LONDON ALERT (9 page)

 ‘Whatever you do,’ he said,
his face lighting up, ‘don’t use too much of this!’

‘Why’s that?’ they
asked in unison, just as Bond would have done.

‘I’ll tell you why,’
said the officer, pausing for effect.

‘When we first
developed it, one of our female agents was having a one-night stand in a
foreign country with a diplomat and, having extracted the desired info in the
course of pillow talk with the bait of the action to follow, could not resist subsequently
deploying her new kit, smearing the dye from this red phial everywhere, even on
the pillow. Early the following morning she left the hotel without waking her
partner for the night.’

After pausing again to
allow them to imagine the situation, he continued on.

‘In his rush to get
back to his embassy in time for work, the diplomat failed to noticed anything
untoward, or if he did was congratulating himself on having deflowered a virgin.
When the room maid came to do the room, the great amount of blood in unlikely
places convinced her someone had been murdered, or at the very least badly injured,
and she immediately alerted hotel security. They in turn called the police, who
naturally went to question the embarrassed diplomat at his embassy. In the
presence of the ambassador, he denied harming the woman but nevertheless claimed
diplomatic immunity, which eventually proved unnecessary, as on analysis our
blood proved to be fake.’

‘He must have felt a
fool,’ interjected Holt.

‘Yes, but that’s not
the end of the story, for his embassy concluded – wrongly as it happened – that
he was the major leak they had long suspected. He was immediately recalled and
shot, poor guy.’

‘All that for a moment
of pleasure,’ remarked Celia.

‘I cannot envisage a
situation where we would need to use it,’ added Holt. ‘Using fake blood would make
us look ridiculous. Celia would be like Fanny Hill keeping pig’s blood hidden
in the bedpost.’

‘Quite the contrary. In
some countries the use of such artifices increases the credibility of the
honeymoon in the eyes of the authorities.’

‘Really?’ interjected Celia
in disbelief.

‘You see, it’s not
always used to deceive. Sometimes it’s merely used as insurance. Ensures
everything goes as expected, which as you yourself must know, young lady, is
not always true in nature. Grooms may become suspicious at the lack of evidence…and
in some countries, family members and even villagers will check the sheets. Thus
the authorities are familiar with the various artifices a highly respected
bride might resort to, to ensure her honour is not questioned, even though
intact.’

Looking at Celia, who was
nodding her head knowledgably, the officer explained that their kit, unlike Fanny
Hill’s, had the advantage of an almost infinite shelf life. As it was her side
of the business, Holt let her take charge of the little box of tricks.

With
their flights booked and
all
their kit
,
they were
ready to set off for Japan
at the end of the week.

Furthermore, having
survived that first night at The Loughty if not with flying colours at least
with no major faux pas, Holt felt confident that he would be able to handle his
relationship with his partner appropriately.

Prior to the horrendous
sarin nerve gas attack on the Tokyo subway by members of the Aum religious
cult, Japan had over the years experienced a series of pinprick attacks by domestic
radical elements where simplicity and originality had been the hallmark. While
only having limited impact, these capers were of great embarrassment to the
authorities.

On one particular occasion,
rockets launched mortar-like from cut-off drainpipes leaning against an apartment
balcony balustrade facing the State Guest House landed in its grounds. As the guests
had included President Mitterrand of France, the Japanese suffered great loss
of face, though no one was even injured.

Subsequently, whenever
foreign heads of state stayed there, the authorities would take over-the-top
measures to forestall such action. These included welding shut manholes in the
nearby streets and having the local plod, then more senior police, and finally a
secret service agent, interview anyone living within drainpipe-mortar range.
These and other measures taken by the Japanese police and security services proved
largely successful.

Sir Charles, who
himself had served in the Far East early in his career, therefore thought that Japan
might provide some useful lessons for Holt. Besides, an exotic overseas trip
would be a good reward and help trigger his creativity after so many days passively
listening to lectures and watching videos.

The good news was that
it was confirmed Celia would accompany him; the bad news was that limited funds
meant they would not be able to stop off en route. While the honeymoon routine was
not strictly necessary in Japan, they would be sharing bedrooms to save money
and to perhaps keep Holt out of temptation. Better than moping alone in their
rooms.

 Top people at Six – Sir
Charles always had the ear of their top people, having been one himself – thought
it best for them to deal directly with of one of their assets living in the
country rather than with the embassy. In fact, an Englishman who had lived many
years in Japan as a journalist working for a serious London newspaper and
various US publications.

 He had the
double-barrelled name Smythe-Hewitt but preferred to be called SH. In the
course of his work as a journalist, SH had followed terrorist incidents closely
and built up good relations with a number of people high up in the food chain in
the Japanese bureaucracy and even the police. He was not and never had been a
full-time MI6 officer, more like a consultant on Japanese political and social
matters. In fact, if he had been running agents he would have lost the
confidence of the high officials, who, aware of his excellent contacts back in the
home country, sometimes used him as a conduit to their counterparts in the UK,
bypassing the embassy.

Now retired to a house
perched on a hill overlooking the sea not far from Kamakura, with its famous
giant Buddha, Smythe-Hewitt had a full-on view of Japan’s iconic Mount Fuji. On
visiting him there some years back, Sir Charles had been impressed by the
privacy afforded by being perched on the steep slope of a mini-mountain with
densely packed foliage.

Over a scrambled line, Sir
Charles had briefed SH on the purpose of Holt’s trip and found him more than
happy to give the young man the benefit of his knowledge. He had reassured Sir
Charles, saying that interfacing with some young blood after dealing mostly
with very senior officers would be a welcome breath of fresh air. His trustworthy
daughter, Sachiko, would be more than glad to be their guide.

He had suggested the
two of them should spend a couple of days in Tokyo to get the feel of the city,
with Sachiko showing them some of the locations about which he would be
talking. They could then come down by train to the nearest mainline station for
him to pick them up. They could spend a couple of nights at his place, which would
give him time to brief Holt on Japan in a relaxed way. Sachiko could then take
them to Kyoto and Nara to see something of the traditional Japan.

The three airlines
flying nonstop to Japan – BA, JAL, and ANA – though not as exotic as regards on-board
service as Singapore Airlines, all had decent reputations. Holt and Celia were
told to be patriotic and if possible fly British Airways. After all, the
taxpayer was paying.

BA had two flights a
day to Tokyo, one to the relatively new airport at Narita, some fifty miles
from the city, which had been the scene of pitched battles between police and
local farmers supported by students and others opposing its construction. The
other BA flight was to the recently expanded old Haneda Airport at the edge of
the sea, close to the centre of town, and easily reached by monorail, taxi, or
limousine bus. The trouble with the Haneda flight was that it left London
around 9 a.m. and, worse still, landed at the ungodly hour of 4
.
30 a.m. They therefore opted
for the Narita flight, departing from London around midday and arriving in
Japan just after 9 a.m.

Someone they knew
working for the airline had told them it was not worth trying the honeymoon ploy
prior to boarding in the hope of getting an upgrade, as the check-in people
were sick and tired of hearing all the reasons used to justify upgrades by
undeserving tightwads. He doubted whether he could get them an operational
upgrade (upgrade to shift people from seats in overbooked World Traveller or
World Traveller Plus to vacant seats in business class) as it was school-holiday
time, and the surplus business class seats would be taken up by airline staff and
their families using their free travel or discounted travel perk.

Nevertheless, once onboard,
it might be a good idea to acquaint the cabin crew of the fact they were on
their honeymoon in an undemanding way. This they duly did, receiving special
attention and goodies, such as a couple of glasses of champagne and superior
wines from business class. Of course, Holt felt from time to time obliged to
cosy up to Celia, hold her hand, and gaze lovingly into her eyes to prove they
were truly enthralled with each other and merited these complimentary
offerings.

‘You’re overdoing it,’
grumbled Celia. ‘Even genuine honeymoon couples don’t have to be all over each
other on the way out. These days, they’ve probably done it already,’ she added,
sounding like the know-all four-year-old little sister in the
The Power and the Glory
being held up to the keyhole by her ten-year-old brother
to watch their sixteen-year-old sister in action.

Holt eased up on the pretend
cuddling to let a fairly inebriated Celia drop off to sleep, and, having an
aisle seat, he was able to get up and make his way to the rear of the extremely
long Boeing 777 to thank the cabin crew, who were gossiping in the galley. They
talked about this and that, and at one point he asked them who were the most
difficult passengers and was quite surprised when told it was colleagues travelling
in business class wanting all the free drink and attention they could garner.

As the aircraft was
flying contrary to the direction of the sun, the night was short, and with the
flight lasting around twelve hours and a time difference with the UK of eight
hours, they would arrive at Tokyo’s Narita International Airport after
breakfast the following morning.

Holt had finally
managed to grab a couple of hours’ sleep but did not feel so good on waking for
that breakfast. Looking around, he wondered why women always seemed to travel
better. Maybe it was because they did not need to shave, or that a simple touch
of make-up could transform them.

The only touch of excitement
was when they were coming in to land. Almost at the last minute, the engines
spooled up and they found themselves pushed hard backwards and downwards into
their seats as the easy descent into Narita suddenly changed to a rapid climb
out. A few moments later, the captain announced that they had had to perform a
go-around manoeuvre, as the aircraft landing ahead of them had dithered on the
runway. It was, he said, something that happened from time to time and was nothing
to worry about. The air-traffic controller was being careful. In the most
unlikely event that the aircraft on the runway did not get onto a slipway in
time, there could be disastrous collision. The second landing attempt went
smoothly, and even with the ten minutes lost on the go-around, BA007 landed
virtually on schedule at 9
.
15.

As they disembarked, a
Japanese flight attendant smiled at them, adding, ‘I hope you had a good
fright.’ Holt wondered whether it was meant as a joke, as the Japanese girls he
had met could nowadays differentiate between
r
and
l
,
and this one had surely experienced quite a number of takeoffs and landings.

They were immediately
struck by how clean and efficient the airport looked. Immigration went smoothly
despite their having to queue for twenty minutes and have their fingerprints
and photos taken. They were given their ninety-day tourist visas with hardly a
question asked – they had already entered the name of their hotel and that they
were tourists on their immigration form.

Back in the UK, the secret
service officer briefing them on their e-ticket had told them that when
dealing with immigration officers, one should keep things simple. One agent
visiting Japan had added the information that the purpose of his visit was to
learn a little Japanese, whereupon the immigration officer demanded the letter attesting
his attendance at a language school.

On collecting their
luggage, they were again struck by how well made and solid the luggage carts
were compared with those in England. Even though there were green nothing-to-declare
channels, each one was manned by a male or female customs officer asking a few questions
after examining the customs declaration form people had filled in.

Their mention of the
word ‘honeymoon’ elicited a wry smile, the first of many in Japan whenever the
topic came up. Later at hotels, the young bellboys would be smiling from ear to
ear as they came down to reception in the morning.

‘Hope you good night,’
they would say.

Japanese later
explained to them that they should be careful how they interpreted these
reactions, as Japanese tend to smile when embarrassed and are liable to grin
with embarrassment when you tactlessly inform them one of your relatives has just
passed away.

The customs officer was
only interested in the duty-free alcohol and tobacco they had and looked
pitifully at them for having only one bottle of cheap blended whisky between
them on their honeymoon; they could have had six bottles, as the allowance was
three bottles per person, which was perhaps not such a good idea, as many years
before an Englishman had burnt down his central Tokyo hotel, drinking his duty-free
while smoking in bed. The octogenarian hotel owner had skimped on money to
repair the sprinklers, and there had been photos in the papers of guests
dangling out of the windows at the ends of knotted bedsheets.

Since there was a
direct limousine bus every hour or so right to their Tokyo Shinjuku hotel, eighty-one
kilometres from the airport, Sachiko had said she would meet them at the hotel.
A bus was leaving in twenty minutes, so they did not have to hang about for
long; just time for a quick stand-up coffee before boarding.

As the bus approached
Tokyo itself, the ricefields and independent houses gave way to apartment
blocks and then office blocks, making them realize the sheer size of the city.
It was a different world.

Sachiko had chosen the
Keio Plaza Hotel at Shinjuku, a city within the city. One of the transport nodes
on Tokyo’s Yamanote, or Circle Line, it boasted Tokyo’s city hall and many
towering buildings, besides being a bustling area with many cafés and
restaurants, as well as a Soho-type area with clip joints.

The Keio Plaza Hotel was
on the other side of the tracks from the red-light district, called Kabuki-cho,
with its host and hostess bars, clip joints, and love hotels, often under the
control or ‘protection’ of gangsters – the traditional yakuza now being gradually
replaced by Chinese gangsters with a harsher code.

The Keio was a good
hotel just below the famous five-star ones that seldom give discounts. What was
more, it was near some of the places Sachiko’s father wanted her to show them.

Their bus stopped at
several other Shinjuku hotels before reaching it. Sachiko was waiting for them
as they alighted, identifying herself by carrying a large art book entitled
Van
Gogh
.

The area of Shinjuku, called
Nishi-Shinjuku, in which the hotel was situated was full of skyscrapers, a city
within a city, somewhat like Paris’s La Défense or London’s Canary Wharf. The
Keio Hotel, as one of the first, had a so-called tower but one that was not as
high as the later ones. It was a modern complex, with many restaurants and
reception rooms for weddings and the like in addition to many bedrooms.

Sachiko had already informed
the hotel that they were on their honeymoon, and although they did not get an
upgrade, they were pleased to find a hamper in their room with some nice items
and a congratulatory message from the hotel management. Holt had almost
certainly lost face by not opting for a deluxe room for his honeymoon, but with
so many guests, that would not haunt them.