Sfret suddenly found himself pinned to the wall by a mop to the throat. The janitor had produced a Walther PPK and was demanding to know what he was doing here. Sfret looked around for the Agents. Dispiritingly, he saw the unconscious form of X lying in plain sight in the middle of the corridor.

'Who are you and what are you doing here?' the janitor demanded.

'...' choked Sfret.

Just then, Arthur appeared behind the janitor and applied a nerve grip. The janitor folded up with a sigh. The mop clattered to the floor.

'That was close.' Sfret addressed Arthur as he rubbed his neck.

On the other side of the corridor, X stirred. 'What happened?' he asked, regaining his sensibilities.

'You were knocked unconscious,' Arthur said, examining the quietly unconscious body of the janitor. 'How are you feeling?' Arthur asked, not looking up.

'Better. I'll go on ahead.'

Arthur was not paying much attention to his partner. Instead, he had begun patting down the janitor's boiler suit and consequently appeared not to hear him. X took this as unspoken consent and snuck off down the corridor, sticking close to the walls.

A way down the lengthy corridor, which was decked out in an uninspiring concrete grey, was a corner. X stuck close to the wall and slipped into a shadow to mask his advance. Assuring himself that the way forward was clear, he darted out from the shelter of the shadows and dove around a corner. He was immediately confronted by a solid-looking door. Distant voices carried through the walls — sounds of argument and anger, it seemed. X fumbled for a release mechanism, something clicked and the entrance slid open.

The room on the other side was decorated in the opulent, high-ceilinged manner designed to inspire envy in any lowly jobsworth who has ever had to bow to enter this office. Inspiring paintings hung on the walls and there was a rug which was thick enough to lose a Persian in. Behind it all was a blindingly varnished mahogany desk the size of a tennis court and behind that sat a short, grey-haired man in an immaculately-tailored suit with a red phone pressed to his ear.

X had, as an Agent, developed an acute class-consciousness. It wasn't that there was anything inherently noble about being poor and he would gladly crack heads in the lowest of shabby underworld hangouts. But with money, there came the certain satisfaction that whatever crime is being foiled is probably large and, to use the trade term, 'nefarious'. And then there was the issue with Jacuzzis: wealthy criminals had Jacuzzis while he, a bona fide Hero, had to go without. It was then, with a certain satisfaction, that X slid behind the scowling figure and, with surgical precision, wrapped his arms around his neck. The man squeaked sharply.

'Good evening. With one swift movement,' whispered X, 'I could sever your spinal cord and you would never play tennis again. Would you like to play ball?'

Squeak. Shudder.

'Luckily I'm not likely to do that, as I am an accredited Agent of the British government. However, I do have a license to kill. I try to use it sparingly, but...'

Arthur made a terrifying discovery: a Secret Service badge. 'X, I think we... where is X?'

'He went exploring,' Sfret said, indicating the direction the Agent had run off in.

'Oh dear,' Arthur said, looking aghast. 'Sfret, follow me — and stay low.'

X let a few pregnant seconds tick by. The figure seemed to be trying to say something and X released his grip a little. The little man gasped.

'... you have... no idea... what you are... doing...'

X re-asserted his grip. 'Oh, we know all about your Cult and your plans... we know you know where the Turquoise Moon is. If you cooperate, we can...'

The red-faced figure let out a shrill whistle of desperation and there was a rumbling from the walls. X rolled his eyes.
Arthur and Sfret burst out of the secret door which was, X now noticed, concealed behind a large red-and-white flag. Arthur yelped. 'What are you doing, man?'

X looked at him blankly. 'Subduing the prisoner,' he said in a puzzled tone. He jerked his arms a little to demonstrate, and his captive squirmed. 'Standard procedure.'

Arthur bit his fist and subjected his partner to a long, disbelieving glare.

'What's the matter?' X asked, sensing that something was up.

'X,' said Arthur, quietly, 'let that man go. You're strangling the President of Switzerland.'

The Agent unwrapped his arms and leaped back as if stung. Then he grinned nervously and patted the president on the back. 'Well, no harm done, eh? Haha...'

In the corridor outside were voices, tramping feet and the unpleasant sound of guns being loaded and primed.

'Apart from the *ahem* ... janitor, do you have a security presence in this bunker, Mr President?' said Arthur.

'They've all been sent home for the holidays,' he said, coughing slightly and rubbing his neck.

'Everybody down!' Arthur shouted. Leaping over the desk and pinning the premier to the ground, he reached up grabbed X by his tie, yanking him sharply to the floor just as the hail of bullets steadily began to take the room apart. Arthur pushed the Swiss president under the solid wooden desk, shouting above the noise of at least a dozen fully-loaded magazines being emptied over their heads.

'What is the meaning of all of this?' the premier demanded.

'A hit! Where are we?' shouted Arthur.

'We are in the security bunker — we were told you were terrorist spies!'

'Who told you?'

'The von Trapp family are very well-connected. The heir brought you in here himself — said you were snooping about his golf course and stealing his golf buggies! I was just about to ring your government when your friend, he grabbed me from behind.' He indicated a forlorn-looking X. A bullet ricocheted off a gilded picture frame and passed through the desk, almost removing the lobe of Arthur's left ear.

'We are spies, but we're the good guys. We need to get you out of here, Mr President — von Trapp is going to steal the Turquoise Moon.'

'The what?'

'Is there another way out of here?' Arthur implored.

'Er...'

The automatic gunfire stopped and the silence was suddenly deafening. A gravelly voice from outside cried 'RELOAD!' Arthur picked up the Swiss president by the arm and pressed his own face into the premier's. 'Now!'

'This way,' the premier said, a tad reluctantly. He tilted a vase, whereupon a bookcase swivelled around just enough for them to get out. The group crawled on all fours inside, with the bookcase turning back around moments later. A fraction of a second later, another heavy hail of bullets hit the spot where they had been crouching moments earlier.

'So where exactly does this take us?' inquired Arthur, wiping some cobwebs from his shoulder and dusting his knees.

'This entire complex is an old bunker from the Second World War — it was extended during the 1960s. There should be a path somewhere down here that'll take us in to the village,' the Swiss premier informed them. However, as they inched their way along, Arthur found that to his surprise, his mind was preoccupied with the fate of the woman von Trapp and Daltmooreby had kidnapped, Anna.

'Hmll kffng hmmfplk fu bd bu wknr!!!!!' complained Anna through the gag.

'Put her in the trunk, Sreka,' von Trapp commanded, pulling the collar up on his coat and pointing to the open trunk of a Swiss-registered vehicle.

'I'll drive,' said Daltmooreby, swinging the keys round his index finger.

'Good,' said Von Trapp, sidling into the passenger seat.

Sreka cut off another round of muffled expletives with a decisive thud of the boot. Von Trapp leaned back to urge the big Russian to hurry it up. 'Due to those meddlesome agents, we are already significantly delayed.'

'It is a good job I sent Slepp ahead then to pave the way for our arrival, then,' Vandeveer grinned. Von Trapp appeared momentarily subdued.

Vandeveer occupied the back seat in silent celebration, but had to shuffle over when the oversized Sreka attempted to clamber in next to him.

'Heh — pretty funny that hit squad going into finish off those agents,' Sreka said, closing the door with some difficulty.

'Oh, they won't have killed them,' said Daltmooreby matter-of-factly, finally succeeding in getting the engine to splutter into asthmatic life. Von Trapp arched an eyebrow and gave an ill-tempered squint with a frisson of resigned frustration — quite a feat of facial gymnastics which was either vaguely threatening or oddly humorous, depending on your perspective.

'Arthur Robinson and I have... unfinished business. Neither of us will suffer death willingly until only one of us lives,' Daltmooreby stated matter-of-factly, applying pressure to the accelerator and initiating locomotion in the car, which had more to do with gravity, inertia and geography than the mechanics of the accelerator pedal.

'Yes, well, let's focus on the task at hand, shall we?' said Von Trapp sharply. 'By tomorrow evening, the Turquoise Moon shall be ours!'

The agents suddenly reached a section of tunnel that was incredibly dark. The Swiss president motioned to the others to stay still while he went on ahead. A moment later, there was a thud and some mild cursing. Then a clank, another thud and then, somewhere off in the distance, the sound of a generator coming online. A dim emergency light that was bolted to the ceiling flickered and glowed its way into life, highlighting the rusty and faded sign 'Ascend ladder to survive'. A slightly smaller sign beneath it said in even more faded lettering, 'In Case of Nuclear Armageddon: count to 788,923,150 — and give it a go'. The premier managed a proud smile and gestured to the agents to start climbing. Sfret looked worried.

'What is it?' quizzed Arthur.

'It's my knees — arthritis — one of you shall have to carry me.'

Arthur and X snapped to stare at each other. 'Toss you for it,' said Arthur, producing a suitably equitable choice of currency.

'You're on,' said X.

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