Scorpia Rising

plexus. The man was thrown back into a counter filled with silver jewelry. He smashed through the glass, his head and shoulders disappearing. His legs twitched for a moment, then became still.
    Alex wanted to rest, but he could see the last knife man closing in on Smithers on the other side of the square. The man was smiling, perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet, about to strike. Alex looked around him for another weapon. There were none—but then he noticed one of the brass plates that had been shot off its hook. He picked it up and threw it in a single movement. Unconsciously, he was back on the beach—with Tom Harris, with Sabina—playing Frisbee. The plate was heavier, but it was exactly the same shape, and its aerodynamics were more or less the same. It was a perfect throw. The plate sailed across the square, curving slightly, then crashed into the side of the knife man’s neck. Alex saw his eyes go white and his legs crumple. He collapsed, leaving Alex and Smithers facing each other, alone.
    Smithers seemed amused by the whole affair. “Well done, Alex,” he crowed. “I always wanted to see you in action and you really are as good as they say!”
    “I think we have to get out of here, Mr. Smithers,” Alex panted. They had taken out four of the men but he knew there were plenty more.
    “Quite right. It’s time I disappeared.”
    “What?”
    “No time to argue. It’s me they’re after. That much is obvious. Heaven knows why. Mr. Blunt will find out. The important thing is for you to get on that plane and get home.”
    “But what about you?” Alex couldn’t keep a note of dismay out of his voice. Smithers would be easy to spot wherever he went. It wasn’t just his clothes. It was his bald head, his size.
    “They won’t be able to find me if they don’t know what they’re looking for,” Smithers replied. He reached down between his legs. “This may come as a bit of a shock, Alex, old chap.”
    For a moment, Alex thought that Smithers was about to unzip his trousers. He was certainly unzipping something. As he straightened up, there was a tearing sound and the waistband of his trousers divided into two. His shirt did the same . . . and to Alex’s horror he saw that Smithers’s bulging stomach was also splitting in half. It was like a snake shedding its skin. The brightly colored shirt and the plump, oversized arms fell aside as a second pair of arms, lean and suntanned, appeared from inside, pushing their way out. The shoulders rolled away and finally the bald head with its round cheeks and several chins crumpled and fell back as a younger head emerged, and Alex saw what should have been obvious from the start.
    A fat suit! That was Smithers’s last and most brilliant gadget—and he had been wearing it from the day the two of them had met. The real Smithers was actually thin and wiry and about ten years younger—in his late thirties, with short brown hair and blue eyes. He was looking at Alex with a mischievous smile, and when he spoke again, even his public-school accent had gone. It seemed that he was actually Irish.
    “I never meant to deceive you, Alex,” he explained. “I developed the Smithers disguise for work in the field, but somehow I got used to it. It was like my office suit . . . you know?” Quickly, he tucked the rubber and latex body behind one of the stalls. He was now wearing scruffy jeans and a T-shirt. For his part, Alex was too astonished to speak. “I don’t feel comfortable taking it off now, if you want the truth. I feel as if I’m exposing myself. But needs must . . . if I’m going to get out of this place alive. No time to worry about it now. We’d better go different directions. Get home to Jack. Give her my best wishes. Try not to mention this if you can help it.”
    And then Smithers was walking briskly away. Alex watched him climb down a flight of stairs and turn a corner, and then he was gone. He was reminded of an advertisement he had once seen in a newspaper . . . for diet pills. What had it said? “Inside every fat man there’s a thin man trying to get out.” Well, he’d just witnessed a vivid demonstration of that—although if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it.
    He retraced his steps, putting as much distance between himself and the square as possible. Smithers might be wrong. The Scorpia people could still be looking for him. As he hurried away, a group of white-suited tourist police ran past