Some options were self-explanatory, but for young Holt some were not. For instance, there was the Gandhi, for which one had to be over seventy years old. A footnote explained that Gandhi used to share his bed with young women, including his granddaughter, with the females naked and purporting to be virgins. This was allegedly so he could demonstrate he could resist temptation. Anyone opting for the Gandhi had to vouchsafe to keep his hands at least to himself. Also featured was Tossed Boys’ Salad, with no explanatory footnote. Seemingly, the list had been drawn up by someone with a sense of humour, and perhaps all options were not intended to be taken seriously.
Not much could be wrong with the Trophy Wife option, though that too had a footnote, saying physical consummation was not guaranteed, but rendering other men intensely jealous was.
Holt found himself in an impossible position. He had come to regard Sir Charles as an idolized substitute for his father, making refusal even more difficult. Then there was the matter of saving many lives. The only plus for him personally was that taking such risks should elevate him in Celia’s eyes – since their return from Japan, she had seemed tantalizingly distant – and possibly enable him to win her over. Finding the thought of living without her unbearable, he really had no choice.
In accepting what was quite possibly a suicide mission, he would insist that he be answerable only to Sir Charles and Giraffe, which of course was precisely what Sir Charles wanted, as it ensured he would be in a pivotal position.
‘You will,’ said Sir Charles when he returned to announce his acceptance, ‘have to attend a crash course in undercover operations.’
‘Not much time.’
‘No. Such courses normally last six weeks and not the six hours available, but it’s better than nothing.’
After they had discussed various aspects of the mission for another hour or so, Sir Charles summoned Cut-Glass.
‘Sandra, as we hoped and you anticipated, our Jeremy has agreed to go undercover, at considerable risk to his person. He is going over to the Yard to see Inspector Holmes for some tips on how to survive. Please accompany him to Piccadilly and help him hail a taxi – something you are very good at.’
With no time for second thoughts, Holt found himself at the kerb on Piccadilly as Cut-Glass adeptly hailed a taxi before others standing nearby with the same intention could catch the driver’s eye.
‘Good luck, Jeremy!’
‘Thanks, Sandra.’
He was going to need it, and the risk he had taken of calling her by her Christian name seemed trivial by comparison.
Inspector Holmes, a surprisingly kindly man in his fifties who had himself for many years worked undercover, was still in overall charge of several major operations. With his worn face bearing a couple of scars, he looked as though he had lived through some tricky situations.
Unlike many of the offices at the Yard, Holmes’s afforded some privacy, which was fortunate, as the first thing the policeman did was to go over to a grey filing cabinet and take out a bottle of whisky and a couple of glasses and put them down on his desk, where there was already a bottle of sparking water. Holt was sitting in the chair placed sideways in front of the smallish steel desk.
‘Working undercover,’ said the inspector, returning to his rather more comfortable chair on the other side of the desk, ‘you must avoid two things: getting emotionally involved – including falling in love, which is worst of all – and too much alcohol, so you had better have a drink now. You look as though you could do with one.’
With that Holmes poured them both a generous double shot and passed one of the glasses to Holt, commenting, ‘I drink it neat, but put some water in if you like.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Holt, leaning over the table for the bottle of water and pouring a good measure into his glass.
‘The secret,’ continued Holmes, ‘in undercover work is to blend in by being as far as possible oneself. Being oneself helps one avoid stupid mistakes and means one does not have to lie so much, which in itself is stressful and means one can easily get caught out.’
‘I can see that.’
‘In your case, you should obviously highlight the qualities – practical joking, and the idea that you think yourself to be superior intellectually and technically to the run-of-the-mill terrorist. Your reason for applying is purely boredom – you are not able to make use of your talents. You have no political or religious axe to grind. That forestalls tricky questions about political affiliations and relationships.’
‘That’s good, and true.’
‘The greatest danger for you, Holt, will not be at the beginning but at the end, when you take the inevitable initiation test.’
‘Initiation test? I wasn’t expecting that.’
‘Virtually all gangs, terrorist organizations – even secret services – use them after first assessing you to see whether you are worth the trouble.’
‘What might it involve in my case?’
‘Almost anything. Could mean shooting the prime minister, in which case we might very well end up shooting you ourselves. By the way, that’s a joke.’
‘I’m beginning to have my doubts. I don’t want to kill anyone, friend or foe.’
‘To avoid that eventuality, you should try to warn us beforehand, though I realize that might not be easy or even possible without blowing your cover.’
‘I’m not sure I knew what I was letting myself in for.’
‘Take it easy, boy! As you are claiming to be a technical guy rather than a religious fanatic, they are unlikely to order you to do something like that – unless of course they want to compromise you, have a hold over you, so you can never turn back. Never rejoin normal society. If they do order you to shoot someone and you cannot warn us so we can have the target wear a bulletproof jacket and simulate being seriously injured, aim to graze them.’
‘One has to be a mighty good shot to just graze someone, and have the right weapon.’
‘I am sorry. You will be out on a limb on this one. As a last resort, you can always refuse, but that has its risks too.’
Holt began to feel queasy. He could end up killing an innocent person by mistake. The only time he had used a gun before was when he fired an air rifle at some squirrels at a school friend’s home in the country when he was thirteen or so.
‘Good luck. You’ll need it,’ were the instructor’s parting words, mirroring those of Cut-Glass.
Giraffe, the inspector had explained, could only establish his movements via the thousands of CCTV cameras scattered all over the country. Digital face-recognition technology would possibly identify him, and if for some reason he especially wanted Giraffe to know his whereabouts, he should look slightly upwards at the cameras when in the street, almost begging to be looked at. If he wanted them to make contact, he should do something that anyone following him would not notice, such as repeatedly touch his chin, which would still leave most of his face visible for identification purposes.
Should he give such a sign, Giraffe would most likely use Celia, as with her no ‘handshake’ (identity verification) would be necessary. Anyway, it was highly unlikely he would have to contact Giraffe at the beginning, as the target would be keeping him at arm’s length until more sure of him.
He wished he had a woman waiting at home for him in whom he could confide – a ridiculous thought, as one could not confide in people outside the service, and the mission was too confidential to tell even Celia, who was anyway still up in Scotland. For once he was glad Peter would be up there keeping her out of any harm’s way.
Chapter 11
Undercover
Holt slept fitfully that night. Sir Charles had suggested he see Blackwell, whose duties included preparing agents for overseas missions, to at least get some sleeping pills, but that was the last thing he wanted. Blackwell wanted him if not dead, at least sidelined. He would put in a report doubting his suitability for the mission, at the same time denigrating him to cover his back when in all likelihood it went bottom up
. Sir Charles had not suggested he ask Blackwell for a suicide pill. Having one would have made him feel a lot better.
As per instructions, he arrived at London’s Marylebone station in plenty of time to take the 10.20 train to Birmingham. How he envied the families and couples waiting on the concourse for their train’s platform number to come up on the indicator board. Many would have been invited to spend the weekend outside London with family or friends, not to mention the young couples obviously looking forward to an uplifting weekend and all that entailed. Their carefree demeanour was depressing.
The kids were no solace either, for they reminded him that if he were exposed and killed, that would be it. No succession. He was being not only sucked in but possibly suckered in, having been put in a position where it would be psychologically difficult to say no.
It was already too late for second thoughts. Sir Charles was counting on him, and he could not have Celia knowing he had chickened out. The withering scorn of Cut‑Glass would be unbearable after having finally gained her respect.
With eight minutes to go, the platform number still had not been announced. He was getting nervous as well as depressed. If he was not to miss his train, he had to concentrate.
With only three minutes left before the official departure time, the public address system came to life and announced the train to Birmingham Snow Hill would be leaving from Platform 2. A small horde of people, Holt included, immediately rushed to the ticket barriers, fed their tickets into the slots and, on recovering them, made their way along the platform, looking for seats not occupied by the savvy travellers who had been waiting inside the wickets.
As instructed, Holt walked right to the front coach before boarding. Finding a window seat, he sat – again as instructed – facing rearwards, wearing the black tie he had been ordered to wear. He might have been going to a funeral, and in other circumstances would have caught the eye of friends and relatives of the deceased whom he might know. Was the black tie to psyche him out by making him think he was going to his own funeral?
Having waited to allow everyone to board, the train pulled out of the station a couple of minutes late, passed through a long tunnel almost right under Lord’s cricket ground, and came out into the open air at a spot where underground lines ran parallel to it.
With two hours remaining before arrival at Birmingham, he snuggled down to try to catch up on the sleep he had missed during the night. His eyes had hardly closed when there was a sharp tap on his shoulder. Expecting it would be the ticket inspector, he looked up, only to have to look further down into the eyes of a young boy staring at him.
‘Sir, sir, wake up! The bloke gave me this for you. Said I should give it to the man with the black tie called Beany in the front coach. Must be you. No one else around here has a black tie.’
‘Actually, the name’s Benet, but it must be me you want.’
Satisfied, the boy handed Holt the envelope he was clutching, then fished a mobile phone out of his pocket and took a photo of Holt holding it.
‘Said he would give me five quid if I showed him the photo of you with it. My lucky day.’
Holt thanked the boy, who promptly scarpered off. No point in pursuing the matter further. Doing so would raise suspicions, and more than one person might well be involved, with one possibly sitting nearby, discreetly observing him. After all, they knew in which coach he would be sitting.
On opening the envelope, he found a message telling him that instead of the last station, Birmingham, he was to get off at the first, Gerrards Cross, though just in case the train stopped prematurely at another for a red signal, he was to check the station really was Gerrards Cross before alighting.
He was to wait at the front of the station by the telephone box for a white Mercedes driven by the ‘Trophy Wife’ to come and pick him up. If for some reason there were a last‑minute change of plan, they would call the phone in the phone box just near there. If it rang, he should answer it to receive further instructions from the Owl.
It had been a wily move to give the impression he was heading many miles up north to Birmingham when in fact he would be just outside London. The people from Giraffe would find themselves wasting their time scouring video recordings from the cameras up in Birmingham. Also, use of the nonthreatening word ‘owl’ was something of a surprise, when organizations with evil intent would be more likely to choose something nasty, such as ‘Spider’, ‘Snake’, or ‘Scorpion’. ‘Owl’ suggested wisdom.
He replaced the letter in the envelope and slipped it into his left pocket. The train, which had been travelling quite fast, was already slowing and pulling into a station. Having checked that it was well and truly Gerrards Cross, he alighted. The acceleration of events had given him no time to prepare himself mentally to meet his reward, and he was feeling tense.
Gerrards Cross was a simple station set away from the main road, with just the ticket office, a couple of ticket distributors, a taxi-service office, and the phone box he had been told about. There were one or two people about, but none hanging around. The wait was possibly intentional to ensure no one was following him.
Five minutes later, a white Mercedes came down the slope somewhat too quickly for the speed humps and stopped abruptly beside him. The side window wound down and the female driver leant over.
‘You’re Jeremy, I presume.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘I’m to take you in hand. Get in!’
Although from outside Holt could not get a full view of her, it was immediately apparent she was a trophy, wife or not.
Having been told not to bring any luggage, he did not need to ask her to unlock the boot, and with nothing even to place on his lap, getting in would be easy. Stupidly, he hesitated.
‘Either get in or pack it in. This is not a good place to linger. You decide. Makes no difference to me.’
Unable to chicken out, he opened the door and clambered in, pulling the heavy door shut with that dull clunk one associates with quality cars.
‘We can’t talk now. Just sit back and chill out.’
The car accelerated down the slope and did a U-turn to return to the main road. They were on their way. Holt did not dare ask to where.
He first concentrated on looking at the Trophy Wife’s face, which exhibited a knowing yet reassuring smile on the rare occasions she glanced at him. When her gaze reverted to the road ahead, his would shift to her bare knees, remaining there longer than would have been polite had she been looking.
Telling himself to getting a grip, he turned his attention to the road ahead and tried to work out where they were going. She was a very adept driver, and despite her abrupt no-nonsense manner, the first part of his mission was proving not so bad after all. He even began to relax.
After about twenty minutes’ driving, they arrived at a large house set back from the road and shielded from it by some trees. He noted that it was surrounded by the gravel so beloved by insurance companies, since it enables the occupants to hear intruders walking around outside. The car crunched to a stop a few yards from the front door.
Even though there was no one there, she stepped out with her knees close together, as though it was a well-practiced manoeuvre, and gestured that Holt should get out too. As she stood with her back to him while she opened the oiled oak front door, then hurried inside, no doubt to enter the code into the burglar alarm, Holt could see she had a generous figure that filled out her shift dress, with no hint of the vulgarity flaunted by some footballers’ trophy wives and the like. Apart from her beauty and perfection, she was a normal person with natural-seeming breasts.
Appearing back in the doorway, she beckoned to him to come in, but before he had gone a yard and a half down the hall, an alarm went off.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll have to search you. But first give me your passport – the chip might have set off the alarm. You did bring it as instructed, didn’t you?’
Holt said, ‘Of course,’ as he handed over the document.
‘You won’t be needing those clothes either. We have a whole wardrobe of clothes tailor-made for you in the closet in your room. You’ll find both man-about-the-country and man-about-town, not to mention man-on-the-Côte-d’Azur. There is even a dinner jacket, so we can go anywhere, except perhaps to the races at Ascot. Strip down to your briefs so I can check you out. Then you can go upstairs to put on something decent.’
Holt again hesitated.
‘If you want to pull out, I can take you straight back to the station. It’s your choice.’
‘You mean take off my clothes right here?’
‘On second thoughts, it would be easier and nicer in the drawing room; there’s more room. Let’s go in there. Besides, it’s warmer. My name’s Consuela, by the way.’
Holt wondered whether the alarm had been set to go off anyway, just to show that there was a hard edge to all this gentility. As he had been told to come with no luggage, not even shaving things or a toothbrush, and only his passport, there was not much, other than his keys and coins, to set the alarm off.
Feeling intimidated standing there in only his boxer shorts, he nevertheless took in the fact that the trophy wife surveying him had assumed the detached professional air one associates with nurses, doctors, and no doubt prison wardens. Turning away, she picked up an object somewhat like a Geiger counter and proceeded to scan his hair and then the part of his body obscured by what little clothing he retained. The diverse buzzing noises emanating from the device made her frown for a moment, adjust the calibration, and recheck his more private parts, until she finally seemed satisfied and broke into what he thought was a wistful half smile.
‘Sorry about that. It would have been easier without underpants, but we are not familiar enough with each other for that.’
‘I hope you’re satisfied.’
‘I should say so. I’ll show you your room.’
The room was large, bright, and airy, but pretty stark, though it did have an en suite bathroom. He presumed, from the lack of clutter, that it was rented accommodation. There was, however, a television. Would he be spending his nights there watching it alone, thinking of her also all alone in the room along the landing?
LONDON ALERT Page 11
