Alex nodded. He was beginning to see where this was going.
“We’ve managed to put a tap on Straik’s telephone and we intercept all the calls he makes on his mobile. But we need more than that.”
“We want to get into his computers,” Mrs. Jones said.
Blunt nodded. “There may be nothing in all this. After all, people die all the time. Accidents happen and there are plenty of toxic plants on the site. I understand Straik keeps a whole greenhouse full of them. He’s been doing research into natural cures . . . antivenoms. But we have to get someone into Greenfields—and it can’t be a security guard or a maintenance engineer. That’s exactly what he’d be expecting. We have to take a different approach.”
Alex had heard it all before. People with something to hide would always suspect an adult, particularly if they knew they were under surveillance. But nobody would think twice about a schoolboy on a class visit. Alex remembered what Mr. Gilbert had said. “I didn’t think they’d allow school visits because so much of their work is secretive.” But somehow they had been persuaded to make an exception for Brookland. Had MI6 been working quietly behind the scenes?
“It would be easy for you to slip away from the group during your visit,” Mrs. Jones continued. “And it would only take you thirty seconds to download everything from Straik’s computer.”
“Won’t it have a password?” Alex asked. “And how would I even get into his office?”
“We can have a word with Smithers about all that,” Blunt replied. “But it’s up to you, Alex. It seems fairly straightforward to me. We can’t even be sure that Straik is up to no good. It may all be a fuss about nothing. However, it seems that we can do each other a favor. You agree to help us and we’ll have a word with this man—Harry Bulman—and see if we can persuade him to leave you alone.”
Blunt smiled, but Alex wasn’t fooled. He knew exactly what was going on. If he refused to help, his life would be torn apart. Blunt was pretending to offer him a choice, knowing exactly what Alex would do. The decision had already been made.
He should have expected it. He had agreed to walk into the lion’s den—so he could hardly complain when he got scratched.
“It’s a pleasure to see you as always, Alex,” Smithers said. “I fancy you’ve grown a bit. Unless, of course, Mr. Blunt has supplied you with a pair of my new sneakers. I’m rather pleased with them, I must say.”
“Do they fire missiles?” Alex asked.
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. They’re for use by agents who need to change their appearance rapidly in the field. There’s a hydraulic system built into the heel, and they can add three inches to your height.”
“Do you have a name for them?”
Smithers folded his arms across his ample stomach. “Pumps!”
The two of them were sitting in Smithers’s office on the eleventh floor. The room looked ordinary enough, but Alex knew that everything in sight actually disguised something else—from the X-ray angle floor lamp to the incinerator “out” tray. Even the filing cabinet concealed an elevator to the ground floor. Smithers was exactly as Alex remembered him. He was dressed in an old-fashioned three-piece suit that must have been specially tailored to fit his bulk, with a striped tie that was surely the old-school variety. As usual, there was a broad smile across his face and above his various chins. Smithers was the one agent in MI6 that Alex was always pleased to see. He was also the only person Alex trusted.
“So I understand you’re going to look into Greenfields for us,” Smithers continued. “Very good of you, Alex. I’m always amazed how helpful you are.”
“Well, Mr. Blunt is very persuasive.”
“That’s certainly true. At least it shouldn’t be too dangerous this time . . . although do look out. That chap Masters was a bit of a mess. He’d definitely trodden on something that he shouldn’t—so just make sure you look where you’re going.” Smithers coughed, realizing that he’d said too much, and continued hastily. “I’m sure no one will even notice you.”
“How do I get into Straik’s office?” Alex asked.
“I’ve got a few things for you right here.” Smithers opened a drawer in his desk and took out an old-fashioned pencil case. It was made of tin, slightly battered, decorated with a picture of the Simpsons . . . the sort of thing he might have been given for Christmas three or four years ago. “It’s very unlikely that you’ll be searched,” Smithers explained. “But we know Greenfields has a very efficient security system, so better safe than sorry.”
He pushed the case forward. “The tin is rather clever,” he explained. “I actually developed it for international air travel. It has a lead lining so it won’t show any of the hidden circuitry if it passes through an X-ray machine. But at the same time, there are silhouettes of pens and rulers fused inside the lid, and if the tin is scanned, they’ll show up as ghost images. You could carry anything you wanted inside and nobody would notice.”
He opened the tin. Alex was surprised that it actually did contain pens and rulers—along with other pieces of school equipment. “Since this is a school trip, I’ve concealed all the gadgets inside things you might reasonably be expected to have with you,” Smithers said. He picked out a rather large eraser with a pudgy finger and thumb. “The memory stick that you’ll need for Straik’s computer is inside this. Just tear open the eraser and plug it in. You won’t need passwords or anything like that. It’s completely automatic. In thirty seconds, everything that’s inside the computer will be on the drive’s memory.”
He took out a library card. It was already stamped with Alex’s name and had a magnetic strip on the back. “Straik’s office will almost certainly be locked. This will get you in. It looks like a library card, but actually it’s an all-purpose swipe card.” He lifted the tin and for the first time Alex noticed a narrow slot near the bottom. “You take the library card and you swipe any door that you want to open. Then you feed it into the tin. There’s a miniaturized flux reversal system hidden in the bottom. It will work out the code you need and reprogram the card. These are now standard equipment for all MI6 agents, although this is the first time I’ve hidden one in the bottom of a Simpsons pencil case!”
“How do I find Straik’s office?” Alex asked.
“I’m working on that, Alex. Greenfields is a big place, and I doubt there’ll be signs. But I’ve got a rather neat idea and I’ll send it to you later.”
Alex picked up a pencil sharpener. “What does this do?”
“It sharpens pencils.” Smithers reached out for it. “But it also converts into a knife. It’s tiny, of course, but the blade is diamond edged and will cut through almost anything. No need to worry about closed-circuit TV cameras. . . .” He took what looked like a small pocket calculator out of the tin. “Just press the plus button three times and it will send out a square wave frequency signal, which should jam any transmissions within fifty yards. On the subject of jam, it’s almost time for tea. Would you like some?”
“No, thanks.” Alex took the calculator. “Does it do anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, it’s also an extremely sophisticated communications device. Press 911 and you can talk directly to us. It’ll work anywhere in the world.”
“911,” Alex muttered. “In case of emergencies . . .”
Smithers smiled. “And finally, I know you like your explosions, Alex, so you’ll enjoy this.” He took the last two items out of the tin.
“They look like pens,” Alex said.
“Yes, they do. They’re gel-ink pens . . . but the gel in this instance is short for gelignite.” Smithers held them in front of him. “There are two colors here. The red one is much more powerful than the black one. Remember that. It’s the difference between blowing a door off its hinges and blowing the lock off a door. They both have time fuses concealed in the cap. Twist once for fifteen seconds, then pull the plunger upward to activate. You have a delay of up to two minutes. They’re also magnetic. And, of course, they write.”
/>
He put everything back into the tin and closed the lid.
“There you are, old chap. Everything you need . . . nice and neat. I’m sure this mission is going to be a piece of cake—which reminds me once again that it really is time for tea. Are you sure you won’t join me?”
“No, thanks, Mr. Smithers.” Alex took the pencil case and got to his feet. “I’ll see you.”
“I’m sure you will, Alex. I don’t know what it is about you, but you just don’t seem able to stay away. Take care—and do come and see me again soon.”
Back on the sixteenth floor, Alan Blunt was still behind his desk, listening as Mrs. Jones read from a report. It had been printed and handed to her only minutes before. There were just two pages: a black-and-white photograph followed by about fifty lines of text.
“Harry Bulman,” she was saying. “Educated at Eton. Expelled when he was sixteen. Drugs. He went into the army, and it’s true what he told Alex. He actually made it into the commandos, but they threw him out. Dishonor able discharge for cowardice. His unit came under attack in Afghanistan and he was found buried in a sand dune. He was hiding. After that, he managed to get odd jobs in journalism. Writing about defense issues some of the time, but mainly it was just smut. Three-in-a-bed headlines and that sort of thing. Married and divorced. No children. Lives in north London. Thirty-seven years old.”
There was a brief silence as Blunt took this in. Nothing showed behind his eyes, but Mrs. Jones knew that he would be considering every possibility and that within seconds he would have come up with a plan of attack. This was his great strength. It was the reason why he had headed up Special Operations for so long.
“Invisible Man,” he said. He had made his decision. “We’ll give it to Crawley. He hasn’t been out in the field for a while. He’ll enjoy it.”
“Right.” There was a shredder beside the desk. Mrs. Jones fed her copy of the report into it and the blades began to rotate. Harry Bulman was looking out from the photograph. There was a half smile on his face, as if he was pleased with himself. Slowly, he disappeared into the machine, sliced into ribbons, dropping into the bin below.
9
INVISIBLE MAN
THERE WERE AT LEAST TEN THOUSAND GUESTS in the auditorium and they were all applauding. Harry Bulman made his way through the crowd, occasionally pausing to shake hands and to receive congratulations from people he didn’t even know. Ahead of him, the stage beckoned. A dozen golden statuettes stood in a line and one of them had his name on it: Journalist of the Year. It was glimmering in the spotlight, twice the size of any of the others, and as he walked toward it, it seemed to grow even bigger. At the same time, a bell began to ring and . . .
He woke up. It was eight o’clock in the morning and his alarm had just gone off.
It had been a dream, of course, but a very pleasant one—and Bulman had no doubt that very soon it would become a reality.
He was going to be famous. Newspaper editors who were usually too busy to give him the time of day would be lining up to employ him. There would be television talk shows, celebrity parties, lots of awards. It occurred to him that maybe he had been a little too generous offering Alex fifty percent of his earnings. After all, he was the one doing all the work. It was his story. Maybe forty or even thirty percent would have been closer to the mark. In fact, at the end of the day, the journalist didn’t need to pay him anything at all. It wasn’t as if Alex could do anything about it.
It was incredible, really, that the two of them had finally met. Bulman remembered the first time he had heard the story of a teenage spy. It had been in a pub, the Crown on Fleet Street, a late-night drinking session with an old friend in the police who had been at the Science Museum when the parachutist came through the roof. He hadn’t believed it then, but something had told him to stick with it, and very soon he had found himself on what had become nothing less than a quest. He had spent months doggedly following leads that had gone nowhere, meeting contacts who had clammed up at the last moment, calling in favors, and, when necessary, making threats. Piece by piece he had put the story together. And in the end it had led him to Alex.
Bulman slept in a circular bed with black silk sheets on the top floor of a modern block of apartments in Chalk Farm. His bedroom had views of the railway lines leading into Euston Station. The place had been built only twenty years ago but already there were cracks appearing, maybe because of the vibrations from the trains. One was passing now. When he had first moved in here, the grinding wheels used to wake him up, but he had soon grown used to it. Now he quite liked it. He wouldn’t have been able to afford the place if it had been anywhere quieter.
It was the start of a new week. Seven days since he had been in Alex’s Chelsea flat. In the end, he had decided to give the boy time to work things out and to recognize he had no alternative but to work with him. He and that housekeeper of his would have talked things over and probably blamed each other for what had happened. Now that he thought about it, maybe that was another interesting angle. The girl—Jack—was quite pretty. What was she doing, living with a fourteen-year-old boy? The National Enquirer would like that! Well, this afternoon Bulman would go back. He would be there waiting with a glass of white wine and a digital recorder when Alex finished school.
He threw back the covers and went into the kitchen, where the plates from dinner last night—and the night before—were still stacked up in the sink. Bulman enjoyed good food, but he couldn’t be bothered to cook for himself and the packaging from frozen meals was spilling out of the garbage. He found a clean mug and made himself a coffee, glancing at the newspaper articles that were pinned to a corkboard above the sink. “Secrets of Army’s Basra Breakfast.” “Intelligence Chief Appears on Face-book.” “SAS Commander Misses Flight.” He wasn’t proud of his work. Nobody took much notice of what he wrote, and the stories were always nearer the back of the paper than the front. What did it matter, anyway? They were read and then forgotten . . . if they were read at all.
That would all change soon.
Bulman opened the fridge. He took out the milk and sniffed it. It was sour. He poured it into the sink and drank his coffee black. What was he going to do until four o’clock? It was a beautiful day, a cold January sun glinting off the railway tracks. He watched a second train rumble past on its way into town, packed with commuters on their way to their boring jobs. He could almost imagine them, squashed into the newspapers they were trying to read. A month from now, those newspapers would belong to him.
A late breakfast. Shopping. A couple of beers at the Groucho Club in Soho. He mapped out his day as he got dressed in his usual open-neck shirt, blazer, and slacks. He never wore jeans. He liked to look stylish. He fastened the shirt with brightly polished silver cuff links, each one decorated with a miniature engraving of the Fairbairn-Sykes dagger, used by the commandos since the Second World War. Finally, he scooped up the briefcase that he always carried with him, grabbed his wallet from the bedside table, finished his coffee, and went out.
There was a newsstand opposite the apartment with a display showing the morning headlines. “Journalist Killed.” He couldn’t help smiling as he read the words. He wondered if it was somebody he knew, probably taking a bullet in Afghanistan or somewhere else in the Middle East. He had often tried to get himself sent abroad (“. . . our man, Harry Bulman, entrenched with the allied forces in Iraq . . .”), but none of the editors had been interested. Well, serves the guy right, whoever he was. Probably some stupid amateur who didn’t know when to duck.
He was about to cross the road and buy the paper when he remembered that he had used the last of his change down at the pub the night before. He’d been drinking with a couple of freelance journalists and somehow they’d all ended up around the slot machine, shoveling coins in. At one stage he’d won more than twenty-five dollars, but of course he’d put it all back in again and lost it. That was his problem. He never knew when to stop. He took out his wallet and opened it. All he had was a couple
of credit cards. He had no money at all.
The nearest cash machine was at the traffic lights on the other side of Camden Market. Bulman thought about walking, but as luck would have it, a bus appeared at that exact moment, rumbling toward him down the hill. At least he had his pass . . . it was valid for any subway or bus in London. He hurried over to the bus stop, arriving just as the driver pulled in and the doors hissed open. A couple of people got on ahead of him, but then it was his turn. He pressed his card against the scanner. The machine made a discouraging sound.
“I’m sorry, mate,” the driver said. “You’ve got nothing left on your card.”
“That’s not possible,” Bulman replied. “I took the subway last night and I had about thirty dollars left on it.”
“Well, it’s showing zero now.” The driver pointed at the screen.
“Your machine must be broken.”
“It worked for everyone else.”
Bulman held his card against the screen for a second time—but with the same result. He glanced around. The bus was crowded with people waiting to move off. They were all watching him impatiently. “All right.” He scowled. “I’ll give you the cash.”
But even as he reached into his pocket, he remembered that he didn’t have any cash. The driver was glaring at him now. Bulman gave up. The bank was only a quick walk away. The sun was shining. “Forget it,” he muttered. “I’ll walk.”
He stepped back onto the sidewalk. The doors closed and the bus moved off. Bulman was still holding his travel pass. He glared at it. When he had a spare minute, he would send a letter to Transport for London to complain. Maybe he would even write a newspaper article about his experience. Idiots. Why couldn’t they get the technology to work?
Crocodile Tears Page 10
