LONDON ALERT

by Christopher Bartlett

  In freshers’ week at Cambridge, he even found a Jewish girl with whom an intellectual and then a physical spark was lit. She was his first proper girlfriend, which meant things did not go according to plan the first time – she had to go fishing for the condom he left behind.

  At the end of freshers’ week, just when, for want of a better word, he thought he was getting into his stride, she decided he was not a suitable partner either socially or physically and ended the affair.

  ‘You need more experience, but not with me,’ she had cuttingly said.

  Trying to recover from that put-down, he had consoled himself with the thought that the inevitable break-up would have been even more painful had the relationship been more established. He would be a hindrance for someone as socially ambitious as she. Indeed, why she had taken to him in the first place was something of a mystery. Perhaps it was because she too had been on unfamiliar territory.

  From then on he put all his energies into his studies, getting a double first in pure mathematics and physics.

  Such qualifications do not lead to a specific job and only proved he was capable of many things. With no idea of what he should do for a career that would have made his parents proud, he went to see a London-based head-hunter called James recommended by his tutor.

  After they had talked for a while, the nattily dressed man with highly polished shoes reassured Holt, saying, ‘With your qualifications, I would have no difficulty in ultimately placing you. You don’t need to worry.’

  ‘Really?’ replied Holt. ‘That’s good to hear.’

  ‘Yes. But – and it’s a big but – you need to sort yourself out emotionally first. Otherwise, you won’t settle anywhere and soon pack it in, leaving our client unhappy, not to mention yourself in a quandary and even depressed. Not only that, it would forever damage your prospects.’

  ‘How do I, as you say, sort myself out? See a shrink?’

  ‘No, that would do more harm than good. What you need is emotional experience – partly to make up for the loss of your parents. You need to interact with ordinary people, a wide range of people, in a relaxed setting. I don’t mean sex, although one never knows. I sometimes think young people learn more in human terms dealing with clients in a restaurant than they do in some intern placement in a legal office gained through their parents’ connections.’

  ‘I don’t feel like working as a waiter. Isn’t there something more exciting I could do?’

  ‘Yes. Have a gap year. Travel.’

  Holt’s eyes lit up at the idea. The last time he had fun on a foreign holiday was with the brigadier’s family years back.

  ‘I like the idea.’

  ‘That’s what I did,’ continued James. ‘Best thing I ever did.’

  ‘I haven’t…enough money – gap years are for rich kids.’

  ‘Jeremy, I wasn’t so rich. I got a job for a few months and saved up.’

  ‘Um.’

  ‘I tell you what. In view of your exceptional qualifications and in the hope that you stay on our books, our partnership will lend you ten thousand pounds, repayable in five years’ time. If in the meantime you get jobs through us, we may well find our way to writing it off. Not a bad idea, eh?’

  ‘A great one! I like it.’

  They discussed the details and came to an informal agreement, whereupon James called Accounts to tell them to make out the cheque, ready for Holt to pick up on his way out.

  ‘See you in ten months’ or so time,’ he said as they shook hands.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ he added. ‘Don’t try to do too many countries. The main point is to meet people, get to know them – a rolling stone gathers no moss. That said, it’s far easier to make real friends, even with English people, when abroad. There are fewer class barriers. Good luck!’

  Not having a place of his own to worry about made going away simpler. A friend from Cambridge who had done a gap‑year trip prior to university was more than glad to give him some advice, as talking about the trip brought back happy memories and delicious moments.

  Taking his advice but not so sure of the fantastic moments, Holt decided to fly to India to see Delhi and the Taj Mahal, then take a boat to Singapore, from where he would take the train to Thailand. Cambodia. Then California – being technically minded he wanted to see Silicon Valley –Washington and New York. He would take the consultant’s advice not to overdo it, and leave out Hong Kong, Japan, and Australia.

  He was surprised, on looking on the internet, just how much help and advice there was on gap years for people of all ages. One website, called gapadvice.org, had an invaluable gap-year planning check list. But like the friend who had advised him, he did not want to do a trip organized by others. Having adequate funds made doing it independently much easier and safer, as he could always stay at a good hotel should suitable backpacker accommodation be impossible to find.

  It took him some six weeks to make the basic plan, get the necessary inoculations, and do and get the things on that check list. Once on the flight to Delhi, he sat back, expecting the next eight months or so to be plain sailing. He was soon to be in for a shock, one that would make him more wary thereafter.

  He stayed at a reasonable mid-market hotel, so there was nothing of concern there, but when he came out of the American Express Bank in central Delhi after changing money, a kid threw some foul-smelling poo all over his shoes. Someone immediately came up to help him, but knowing that it was a trick to rob him, Holt pushed him away and escaped. He finally sought sanctuary in a nearby five-star hotel, thinking he could clean himself up there in comparative safety.

  People looked at him in askance as he went into the washroom, some even putting their hand up to their nose, but no one stopped him, and he made it. The Sikh looking after the facilities offered to help clean him up. Feeling sorry for the poor guy, Holt gave him what in India would be an enormous tip and came out not smelling of roses, but not smelling bad enough for people to immediately distance themselves.

  He decided a stiff drink was in order and made his way to the bar and sat at a table with no other guests in the immediate vicinity. However, he had hardly sat down when a mother and girl in her late teens, obviously American from the way they were speaking, installed themselves at the adjacent table. He hoped they could not smell him.

  ‘Another couple of days and we’ll be out of here,’ said the girl.

  Holt could not avoid hearing other snippets of conversation and finally could not resist intruding.

  ‘Are you on holiday?’ he asked.

  ‘In theory, yes. In reality, we’re just waking up from a nightmare.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘We wanted,’ said the mother, ‘to see the Taj Mahal and decided to stay what we thought would be merely a couple of nights at a nearby hotel. When we checked in, the receptionist asked us a number of questions, including whether we had health insurance. “Better to be safe. Some guests have been ill,” he said.’

  ‘Were you?’ enquired Holt.

  ‘Were we! The first night we were fine and went off early the next morning to see the Taj Mahal, which by the way was fantastic. We got back to the hotel, had a shower, and then dinner. Everything seemed fine. Then in the middle of the night my daughter had terrible stomach cramps and diarrhoea. She felt so terrible, she thought she was going to die, so I called the front desk, who said the hotel doctor would be with us shortly.’

  ‘That was lucky,’ said Holt.

  ‘At the time we thought so.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘When the doc arrived, surprisingly quickly, he took one look at Sylvia and said it was so serious she would have to go to the clinic. She was rushed there in some kind of ambulance and remained there for ten days, most of the time on a drip.’

  ‘God!’

  ‘Although medical costs are nowhere near those back in the States, the bill was quite sizable, but they said it would be covered by the insurance. We’re convinced it was a scam.’

&nbs
p; Holt subsequently did some research and found that such cases were quite common. There were even instances of monkeys being trained to bite tourists when ordered, so that a complaisant doctor could order expensive anti-rabies treatment. In fact, the large number of such cases prompted the British High Commission, which is what the embassy is called in Commonwealth countries, to carry out an investigation, but no heads rolled, as the provincial governor’s office had tenuous links with the perpetrators.

  Holt returned to his lesser hotel a wiser man, hoping no one would notice the smell given off by his shoes.

  He did a day trip to the Taj Mahal, which was truly magnificent, and after a couple more days in Delhi took the train to Mumbai. There he was to board a ship for the three‑day voyage to Singapore, one of the safest and cleanest places in the world, because the government is so strict.

  We won’t bore the reader with the details of Holt’s subsequent travel, as so many have done similar trips. Suffice to say, staying and eating at establishments ranging from stylish hotels to beachside cafés, in addition to talking to people on the beaches themselves, he did make many friends. Let it be said he did not fully participate in Thailand’s full moon parties, as that was not his style.

  Culturally it was enriching too. Not only was there Angkor Wat in Cambodia but also museums and art galleries in Washington and New York. On the technical side, he visited a couple of companies in Silicon Valley and the National Air and Space Museum in Washington.

  When he returned to England, he was a much more rounded person. He had met girls he liked and where there was mutual attraction, but virtually all had boyfriends or partners in tow.

  James, the head-hunter who had advanced the money for his fantastic trip, looked well pleased at the change in Holt and set him up in a job in IT for a securities company in the City.

  ‘I know it is not the perfect job for you, Jeremy, but, like the gap year, it will give you experience of interfacing with people who will come in handy later. For someone of your talents, it will not be too demanding.’

  Indeed, this proved to be the case, and Holt was beginning to think he needed to be doing something that stretched him more when James phoned him in the office to say he had some information he could not impart over the phone. Could he drop in on his way home after work?

  ‘I have received a request,’ said James, ‘for someone with exceptional qualifications to dedicate him or herself to a special task that could save many lives.’

  ‘Really,’ interjected Holt, his interest piqued.

  ‘I cannot give you details, as I do not even know them exactly myself. You are a rare bird, and although not many nests would suit you, this one well might, so I put your name forward. It’s all very hush-hush, so I could not discuss it with you. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Holt. ‘In a way I’m happy enough where I am, but as you said, it is only meant to be a stepping stone.’

  ‘They will probably contact shortly – they mentioned having to do some checks. Of course, they may well have other irons in the fire.’

  Chapter 3

  Your Profile Fits

  A few days later Holt returned home from work to find a large manila envelope lying on his doormat. He scooped it up, went into the drawing room, placed it on the arm of the bargain-sale black leather sofa, and went into his tiny kitchen to make himself a coffee with his newly acquired machine. It had been an extravagance, but as he had no car, it was a luxury he felt he deserved.

  Having taken a few quick sips, he took the coffee back into the drawing room, turned on some soft music, and sat down beside the expected – or rather, hoped‑for – envelope. Once comfortably installed, he took the paperknife from the coffee table to slit it open and extract the contents.

  There was a long application form and covering letter in it with strictly confidential stamped in red at the top. The letterhead was simply giraffe, with no address.

  The post-paid return envelope didn’t have an address either, though it did have a reference number and the postcode W1Z 0XG.

  Holt read the letter carefully, and then reread it.

  Dear Holt,

  We have been advised that your profile fits that required for a very special assignment we have in mind.

  Should the prospect of pursuing an activity at which you are obviously gifted while potentially saving many lives appeal to you, please complete the attached forms and return them to us in the enclosed post-paid envelope.

  Should all be in order, we will summon you to an exploratory interview, which you should not construe as meaning we will be able to pursue your candidature. Even an innocent relationship or a chance association could rule you out.

  Regard this letter as confidential; mention it to no one, not even to a spouse, partner, or family member. Mere suspicion of such an indiscretion could result in undesirable consequences, both for you and even for them.

  Dictated and unsigned – Giraffe

  Though somewhat daunted by the probing questions and the need to provide numerous references, Holt for the first time in a long time felt a tinge of excitement.

  Whom could he cite as a reference?

  The brigadier would certainly be willing to provide him with one that would carry considerable weight. He was like a second father, even though they had not recently been in contact.

  He had to scrape the bottom of the barrel for some of the other references, though the inclusion of that fleeting girlfriend from freshers’ week at university, recently married to a highly successful lawyer – he had, to his surprise, been invited to their wedding – was a clever touch. She could vouch for his apolitical extracurricular activities and unimaginative bedroom style, which was of course why she left him.

  On the Monday morning, he left home for work, clutching the envelope containing the completed application form. If he posted it in the box at Bank station near his office in the City, the letter would be delivered earlier than if he posted it out in the suburbs, possibly even that very afternoon.

  After changing trains twice, he arrived at Bank, with its dangerously curved platform leaving considerable gaps at places, down which anyone could slip. Indeed, he had done so at another station when trying not to push up against the bottom of a lovely young woman who had dithered on stepping off the train. Fortunately someone caught hold of him, hauled him back up, and he did not slip too far down, though he had grazed his shin so badly that it took more than a year for the skin right on the bone to heal.

  Coming out into the open air, he walked the few yards to the post box and slipped the manila envelope through the slit, noting that it had been narrowed to prevent introduction of an explosive device. On hearing the envelope drop irretrievably to the bottom, as there was little mail so early in the day, he told himself that even were he to get a positive reply, the interview would merely be exploratory. He would still be free to back out. But deep down he felt he already was on the first step of an escalator from which it would be difficult to alight halfway up – or rather, halfway down.

  The summons to the exploratory interview not only came by return of post but set it for that very Saturday at 10 a.m. That did not leave much time for him to ruminate about what he might be getting into. Perhaps that was their technique: quench the iron while it was still hot; give him no time for second thoughts.

  ‘No need for confirmation,’ the letter had said. ‘Should you fail to show, we will simply consider the matter closed.’

  On the Saturday, he was up early and, after a long shower, prepared a breakfast consisting of scrambled egg, toast, and coffee. Whenever he made scrambled egg, Ian Fleming’s 007 recipe would come to mind, though the only parts of the recipe he could really remember were the need to have lashings of butter and a thick-bottomed saucepan. On this particular day, it somehow seemed more appropriate than usual.

  While munching away and sipping his coffee, he watched the morning news to catch up on current affairs. No point in getting stupidly caught ou
t over a question on that. One advantage of not having a live-in girlfriend was that he would not have to lie about where he was going and risk her wary questions spoiling his mood.

  Selecting the clothes to wear was not difficult, as he only had one snazzy suit – one that had seen better days. It was not that he couldn’t afford a new suit, it was just that in his IT work one was expected to dress casually as a techie and not get people’s backs up. It reminded him of a comment by a middle-aged-woman friend of his parents. Very brazen for someone with a husband and son-in-law in the Diplomatic Service, she had told them she had an excellent gardener, saying the best thing about him was that he knew his station.

  The advantage of working in IT was that one did not have a ‘station’ and was all things to all people. The staff at his securities company knew his IT department had a program that would pick up on non-PC words in their emails and even detect any large expanses of bare skin on the images they viewed, and that he would usually have a word with them rather than denounce them to Human Resources.

  Arriving at a graceful Georgian building in central London for the exploratory talk with five minutes to spare, he stepped into the high doorway to find an elderly caretaker looking at him through a sliding window.

  ‘Mr Holt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go right on up. Room 14. It’s on the third floor. I’m afraid there’s no lift.’

  Holt was surprised the caretaker had not asked for some ID but then realized he must have a photo of him on his computer monitor, and had anyway been expecting him.

  He mounted the stairs to the third floor with measured steps so as not to arrive like a panting labrador, taking sideways looks at the paintings and etchings adorning the walls. Though it was a Saturday, sounds emanating from some of the rooms indicated activity inside. What activity?