments, but it should fit snugly into your mouth.” Smithers tapped the bag.
“The wire going over your teeth is transparent, so it won’t be noticed. It’s actually a looped radio aerial. The brace will begin transmitting the moment you put it in.” He turned the bag over in his pudgy fingers and pointed to the bottom. “There’s a little switch here,” he continued. “You activate it with your tongue. As soon as you do that, you send out a distress signal and we can come rushing in.” Mrs Jones nodded. “Well done, Smithers. That’s first- rate.”
Smithers sighed. “I feel really terrible sending Alex in without any weapons. And I’ve got a marvellous new device for him too! I’ve been working on a Palm Organizer that’s actually a flamethrower. I call it the Napalm Organizer—”
“No weapons,” Blunt said.
“We can’t take the risk,” Mrs Jones agreed.
“You’re right.” Smithers dragged himself slowly to his feet. “Just take care, Alex, old bean. You know how I worry about you. Don’t you dare get yourself killed. I want to see you again.” He left, closing the door behind him.
“I’m sorry, Alex,” Mrs Jones said.
“No.” Alex knew she was right. Even if he could persuade Scorpia that he had carried out his assignment, they still wouldn’t trust him. They would search him from head to toe.
“Activate the tracking device as soon as you’ve found the dishes,” Blunt ordered.
“It’s always possible they won’t take you to them,” Mrs Jones added. “In that event, if you can’t slip away, if you feel yourself to be in any danger, activate it anyway. We’ll send special forces in to pull you out.” That surprised Alex. She had never shown very much concern for him in the past. It was as if his breaking into her flat had somehow changed things between them. He glanced at her sitting bolt upright, neat and contained, chewing slowly on the peppermint, and guessed that there was something she wasn’t telling him. Well, that made two of them.
“Are you quite sure about this, Alex?” she asked.
“Yes.” Alex paused. “Can you really make them believe I escaped?” Blunt gave a thin, humourless smile. “Oh yes,” he said. “We’ll make them believe it.” It happened in London and made the six o’clock news.
A car had been driving at speed on the Westway, one of the main roads leading out of the city. The car was high up—this part of the road was suspended on huge concrete pillars. All of a sudden it lost control. Witnesses saw it swerve left and right, careering into the other traffic. At least a dozen other cars were involved in the resulting pile-up. There was a Fiat Uno, crumpled up like paper. A BMW had one side torn off. A van full of flowers, unable to stop in time, crashed into them. Its doors swung open and suddenly—bizarrely—the road was covered with roses and chrysanthemums. A taxi, trying to avoid the chaos, hit the crash barrier and catapulted over the edge, smashing into an upstairs window of someone’s house.
It was a miracle nobody was killed, although a dozen people were rushed to nearby hospitals. The aftermath of
