LONDON ALERT

by Christopher Bartlett

  ‘Really?’ interjected Celia in disbelief.

  ‘You see, it’s not always used to deceive. Sometimes it’s merely used as insurance. Ensures everything goes as expected, which as you yourself must know, young lady, is not always true in nature. Grooms may become suspicious at the lack of evidence…and in some countries, family members and even villagers will check the sheets. Thus the authorities are familiar with the various artifices a highly respected bride might resort to, to ensure her honour is not questioned, even though intact.’

  Looking at Celia, who was nodding her head knowledgably, the officer explained that their kit, unlike Fanny Hill’s, had the advantage of an almost infinite shelf life. As it was her side of the business, Holt let her take charge of the little box of tricks.

  Chapter 10

  Japan

  With their flights booked and all their kit, they were ready to set off for Japan at the end of the week.

  Furthermore, having survived that first night at The Loughty if not with flying colours at least with no major faux pas, Holt felt confident that he would be able to handle his relationship with his partner appropriately.

  Prior to the horrendous sarin nerve gas attack on the Tokyo subway by members of the Aum religious cult, Japan had over the years experienced a series of pinprick attacks by domestic radical elements where simplicity and originality had been the hallmark. While only having limited impact, these capers were of great embarrassment to the authorities.

  On one particular occasion, rockets launched mortar-like from cut-off drainpipes leaning against an apartment balcony balustrade facing the State Guest House landed in its grounds. As the guests had included President Mitterrand of France, the Japanese suffered great loss of face, though no one was even injured.

  Subsequently, whenever foreign heads of state stayed there, the authorities would take over-the-top measures to forestall such action. These included welding shut manholes in the nearby streets and having the local plod, then more senior police, and finally a secret service agent, interview anyone living within drainpipe-mortar range. These and other measures taken by the Japanese police and security services proved largely successful.

  Sir Charles, who himself had served in the Far East early in his career, therefore thought that Japan might provide some useful lessons for Holt. Besides, an exotic overseas trip would be a good reward and help trigger his creativity after so many days passively listening to lectures and watching videos.

  The good news was that it was confirmed Celia would accompany him; the bad news was that limited funds meant they would not be able to stop off en route. While the honeymoon routine was not strictly necessary in Japan, they would be sharing bedrooms to save money and to perhaps keep Holt out of temptation. Better than moping alone in their rooms.

  Top people at Six – Sir Charles always had the ear of their top people, having been one himself – thought it best for them to deal directly with of one of their assets living in the country rather than with the embassy. In fact, an Englishman who had lived many years in Japan as a journalist working for a serious London newspaper and various US publications.

  He had the double-barrelled name Smythe-Hewitt but preferred to be called SH. In the course of his work as a journalist, SH had followed terrorist incidents closely and built up good relations with a number of people high up in the food chain in the Japanese bureaucracy and even the police. He was not and never had been a full-time MI6 officer, more like a consultant on Japanese political and social matters. In fact, if he had been running agents he would have lost the confidence of the high officials, who, aware of his excellent contacts back in the home country, sometimes used him as a conduit to their counterparts in the UK, bypassing the embassy.

  Now retired to a house perched on a hill overlooking the sea not far from Kamakura, with its famous giant Buddha, Smythe-Hewitt had a full-on view of Japan’s iconic Mount Fuji. On visiting him there some years back, Sir Charles had been impressed by the privacy afforded by being perched on the steep slope of a mini-mountain with densely packed foliage.

  Over a scrambled line, Sir Charles had briefed SH on the purpose of Holt’s trip and found him more than happy to give the young man the benefit of his knowledge. He had reassured Sir Charles, saying that interfacing with some young blood after dealing mostly with very senior officers would be a welcome breath of fresh air. His trustworthy daughter, Sachiko, would be more than glad to be their guide.

  He had suggested the two of them should spend a couple of days in Tokyo to get the feel of the city, with Sachiko showing them some of the locations about which he would be talking. They could then come down by train to the nearest mainline station for him to pick them up. They could spend a couple of nights at his place, which would give him time to brief Holt on Japan in a relaxed way. Sachiko could then take them to Kyoto and Nara to see something of the traditional Japan.

  The three airlines flying nonstop to Japan – BA, JAL, and ANA – though not as exotic as regards on-board service as Singapore Airlines, all had decent reputations. Holt and Celia were told to be patriotic and if possible fly British Airways. After all, the taxpayer was paying.

  BA had two flights a day to Tokyo, one to the relatively new airport at Narita, some fifty miles from the city, which had been the scene of pitched battles between police and local farmers supported by students and others opposing its construction. The other BA flight was to the recently expanded old Haneda Airport at the edge of the sea, close to the centre of town, and easily reached by monorail, taxi, or limousine bus. The trouble with the Haneda flight was that it left London around 9 a.m. and, worse still, landed at the ungodly hour of 4.30 a.m. They therefore opted for the Narita flight, departing from London around midday and arriving in Japan just after 9 a.m.

  Someone they knew working for the airline had told them it was not worth trying the honeymoon ploy prior to boarding in the hope of getting an upgrade, as the check-in people were sick and tired of hearing all the reasons used to justify upgrades by undeserving tightwads. He doubted whether he could get them an operational upgrade (upgrade to shift people from seats in overbooked World Traveller or World Traveller Plus to vacant seats in business class) as it was school-holiday time, and the surplus business class seats would be taken up by airline staff and their families using their free travel or discounted travel perk.

  Nevertheless, once onboard, it might be a good idea to acquaint the cabin crew of the fact they were on their honeymoon in an undemanding way. This they duly did, receiving special attention and goodies, such as a couple of glasses of champagne and superior wines from business class. Of course, Holt felt from time to time obliged to cosy up to Celia, hold her hand, and gaze lovingly into her eyes to prove they were truly enthralled with each other and merited these complimentary offerings.

  ‘You’re overdoing it,’ grumbled Celia. ‘Even genuine honeymoon couples don’t have to be all over each other on the way out. These days, they’ve probably done it already,’ she added, sounding like the know-all four‑year-old little sister in the The Power and the Glory being held up to the keyhole by her ten-year-old brother to watch their sixteen‑year-old sister in action.

  Holt eased up on the pretend cuddling to let a fairly inebriated Celia drop off to sleep, and, having an aisle seat, he was able to get up and make his way to the rear of the extremely long Boeing 777 to thank the cabin crew, who were gossiping in the galley. They talked about this and that, and at one point he asked them who were the most difficult passengers and was quite surprised when told it was colleagues travelling in business class wanting all the free drink and attention they could garner.

  As the aircraft was flying contrary to the direction of the sun, the night was short, and with the flight lasting around twelve hours and a time difference with the UK of eight hours, they would arrive at Tokyo’s Narita International Airport after breakfast the following morning.

  Holt had finally managed to grab a couple of hours’ sleep but did not feel s
o good on waking for that breakfast. Looking around, he wondered why women always seemed to travel better. Maybe it was because they did not need to shave, or that a simple touch of make-up could transform them.

  The only touch of excitement was when they were coming in to land. Almost at the last minute, the engines spooled up and they found themselves pushed hard backwards and downwards into their seats as the easy descent into Narita suddenly changed to a rapid climb out. A few moments later, the captain announced that they had had to perform a go-around manoeuvre, as the aircraft landing ahead of them had dithered on the runway. It was, he said, something that happened from time to time and was nothing to worry about. The air-traffic controller was being careful. In the most unlikely event that the aircraft on the runway did not get onto a slipway in time, there could be disastrous collision. The second landing attempt went smoothly, and even with the ten minutes lost on the go-around, BA007 landed virtually on schedule at 9.15.

  As they disembarked, a Japanese flight attendant smiled at them, adding, ‘I hope you had a good fright.’ Holt wondered whether it was meant as a joke, as the Japanese girls he had met could nowadays differentiate between r and l, and this one had surely experienced quite a number of takeoffs and landings.

  They were immediately struck by how clean and efficient the airport looked. Immigration went smoothly despite their having to queue for twenty minutes and have their fingerprints and photos taken. They were given their ninety-day tourist visas with hardly a question asked – they had already entered the name of their hotel and that they were tourists on their immigration form.

  Back in the UK, the secret service officer briefing them on their e‑ticket had told them that when dealing with immigration officers, one should keep things simple. One agent visiting Japan had added the information that the purpose of his visit was to learn a little Japanese, whereupon the immigration officer demanded the letter attesting his attendance at a language school.

  On collecting their luggage, they were again struck by how well made and solid the luggage carts were compared with those in England. Even though there were green nothing-to-declare channels, each one was manned by a male or female customs officer asking a few questions after examining the customs declaration form people had filled in.

  Their mention of the word ‘honeymoon’ elicited a wry smile, the first of many in Japan whenever the topic came up. Later at hotels, the young bellboys would be smiling from ear to ear as they came down to reception in the morning.

  ‘Hope you good night,’ they would say.

  Japanese later explained to them that they should be careful how they interpreted these reactions, as Japanese tend to smile when embarrassed and are liable to grin with embarrassment when you tactlessly inform them one of your relatives has just passed away.

  The customs officer was only interested in the duty-free alcohol and tobacco they had and looked pitifully at them for having only one bottle of cheap blended whisky between them on their honeymoon; they could have had six bottles, as the allowance was three bottles per person, which was perhaps not such a good idea, as many years before an Englishman had burnt down his central Tokyo hotel, drinking his duty-free while smoking in bed. The octogenarian hotel owner had skimped on money to repair the sprinklers, and there had been photos in the papers of guests dangling out of the windows at the ends of knotted bedsheets.

  Since there was a direct limousine bus every hour or so right to their Tokyo Shinjuku hotel, eighty-one kilometres from the airport, Sachiko had said she would meet them at the hotel. A bus was leaving in twenty minutes, so they did not have to hang about for long; just time for a quick stand-up coffee before boarding.

  As the bus approached Tokyo itself, the ricefields and independent houses gave way to apartment blocks and then office blocks, making them realize the sheer size of the city. It was a different world.

  Sachiko had chosen the Keio Plaza Hotel at Shinjuku, a city within the city. One of the transport nodes on Tokyo’s Yamanote, or Circle Line, it boasted Tokyo’s city hall and many towering buildings, besides being a bustling area with many cafés and restaurants, as well as a Soho-type area with clip joints.

  The Keio Plaza Hotel was on the other side of the tracks from the red-light district, called Kabuki-cho, with its host and hostess bars, clip joints, and love hotels, often under the control or ‘protection’ of gangsters – the traditional yakuza now being gradually replaced by Chinese gangsters with a harsher code.

  The Keio was a good hotel just below the famous five-star ones that seldom give discounts. What was more, it was near some of the places Sachiko’s father wanted her to show them.

  Their bus stopped at several other Shinjuku hotels before reaching it. Sachiko was waiting for them as they alighted, identifying herself by carrying a large art book entitled Van Gogh.

  The area of Shinjuku, called Nishi-Shinjuku, in which the hotel was situated was full of skyscrapers, a city within a city, somewhat like Paris’s La Défense or London’s Canary Wharf. The Keio Hotel, as one of the first, had a so-called tower but one that was not as high as the later ones. It was a modern complex, with many restaurants and reception rooms for weddings and the like in addition to many bedrooms.

  Sachiko had already informed the hotel that they were on their honeymoon, and although they did not get an upgrade, they were pleased to find a hamper in their room with some nice items and a congratulatory message from the hotel management. Holt had almost certainly lost face by not opting for a deluxe room for his honeymoon, but with so many guests, that would not haunt them.

  ‘I will leave you now,’ said Sachiko, ‘so you can have a rest. I’ll come back tonight around six to take you for drinks at the Park Hyatt Hotel’s New York Bar, not far from there. It was there that many of the scenes in the film Lost in Translation were filmed. It will give us a chance to talk about what you want to see and do. Then we can come back here for a light dinner at the Chinese restaurant on the ground floor.’

  ‘Good idea. We are a bit shattered.’

  The delightful Sachiko left them to their own devices, whereupon the two of them took the lift up to the 10th floor and walked down quite a long corridor to their room, which though not large was comfortable. After a nap and a shower, they were ready for action when Sachiko returned to pick them up at 5 p.m. – 9 a.m. UK time.

  The Park Hyatt Hotel, some six minutes’ walk from their lesser Keio Plaza Hotel, was on the 41st to 52nd floors of the Shinjuku Park Tower, one of the tallest buildings in Tokyo. They took the elevator up to the lobby on the 41st floor and noted how impressive the reception area was. Even from there, the view from the coffee shop was remarkable, and as they walked the fifty yards or so to the elevator to the top, they had a great view of Mount Fuji.

  As they were arriving just when the New York Bar opened, at 5 p.m., they were able to get a table right by the window, facing out towards Shinjuku and the rest of Tokyo. They could even see the lights of aircraft landing one after the other at Tokyo’s Haneda Airport.

  ‘It’s good,’ said Sachiko, ‘to come now. Not only can one get a good table but one also avoids the cover charge that applies from 8 p.m. onwards.’

  ‘What a wonderful place,’ remarked Celia.

  Few words were said as they also drank in the view. Only when they were on their second round did Sachiko broach the main purpose of their visit.

  ‘Dad told me the general purpose of your visit, but—’

  ‘It’s not,’ interrupted Holt, ‘a great secret. We just do not want to broadcast it or get noticed, as it could cause some friction, due to not going through the formal channels. After all, mine is just a training mission, not a high‑powered visit.’

  ‘I understand. I also know that you are not a real couple, even though you share rooms and claim to be on your honeymoon, which is a pity – you fit so well together.’

  ‘We are not,’ said Celia vehemently, ‘fitting together.’

  ‘I am sorry for my poor English. I didn�
��t mean it in that special way.’

  ‘I know, continued Celia, ‘it must seem odd to you, but Jeremy here has been programmed by the psychiatrist so that we are like brother and sister.’

  ‘In my humble experience big sisters are not too keen on sharing rooms with their brothers. I am sure you’ll be glad to have your own room at our place – we’ve plenty of spare rooms. Also, when we go to Kyoto, let’s share a room at the hotel. We can enjoy some girl time together. I don’t get much chance for that nowadays.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ replied Celia, to Holt’s dismay. ‘Maybe we could do some shopping together.’

  Holt had dreaded the word ‘shopping’ ever since his mother, an otherwise intelligent woman, had dragged him round London’s Oxford Street department stores when five years old. It was not only the boredom that got to him but the memory of his difficulty in breathing when his nose and eyes were level with women’s protruding bottoms, which sometimes poked him right in the face.

  Realizing the sisterhood was making Holt feel uncomfortable, Sachiko tried to come up with something to tick his box.

  ‘Do you know what a Narita Divorce is?’

  ‘No,’ they replied in unison.

  ‘Well, many Japanese go abroad for their honeymoon – Japan is terribly expensive – and for some it is their first time; I mean, for going abroad as well as for the other thing. Anyway, the honeymoon abroad is sometimes so disastrous that as soon as the bride has her feet back safely on Japanese soil at Narita Airport, she declares her intention to divorce. That’s why it’s called a Narita Divorce.’

  ‘Poor girls,’ said Celia sympathetically.

  ‘Why don’t you say poor men?’ interjected Holt. ‘It takes two to tango.’

  ‘Because you cannot imagine,’ explained Sachiko, ‘what some of us girls have to go through with these momma’s boys, who have spent all their time swotting to get into a top university and then a job with a prestigious company or government department. There was one case where the groom phoned his mother back in Japan from Sydney to ask whether he should wear his pyjamas to bed with his bride!’