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graceful leap onto the desk.
    J pressed a buzzer. A moment later B62 came in holding a pile of papers. Caydon nudged Oz’s foot with his and mouthed, “Moneypenny!”
    “I’m glad you know about James Bond,” J said. “It might make this whole business a little easier for you to understand. The first thing I must ask you to do is sign the Official Secrets Act.”
    Oz, Lily and Caydon exchanged looks of bafflement—was the man joking?
    B62 laid three sheets of paper and three pens on the desk in front of them.
    “I signed it ages ago,” Demerara said proudly.
    “Nothing to worry about,” B62 said. “You’re just promising never to tell anyone about this place.”
    “I won’t say a word,” Lily said. “Nobody would believe me, anyway. I bet this is the part of the government that deals with magic.”
    J chuckled. “Not quite—but close enough. Officially my department doesn’t exist. Officially I’m not here and this room is a broom closet. I can’t tell you more until you’ve signed.” He leaned across the desk toward them. “We’re trusting you with some highly sensitive information.”
    Suddenly, this was all looking serious. Oz, Lily and Caydon signed the pieces of paper.
    “Caydon R. Campbell,” Caydon said. “The R stands for—”
    “Robert,” J finished for him. “Yes, we know.”
    “What—you know about me?”
    “Oh, yes,” said B62. “You support Arsenal, hate spinach and play the saxophone.”
    “Wha—but—” Caydon was flabbergasted. “MI6 have been spying on me?”
    “We’re not MI6,” J said. “This is the SMU—the Secret Ministry of the Unexplained. We deal with anything—er—unexplained that might be a threat to national security. You’re probably wondering why the SMU needs the help of three eleven-year-olds. I must admit, I wondered myself.”
    “But I insisted!” Demerara spat. “We MUST have the children, or the spells won’t work—and we won’t have a HOPE of retrieving the mold.”
    J sighed and shook his head. “It wasn’t easy; I had to get clearance from the prime minister.”
    “Wow,” Oz said. “The prime minister knows about us.”
    “Not officially, of course,” J said. “Now, pay attention. We have reason to believe that Isadore Spoffard is trying to sell his immortality chocolate again. Last time it was to the Nazis. This time we think he’s working for a group of terrorists known as the Schmertz Gang. We have reason to believe these very dangerous people are planning a major attack, probably in London. Their leaders want to rule the world, which they think will be possible if they live forever. That’s why they need Isadore’s chocolate.”
    The sound of Isadore’s name chilled Oz’s spine, and he knew Lily had the same feeling. “He’s still alive?”
    “Very much so; the SMU has been keeping tabs on him since 1938.” J tapped a key on his keyboard and the painting of the queen on the wall behind him changed to a photograph of a dark-haired man with a narrow black mustache and a thin, sour face. “Isadore Spoffard, just before he killed his brothers.” He clicked rapidly through a series of photographs of the same sour face with different hairstyles. “He’s a master ofdisguise. Over the years he’s used all sorts of names—Tom Dribway, Quentin Cobbler, Heinz Schmidt, Professor Pillick and Mrs. Harriet Wong.”
    “We haven’t seen him in Skittle Street yet,” Demerara said, “but it’s only a matter of time. He wants the recipe for immortality.”
    “And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you,” J said, “how dreadful it would be if such a thing fell into the hands of wicked people no bomb or bullet could stop.”
    This was scary—and incredibly exciting. Their wicked great-great-uncle was still alive.
    “What do we have to do?” Oz asked.
    J and B62 looked at each other. “I don’t like it,” J said. “But there’s no other way. The immortality chocolate can’t be made without all three of the golden