LONDON ALERT

by Christopher Bartlett

  However careful Holt was in his dealings with the au pairs, Blackwell could still get to him through Celia. Despite claiming to be too busy to deal with agents’ personal problems, the psychiatrist-cum-physician had always found time to debrief Celia mentally, and even on the first occasion physically. Should she ever let slip that he had once mentioned that Sir Charles could be the Owl, Blackwell would exploit it to have him committed to a mental asylum as a crazy loose cannon.

  Holt was well aware that once a psychiatrist decides you pose a threat to others, you can say goodbye to your life, and trying to disprove it only makes matters worse, since your rage at the injustice of it all is seen as confirmation of the original diagnosis and of your mental instability.

  A psychiatrist working in the secret world would be doubly dangerous, as he could have you committed not only as danger to society but also as a threat to national security, all the while making your medical file a state secret so no one could ever help you. To think hate preachers, with their bevy of human rights lawyers, would be better off.

  Holt knew he had so far been saved firstly by the Owl’s insistence that he – via Sir Charles – be the intermediary in all dealings with the government; and secondly, by virtue of being the only person who just might be able to identify the Owl, in that he might pick up on a turn of phrase or manner of speech, or engender a reaction on meeting him.

  He had met bankers, hedge fund managers, top civil servants, academics, and even a bishop, all to no avail, at conferences and the already mentioned private members’ clubs he had joined. It seemed the only noteworthy personages he was not going to meet were the royal family and the prime minister. The latter had been ruled out, because he had never been alone for any length of time when Holt had his face-to-face session with the Owl.

  Holt had not pointed out that the Owl might not even have been behind the two-way mirror when they talked.

  The sun was getting low in the sky, and the few families with children remaining on Saint-Jean-de-Luz’s sweeping beach were packing up their things. It was time they too headed back to their villa at Cibourne on the other side of the harbour.

  When they had first arrived at their villa, perched on a hill with a view of the Saint-Jean-de-Luz beach curling round the bay, Holt had been struck by how the high-pitched screams of the children playing in the waves on the beach wafted upwards and over to them. Always the secret agent, he had wondered whether, with the latest equipment, he could have picked out individual snippets.

  Exhausted by her exertions on the sand, tiny Claire had fallen asleep even before they got back to the villa and was placed comfortably in her bed. Having covered her to protect her from the evening chill, Celia stayed around to clear up her playthings and put her clothes away, while Holt readied the drinks and nibbles downstairs. Having checked her mobile phone, and with the toys dumped in a cardboard box, she came down to join him on the veranda.

  ‘To us…and to Claire,’ said Holt and Celia as they clinked glasses.

  Hardly exchanging a word, they felt at one with each other as well as with nature in the cool and quiet of the early evening. There was only the lightest of breezes. Not wanting to spoil the mood, Holt used the pretext of going back indoors to replenish the drinks to check his phones.

  Although he had to check the official Giraffe phone routinely, he doubted there would be anything important, as he was due back in the office on the Monday. This proved to be the case.

  Checking his other phone – a cheap device he regularly replaced to make it difficult for GCHQ to monitor his personal communications – he found to his surprise a message from the Owl. He had only started using that particular phone a couple of weeks or so before, but of course all the Owl had to do was to monitor that of his closest friend to discover the number.

  His face darkened and, on reaching the end of the message, he stood stiffly, as if his feet were glued to the ground.

  ‘To think I stupidly never realized,’ he muttered to himself.

  After a couple of minutes, he gathered his wits, shuffled to the counter to pour the drinks for which he had ostensibly come and, trying to put on a brave face, went back out to rejoin Celia on the veranda.

  ‘Bad news?’ she asked on noticing his change of demeanour and the way he uncharacteristically plonked the drinks noisily down on the metal garden table.

  ‘Mum’s the word,’ he retorted to gain time, using her pet expression for evading questions.

  ‘Touché,’ she replied with a wry smile.

  While that had stopped her pursuing the matter, the evening would be spoilt if he left it at that. He would switch terrain. But what on earth could he think of to put her in a better mood?

  ‘Darling,’ he murmured, ‘let’s make tonight a honeymoon night.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We had that in the Maldives…in a kind of way.’

  ‘I know, but it would be even more complete now we have Claire. When I say honeymoon, I don’t mean wild abandon but doing it in the same way – gently, innocently, as if it were the first time. We could just pretend. You pretended a bit then, didn’t you?’

  Celia looked at him intently as if weighing up her response.

  ‘We could make it even more complete.’

  ‘How could we ever do that? Crikey, you didn’t bring the MI6 honeymoon kit?’

  ‘No. I gave it back. Couldn’t see any possible use for it now we have Claire.’

  ‘Then how could we make it more complete?’

  There was a pause, with neither of them saying anything. Celia turned towards Holt.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s about time?’

  ‘Time…?’

  ‘Time to try for another one. A little Jeremy would be nice this time around. Don’t you think?’

  ‘That would mean you giving up your special missions, at least for a while.’

  ‘Good excuse for a break. I could do with one, not that a bawling baby and changing nappies represent much of a break.’

  ‘Is this a new idea?’ asked Holt.

  ‘Not really. Seeing all those couples holidaying on the beach with two or three little ones in tow made me realize how nice it would be to at least have one more. The parents looked so contented, though that’s not to say we’re not lucky to be blessed with our Claire. I know it is a bit soon, but then one does not get pregnant that easily when one wants to.’

  ‘I never told you this, even when you were pregnant with Claire, but the mere thought of a woman giving birth scares the hell out of me. When I was younger, I used to watch a US TV drama series called V, in which lizards from outer space able to morph into human-like beings came to colonize the earth.

  ‘In one episode, one of the handsomer young morphs has an affair with a nice young earthling, gets her pregnant. All seems to be going well and normally, with her going into hospital to give birth to a lovely baby girl. Then, while a couple of nurses are busying themselves cleaning the baby up, a third nurse tending the mother shouts out, “Wait! There’s another one!”

  ‘After a pause, with anticipation growing and growing, out from between the girl’s thighs clambers the most hideous reptile one could imagine. That image always haunts me whenever anyone talks about a woman going to have a baby – more so when it’s someone I love. While that TV drama was somewhat over the top, it made me realize something can always go very wrong.’

  ‘It can but is unlikely, with the proper tests. You were happy enough about Claire.’

  ‘Only when I knew she wasn’t a lizard – I’m partly joking. Anyway, Claire was a fait accompli. We didn’t do it on purpose, did we?’

  ‘No, but…’

  ‘Okay, I have to admit it would be nice for Claire to have someone to play with – I missed out on that, being an only child. In the secret world, we do not associate with many friends with young children. Okay, I agree. Let’s go for it.’

  Chapter 29

  Go On, Tell Me!

  Holt gave his wife a desultory pat on the sho
ulder and, feeling terrible, disappeared inside to refill their glasses for the toast to the hoped-for new baby…boy.

  Even though the Owl’s message had been clear enough, he reread it to make sure there was no mistake.

  My dearest Jeremy,

  On checking to see how C was getting on, I discovered she had given birth to a boy nine months after you two parted.

  Her husband insisted on bringing it up as his own in the knowledge that the father (you!) is highly intelligent.

  For the sake of your darling Claire and any further offspring you and Celia may procreate, you should keep this to yourselves. One never knows what impediments could be put in their way should you be indiscreet.

  I will never mention this in the context of our official dealings, or indeed in any circumstances.

  You will probably have the pleasure of seeing the growing boy’s photo from time to time in the media, but do not let that tempt you to make contact either with him or his mother.

  The Wise One

  Now he knew what Consuela had meant when she thrust that half-million-dollar bracelet into his hand, saying he had perhaps given her something worth far more. He was glad he had kept it. Looking at it would remind him of his little boy.

  The Owl had obviously used terms such as the Wise One and C and avoided trigger words like ‘secret’ to prevent GCHQ or the NSA (US National Security Agency) computers flagging up the message.

  It was uncanny. Had the time-stamp on the message not been prior to the conversation he had just had with Celia about trying for a son, he would have suspected the Owl of bugging the villa, though surely he would have better things to do.

  Officers and operatives were supposed to report any situation laying them open to blackmail, but how could he? If he did admit a woman linked to the Owl had had his baby, he would no longer be entrusted with the pivotal role in the negotiations with him. Gone would be his high status, not to mention his coveted military rank, now that of major.

  When should he – when could he – tell Celia? Wouldn’t it be better to wait until she had her baby? But what if it were yet another girl?

  He had to consider her distress at seeing him partnered with Consuela at the US embassy reception. Admittedly, he and Consuela had made an outstanding couple on the dance floor, not to mention their being seated with the ambassador at the top table, with the ambassador telling Celia how prestigious it was for Holt to have such a glamorous partner.

  Even so, as someone who herself went on missions that looked sexually compromising to outsiders, she should have been more understanding. There surely had to be another reason for her over-the-top antipathy towards Consuela.

  To make matters worse, in the taxi on his way to Sackville Street to report to Sir Charles on his undercover mission, he had in a moment of weakness reassured her that he had not been with Consuela long enough for anything meaningful to have happened between them. Now to admit it had been meaningful enough to result in a baby would prove him a liar, when his honesty was the one thing she claimed she truly liked about him.

  The truth was he loved them both. Consuela had made him grow up socially, sexually, and emotionally, to some extent becoming a substitute for his late mother.

  Having been in her company for little more than a week, he knew much more about her than about Celia. This included her overly strict upbringing in the sticks by her Baptist foster parents and the abusive husband, from whom she had been liberated at the doing no doubt of her current multibillionaire husband.

  Even after having known Celia very much longer, marriage and a child together, he still could not fathom Celia’s inner being and could only guess at her background by her accent. Her role-playing, rather than any rules forbidding agents discussing their backgrounds, was what made it so difficult.

  With a heavy heart, he poured the drinks, a stiff one for himself and a weaker one for the mother of his next child. A prayer rather than a toast was what was needed – a prayer for a boy.

  ‘Here’s to him.’

  ‘Or her – it may be another beautiful girl,’ intoned Celia as they again clinked glasses.

  If he reassured her that she had been uppermost in his mind while undercover, that might soften the blow when she learnt about little Jeremy in the States.

  Leaning forward, he took his wife’s left hand and squeezed it hard.

  ‘I want you…to know…Celia…that in risking my life undercover…I was thinking of you, my darling. You were always there in the back of my mind.’

  ‘Really?’

  To his surprise, her voice had taken on a hard edge. What’s more, she forcefully extricated her hand from his grip and looked at him with a look of sheer distaste he had never seen before.

  ‘Yes, yes, believe me,’ he insisted, nonplussed.

  ‘I do believe you – only too well.’

  ‘Then why are you so upset?’

  ‘The very thought of being there in the back of your mind while you were relishing that slut’s pulsations is gross.’

  ‘ “Back of my mind” was only a figure of speech. Come on.’

  ‘It does not alter the fact,’ insisted his wife, ‘that it was her falling-domino pulsations that rang your bell.’

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘Blackwell.’

  Holt remembered bragging to a colleague about having made love to a woman with sensational, rippling, falling-domino pulsations. The guy had obviously served the titbit up to the Snake. Still, he had to deny it.

  ‘Blackwell must have made it up. I didn’t even mention Consuela to him. Peter told him I was not allowed to give any details regarding the mission other than that it was undercover, with a woman whose name could not be revealed.’

  ‘Blackwell would dream up something like that,’ admitted Celia.

  Thinking he had regained some ground by persuading her that Blackwell made up the rippling, falling-domino pulsations scenario, Holt sought to capitalize on it.

  ‘Of course, when I said you were in the back of my mind, I really meant those terrible moments under interrogation when I was half expecting to be bumped off and that my body would be dumped somewhere where no one would ever find it. Thinking of you, Celia, gave me the will to survive…made all the difference.’

  ‘Jeremy, I have always admired you for accepting to go undercover like you did – amazing really, considering you were only meant to be a backroom boy, an ideas man. And even though I suspect you were an accidental hero just like Dustin Hoffman in Hero, I believe you deserved your medal from the Queen.’

  Unable to leave well alone, Holt ploughed on unthinkingly.

  ‘I certainly wasn’t thinking of you when…’

  ‘When what?’

  ‘When…’

  ‘Go on, tell me! Tell me!’

  ‘I mean when…’

  ‘When what?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘When? Go on, tell me! I’m waiting. It must be something big.’

  ‘It was – I mean, is. Her baby, I mean.’

  ‘You mean she had your baby…and kept it?’

  ‘Apparently. Except that it’s no longer a baby.’

  ‘And you’ve been hiding it from me all this time.’

  ‘No, no. I only found out just now…that text message was from the Owl.’

  ‘You didn’t take precautions?’

  ‘She said there was no need.’

  ‘So she did it on purpose, the bitch!’

  ‘We don’t know that, do we? She wouldn’t be the first married woman of a certain age to fall pregnant after doing it for years with nothing happening and believing it never would.’

  ‘How come you’re so knowledgeable about married women of a certain age happening to fall pregnant?’

  ‘I’m not. A couple of my friends got caught out that way. That’s all.’

  Holt was being disingenuous, for Consuela’s sudden change of attitude on learning he had an exceptionally high IQ signified it was no accident. The lying in
bed for breakfast at the Hotel du Cap and languishing there in the mornings on their return to England had been for a reason. Though he was not a Nobel Prize winner, she had evidently deemed him a worthy donor.

  ‘A boy or a girl?’

  ‘A boy, apparently.’

  Celia grimaced at the word ‘boy’.

  ‘What do you plan to do?’

  ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘I can’t believe that. You’re the father, for God’s sake!’

  ‘You can believe it, because the Owl said it would be in everyone’s interest, including I might say Claire’s, to keep it secret. He even put it stronger than that. He said revealing it could be detrimental not only to Claire but also to any future child you and I might conceive. I am not sure what he meant by that – better we don’t find out. Her husband is a very powerful man with a long reach.’

  ‘We mustn’t let the Owl have us dangling on the end of a piece of string – could prove dangerous professionally.’

  ‘Now you know the truth, he has less leverage. Anyway, he promised not to allude to it in our official dealings. I think he told me not to pressure us but because he likes us. Though it does make me feel a bit awkward, as if we owe him something.’

  ‘For Claire’s sake, we will keep it to ourselves. She is more important than anything, even the service, to me. But that does not make what you did with that woman right.’

  ‘In a way I had to do it. Sir Charles specifically chose her from the rewards menu for me. I had to follow it through.’

  ‘Don’t give me that just-doing-your-duty crap. You knew we meant everything to each other. More perhaps than if we had consummated our idyllic relationship. You betrayed me. You betrayed yourself.’

  ‘How can you sit up there on your high horse when you exploit your feminine charms on your missions? I’ve seen you stringing along your VIPs with coy glances and batting eyelids.’

  ‘ “Stringing along with coy glances and batting eyelids”, as you so crudely put it, is as far as it ever went, though you’d be surprised how effective batting eyelids can be. It brings out empathy. Makes people think you are vulnerable, with the result that they drop their guard and open up. But just like Mossad’s females – the top professional ones that is; for sexual blackmail or entrapment they simply use prostitutes – I never go all the way. We get what we want and sometimes more by flirting, admittedly sometimes so outrageously that we have to fight them off. Once you go all the way, you’ve lost the plot. The information spigot runs dry…or so I am told.’