LONDON ALERT

by Christopher Bartlett

  ‘Celia, Jeremy. Jeremy, Celia,’ said Peter as the two of them stepped towards each other to shake hands. They could hardly embrace in an office setting, though Holt would have liked to have done so, for never had he met a grown woman with such angelic features. One so pure.

  In the face of such innocence, playing at goody-goody brother and sister or chaste couple would not be difficult. Surely, the famous saying by Benjamin Franklin that innocence is its own defence would be particularly apt in her case.

  He returned to his office in almost a state of shock and sat at his desk thinking of what might lie ahead until it was time to go for his session with the house psychiatrist-cum-doctor.

  The warnings from his two colleagues were not the sole reason for his disquiet as he sat in the psychiatrist’s office. A French friend who claimed he had unjustly been accused of date rape had told him how he had been obliged to attend sessions with a shrink who showed scant interest in him personally but would spring to life invariably at some point, saying, ‘Let’s go through the “rape” again, step by step. Describe her reactions. Say how you felt, and above all, describe how you think she felt. Her twitches, her orgasms, if any.’

  Holt knew that as a qualified general medical practitioner, Blackwell was empowered to perform physical exams as well as psychiatric ones, so he was not at all surprised when the doctor started his session by saying he would pose some questions to pigeonhole him before physically examining him.

  ‘Do you pigeonhole everyone?’ asked Holt, wondering whether he could brag later that he had indeed played the mongoose and outmanoeuvred the Snake.

  ‘Invariably. I’m pretty good at it.’

  ‘I see,’ was all Holt could think of saying.

  The next question, designed to throw recruits and especially females off balance, was one of Blackwell’s favourites.

  ‘When did you lose it – your virginity, I mean?’

  ‘How,’ parried Holt, ‘is that relevant?’

  Blackwell had his well-prepared excuse for posing the question.

  ‘American intelligence officers triaging defeated Germans at the end of World War II found the earlier a man lost his virginity, the more likely he would prove to be democratic as opposed to fascist. Besides giving me a lead in to the person’s political views on the democratic–fascist axis, I find that question opens up a Pandora’s box.’

  ‘I would think that in today’s society, where sexual relations at a young age are in some sections of society more or less de rigueur, such criteria are meaningless. The converse might well be true, for nowadays saving one’s virginity would often be going against social norms, at least in the UK. Perhaps in your day, Herr Doctor, the US intelligence men’s thesis may have been valid. When did you lose yours – that is, if you have?’

  ‘I’m the one asking the questions.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ replied Holt, leaning forward to press his point, ‘but I would have thought more cerebral Pandora’s boxes would be more valuable. Sex is not the only thing in life – though it might seem like that to psychiatrists, who are reputed to enter the profession because of their own hang‑ups, even shortcomings.’

  No one had ever talked to the psychiatrist like that. But before he could object, Holt continued.

  ‘I shall be reporting you. In fact, I think you should be on the sex offenders list, but then I suppose MI5 would protect you because of the security implications. You probably know too much about key people, not only in Giraffe but also beyond.’

  ‘You little creep. You’ll be sorry.’

  ‘You’ve just proved my point,' replied Holt. ‘Blackmail.’

  ‘Enough!’

  ‘Sorry, I got carried away,’ answered Holt.

  ‘Seems your emotions get the better of you. I’ll have to note that. Could be disastrous on a mission. You could put people working for us at risk.’

  ‘I’m a backroom, back-office man. Not a frontline agent. I won’t be dealing with dangerous situations, here or abroad.’

  ‘Okay. Anyway, more to the point is, what made someone like you decide to join the service?’

  ‘I didn’t decide. I fell into it after being told I had something special to offer and that I might save many lives. You will understand I cannot say more than that for security reasons.’

  ‘You can tell me anything.’

  ‘I would have to confirm that with a higher authority. If they said it was okay, I would warn them it could be very dangerous having non-line personnel like you asking wide‑ranging questions about what we do.’

  Holt was playing the system against him, and Blackwell would have to trip him up on terrain where his background information would give him a definite advantage.

  ‘I gather,’ said Blackwell, ‘from your files that you have something of an inferiority complex in so far as women are concerned. All this bravado may be to hide the fact that you are the one with the hang-ups.’

  ‘Is sex the only thing you can think off?’

  ‘You’re evading the question.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s not inferiority, more a matter of unfamiliarity, never having had a sister and my mother dying. I have to admit I am gauche in my dealings with the opposite sex, perhaps as you yourself are – seeing how prurient you are.’

  This insulting comment had obviously made Blackwell furious, leaving him cornered, for if he continued he would look even more prurient. He would seek his revenge later. He altered course, but only slightly.

  ‘I see you are being partnered with our beautiful Celia. Seems totally out of order to me in view of what you have just said. We don’t want any trouble. She is the Virgin Mary, at least for the likes of you.’

  ‘I have been made well aware that I must handle her with kid gloves – or rather, not handle her at all. That said, I want it put on record that you referred to her as the Virgin Mary. I don’t want to get blamed when she falls pregnant on her own.’

  ‘Get…get out! You’re too clever by half.’

  ‘You are not the first person to say that. At least you got something right.’

  Holt stood up and stalked out as ordered, glad to escape the physical exam. Had he been a young woman, it would surely not have been omitted.

  He half slammed the door behind him, knowing he had foolishly made an implacable enemy. The Snake would inevitably seek his revenge in one form or another. The question was, would retribution be immediate, or was he one of those people who believed revenge was a dish best served cold?

  Chapter 7

  Terrorist Ways

  One cannot go into detail regarding Holt’s initial training and secondments to the various security-related departments. Far less exciting than one might imagine, most of it consisted of briefings on all aspects of terrorism. Disappointingly, it was more like being back at school than at university.

  Celia accompanied him to some of the lectures. This was allegedly to make her a better sounding-board, though Holt did wonder whether it was to enable her to keep an eye on him and get him used to being in her presence in situations where he could not compromise her.

  Briefings on particular terrorist incidents included videos and photos not deemed by the media to be suitable, other than for the occasional glimpse, for public consumption. Two of the worst incidents in that regard were at schools. The recent one in Pakistan, where seven Taliban came into a school at Peshawar and opened fire, killing 132 children and 145 people in all. And the Beslan school hostage crisis, in the Russian Federation in September 2004, which lasted three days and ended in a bloodbath, with 380-plus deaths as the school was stormed by security forces. More than 1,100 hostages had been taken, of whom 777 were children, with the rest mostly staff. The militants were threatening to blow them all up if their demands were not met or the authorities intervened.

  Conditions became horrendous as temperatures soared inside the school, with many of the younger hostages taking off their clothes and sitting in their underclothes, if that. The exact order of events
when the authorities did intervene after three days is disputed, with some alleging that the authorities tried to make it seem the militants started the explosions that prompted them to intervene, and hostages were incidentally killed by those who were ostensibly rescuing them.

  While bombs were of constant concern, firearms scenarios such as the Mumbai siege of 2008, where the terrorists outgunned the police and SWAT teams led to the British authorities carrying out secret exercises throughout the country codenamed Operation Pride to ensure mobile response units had the necessary firepower and would not have to wait for the army to arrive from their barracks.

  Then there were the lectures on how terrorists’ minds were supposed to work and what made them, apart from their bombs, tick. What made them become terrorists and even suicide bombers in the first place. These and the reading material that accompanied them were fascinating.

  Holt was told time and time again that though terrorists could mostly be pigeonholed according to type, there were always the dangerous exceptions. From the perspective of Holt’s mission, they really told him there were no simple answers. Terrorists came in all shapes and sizes. Even the under-tens could be a threat.

  Halfway through the course, Sir Charles called him in to review his role.

  ‘Remember, your job is to think up techniques and modi operandi before the terrorists think of them. While the lectures covering the way their minds work may help you do that, it is not your job to go looking for them. Leave that to the established departments. So far, Five, Special Branch, Six, and GCHQ have done a great job thwarting attacks year after year, but we cannot expect them to pre-empt every one, so any possible scenarios you come up with could be invaluable.’

  Chapter 8

  The Loughty

  In preparation for their overseas trip, Holt and Celia were scheduled to spend a night together at a hotel called The Loughty as a dry run. ‘Dry’ was the operative word, though luckily that did not apply to alcoholic beverages. He would have to prove himself beyond reproach.

  What they did not know was that the service had an ulterior motive, apart from facilitating the taking of photos, for pushing the honeymoon/happy-couple scenario. The country’s glory days were over – in fact, the country’s zenith had been around 1900 – and even its secret services, as well as diplomatic services, were short of money. Lavish receptions and entertaining were mostly things of the past, and travel expenses were being pared to the bone, with the result that agents were missing out on the little perks they once so much enjoyed, though these had hardly ever extended to 007’s Dom Pérignon champagne.

  By pretending to be on their honeymoon, agents could sometimes claw back some of the perks they enjoyed in the old days and, notably, hope to be granted upgrades in hotels. On their return to London, some would have dozens of complimentary condoms to give away, as some hotels seemed to believe half a dozen were required. The more brazen officers would then dole them out to secretaries, saying that while too small for them they should be ample for their partners.

  Holt had heard the story of how, before Russia became an ally in World War II, the Russians placed an order for condoms of gigantic proportions to enrobe the tips of the guns on their tanks and prevent dirt getting in. The minister responsible for manufacturing told Churchill that the Russians’ ulterior motive was to sap British workers’ morale and wanted to refuse. Churchill allegedly told his minister the problem could be solved simply by having the workers put ‘Small’ on the packets.

  Apart from saving money, having agents share rooms helped keep them out of trouble and away from temptation. It also made it more difficult for foreign services to contact individuals personally.

  Peter had warned Holt that a mature understudy was waiting in the wings to take Celia’s place should he fail the test at The Loughty.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ joked jealous colleagues, ‘with the understudy in question, you will have the commiseration of the hotel bellboys when you come down for breakfast after the big night. They might even propose something on the side to lift your spirits. By the way, Blackwell often briefs and debriefs the females going to The Loughty, ostensibly to ensure they handle their partners appropriately and are not importuned. You had better be careful.’

  Such comments were making Holt apprehensive. The understudy sounded terrible, but then even someone with only slightly above average looks could never compare with Celia. More to the point, he did not like the thought that his nemesis, Blackwell, would be involved.

  Colleagues who had been to The Loughty would not be drawn on what had happened to them personally there, other than to say it was a great experience, provided one did not make a fool of oneself. In fact, it was not a hotel at all but a training-cum-test establishment operated by the service to train operatives, who came increasingly from more humble backgrounds, in the ways of upper, if not high, society. As most could already handle a knife and fork, it was more a question of teaching them how to deal with sommeliers and not look ridiculous when faced with a menu written in French or Italian.

  Arriving at the local station in the late afternoon, Holt and Celia climbed into the second of the five taxis waiting outside the station on the assumption that the leading one would most likely have been sent to test them.

  ‘The Loughty is far too expensive for the likes of people coming here to visit us locals,’ said the elderly driver, turning round to face them in the back seat when he should have been concentrating on the road. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, turning back to see where they were going, ‘it’s always fully booked. You two were lucky to get a room.’

  A converted country house set well back from the road, The Loughty was much more stylish than they had anticipated. A miserable agent, who had doubtless joined one of the services expecting to be engaged in something more glamorous, carried their bags up to their room and hovered for a tip – obviously to teach agents the usual protocol on arriving at a high-class establishment. Holt gave him a couple of pounds with a dismissive gesture to humble him even more and give the impression he was a habitué of such places.

  Sharing a room did not mean sharing beds, for there were twin beds separated by a bedside table with the usual telephone.

  Just as they were settling in, there was a knock at the door that was too sharp to be that of a room maid. Indeed, it proved to be the hotel manager, obviously a more senior agent who had had his cover blown or was otherwise deemed operationally ineffective. His crisp manner reminded Holt of the World War II Stalag Luft prison camp commandants he had seen in films.

  ‘I have been briefed about your relationship – or rather, lack thereof – so have given you well-separated twin beds as requested. Actually, in the Far East many couples and especially married ones generally prefer them.' With an overlong look at Celia, he added, ‘The beds can usually be pushed together, so one gets the best of both worlds.’

  Dinner, he told them, would be the centrepiece of their stay. A table had been reserved for them at eight.

  ‘Dress is smart casual.’

  Having said somewhat ambiguously he was looking forward to seeing more of them, he left them to their own devices.

  With time to spare before dinner, they went for a pleasant walk in the woods that formed part of the estate, returning at about seven thirty to spruce up for eight. Though Holt was well aware Celia was no longer a teenager, her nubile look and childish mannerisms made him feel like an uncle taking a pubescent niece out for a treat and having to share a room with her, albeit with her mother’s permission.

  The thought of the potentially embarrassing situation lying ahead was making him edgy, and just like many a young lady disappointed at her father’s failure to measure up to her impossible hopes and expectations, Celia came up with the first of what were to be many put-downs of the evening.

  ‘Get a grip, man! There’s no need to worry about not rising to the occasion.’

  What language and what cheek. What double entendre. It was a bit rich having someone so youn
g and virginal lecturing him about not having to prove his prowess in the bedroom. He could only retort meekly that it was an unusual situation.

  ‘I never had a sister. I wish I had. I would not feel so awkward.’

  ‘We’re not meant to discuss our private lives in the service. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re right, as usual. You’ve been in the business longer than I.’

  Continuing with her schoolgirl-on-a-day-out gush, she babbled on.

  ‘Let’s make the most of it. It’s not every day one can feast oneself on the house like this. If you cannot get your head round the brother-and-sister act, just imagine we’re twelve-year-olds on a sleepover who would never dream of doing anything really naughty.’

  The ‘really naughty’ got Holt’s imagination going. Not only did he lack a sister, he had never been on a sleepover either. The goody-two-shoes kids she was referring to must have been under ten years old to be that innocent.

  Just as he was formulating a remark to try to take her down a peg, she interrupted his train of thought.

  ‘Stop trying to make a big thing out of a little thing. All we have to do is to be natural – in other words, make the most of the goodies, including the champagne. I’ve heard from other agents that this place is fabulous in that respect. Anyway, I’m famished. Time we went down for din-dins.’

  Holt presumed she was putting on this din-dins primary-school act to wind him up even further but guiltily found it appealing. Was she purposely being provocative?

  In the words of the late bon viveur and restaurant critic Michael Winner, The Loughty dinner was truly ‘historic’, and had the establishment not been restricted to a special clientele it might well have earned a Michelin star.

  During a holiday Holt had spent in France while a student, a French acquaintance taught him the secret of ordering quality French wines. Not only should one choose one that was appellation contrôlée, and preferably a top appellation, but also ensure it was château bottled (mis en bouteille au château), with a top château being a big plus. Finally, one should never buy any bottle with the label for the year separate from the main label, as such labels were easily falsified.