LONDON ALERT

by Christopher Bartlett

  She had that air about her that fashion models often exude, indicating they are to be admired but not touched. Sexually she seemed an iceberg. He consoled himself with the thought that three-fifths of an iceberg is hidden underwater and slowly melting.

  ‘After you have had a shower and put on some fresh clothes, we can have some drinks. Your new clothes are in that closet. They should fit. That is, if you filled in the application correctly. When I came here, I stupidly lied and could not get into the designer jeans they supplied.’

  At last, she sounded human, as if she had been enrolled in the organization after undergoing a similar process to the one he was undergoing. Perhaps given time the iceberg would thaw, but how much time did he have?

  He had a quick shower and slipped on the corduroy slacks and a smart woollen pullover, which of course fitted perfectly thanks to the precise measurements provided by the tailor at Sackville Street. Making his way down the stairs trying to look as suave as possible, he indeed looked the perfect man-about-the-country.

  ‘Feel better now?’

  ‘Much better.’

  ‘You certainly look better too.’

  ‘Where did you get the clothes?’

  ‘I didn’t. They were delivered by courier.’

  ‘Funny thing about clothes,’ replied Holt. ‘People keep on telling me how important they are, but in my IT work they did not seem to matter. In fact, one dressed down so as not to get people’s backs up.’

  ‘Some people can look good in anything and better in something simple,’ replied Consuela with a smile.

  ‘That would apply to you!’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment. I get a lot, but no woman ever has enough, I’m told. Let’s have our champagne and caviar on the terrace.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘I might as well tell you right away. The Owl promised you a trophy wife – though not one to fornicate with. I am a real trophy wife in that my darling of a husband is a billionaire over in the States. By the way, I don’t like keeping on saying “husband”. If we ever to refer him again, let’s just call him H.’

  ‘Okay, H. Should I call you C?’

  ‘No. Consuela will do nicely. Now you know, let’s forget about H. I’ve put out the glasses and titbits. Can you do the honours, as all this secrecy means I do not have any staff here? Normally, I have a butler and a maid.’

  Holt opened the bottle of champagne none too expertly and just about managed to pour it into the glasses before it spewed all over the place.

  ‘I can,’ said Consuela, ‘see I shall have to give you some lessons. How are you with cocktails?’

  ‘Not too good either, I’m afraid. To be honest, I do not get much practice. In fact, have hardly ever made one – at least, not a proper one.’

  ‘One of these days, let’s have a cocktail session. Sometimes getting the cocktails right can make all the difference to a party or reception, even with close friends. By selecting the right combination of cocktails, one can draw people out. Even the shyest.’

  ‘Cocktails are, I suppose, more of an American thing. You say cocktails are good for drawing even shy people out, but isn’t that what you’re doing here with me with the champagne? A somewhat unusual role for a trophy wife. I mean, with you having such a great life with your H over there.’

  ‘I am only doing this as a one-off for some excitement – horrible word. I was getting bored, despite all the receptions, jetting off in one of H’s private jets to exotic places, and dinners with movers and shakers. I wanted to do something independently, even if it meant slumming it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call this slumming.’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m partly joking. I can, and have, taken the rough with the smooth.’

  Holt did not want to be too inquisitive when he should be the one under examination. He therefore purposely avoided following up on her remarks and said nothing. There was always the possibility that all this honesty was to make him drop his guard.

  ‘You must,’ continued Consuela without any prompting, ‘be wondering why the Owl took me on. You see, I studied psychology at Harvard but never used it professionally, as I was soon to marry an unbelievably rich man.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Holt, not exactly sure of what he could see but feeling he had to say something without being too nosy.

  ‘Anyway, my involvement with the Owl was a tap-on-the-shoulder type of thing, where someone H knew asked whether I would care for an adventure assessing candidates for some people I did not need to know about that might greatly benefit the country, indeed the world.’

  ‘I’m surprised you’re telling me all this,’ replied Holt, trying not to let his own guard down.

  ‘I have nothing to hide. To tell the truth, I did not even receive much training for this, other than how to defend myself in the event of unwanted attention – so watch out!’

  ‘I’ll try and be careful,’ said Holt, thinking that he too had been given similar training, though not to fend off someone with amorous intentions.

  ‘Anyway, I have been told I am to have ten days to assess you and that I must take you to certain functions, receptions, garden parties, and so on. I have a schedule. We’re going to be pretty busy, so we won’t be spending all day here looking at each other, thank heaven.’

  Holt did not like her stressing how glad she was they would not be spending too much time alone together but had to admit that she would have turned him off had she been too forward. She had provided him with an opening, which he decided to follow up.

  ‘You might be taking a bigger risk than you realize. What does H think about all this? Does he even know what you are doing?’

  ‘He’s cool about it. He said he had taken a lot of risks in his time to get where he is now, and that if I thought it was worthwhile and would get my desire to do something special for my country and the world out of my system, it was okay with him. He had three wives, not to mention numerous dalliances, before me, so is not too possessive. I suppose at his age the jealous looks of the young studs we come across when in public are satisfaction enough.’

  ‘I think I understand,’ said Holt, realizing that he could not safely pursue that line of questioning.

  ‘All I know,’ continued Consuela, ‘is that the Owl is a very important or rich person or high official in the CIA or something like that, and that he might even be present at one of these events and talk with us without either of us realizing it.’

  ‘It’s going to be a bit creepy wondering every time we meet someone whether it is him.’

  ‘Yes, it will be for sure.’

  ‘Could the Owl be more than one person?’

  ‘In a way, he already is. I have had phone calls purporting to be from the Owl, with the voice sounding different each time. Once it was a woman’s voice; once it was even a child’s voice. I presume people in his organization speak in his name.’

  In his undercover briefing, Inspector Holmes had told Holt they would keep him at arm’s length until they had confidence in him. In the present case, the arm – namely Consuela – did not know the body to which it was connected. Also, the situation was quite the opposite of what he and Sir Charles had envisaged in that he would be moving around quite openly.

  ‘In addition to that,’ continued Consuela, ‘my role is to get to know you. I might as well tell you, the Owl said nothing about you other than that you were male. He said that would make it easier for me to judge for myself.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Within limits, we can proceed gradually. No need to rush things. You will inevitably at some point open up and reveal yourself, like a clam caught unawares. I am an excellent judge of character, thanks in part to my background in psychology. After all, that is why they decided to use me. Of course, my ability to socialise played a part.’

  ‘I hope you don’t find anything bad.’

  ‘As Lieutenant Cable said in the movie South Pacific about the French planter who had
moved to the Pacific islands after murdering a nasty piece of work back in France, something bad, as you call it, might make you “a useful person to have around”. So do not hold back. Tell me like it is. I don’t think they are looking for a saint.’

  There was a pause with neither of them saying anything. Again, it was broken by Consuela.

  ‘I should warn you that I am the easy part. After your session with me, I am told you will undergo some form of initiation test, in which I will play no part. On submitting my report, I will return to the US and sever what little connection I ever had with the Owl and his organization.’

  ‘Didn’t you have to take an initiation test?’

  ‘There was no need, as I never sought to become a full‑fledged member. I was to merely be a one-off consultant. I know nothing about the Owl or his organization, other than that its purpose is, I believe, benign. I am telling you all this to avoid you wasting my time pumping me for information I do not have.’

  It could all be a trick to make him reveal all. Of course, as a mature woman of apparently great experience, she was not innocent in the way Celia made herself out to be. She appeared very genuine – perhaps too genuine. Funnily enough, he was not quite sure about Celia. Sometimes he felt it was all an act.

  ‘Watch television, listen to some music, do some reading while I prepare the meal. Before I start cooking, I have to report that you are installed in your quarters, that all is going smoothly and, most importantly, confirm I should be able to put up with you for the next ten days or so.’

  How did she make contact with the Owl? With the internet and disposable mobile phones, there were so many ways it could be done without GCHQ knowing. Back at Giraffe, they were probably still scrutinising the CCTV footage for Birmingham.

  He had to admire the Owl for the way he operated at a distance, using people who could not give anything away or reveal his identity. Even the boy on the train and having him wear the black tie was a smart move.

  Who was the Owl? The only thing he knew for certain was that he must be someone moving in high-society, finance, governmental, or diplomatic circles. He could even be in the service. Still, all that might be a pretence, with Consuela being duped as much as he.

  While waiting for Consuela to submit her report and prepare the meal, he opted for the television but in a limbo could not concentrate on the news. The CSI: Crime Scene Investigation programme seemed all he could stomach. Besides, its US ambience might put him in the right frame of mind for dealing with a woman who had, it seemed, been mostly brought up there.

  At dinner, he realized she truly merited her title of Trophy Wife, and not only for her looks, which would make any man turn his head, but also for her cooking. The meal was simple, with a divine ratatouille and a joint of lamb.

  ‘Did you know,’ remarked Consuela on presenting it, ‘that in France, when you invite guests to your home and want to honour them, you serve lobster or langouste followed by a joint of roast lamb?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘H and I visited some French friends in Paris, and they served lamb cooked to perfection, which then for me was nothing special. It was only afterwards that I learnt that they had been trying to do us proud.’

  ‘Of course, the way the French and I cook lamb – almost rare – is quite different from the way most English people do it, overcooking it and compensating by serving it up with mint sauce. Let’s have some of that wine. It should be a good one.’

  It certainly was – a Petrus costing goodness knows how much a bottle. Even Holt knew it was one of the greats – Peter Ustinov’s favourite, according to an article he had read.

  ‘Is the Owl paying for all this?’ he asked.

  ‘For the food, yes. I, or rather H, paid for the wine, as I was not sure the Owl would go quite that far. Not that he seems short of funds. It is just that he might have thought it somewhat extravagant.’

  ‘What’s H like?’

  ‘He’s kind. And as I said, much older – I’m only thirty-two.’

  Consuela paused as if reflecting on her own situation.

  ‘I suppose one day he will die, leaving me with the wherewithal to continue, as the lawyers say, in the style to which I am accustomed. I must seem a money digger, but that was not the reason I married him.’

  ‘What was it then?’

  ‘He rescued me from an abusive relationship.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. You would think that with my education, my study of psychology, I would not fall into such a trap. Actually, it was the psychology that did me in – I thought a poor jerk needed help. But once I helped him, he would not let go.’

  ‘Why didn’t you cut him loose?’

  ‘I did. But he kept on stalking me. Threatened to kill me, throw acid in my face, and the like. You know the routine.’

  ‘Couldn’t you move somewhere else? Go to the police?’

  ‘The police could not protect me. Besides, he had friends in the mafia with informers in the police, and he would find me wherever I was.’

  ‘Why didn’t you try what that woman did in Sleeping with the Enemy, where she faked her own death to stop her husband looking for her?’

  ‘Because in the movie the fiend found her in the end, and I can identify with the fear she felt when she went into the bathroom in the villa where she was hiding and saw the towels were perfectly arranged in threes in just the way he had always insisted, and then on descending to the kitchen finding everything in the cupboards had been lined up perfectly. By that, she knew he was in the house. The man was a control freak, and a perfectionist to boot.’

  ‘I saw that film. It was really scary.’

  ‘I was a bit like Princess Diana or Jacqueline Kennedy in that I could only escape and be free with the help of someone with real money, yachts, gated properties, not to mention bodyguards. H helped me, without seeking any special favours.’

  ‘What happened to the fiend in the end? Is he still around? Could he find you – us – here?’

  ‘No. No. Not long after H took me under his wing, my nightmare ended, with my nemesis dying in a road accident. It seems he was driving under the influence of alcohol and drugs. Came off at a bend on a mountain road without even braking – there were no skid marks. His auto tumbled down the hillside and caught fire.’

  Had it really been an accident? Holt thought it wise to avoid asking the obvious.

  ‘How did you feel when you heard he was dead?’ he asked instead.

  ‘Relief. To be honest, reborn. For even with the bodyguards and all that, I knew he would get me in the end and was just biding his time, waiting for his chance. For absolute security, I would have had to have been the president of the United States, and even then…’

  ‘You didn’t feel sorry for him?’

  ‘Funnily enough, once I knew he could no longer harm me, there were flashbacks to the time when we first met, when I believed in him. I was only a child then in a way.’

  ‘Why did you stay with H and even marry him when there was no longer any danger?’

  ‘Partly out of gratitude for having protected me in my time of need, but more perhaps because I had gotten so used to the good life with very few strings, and the freedom that money provides. He’s so satisfied with what he is doing, he does not need to control me. Quite the opposite of the other one. He lets me do almost whatever I want, so long as we cooperate and keep up appearances. Then there is the simple fact that with his intelligence and great sense of humour, he is wonderful to be with. Then there are all the fascinating people he knows.’

  ‘I suppose it was partly because you were on the rebound.’

  ‘Yes, there’s that too, but what people cannot understand is that being too attractive is a lonely business. The nice guys are afraid to make a move, and the bad guys have no compunction, like the creep I was talking about. You see what I mean?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Being married to a powerful person means fewer people trouble me – not
that I allow them to get near me. You are first person I have talked frankly to for a long time, and I’m not letting you get too near either. You understand?’

  Holt did understand. Being in her presence was reward enough. Her revelations had made him really relax. Besides, he was already getting used to the good life, and this was merely a foretaste of what lay in store in the days ahead. That is, until the dreaded initiation test.

  The meal over, he helped her clear the table and arranged the dishes in the dishwasher while she busied herself making coffee.

  As they sat side by side on the sofa with brandies on the coffee table before them, Consuela let out a sigh, which he took as a sure sign she felt at ease in his presence. He had felt like this with Celia on the terrace at The Loughty, replete after a great meal, but this time there had been nothing wrong with the coffee, which was truly excellent. The Loughty scenario had been Blackwell’s doing. Somehow, he did not think that would be the Owl’s style.

  So as to be more comfortable and avoid his left hand pressing against Consuela’s thigh, he raised that arm and placed it on the back of the sofa behind her shoulders. In so doing he moved closer to her, but not close enough for their bodies to more than sense each other. While she did not to seem to object or even notice, she did nothing to encourage further encroachments on her private space. He had to behave like one of those good guys afraid to make a move, which was in fact not far from the truth.

  After watching a film on television and then the news, Consuela promptly declared it was time for bed.

  ‘We are going to hit the ground running. Tomorrow we’re off abroad. I booked the flight using the details on your passport. I hope you are not on any no‑fly lists as a potential terrorist?’

  ‘I see no reason why I should be. Where are we going? Pakistan?’

  ‘No, no. Not nearly as far as that. You’ll see when I give you your boarding pass. Don’t worry. It’ll be fun, great fun. It’ll be something for you to remember for the rest of your life – at least, what remains of it.’