by Andrew Cope
‘You’ve still got Phone a Friend,’ reminded the host.
‘To be honest,’ Bent smiled, ‘I don’t actually have any friends.’ The audience laughed. He’s so modest, they thought. And so intelligent. I bet he has loads of lovely mates.
Dame Payne’s lips pursed tighter as Bent reached the million-pound question. Bent knew the answer to the biggest question of his life before the answers had been revealed, but he wanted this to be good viewing so he spent an age weighing up the options. The host was sweating; the audience was willing him on. Hardly anyone ever won the big prize. Bent knew it was B but skirted round the answers, nearly plumping for A and then D. ‘I think I’ll have a guess at B,’ he said eventually.
The host winced. ‘Final answer?’ he asked. If you’re wrong you will lose your half million. Remember, you don’t have to play.’
Bent thought of the millions of people watching around the country and milked the TV exposure. ‘It’s only a game,’ he beamed. ‘B … final answer.’
Answer B went orange. There was no changing now. The audience held their breath and Bent tried to look nervous, knowing only too well that he was now a millionaire.
The host put on a downbeat voice. ‘So you, Christopher Bent, unemployed from Derby, came here with nothing. You worked your way to the million-pound question and answered B … “King Hussein of Jordan”.’
Yes, get on with it, man, thought Bent. Just give me my dosh.
‘You have just …’ continued the host, teasing the audience. ‘Just …’ he said, looking directly at camera one, ‘just WON one million pounds!’
The studio audience erupted, and confetti and balloons fell from the studio ceiling. The producer was delighted to have the opportunity of finally pulling the lever.
Dame Payne sat stony-faced as she watched five minutes of backslapping and handshaking, before the host and Christopher Bent waved goodnight to the nation.
The TV clicked off and the room fell eerily silent. Dame Payne perched like a bird of prey, fixing the blank TV with a determined stare. It was obvious she’d been tricked. ‘Bent’s taken the formula and sold us a dummy,’ she thought aloud. ‘I suppose that explains the hair gel. But he’s transformed himself from dunce to genius, so at least he’s proved the professor’s formula works.’ She smiled to herself. Dame Payne was beyond anger. She felt calm. Her next step was obvious.
11. A Pain in the Backside
Even though it was Saturday night, Professor Cortex was working in the lab, tweaking his automatic cleaning device. He’d asked the chimps to get their pyjamas on and get themselves tucked up in bed. ‘If you’re good,’ he promised, ‘I’ll let you watch Millionaire.’ The professor had never seen the chimps get ready for bed so quickly. Since they’d been taking their brain formula they couldn’t get enough of game shows. They jumped up and down on their beds when the theme tune came on and the professor raised a ‘get back into bed or the TV goes off’ eyebrow. All was peaceful for five minutes as he busied himself with an experiment. But his attention was drawn by someone getting the fastest finger ever. His jaw dropped as he watched Christopher Bent take the hot seat. ‘It’s him,’ he said, pointing at the screen. ‘That awful man who we sacked last week. Well, he doesn’t stand a chance because he’s the most stupid person I’ve ever met.’
The professor’s mouth continued to widen in disbelief as he watched Christopher Bent scoop the million-pound prize. And he didn’t need any brain formula to work out that Bent had stolen his secret.
Professor Cortex was the last out of the pet shop. He had no idea he was being watched as he locked up and made his way across the car park to his van.
The gunman had made himself comfortable on the roof of the furniture warehouse across the road. He saw the professor and shook himself awake. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. He fixed a dart to his rifle, put his eye to the sight and focused on the old man. He aimed the cross at his chest before finally settling on his leg. The man’s finger eased on to the trigger. He knew he’d only get one shot.
The professor never dawdled. Life was one long emergency and his legs moved quickly as he scurried across the car park.
The hit man cursed. ‘Slow down, old boy,’ he whispered. ‘I want to get a clean shot.’
The professor fumbled for his keys, finding them and then dropping them. ‘Oh bother. What a butterfingers.’ He put his briefcase down and bent to feel underneath his car. This was the moment. The hit man aimed at the professor’s upturned bottom and squeezed the trigger.
A poison dart sailed through the air and landed right on target.
Professor Cortex felt a bee sting. ‘Ouch, my bum,’ he exclaimed, before hitting the tarmac with a thud.
12. Keeping the Secret
Christopher Bent sat in his new luxury apartment, wallowing in his wealth. He was wearing the latest designer gear and had surrounded himself with electronic gadgets, many still in their boxes. His superintelligence had brought him supreme wealth, but it couldn’t buy him friends to share it with.
He flicked on the huge surround-sound TV. It was Countdown time again. He loved the programme, now that he could outsmart the presenters. Bent lay full length on his leather couch and tapped along with the theme tune. The first round was tricky. Bent was disappointed to get only a three-letter word when the contestants got six. Round two was worse. He got ‘hat’ when the contestants got ‘although’. ‘What’s going on?’ he said aloud. ‘Come on, Chrissy, where’s your genius today?’
The numbers round was a nightmare. He was miles away from the answer. ‘No, no, no, you stupid telly,’ he bellowed, jumping off the couch and slamming his foot through the screen. The wide-screen TV fizzed as glass shattered everywhere and Bent fell to the floor clutching his foot. ‘My cleverness is fading,’ he sobbed. ‘I can’t go back to being thick. I’ll have to find that mad professor and get more brain formula.’
Professor Cortex woke up in a bed. Crisp white sheets covered him and light was streaming through the window. He felt groggy. He wasn’t wearing his glasses so the room was blurred, but he could see someone standing by the bed. ‘Hello,’ croaked the professor. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but where am I?’
‘Good afternoon, Professor,’ a female voice replied. ‘You have been transferred from one special agency to another. We would like to employ you to produce your brain formula especially for us. Then we will sell the rights to your product around the world. We want the secret of what happened to Christopher Bent.’
The professor’s head pounded, the poison from the dart still swimming round his bloodstream. ‘Brain formula?’ he murmured, trying to sound surprised. He watched the blurred figure nodding. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Where am I? And who may I ask is Christopher Bent?’
‘The “who” and “where” doesn’t matter right now, Professor Cortex,’ soothed the voice. ‘You are perfectly safe and will be treated like a king. You have a secret. As soon as you’ve shared that secret with us you are free to go.’
The professor squinted at the shape. He felt around for his glasses, finally finding them on his bedside table. He put them on and blinked in surprise at the large nose pointing directly at him. He followed the nose all the way to the unsmiling eyes. The lady had her hair in such a tight bun that her face seemed stretched. She didn’t look like an enemy agent but then you never could tell in the world of spying. ‘And this is Christopher Bent,’ she said, holding up a tabloid newspaper. ‘Former thickie scoops jackpot,’ screamed the headline, showing the professor’s cleaner plastered across the front page.
‘Oh, deary me,’ sighed the professor, his head throbbing. ‘He obviously stole my formula.’
The lady’s lips turned up at the corners but her cold eyes bored into the professor. She nodded. ‘And now my colleagues and I must have the secret. For the good of the world, you understand. Ours is a just cause, Professor.’
Professor Cortex nodded. He was too tired to put up a fight. Surely somebody would
notice he was missing and alert GM451? He closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep. He just hoped that GM451 would be able to rescue him before they forced him to reveal his life’s work.
13. Saving Ben
The professor was set up in a new laboratory. He had everything he wanted, except his freedom. He even had a great view because the teachers had set up his new lab on the top floor of a luxury hotel, away from prying eyes. The doors were bolted and there was no way he could escape from a room that was twenty-three floors up. To make absolutely sure, Dame Payne had provided a minder called Len whose head looked like a potato. He was so big he almost filled the doorway.
The professor was visited by Dame Payne and Mr Wilde. ‘I thought I ought to check you’ve settled in,’ said the head teacher, struggling to be friendly. ‘And my head of science, Mr Wilde, will act as your assistant during your stay with us.’
‘Why exactly am I here?’ inquired the professor, glancing at the man-mountain blocking his escape route. ‘I don’t want to work for another secret agency – I need to go back to the Spy School and finish my work.’ He looked around the hotel room. ‘The animals will miss me,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m part of a team and they’ll worry when I’m not there.’
Dame Payne cut him off. ‘My committee will give you one week, Professor. All you have to do is re-create your brain formula. And then you can go free.’
‘And if I won’t?’ asked the professor. ‘Or can’t?’
Len stepped forward and gave his best sneer. The professor winced as the thug cracked his knuckles.
‘If you won’t, it becomes Len’s business,’ said Dame Payne, dropping her attempt at friendliness. ‘If you can’t, then my team moves to plan B.’
‘Which is?’
‘Let’s just say we’re close to completing a brain formula of our own. All we need is the brain of a child, and you’ll be pleased to know that we’ve selected the most intelligent pupil in our school. A boy called Benjamin Cook.’
The professor’s face went purple with rage. ‘You’ve what?’ he spluttered. He couldn’t let on that he knew Ben, but the very thought of taking someone’s brain made him angry enough.
‘Selected Benjamin Cook’s brain,’ repeated Dame Payne icily. ‘But you can save the boy, Professor. In fact, you’re the only one who can. If you provide us with your formula we will have no need for the child’s brain.’
The professor mopped his brow. His colour had drained from purple to white. He was shaking but managed a weak smile. ‘We’d best get busy then, Mr Wilde,’ he said, booting up his laptop. ‘If I want to save Ben’s life. May I ask what you want the formula for? Other than the fact it’s worth millions?’
‘I think you may have answered your own question, Professor,’ asserted Dame Payne. ‘All you need to know is that you have one week to re-create your brilliant formula.’
No, thought the professor. Someone will alert GM451 and all I need to do is stall as long as possible, until she comes to my rescue. He wasn’t quite sure how she’d rescue him, but he was confident that as soon as she knew he was missing she would.
Christopher Bent was focused on getting his hands on more brain formula. He lay full length on his sofa and put the sleek mobile to his ear. It rang three times before the answerphone kicked in. Bent stayed cool. ‘It’s me,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s clear we’re both after the same thing. The intelligence formula is worth millions. How about we help each other out and share the proceeds 50:50? Ring me, urgently.’
14. Bent Double With Payne
Later that night Dame Payne sat silently at the kitchen table, her microwave whirring in the background. She was shaking with excitement as she replayed Christopher Bent’s message one more time. She ran through her thoughts out loud. ‘It’s all there for the taking, and Bent is bad enough to do the dirty work. We will kidnap the mad professor again, so he can produce the formula just for me.’ Her evil face broke into a genuine smile for the first time in years. ‘And I don’t see why I have to share it with anyone.’
The microwave pinged and Dame Payne removed her ‘lasagne for one’. She reached for her mobile and tapped a message for Christopher Bent.
Prof held top floor palace hotel. Meet me
there 4pm 2moro. Profits split 50:50
Then one more message, this time for Len, asking him to run an errand at four o’clock the next day. That’s the minder out of the way, she thought as she took a spoon and greedily attacked her pasta.
Lara took an early morning phone call from the Secret Service. Ben could tell it was serious. ‘What’s up, girl?’ he asked. His pet secured a pencil in her mouth and scribbled some letters on a pad.
‘The professor’s missing!’ yelled Ben. ‘What do you mean, “missing”? Where can he be?’
Where indeed? pondered Lara. She knew the old man lived for his work. He only left the office to sleep and eat, even choosing to stay overnight on a camp bed in the lab on some occasions. I guess there could be a simple explanation, she thought. I mean, he could be on a holiday or visiting friends. Deep down she knew this was unlikely. The professor never had holidays and didn’t have any friends, except his animals.
‘We need to find him,’ said Ben as he and Lara sat at the kitchen table. Lara was helping the boy with his science homework, which seemed terribly difficult. She had watched poor Ben become more and more stressed with school as the work piled up. And now they needed to find the professor too. But where do we start looking? she wondered.
Lara had an idea. She tugged at Ben’s jeans and beckoned him into the lounge where her Harry Potter book was. She sat down before reaching for her reading glasses and putting them on.
Ben frowned. ‘Well, I hardly think it’s time to read books, Lara. I mean, the prof might be in big trouble. He needs us to help, not chill out.’
The glasses, thought Lara, peering over the rim. The prof’s glasses have a homing device. Remember Spy School? We just need to find the gadget that tracks the specs. Find the specs and we find the mad scientist. Do you understand me? What do you say?
Ben looked blank. Lara took off her specs and waved them in the air. The glasses, lad. The prof’s glasses, not mine. She jumped off the chair and went over to a picture of herself and the professor. She pointed her paw at the man and then waved the glasses again. Get it? Homing glasses, she urged.
Ben twigged. ‘Gotcha, Lara,’ he yelled. ‘The professor has a homing device fitted to his specs.’
And the prof gave Dad one when we visited the Spy School, remember?
‘Dad’s homing device,’ yelled Ben, putting his hand up like at school. He pounded upstairs to Mum and Dad’s bedroom and rummaged for the goodie bag that Dad had brought back from the Spy School. ‘This should tell us,’ he sang, waving the iPod-looking gadget in the air. Ben touched the small screen and the tracker sprang into life. Soon he and Lara were working their way through the menu, clicking on the icon for ‘professor’s spectacles’.
The next day, Ben, Sophie, Ollie and Lara turned up at the Palace Hotel. They gazed at the huge glass building stretching into the sky and then down at the tracking device. ‘His glasses are in there somewhere,’ said Ben. ‘So logic says the professor must be in there too.’
‘Let’s go and ask, then,’ suggested Sophie, walking towards the door. The children were stopped by a doorman with a peaked cap. ‘Definitely no pets and preferably no children,’ he told them. ‘Unless, of course, you’re blind or royalty,’ he said snootily.
‘We’ve met the Queen,’ offered Ollie.
‘And I’ve met the Emperor of China,’ smirked the doorman. ‘Now hop it.’
‘We’re hoping to meet someone who’s staying here,’ explained Ben.
The doorman really wasn’t keen on children. He looked at Lara and curled his lip. ‘Shall I let you into a secret?’ he said. ‘I hate dogs.’
And I hate people who hate dogs, snapped Lara. I’m tempted to take you out with a karate kick, but I guess that would only draw attent
ion to us. So I’ll stay calm and we’ll go to plan B. See you later, doggie-hater.
Lara led the children into the hotel car park. OK, guys. I have a cunning plan. It’s not perfect but I can’t think of any other way in, and the prof needs rescuing sooner rather than later. Lara undid Ben’s backpack and took out her colourful tartan coat. She sighed heavily. OK, guys, she thought, strap me in.
Ben fitted the coat over his pet and admired his handiwork. ‘There you go, girl,’ he said, grinning. Lara sighed. ‘Don’t droop your ears like that. You look fine,’ Ben fibbed.
Lara raised an eyebrow at him. Like I believe that! But on with the job – stand back, she woofed, forming a clear space around her. This may work, but it also has the potential to go horribly wrong. Lara looked up at the twenty-three gleaming floors above. She spied an open window on the ninth floor and hoped she would have enough rope. The children’s faces were anxious as they watched her prepare.
‘Are you sure you can do this?’ asked Sophie, biting her bottom lip. ‘That window is a long way up.’
Lara shrugged. I guess we’ll never know till we try, she considered. Here goes. It’s going to be a giant leap for dog-kind. Lara took a deep breath and took aim. She pressed the button and the grappling hook shot out, high into the air. The children held their breath as the hook soared through the open window. They heard a distant clank and Lara tugged at the rope, making sure it was secure. OK, she thought, fixing her helmet in place, now this is the tricky bit. Wish me luck. Lara took an even deeper breath and pressed the second button. Her head jerked and her body followed as the mechanism pulled her upwards at an alarming rate.
