LONDON ALERT (4 page)

‘There is one thing
that might be relevant. My holidays always got off to a bad start because
end-of-term school reports were in alphabetical order, with art first, and art
was my weakest subject. I might as well tell you, I can’t draw for toffee and
can’t dance for nuts; can’t play any musical instrument either. To get back to
the point I was making, at the end of one term the art master wrote,
“
Crude misery not worthy of
further comment” on my report, sending my father up the wall.’

‘If I had been your
father, I would have thought it amusing,’ commented the major. ‘I was no good
at art either, though for a military career I at least had to be able to draw
plans of battlefields and so on.’

‘Anyway, I realized I had
to do something. I knew the master was not really interested in the untalented like
me and based his reports on coursework. I therefore bribed the most talented
boy in the class to draw – or rather, paint – a picture of a yacht in my art
book. Yachts fascinated me at the time, and it would at least enable me to
dream about them in class.

‘While not quite a
Turner, my friend’s oeuvre was something of a masterpiece. My father was
incredulous when he saw the first page of my next school report, though subsequent
art reports became less and less complimentary, as I defaced the yacht by daubing
vulgar colours on it in class while pretending to paint.’

‘Does show initiative. Actually,
someone told us about that too.’

‘The whole class knew
about it. I wonder which of them told you.’

‘Need not have been one
of them. They might have mentioned it at home in the presence of their parents,
or even in the presence of a brother or sister, don’t you think? Maybe the art
master was not as naïve as you thought. In this business, you should never jump
to the most obvious conclusions.’

‘Yes, I see your point.’

‘Anything else school-wise
that I can put down in my notes?’

Well, my father’s mania
for academic perfection meant that any spelling or grammatical mistakes in my
letters home were seized upon. I solved that problem when much younger in a very
similar way.’

‘How’s that?’

‘With some help from a
kindly master, I created a perfect template letter along the lines
“
Thank you for the
cake/biscuits. The weather is cold/hot/rainy/inclement. I am slightly
indisposed but expect to be better soon. Hope you are well despite both of you
being so busy.”

‘By busy, I was really thinking
they were too busy for me. Failing to find a mistake, my father would become
quite irritated, asking whether I might deign to send some real news. I overcame
that problem quite simply by saying the letters were censored. One could not be
too careful, I said.’

‘Not bad, not bad at
all. Again, shows initiative. What about girlfriends? No one has suggested you
were gay – admittedly, that is not meant to be an impediment nowadays, as one
can no longer be blackmailed for that, and in some people’s eyes it is
something of which to be proud. What are your relations with women? How do you
get on with them?’

‘To be honest, I am a
bit shy – or rather, too hesitant. In my present IT work, I admit I give the
more beautiful of the females more help with their computers than I do their
homely colleagues, but I only tease them, without taking things further. I lack
confidence, perhaps due to lack of experience. Girls were a mystery to me,
never having had a sister.’

‘Neither did I, but I managed
to cope. I went out with the boys to look for complaisant girls. As we were tall,
fit lads, they would swarm all over us.’

‘I had no such luck. In
my case, the best relationship I ever had was with a fantastic girl at
university. It lasted only a week. Took me a long time to get over it – not
that I ever did. Besides being unbelievably beautiful, she was too rich for me,
moved in different circles. Even so, we remained friends. She was even willing
to let me use her as a reference to submit to you people.’

‘Actually, the young woman
– we checked her out – was rather complimentary about you. Seems she still has
a soft spot for you.’

Holt could not believe
he was getting carried away, being so frank. The major seemed to be able to make
one say things one would not even tell a best friend. Perhaps not even a
psychiatrist. The major would pause, making you want to fill in the details. He
should have been more careful.

‘What’s the situation
now?’

‘At the moment, I have
an on-and-off girlfriend. More off than on, to tell the truth. Knowing that it
will not go anywhere, I feel my hands are tied behind my back. How I envy
Italian men, living for the moment and able to put everything they have got
into a relationship as if truly in love, even though it might be just a fling. I
think ahead too much, imagining it’s over before it has even properly started.’

‘You sound
 
an honourable chap. Not many
people like you.’

After further probing
and exploration of other less sensitive pastures, with Holt able to give non-incriminating
explanations for youthful indiscretions, the nature of the interview suddenly
switched, indicating he had perhaps got over the first hurdle – or rather, fence.

‘Have you ever thought
you would like to work for the secret service?’

Holt did not answer
immediately. In fact, he did not know quite what to say. While it seemed the
major was asking about his present state of mind, he decided to answer as if the
question concerned the past.

‘Not seriously. Like
all boys and perhaps some girls, I did dream of becoming an astronaut or
airline pilot but knew my eyesight was not good enough. Of course, every time I
came out of the cinema after watching a James Bond film I dreamt I was him, but
the mental swagger only lasted about five minutes.’

‘The secret world is
not for everyone. Young people, especially females, cannot bear giving up
gossiping with outsiders about their work and colleagues.’

More related questions
were to follow.

The major then remained
silent for a full couple of minutes, looking through his notes. Finally, he
looked up and changed tack again.

‘Have you any
particular views regarding terrorist attacks?’

‘It is difficult to
generalise.’

‘I mean 9/11, the IRA
bombings, and the 7/7 bomb attacks on London’s transport system, which resulted
in fifty-five people dead and over a thousand injured, more or less seriously.’

Here at last was a
subject about which Holt had long-held heartfelt views. Although not a wannabe terrorist,
he felt on home ground.

‘Apart from the
terrorists responsible for 9/11 and a few other attacks, the perpetrators have usually
been inept. I could have done much better myself were I so inclined. Sometimes I
wonder what fun it would be outwitting the often stupid authorities. Sorry…I didn’t—’

‘So you think you could
do better than the terrorists?’

‘I mean, those are just
thoughts, ramblings if you like, not things I would ever consider actually putting
into action. I don’t have a religious – or, for that matter, any other – axe to
grind.’

Had he overstepped the
mark and ruined his chances of being accepted for whatever the task was? Not
that he was quite sure he wanted to be accepted.

‘I think,’ said the
major, with his face breaking into a smile, ‘we can wrap this up for now. We
cannot go any further without an official nod. You’ll be hearing from them in
due course, though I should perhaps warn you that
“
due course” may mean quite a
long time. Many things have to be checked, and we do have some other irons in
the fire, though I must say I am impressed with you. But then I am not the
arbiter. Meanwhile, keep all this under your hat.’

The major stood up to
signify the exploratory interview was over, but instead of dismissing Holt
there and then, he accompanied him down the stairs to the entrance to the
building, where they shook hands as the old caretaker looked on approvingly. With
that, a slightly shell-shocked Holt stepped out into the tree-filled square and
took a deep breath, before heading for one of the pubs he had passed an hour earlier.

The interview had gone
more easily than he had anticipated. True, it had been one-way, like dinner a
couple of weeks earlier with that divorcee with two young children. Hunting for
a partner with prospects that Holt could not pretend to match, she had been unwilling
to give anything, and certainly not herself, away.

The major had not given
anything away either, other than that the work had something to do with
terrorists.

The
time between Giraffe’s first letter and the exploratory interview had been so
short that the silence that ensued seemed interminable. With seven weeks having
gone by with not a word, Holt was getting twitchy
,
notwithstanding the major’s warning that the vetting would
take time.

Another reason for his
nervousness was that the longer he waited, the more doubtful he became about
the whole enterprise. His profile might be just right for
them
,
but would their profile be right for him?
What did they want
him to do? How would he fit into an environment with surely many constraints? Would
it be exciting, or even dangerous? Added to that, he got the impression someone
was watching him. Not all the time, but on odd occasions. Was he getting
paranoid?

Needing
a break
and
some fresh air
,
he
decided to accept the
b
rigadier’s long-standing
invitation to visit him at his new
residence
in Hampshire
,
where he had
moved on retiring. H
e
mig
ht
even learn whether
the
security people had questioned
him.
The
retired officer
was the
star
reference on
his
list, and
if anyone were to be interviewed
it would be he
.

The brigadier himself
answered the phone and sounded delighted at the prospect of Holt’s visit. Samantha,
his daughter, was coming down for the weekend, and it would be good for her to
have some younger company, and especially someone from the good old days. Holt had
an odd feeling at the thought of the daughter being there. The goddess he
worshipped from afar.

Not wanting to trouble his
hosts and, more importantly, preferring to meet them for the first time in
years in the comfort of their home rather than at a draughty railway station,
he took a taxi. The quaint village where the brigadier and his wife lived, and
the house itself for that matter, made him think of the oddly named
Midsomer Murders
TV series,
though he was not expecting anything as dramatic as murder to happen during his
visit. It was the old England – reassuring. Comfortable and comforting. Just
what he needed. There was a wooden plaque on the brigadier's gate with the name
‘
Goose Green’. Holt knew from
his parents that was where he won his DSO medal for gallantry in the Falklands
War.

He pressed the doorbell,
feeling he was stepping back in time, for this was the family he had frequented
in his impressionable preteens and early teens, when his parents were still
alive. The door opened to reveal Samantha, their daughter – she too had been a
teenager then. Here she was, a woman, albeit a young one.

‘Hello, Jeremy. Great to
see you,’ she said, holding Holt’s hand longer than perhaps necessary.

 ‘Mum, Dad, he’s here!’
she called out in a loud voice.

Mother and father
arrived from different directions and welcomed him effusively, with Emma, the
mother, giving him a hugging kiss. Holt had not seen them for some eight years
and thought they looked considerably older than he remembered. The brigadier
still looked imposing, a tall figure with a square jaw – Holt had read how an
analysis of graduation photos of cadets at West Point, the US military academy,
showed that the ones with the squarest jaws tended to become the generals.

Emma, whose strong and
engaging personality had doubtless been a great help to her husband in his army
career, showed Holt around the house, and although he was not staying for the
night, indicated a bedroom with an en suite bathroom he could use.

The house consisted of
two semidetached thatched bungalows fused into one, with three low-ceilinged
bedrooms squeezed on to the second floor. Thus it was elongated, with views onto
the large garden from almost every room. It certainly was a very comfy place,
though Holt would have preferred larger windows.

Looking out, he
commented on the size of the lawn.

‘Must be a lot of work
to keep it looking so good. It’s so large.’

‘Don’t tell me that! We
had to buy a motor mower – one of those you sit on. My dear husband put a
pennant on it so it would feel like he was driving an armoured vehicle into
battle. You see how the lawn rises steeply at the bottom. One day he drove across
right at the bottom there – the side slope was such that it toppled over. To
think how silly it would be to survive a war and stupidly get killed like that.
Luckily, the mower did not land right on top of him. Don’t tell him I told
you.’

Holt promised and went
to his allotted room to spruce himself up, while she went down to the kitchen
to join Samantha, already at work preparing the meal. After washing his face,
Holt felt much better, even relaxed.

In the event, mother
and daughter produced a great lunch, and, with the help of a couple of bottles
of good wine on top of the pre-lunch whiskies, things were going swimmingly. Samantha,
with the passage of time, seemed so much more mellow and approachable – not
that she had ever put him down or purposely ignored his presence, like many
girls of her age did. Their difference in age – a year – had seemed so much
when he was a shy thirteen.

After the coffees in the
drawing room, the brigadier took Holt’s arm and led him out to the garden for a
private chat.

‘Thank you, sir, for
letting me put your name forward as a reference,’ said Holt, reverting to the
way he spoke to the neighbour his parents called the
‘
brig’ but insisted he be
polite to and call ‘
sir’.

‘Think nothing of it,’
replied the brigadier.

‘I had to provide five
others as well, but I am sure yours carried the most weight. It may not come to
anything. To tell the truth, I don’t know anything much about the job yet.’

‘It must be,’ said the brigadier
with a wry smile, ‘something quite special to require so many references.’

The raising of the brigadier’s
eyebrows convinced Holt that he knew more than he was letting on. He was part
of the establishment and, with medals for gallantry, could be relied on, which was
more than could be said for some of the other characters Holt had asked to
provide references. However, the brigadier did not allow him to pursue the
matter.

‘Let’s get back and rejoin
the ladies; not that I see my daughter as a lady. I am hoping she will
eventually end up with a more suitable partner and become one. Pity you were much
too young for her. You at least are a good egg, unlike that good-for-nothing
she is drooling after.’

His wife was on the
terrace, catching up with her daughter’s latest news – impossible in the
brigadier’s presence, as he could not bear to hear the boyfriend’s name or
anything concerning life with him mentioned. How could his daughter, who had
been daddy’s girl, become beholden to someone like that scumbag?

With the return of the
two men, the conversation immediately switched to the old days, when they were
neighbours, before the fatal car crash. When the mother asked Holt about his plans
for the future, Holt wondered whether the brigadier had let something slip, but
before he could come up with some noncommittal answer, the brigadier stepped
in.

‘Jeremy has just told
me he is applying for a new job in research but is not sure yet what is
involved.’

This half-truth neatly
forestalled further questions, and the conversation moved on to other topics.
Holt was surprised how open they were, treating him as family, which was
fortunate, for if he did join Giraffe, the brigadier might be the only
confidant he could keep without raising suspicions.

After afternoon tea,
Holt bade them farewell and gladly accepted Samantha’s offer to drive him to
the station, seven minutes away by car.

He wished it had been
ten times as far but was compensated on arrival by her kissing him on the forehead
and saying, ‘It was nice having you as neighbour. I wish we had got to know
each other better…I am not so uptight these days!’

 Deeply touched by the
kiss and a trifle saddened by the thought of her at a time when his parents
were alive, Holt fought to regain his composure as he waved her goodbye. Again
he realized too late that he should have made more of a relationship; not that
it could ever have blossomed into anything serious, but he could have done with
a friend like that at that difficult time.

All in all it had been
a good day, and he returned to London quite refreshed, and, judging from the
brigadier’s reactions, wheels were in motion.

Indeed they were, for a
few days later, on returning home he heard his landline phone ringing as he was
standing at the front door, fumbling with his keys. Having got the door open, he
dumped his stuff, dashed for the phone, and managed to answer it before the
other party rang off.

‘
Mr
Holt. Jeremy Holt?’

‘Yes.’

A cut-glass female voice
proceeded to ask him for private details, as if it were his bank or credit card
company checking on his identity before imparting any information. Since the
voice was far too superior for that, he assumed it was Giraffe but wanted to
show he was streetwise.

‘I am not in the habit,
madam, of revealing personal details without first ascertaining the identity of
the individual soliciting them. Might I ask whom I am addressing?’

‘It’s Giraffe.’

‘Big Bird on the line. A
chirpy evening to you.’

‘Not funny, not funny
at all.’

Made to feel rather silly,
Holt apologized before furnishing the required details.

‘You remember the
major?’

‘Of course…How could I not?’

 ‘He opines that you
need a decent suit and has graciously arranged for you to have one made at our
tailor’s. It will remain your property, even should you ultimately not…er, become
one of us.’

Holt could feel the heightened
disdain in her voice following his childish joke. She had seemed to choke at
the very thought that he could become one of them.

‘It wasn’t
that
bad. The suit, I mean,’ he replied, disappointed that his best suit had failed
to ‘cut the mustard
’,
as the major might say.

‘The major surprisingly
took a shine to you and would be most hurt should you fail to take up his more
than generous offer.’

‘Yes, it would be
churlish to decline. Tell him I’m most grateful and would be more than glad to
accept,’ said Holt, unconsciously parroting the woman’s way of speaking and
ending up sounding like an incongruous imitation of her, and with a male voice
to boot.

Was this Giraffe’s way
of letting failed candidates down with no hard feelings? Was it all over even before
the second fence and just as he was beginning to believe he was embarking on something
exciting? His heart sank.

‘Symes, our tailor, is
located in Sackville Street. It’s a quiet side street on the right as you walk from
Piccadilly Circus along Piccadilly towards Bond Street. Just before you come to
Fortnum & Mason on the other side. I presume you
have
heard of them?’

‘I used to have high
tea there with my grandmother once a month as a child.’ It was a blatant lie,
but stuck-up tight-arse needed taking down a peg.

The slight pause that
followed indicated he had at last scored a point and perhaps gained a modicum
of respect.

‘Be that as it may,’
she huffed, ‘it’s at number forty-five. Be there at six thirty tomorrow evening
prompt. You cannot miss it. Have you got that?’

‘Yes, number forty-five,
Sackville Street. Symes, six thirty.’

‘Correct. Allow plenty
of time, as measuring you and choosing the material can be time-consuming. They
may have to put you on the back burner if they have someone of importance there.
I am sure you understand.’

Forced to grovel, Holt confirmed
he fully understood.

Having thereby scored a
final point, Cut-Glass rang off without asking whether the time was convenient.
She had sounded like the headmaster’s secretary calling him to his study for a
telling off or worse.

Consequently, the
following evening he arrived outside Symes much too early and to kill time
ordered a coffee at the tiny delicatessen across the street. Sitting outside at
one of the three tables, he watched the goings-on, or lack thereof, in the
street, which was surprisingly quiet for one just off the main thoroughfare of
Piccadilly, with its constant stream of buses, taxis, and other vehicles. Apart
from the odd car, van, or taxi taking a short cut, there was the occasional
pedestrian. Those looking lost were probably tourists seeking the Royal Academy,
slightly further on along Piccadilly, where they were holding one of their
special exhibitions.

The tailoring
establishment looked just what it was purported to be and, judging by the
amount of wear on the brass nameplate outside, had either been in existence for
many years or had an overzealous polisher – probably both. Looking more closely,
Holt could see an array of CCTV cameras covering not only the entrance but also
the street. Realizing that one was pointing directly at him, he shifted
uneasily in his seat, trying to adopt a suave, sophisticated air as he preened like
he had seen actors do when savouring coffee in TV commercials.

Just before six thirty,
a tall, smartly dressed gentleman came out from number 45 and stepped into the
street. He clutched a fold-over bag for carrying suits as his long legs carried
him elegantly towards Piccadilly.

At 6
.
31 precisely, Holt got up and,
conscious of his relatively short legs, walked across the street with what he
considered was a confident, nonchalant gait, for the benefit of the CCTV camera.
For some reason, he found himself thinking how Britain’s most accomplished official
hangman, Albert Pierrepoint, who had executed at least four hundred people by
the time he resigned in 1956, used to peep into the condemned man’s or even
woman’s cell to assess the amount of rope required for optimum results. Was the
tailor likewise covertly sizing up his subjects, or were the cameras for a more
sinister purpose?