Crocodile Tears

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.

Chapter 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