Chapter 13

In which surprise follows surprise and all-and more-is revealed.

Three weeks later we are back in England. It takes us all that time to hitch hike across France. My plates of meat are disaster areas by the time we get on the ferry at Calais-and embarking is no picnic, I don't mind telling you. Have you ever hung upside down under an articulated lorry for twenty minutes? I can't recommend it. Frankly, I think our progress across France would have been a lot quicker if Sid had not insisted on waving a small Union Jack at every vehicle that came near us. Most of them accelerated and quite a few slowed down just long enough to shout the kind of things frogs write on lavatory walls-only, of course, most of their toilets don't have any walls which is probably why they have to shout things like that to get them out of their systems-or cisterns, more like.

It is all so blooming ridiculous because, of course, Sid and I are national heroes. We only have to get back to P and tell him about Boris and we will probably be knighted. Mum will be so chuffed and it will be nice to think that we have saved Britain. If you only do it once in your life it means something, doesn't it? The only black spot on the horizon is the thought of Dad coming to the Palace. I hope he waits outside the railings. I must have a discreet word with the Court Chamberlain about it.

The picture of Dad chatting up Her Maj with the tails of his morning suit tucked inside his long woollen corns is just one of the things that is agitating my mind as we even tually stumble into the vestibule that conceals the entrance to Mission E. There is still an 'out of order' sign on one of the lifts-but not the same one as before.

'Cunning,' says Sid, who has been getting even more balloon-bonced since he saw off Boris. 'Very cunning.'

'What are you on about, Sid?' I say.

'Don't you see?' says Sid, allowing a complacent smile the freedom of his chops. 'It's a double double bluff. This time the lift we want is the one with the 'out of order' sign on it.'

'Sid,' I say. 'Don't you think-'

But it is too late. Sid has flung open the door and disappeared with a wild shriek. 'Stupid, bloody fools!' he says when I have hauled him out. 'Look! I've lost the pom pom off my beret. All through France and I have to lose my pom pom on my own doorstep.'

"Tough,' I say. 'Still, you're not as oily as you were last time.'

But Sid refuses to be comforted and his mood does not improve when we get into one of the lifts and start trying to find the secret button that will open the sh'ding panel. We press every button in the lift fifteen times and all we do is stop at every floor in the building fifteen times. The caretaker is very narked about it. 'Why don't you go and play in the park?' he says. 'Couple of grown men behaving like kids. Get out of it before I call the police!'

'Have a care my good man,' says Sid. 'We are engaged upon work of national importance and failure to co-operate in our endeavours could earn you a bunch of fives up the bracket!'

The bloke is unimpressed by Sid's muscle power and has actually pushed off to call the fuzz when we find that you have to push the basement button twice to open the secret door-we might have guessed that it had something to do with the basement button earlier because there isn't a basement.

'At last!' says Sid as the panel closes behind us and we head towards the lift. 'I was getting so frustrated out there. So near and yet so far. Know what I mean?'

'Definitely, Sid.' It is like my relationship with Gretchen. I wonder how she is? Pining for me no doubt. I have an idea which might solve our problems and as soon as P has fixed up a date for the ceremony at Buckingham Palace I will nip round and try and put it into practice.

The lift doors slide open and we tumble out into the corridor.

'Here we are,' says Sid. 'Now, which office was it?'

'I don't know,' I say. 'Maybe it was this one.' I open the door six inches and peer round it. A group of keen-looking young blokes are clustered round a more senior cove who is clearly their instructor. 'Right, gendemen,' he says. 'Today it's unarmed combat and I'm going to show you the most deadly and undetectable weapon you can use-the icicle. Used as a dagger it can effectively silence an adversary, yet have disappeared completely within minutes of the deed having been done-leaving, of course no mcriminating evidence.' An awed murmur runs round the gathered throng. The instructor looks pleased with the impression his words have made. 'Right, to practise,' he says. 'Carruthers, come up here.' I crane forward and see that the instructor has a dish in front of him on which is laid a long, dagger-like icicle. 'Ready Carruthers?'

Carruthers is obviously dead keen and he brushes the hair from his eyes and nods urgently. It is clear that I have stumbled across a training session of Britain's Secret Service elite. 'Snatch up your test icicle-No, Carruthers I I said your test icicle!'

'What's happened?' says Sid.

'A bloke's just ruptured himself,' I say, closing the door. 'It's tough, this business.'

'You don't have to tell me that,' says Sid. 'Come on, I think it's this one.' He flings open the next door and we find ourselves in Miss Diver's office. She is not there but I recognise it by the photograph of Screaming Lord Sutch on her desk. 'Here we go,' says Sid. 'I hope you-knoxxho is careful to use the flat edge of her sword.' He gives a sharp rat-tat-tat on P's door and throws it open without waiting for a reply. P's hands are below the desk in furtive fashion and the expression on his face changes from one of anger to stupefied amazement when he recognises us. 'You-!' he gasps.

"That's right, Squire,' says Sid. 'Bit of a surprise, eh?'

P's mouth hangs open and he seems to be fighting to find breath. His hands appear above desk level and I see that they are covered with white sticky stuff. Oh dear, I hope we haven't barged in at an awkward-wait a minute! What is that at his finger tips! ? Not-no, it can't be!-but it is! Harold Wilson! Our glorious leader's mug is fastened to his sticky digits. Only in the form of a tiny cut-out photograph of course but it is enough to set the mind racing. What is he doing and why are all those other photographs spread across his desk?

'You swine!' says Sid. 'So you're in on it too!'

P springs to his feet and a folio of filthy photos and a tin of Cow Gum falls to the floor-for sticking to cows there is nothing better. 'Yes!' He snarls, a maniacal gleam coming into his eyes. 'But you'll never get me!' So saying, he makes a dash for his private bathroom.

'Stop him!' shouts Sid. I make a desperate dive but I am not fast enough. P leaps on to the lip of the lav, pauses wild-eyed for a moment, and jumps, pulling the chain as he goes. There is a familiar gurgle from the cistern and he is gone.

'Blast!' says Sid. 'We've lost him.'

'He won't get away,' says a familiar voice behind us. 'I'll throw a cordon round every sewerage works in the Greater London area. He won't slip through the net.'

'He'll slip through anything, if our experience is anything to go by,' says Sid. 'Wait a minute-It's you!'

We both stare at the newcomer and our mouths drop open wider than a tart's legs when the Nigerian Fleet is in port on a good willy visit.

"That's right,' says Boris. 'It's me. Welcome home boys.'

'But you're dead,' I say. 'At least, I hope you are. I mean-' I start to edge behind Sid who is trying to edge behind me.

'Don't worry,' says Boris. 'You have nothing to be afraid of. I am good guy. Ask anyone at the Krem-I mean MI6. I have had my suspicions about P for months now. Ingenious, wasn't it? What perfect cover for a man intent on taking over Britain-head of her most secret espionage echelon.'

Sid wipes Boris's spit off the front of his matelot T-shirt. You try saying espionage echelon. 'Is that what he was going to do?'he asks.

Boris nods. 'Yes. He planned to step into the vacuum caused when the whole population were fornicating in the streets.'

'I'm sorry,' I say. 'You'll have to take me back to the beginning. Why did P hire us if it was him who was behind everything?'

'Because he had to,' says Boris. 'If he hadn't taken action then people would have wondered why. Anyhow he was determined to liquidate you before you discovered anything.'

'So it wasn't you who tried to kill us in Nice?' says Sid.

'No, it was one of P's agents dressed up to look like me. He was suspicious that I was suspicious and he wanted to put the blame on me.'

'Blimey,' says Sid. 'It's complicated, isn't it? So P sent us to Nice?'

'No,' says Boris. 'I did. But I let P think that you were on to something so that he would show his hand.'

'You mean, by killing us?T say, thinking of all the ways we nearly bought it on the way to France.

Boris looks uncomfortable. 'That's not a very nice word,' he says. 'Anyway, the department would have paid for the funeral.'

"That is fair,' says Sid. 'You've got to admit that's fair Timmo.'

'Oh shut up!' I say. I am getting a bit choked with the espionage business. 'What I don't understand is how you would ever have pinned it on him, if we'd have snuffed it and not come back to catch him at it.'

'Simple,' says Boris. 'Four weeks ago, I had a highly sensitive recording device built in P's watch-without him knowing of course. Every move he made against you was recorded and could have been used as evidence that would destroyed him. Had you died, your sacrifice would not have been in vain.'

"That's nice,' says Sid.

'Is this the watch?' I say. 'The date watch that appears to have stopped at the beginning of last month? Mickey Mouse's nose has fallen off and got wedged under the hour hand.'

'Fucksky!' explodes Boris. 'Heads will roll over this when I report back to the Politburo.'

'Ah well,' says Sid. 'No harm was done, was it? You know, it's a bit funny, but for a moment my mate and I thought that you might be a Russian agent. Stupid, isn't it?'

'It's that USSR on your smock,' I say.

'USSR?' says Boris. 'Oh that. That'ser United Services Squash Rackets. What could be more British than that?'

'What indeed,' says Sid. 'It just goes to show how easy it is to get a silly idea in your head, doesn't it?' He leans forward confidentially. 'I suppose we'll get a medal, knighthood, something like that?'

Boris shakes his head. 'Regretfully, the work of Mission E is so secret that we can make no award that would draw attention to its existence.'

'Oh dear,' says Sid. 'You couldn't leave a couple of CBEs on the edge of the desk and look the other way? We wouldn't say where we got them.'

'Definitely,' I say.

Boris shrugs. 'As the new head of Mission E, I wish I could do something for you. But it is impossible. Your reward will have to be that of knowing what you have done for Mother Russ-I mean, the old cunt-I mean the old country.'

'Very well, Squire,' says Sid. 'If that's the way it's got to be, so be it. Back to Clapham and Mum's the word. At least we know that we leave the country in good hands.' We move to the door and Sid pauses with his hand on the handle. 'There's only one thing about this lot that puzzles me,' he says. 'In the books there's always a beautiful bird mixed up in the din-dem-denni-the bit at the end. We don't seem to have that.'

A strange expression setdes on Boris's unlovely face and he grips the bottom of his smock purposefully. 'Not so fast, cheeky!' he says. 'You haven't seen anything yet.' The smock whips up like a Venetian blind being released and two enormous knockers are revealed.

'Cripes!' says Sid. 'It's a woman!'

'You betsky!' says the bird making a dive for Sid. 'Come here commde! I have need of your services. All work and no Jack make Borisova a dull girlsky!'

The last I see of Sid he is pinned down with one of Boris's knockers on either side of his head. I think he is trying to say something but the words are understandably somewhat muffled and snatched away when the lift doors close in front of my face.