LONDON ALERT (3 page)

Culturally it was
enriching too. Not only was there Angkor Wat in Cambodia but also museums and
art galleries in Washington and New York. On the technical side, he visited a
couple of companies in Silicon Valley and the National Air and Space Museum in
Washington.

When he returned to
England, he was a much more rounded person. He had met girls he liked and where
there was mutual attraction, but virtually all had boyfriends or partners in
tow.

James, the head-hunter who had advanced the
money for his fantastic trip, looked well pleased at the change in Holt and set
him up in a job in IT for a securities company in the City.

‘I know it is not the perfect job for you,
Jeremy, but, like the gap year, it will give you experience of interfacing with
people who will come in handy later. For someone of your talents, it will not
be too demanding.’

Indeed, this proved to be the case, and Holt
was beginning to think he needed to be doing something that stretched him more
when James phoned him in the office to say he had some information he could not
impart over the phone. Could he drop in on his way home after work?

‘I have received a request,’
said James, ‘for someone with exceptional qualifications to dedicate him or
herself to a special task that could save many lives.’

‘Really,’ interjected Holt,
his interest piqued.

‘I cannot give you
details, as I do not even know them exactly myself. You are a rare bird, and
although not many nests would suit you, this one well might, so I put your name
forward. It’s all very hush-hush, so I could not discuss it with you. I hope
you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all,’ replied
Holt. ‘In a way I’m happy enough where I am, but as you said, it is only meant
to be a stepping stone.’

‘They will probably
contact shortly – they mentioned having to do some checks. Of course, they may
well have other irons in the fire.’

A
few days
later
Holt
return
ed
home from work
to find a large manila envelope
lying on his doormat
.
He scooped
it up
,
went into the
drawing room
, pl
aced
it
on the arm of
the
bargain-sale
black leather
sofa
, and
went
into his tiny kitchen
to
make himself a coffee with his newly acquired
machine. It
had been
an extravagance,
but as he had no car
,
it was a luxury he felt he
deserved.

Having taken a few quick sips, he
took the coffee back into the drawing room, turned on some soft music, and sat down
beside the expected – or rather, hoped-for – envelope. Once comfortably
installed, he took the paperknife from the coffee table to slit it open and extract
the contents.

There was a long application form and covering letter
in it with
strictly confidential
stamped in red at
the top. The letterhead was simply
giraffe
,
with no address.

The post-paid return
envelope didn’t have an address either, though it did have a reference number
and the postcode W1Z 0XG.

Holt read the letter
carefully, and then reread it.

Dear Holt,

We have been advised that your profile fits that required for
a very special assignment we have in mind.

Should the prospect of pursuing an activity at which you are
obviously gifted while potentially saving many lives appeal to you, please complete
the attached forms and return them to us in the enclosed post-paid envelope.

Should all be in order, we will summon you to an exploratory
interview, which you should not construe as meaning we will be able to pursue your
candidature. Even an innocent relationship or a chance association could rule you
out.

Regard this letter as confidential; mention it to no one, not
even to a spouse, partner, or family member. Mere suspicion of such an
indiscretion could result in undesirable consequences, both for you and even
for them.

Dictated and unsigned – Giraffe

Though somewhat daunted
by the probing questions and the need to provide numerous references, Holt for
the first time in a long time felt a tinge of excitement.

Whom could he cite as a
reference?

The brigadier would
certainly be willing to provide him with one that would carry considerable weight.
He was like a second father, even though they had not recently been in contact.

He had to scrape the
bottom of the barrel for some of the other references, though the inclusion of that
fleeting girlfriend from freshers’ week at university, recently married to a highly
successful lawyer – he had, to his surprise, been invited to their wedding – was
a clever touch. She could vouch for his apolitical extracurricular activities
and unimaginative bedroom style, which was of course why she left him.

On the Monday morning,
he left home for work, clutching the envelope containing the completed
application form. If he posted it in the box at Bank station near his office in
the City, the letter would be delivered earlier than if he posted it out in the
suburbs, possibly even that very afternoon.

After changing trains
twice, he arrived at Bank, with its dangerously curved platform leaving
considerable gaps at places, down which anyone could slip. Indeed, he had done
so at another station when trying not to push up against the bottom of a lovely
young woman who had dithered on stepping off the train. Fortunately someone
caught hold of him, hauled him back up, and he did not slip too far down,
though he had grazed his shin so badly that it took more than a year for the
skin right on the bone to heal.

Coming out into the
open air, he walked the few yards to the post box and slipped the manila envelope
through the slit, noting that it had been narrowed to prevent introduction of
an explosive device. On hearing the envelope drop irretrievably to the bottom,
as there was little mail so early in the day, he told himself that even were he
to get a positive reply, the interview would merely be exploratory. He would
still be free to back out. But deep down he felt he already was on the first step
of an escalator from which it would be difficult to alight halfway up – or rather,
halfway down.

The summons to the exploratory
interview not only came by return of post but set it for that very Saturday at
10 a.m. That did not leave much time for him to ruminate about what he might be
getting into. Perhaps that was their technique: quench the iron while it was still
hot; give him no time for second thoughts.

‘No need for
confirmation,’ the letter had said. ‘Should you fail to show, we will simply consider
the matter closed.’

On the Saturday, he was
up early and, after a long shower, prepared a breakfast consisting of scrambled
egg, toast, and coffee. Whenever he made scrambled egg, Ian Fleming’s 007
recipe would come to mind, though the only parts of the recipe he could really remember
were the need to have lashings of butter and a thick-bottomed saucepan. On this
particular day, it somehow seemed more appropriate than usual.

While munching away and
sipping his coffee, he watched the morning news to catch up on current affairs.
No point in getting stupidly caught out over a question on that. One advantage
of not having a live-in girlfriend was that he would not have to lie about
where he was going and risk her wary questions spoiling his mood.

Selecting the clothes
to wear was not difficult, as he only had one snazzy suit – one that had seen better
days. It was not that he couldn’t afford a new suit, it was just that in his IT
work one was expected to dress casually as a techie and not get people’s backs
up. It reminded him of a comment by a middle-aged-woman friend of his parents.
Very brazen for someone with a husband and son-in-law in the Diplomatic Service,
she had told them she had an excellent gardener, saying the best thing about
him was that he knew his station.

The advantage of working
in IT was that one did not have a ‘station’ and was all things to all people.
The staff at his securities company knew his IT department had a program that
would pick up on non-PC words in their emails and even detect any large expanses
of bare skin on the images they viewed, and that he would usually have a word
with them rather than denounce them to Human Resources.

Arriving at a graceful
Georgian building in central London for the exploratory talk with five minutes
to spare, he stepped into the high doorway to find an elderly caretaker looking
at him through a sliding window.

‘Mr Holt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Go right on up. Room
14. It’s on the third floor. I’m afraid there’s no lift.’

Holt was surprised the caretaker
had not asked for some ID but then realized he must have a photo of him on his computer
monitor, and had anyway been expecting him.

He mounted the stairs
to the third floor with measured steps so as not to arrive like a panting
labrador, taking sideways looks at the paintings and etchings adorning the
walls. Though it was a Saturday, sounds emanating from some of the rooms
indicated activity inside. What activity?

 The doors all had
digital locks with touchpads. That and the CCTV cameras probably explained why no
one had accompanied him. Also, it was a Saturday, and maybe on weekdays they
had someone more mobile than the caretaker to take visitors up the stairs.
Overall, it was a spooky place. Possibly inhabited by spooks.

He paused for half a
minute to gather his wits before knocking twice on the door to Room 14, making
sure the knocks were sharp enough to suggest he was a confident young thing.

Instead of the expected
‘Come in,’ there was the sound of footsteps. The door opened.

‘Jeremy Holt?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Major Bell. Glad
you decided to drop in and have a word.’

The major had put him
at his ease right away; perhaps too much at ease.

The sizable room had
light streaming in through two large sash windows to create a very relaxing atmosphere.
The high ceiling added to the feeling of traditional elegance.

The first thing that
struck Holt about his interviewer was how well turned out he was, with a
well-cut suit in a material that hung comfortably on his large frame. He looked
fit, though his face showed he obviously managed to enjoy the good things in
life. Holt guessed he was in his late forties.

In keeping with his
relaxed style, the major said in a strong but gentle voice, ‘Do sit down,’
indicating a comfortable chair in front of a large wooden desk, behind which he
went to sit, with his back to the window.

Holt tried to move into
as comfortable a position as possible and adjust his jacket, which had ridden
up. The green treetops visible behind the major for some reason reassured him.

‘We told you this would
be an exploratory interview, and so it shall be,’ said the major on looking at
Holt with an X-ray gaze, ‘but to start with, I am afraid I shall be doing all the
exploring. It will be recorded so that those for whom you might possibly be
working, not to mention the security people – who have their noses everywhere
these days – will be able to judge for themselves.’

He pressed a button on
his desk.

‘Interview with Holt,
started at 10
.
10…’

Holt cleared his throat
and thought he should at least say something.

‘I don’t know what I might
be letting myself in for.’

‘It is early days. You
haven’t let yourself in for anything yet. No point in worrying about the home
stretch before getting to the first fence. We have to start by sussing you out,
to use a phrase my children have recently latched on to. Are you ready?’

‘I’m ready as I ever shall
be.’

‘Sorry, I forgot. Would
you like a coffee or tea?’

‘No, thanks, but I wouldn’t
mind a glass of water.’

The major pressed a
button on his phone and asked for it to be brought. They chatted amiably until
a middle-aged woman came in with a tall crystal glass and placed it, with a
beermat underneath, on the desk just to Holt’s left, as if already aware he was
left-handed. Maybe she had simply checked the documents he had submitted and
there was nothing sinister. The major did not speak until she had closed the
door quietly behind her.

‘I’ll get straight to
the point, Holt. The reason a certain department is interested in you is that
your profile combines three talents: firstly, creativity, demonstrated by the
practical jokes and so on you liked to play at school and university – don’t let
me ever hear you call it uni! Secondly, technical know-how. And thirdly,
lateral thinking. And, of course, you have an extremely high IQ.’

‘I see,’ replied Holt,
none too sure what it was that he could see.

‘In a nutshell, how
would you sum yourself up? How do you feel about yourself?’

Holt had not been
expecting something so direct, knowing that job interviews sometimes start with
the interviewer asking what it was about their organization that made the
interviewee want to join, but of course in this case he did not even know what
the organization was. He would have to be frank, even immodest. To hell with it
– he had to say something.

‘I lost much of my love
for life when my parents died, and could not focus on anything in particular
and decide on a career. I missed opportunities to do something serious on the
science side. The trouble is, if you do not use your intelligence, you switch
off and end up demotivated and lose it.

‘Sometimes I think I would
like to get away from it all, like a Swiss guy I met once on one of those small-size
cargo ships that take a dozen or so passengers. One night there was a film show,
and afterwards I casually asked him what he thought of it, and he came up with
an unbelievably insightful analysis worthy of Sigmund Freud. Found out he used
his brilliant mind and knowledge of geology to help oil companies find oil but preferred
the easy life on the boats, going from one place to another with no
responsibilities. I felt a bit like him – too clever by half, as they say – and
wondered whether I should do the same. No grief.’

‘But whiling away your
time on a boat is not really you, is it?’

‘No.’

‘We have heard about the
pranks you played in your schooldays and were aware that your parents were tragically
both killed in that terrible car crash, which might be a plus, as you will not
have them prying into your affairs, though the psychiatrists might wonder
whether that makes you damaged goods and make a meal of that.’

‘I think I have fully recovered
from their demise.’

‘I would not be so
sure. These things have a long-term effect. I know from having lost comrades in
action. Anyway, psychiatry is not my domain, I’m glad to say. First, tell me
about school. Anything that suggests you have initiative other than as regards playing
practical jokes.’

‘I can’t think of
anything special.’

‘It does not have to be
miraculous. Just think of something – I’ve got to have some nitty-gritty. Oh, sorry.
I’ve been told by the PC brigade not to keep using that word. Fortunately, most
of my work is covered by the Official Secrets Act, which means I cannot be
taken to public tribunals by anyone pretending to have been offended. Anyway, forget
I said it. Try to put some flesh on the bones of your submission – that
actually sounds worse to me. You know what I mean. Tell me something that shows
initiative. Imagination.’