LONDON ALERT (7 page)

One
cannot go into detail regarding Holt’s initial training and secondments to the
various security-related departments. Far less exciting than one might imagine,
most of
it
consisted of
briefings
on all aspects of terrorism.
Disappointingly, it was more l
ike being back at
school than at university.

Celia accompanied him to
some of the lectures. This was allegedly to make her a better sounding-board,
though Holt did wonder whether it was to enable her to keep an eye on him and get
him used to being in her presence in situations where he could not compromise
her.

Briefings on particular
terrorist incidents included videos and photos not deemed by the media to be
suitable, other than for the occasional glimpse, for public consumption. Two of
the worst incidents in that regard were at schools. The recent one in Pakistan,
where seven Taliban came into a school at Peshawar and opened fire, killing 132
children and 145 people in all. And the Beslan school hostage crisis, in the
Russian Federation in September 2004, which lasted three days and ended in a
bloodbath, with 380-plus deaths as the school was stormed by security forces.
More than 1,100 hostages had been taken, of whom 777 were children, with the
rest mostly staff. The militants were threatening to blow them all up if their
demands were not met or the authorities intervened.

Conditions became
horrendous as temperatures soared inside the school, with many of the younger
hostages taking off their clothes and sitting in their underclothes, if that.
The exact order of events when the authorities did intervene after three days
is disputed, with some alleging that the authorities tried to make it seem the
militants started the explosions that prompted them to intervene, and hostages
were incidentally killed by those who were ostensibly rescuing them.

While bombs were of
constant concern, firearms scenarios such as the Mumbai siege of 2008, where
the terrorists outgunned the police and SWAT teams led to the British
authorities carrying out secret exercises throughout the country codenamed
Operation Pride to ensure mobile response units had the necessary firepower and
would not have to wait for the army to arrive from their barracks.

Then there were the
lectures on how terrorists’ minds were supposed to work and what made them,
apart from their bombs, tick. What made them become terrorists and even suicide
bombers in the first place. These and the reading material that accompanied
them were fascinating.

Holt was told time and
time again that though terrorists could mostly be pigeonholed according to
type, there were always the dangerous exceptions. From the perspective of
Holt’s mission, they really told him there were no simple answers. Terrorists
came in all shapes and sizes. Even the under-tens could be a threat.

Halfway through the
course, Sir Charles called him in to review his role.

‘Remember, your job is to
think up techniques and modi operandi before the terrorists think of them.
While the lectures covering the way their minds work may help you do that, it
is not your job to go looking for them. Leave that to the established
departments. So far, Five, Special Branch, Six, and GCHQ have done a great job
thwarting attacks year after year, but we cannot expect them to pre-empt every
one, so any possible scenarios you come up with could be invaluable.’

In
preparation for
their
overseas
trip,
Holt
and
Celia
w
ere
scheduled
to spend a night
together
at a hotel
called
The Loughty
as a dry run
.
‘
Dr
y
’
was the operative word, though luckily that did not apply
to alcoholic beverages.
H
e would have to
prove himself
beyond
reproach
.

What they did not know
was that the service had an ulterior motive, apart from facilitating the taking
of photos, for pushing the honeymoon/happy-couple scenario. The country’s glory
days were over – in fact, the country’s zenith had been around 1900 – and even
its secret services, as well as diplomatic services, were short of money. Lavish
receptions and entertaining were mostly things of the past, and travel expenses
were being pared to the bone, with the result that agents were missing out on
the little perks they once so much enjoyed, though these had hardly ever
extended to 007’s Dom Pérignon champagne.

By pretending to be on
their honeymoon, agents could sometimes claw back some of the perks they
enjoyed in the old days and, notably, hope to be granted upgrades in hotels. On
their return to London, some would have dozens of complimentary condoms to give
away, as some hotels seemed to believe half a dozen were required. The more
brazen officers would then dole them out to secretaries, saying that while too
small for them they should be ample for their partners.

Holt had heard the
story of how, before Russia became an ally in World War II, the Russians placed
an order for condoms of gigantic proportions to enrobe the tips of the guns on
their tanks and prevent dirt getting in. The minister responsible for manufacturing
told Churchill that the Russians’ ulterior motive was to sap British workers’ morale
and wanted to refuse. Churchill allegedly told his minister the problem could
be solved simply by having the workers put ‘Small’ on the packets.

Apart from saving
money, having agents share rooms helped keep them out of trouble and away from
temptation. It also made it more difficult for foreign services to contact
individuals personally.

Peter had warned Holt that
a mature understudy was waiting in the wings to take Celia’s place should he
fail the test at
The Loughty
.

‘Don’t worry,’ joked jealous
colleagues, ‘with the understudy in question, you will have the commiseration
of the hotel bellboys when you come down for breakfast after the big night.
They might even propose something on the side to lift your spirits. By the way,
Blackwell often briefs and debriefs the females going to The Loughty,
ostensibly to ensure they handle their partners appropriately and are not
importuned. You had better be careful.’

Such comments were
making Holt apprehensive. The understudy sounded terrible, but then even
someone with only slightly above average looks could never compare with Celia.
More to the point, he did not like the thought that his nemesis, Blackwell,
would be involved.

Colleagues who had been
to
The Loughty
would not
be drawn on what had happened to them personally there, other than to say it
was a great experience, provided one did not make a fool of oneself. In fact, it
was not a hotel at all but a training-cum-test establishment operated by the service
to train operatives, who came increasingly from more humble backgrounds, in the
ways of upper, if not high, society. As most could already handle a knife and
fork, it was more a question of teaching them how to deal with sommeliers and
not look ridiculous when faced with a menu written in French or Italian.

Arriving at the local
station in the late afternoon, Holt and Celia climbed into the second of the five
taxis waiting outside the station on the assumption that the leading one would
most likely have been sent to test them.

‘The Loughty is far too
expensive for the likes of people coming here to visit us locals,’ said the elderly
driver, turning round to face them in the back seat when he should have been
concentrating on the road. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, turning back to see where
they were going, ‘it’s always fully booked. You two were lucky to get a room.’

A converted country
house set well back from the road, The Loughty
was much more stylish
than they had anticipated. A miserable agent, who had doubtless joined one of
the services expecting to be engaged in something more glamorous, carried their
bags up to their room and hovered for a tip – obviously to teach agents the
usual protocol on arriving at a high-class establishment. Holt gave him a couple
of pounds with a dismissive gesture to humble him even more and give the
impression he was a habitué of such places.

Sharing a room did not
mean sharing beds, for there were twin beds separated by a bedside table with the
usual telephone.

Just as they were settling
in, there was a knock at the door that was too sharp to be that of a room maid.
Indeed, it proved to be the hotel manager, obviously a more senior agent who
had had his cover blown or was otherwise deemed operationally ineffective. His
crisp manner reminded Holt of the World War II Stalag Luft prison camp
commandants he had seen in films.

‘I have been briefed
about your relationship – or rather, lack thereof – so have given you well-separated
twin beds as requested. Actually, in the Far East many couples and especially
married ones generally prefer them.' With an overlong look at Celia, he added, ‘The
beds can usually be pushed together, so one gets the best of both worlds.’

Dinner, he told them, would
be the centrepiece of their stay. A table had been reserved for them at eight.

‘Dress is smart
casual.’

Having said somewhat
ambiguously he was looking forward to seeing more of them, he left them to
their own devices.

With time to spare
before dinner, they went for a pleasant walk in the woods that formed part of
the estate, returning at about seven thirty to spruce up for eight. Though Holt
was well aware Celia was no longer a teenager, her nubile look and childish mannerisms
made him feel like an uncle taking a pubescent niece out for a treat and having
to share a room with her, albeit with her mother’s permission.

The thought of the
potentially embarrassing situation lying ahead was making him edgy, and just like
many a young lady disappointed at her father’s failure to measure up to her
impossible hopes and expectations, Celia came up with the first of what were to
be many put-downs of the evening.

‘Get a grip, man! There’s
no need to worry about not rising to the occasion.’

What language and what
cheek. What double entendre. It was a bit rich having someone so young and
virginal lecturing him about not having to prove his prowess in the bedroom. He
could only retort meekly that it was an unusual situation.

‘I never had a sister. I
wish I had. I would not feel so awkward.’

‘We’re not meant to
discuss our private lives in the service. You know that, don’t you?’

‘You’re right, as usual.
You’ve been in the business longer than I.’

Continuing with her
schoolgirl-on-a-day-out gush, she babbled on.

‘Let’s make the most of
it. It’s not every day one can feast oneself on the house like this. If you
cannot get your head round the brother-and-sister act, just imagine we’re twelve-year-olds
on a sleepover who would never dream of doing anything really naughty.’

The ‘really naughty’ got
Holt’s imagination going. Not only did he lack a sister, he had never been on a
sleepover either. The goody-two-shoes kids she was referring to must have been under
ten years old to be that innocent.

Just as he was
formulating a remark to try to take her down a peg, she interrupted his train
of thought.

‘Stop trying to make a
big thing out of a little thing. All we have to do is to be natural – in other
words, make the most of the goodies, including the champagne. I’ve heard from
other agents that this place is fabulous in that respect. Anyway, I’m famished.
Time we went down for din-dins.’

Holt presumed she was
putting on this din-dins primary-school act to wind him up even further but
guiltily found it appealing. Was she purposely being provocative?

In the words of the
late bon viveur and restaurant critic Michael Winner,
The
Loughty
dinner was truly ‘
historic
’
,
and had the establishment
not been restricted to a special clientele it might well have earned a Michelin
star.

During a holiday Holt
had spent in France while a student, a French acquaintance taught him the
secret of ordering quality French wines. Not only should one choose one that
was
appellation contrôlée
,
and preferably a top
appellation
,
but also ensure it was château bottled (
mis
en bouteille au château
), with a top château being a big plus. Finally,
one should never buy any bottle with the label for the year separate from the
main label, as such labels were easily falsified.

On reading the wine
list, Holt had noticed two wines marked ‘Appellation Margaux
Contrôlée
[Ma21]
 
’. Both were château bottled,
but the first and much more expensive one had the name of a château he had
never heard of, while the cheaper one was a Château Margaux and one of the
great wines, and usually very expensive. This illogical disparity in price was
obviously a test to pick out the recruits who really knew something about wine.
Holt naturally chose the latter and was quite surprised that Celia indicated
her approval with a slightly ashamed look. Perhaps she had learnt much about
wines in the course of accompanying VIPs.

The first bottle,
brought to their table with great pomp and ceremony, was obviously corked, again
to test them. Holt was quite proud of having detected this on raising his glass
to his nose before even taking a sip, though it was not difficult, as the
bottle had obviously already been used several times to test recruits. It was
pretty far gone and truly reeked of vinegar.

The sommelier feigned
an apology, to which Holt responded by saying that even the renowned La Tour
d’Argent restaurant in Paris finds a third of their very oldest and expensive bottles
to be corked. He added to the man’s discomfort by saying, ‘Of course, the
sommelier at the Tour would have detected that by sniffing the cork even before
proffering the bottle.’

What had the poor man done
wrong in his secret service career to end up playing this inglorious role?

When a new bottle was
brought and opened in their presence, Celia showed she could appreciate
quality. Had recognizing a great wine featured in her training?

He noticed how her
attitude to the hotel staff was that of a demure young woman, with no trace of the
schoolgirl, which seemed to be purely for his consumption. Was she having him
on?

Paying the bill was
part of the test, and Holt added an extra tip in addition to the service
charge. This seemed to unnerve the waiter, who said, ‘That is not necessary,
Monsieur.’

Holt nevertheless
insisted, as if such petty largesse were nothing.

Having enjoyed their great
meal, they made their way through the lounge towards the terrace, with Holt allowing
Celia to go on ahead while he stopped off at the cloakroom.

On rejoining her in
cool outside air, he found their coffees were already on the table, with a brandy
just for him. The coffee was a disappointment; not up to the standard of the other
fare but just about drinkable with the help of the velvety XO brandy. Celia
seemed to be lost in thought as he sat silently in the semi-darkness, ruminating
on what was or was not to follow up in the bedroom. Like the corked wine, the
bitter coffee had possibly been a test. He would have to remember to note it on
the guest comments form.

Thanking the
disenfranchised spooks for their truly excellent service, they made their way
back through the lounge, followed by some lascivious glances unbecoming of
future agents of Her Majesty. Of course, had any of those eyeing her had the
good looks and panache of a Sean Connery, Celia would have felt less
uncomfortable.