LONDON ALERT (12 page)

Holt knew he could ask that she
be assigned to accompany him as cover for taking photos but did not want to
make his male colleagues jealous. The Japan trip had already raised far too
many eyebrows, with smirking colleagues asking him whether he had had a good
time.

Luckily
,
the annu
al antiterrorist exercise in Scotland was coming up
, and because of her work with
him
,
Celia
would be joining the party
. The idea was that people from
various
sections
of the government
antiterrorist
apparatus would network and
,
perhaps more importantly
,
s
uggest
ways terrorists might perpetrate their attacks.

One problem with this
concept, and especially from Holt’s point of view, was that the bad guys might
have a mole there picking up ideas. On the other hand, the powers-that-be
thought that if al-Qaeda knew ‘we knew they knew
’,
 
they might not use a tactic suggested
on the course.

Another problem was
that the various government units, including Giraffe, were competing and
keeping the best (or worst) ideas close to their chests so they could, in the
event of such ideas materializing, show how well they were prepared.

The relatively junior
people, like Holt and Celia, slept in huts, with the sexes of course separated.
Celia had to share a hut with other young ladies and not-so-young ladies, since
seniority was a question of rank rather than age with the older ones, apart
from the lesbians, miffed at having to share with the mostly more attractive
younger ones.

Running from Monday to
Friday, and the first and last days taken up mainly by travelling and checking
in and checking out, it was essentially only a three-day course. Most attendees
regarded it as a holiday and a nice break from spouses or partners. The
highlight was the formal dinner on the Thursday night, with a speech from the
camp commandant, followed by dancing and much drinking.

Worried that Celia
might latch on to someone new there, Holt reminded her how important it was to
keep one’s distance from other attendees, as some would certainly be handsome plants
to sniff out anyone with too loose a tongue.

The Tuesday was spent
attending replays, using models, of various incidents that were well-known and
less well-known, including the Mumbai attack, where the terrorists arrived by
water. The Wednesday consisted of representations and demonstrations of
techniques terrorists might use, which was rather disappointing for the reasons
already mentioned.

For his part, Holt
threw in the idea that in parallel with an attack on London, terrorists could
publicize a lecture with refreshments at the lecture hall on Parliament Square
so that people wearing the burqa could discuss their problems. The police would
not know what to do when confronted by hordes of women who might be men
descending on central London. The idea served to raise Holt’s profile but did
not get much traction, as it was politically incorrect.

The evenings were
rather more interesting, as they gave some opportunity for networking and
allowed Holt to spend some time with Celia without raising the eyebrows of
colleagues, though Peter always made his presence felt and joined them for
dinner on the first night.

With only one full day
to go and the party in the evening to look forward to, Holt was still asleep at
six thirty on the Thursday morning when someone grabbed his shoulder and
started shaking him.

‘
Mr
[Ma38]
 
Holt, wake up! You’re wanted
in the commandant’s office ASAP. No need to shave or dress. Come in your
dressing gown. The commandant is wearing his. I’ll be waiting outside in the
Land Rover.’

Holt sat on the side of
the bed to gather his wits before going off to have a pee and splash some water
on his face to wake himself up properly.

The commandant had obviously
also been dragged out of bed, for unusually for him, he looked somewhat bedraggled.
He did not waste any time.

 ‘You’re to go back to
London immediately. Sir Charles wants to see you ASAP.’

‘Have you any idea as
to why?’

‘No. All I know is that
a special aircraft from RAF Northolt is on its way to pick you up. Must be something
big. I suggest you grab a coffee and something to eat from the cooks. One never
knows what they have onboard these special flights. There won’t be anyone, and
certainly not beautiful hostesses serving you champagne, that’s for sure.’

‘Anyway, good luck.
Hope I will see you again. You were one of the more interesting characters.’

The ‘hope I will see
you again’ was beginning to grate. It was if he were a member of SOE going to
be dropped over occupied France in World War II.

‘By the way,’ said Holt
as he stood up, ‘I travelled up with a female colleague who partners me on some
missions. She’ll be wondering what happened to me. Could you give her a
message? Just say I’ve had to go back to the office as something urgent came up
– that is to say, reassure her that nothing terrible has happened. That no one
has died.’

‘It would be a pleasure.
What’s her name?’

‘Celia Jones. She’s Welsh.’

‘I remember Celia. Quite
a striking young filly, if I might say so.’

Thinking that well he
might, Holt took his leave of the commandant and after a quick shower and shave
went to get that coffee and a bite to eat.

Once Holt was onboard,
the copilot, a flight lieutenant, pulled up the stairs and closed the cabin door.
Without further ado, and with only Holt as payload, the twinjet lifted off easily
from the camp’s World War II runway and proceeded southwards.

When the aircraft came
to a halt in front of the airport buildings at London’s Northolt, the same flight
lieutenant came back to open the door and lower the steps.

‘Hope you had a good
flight. I came back mid-flight to see how you were and have a powwow, but you
were sleeping.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Holt,
glad to have been asleep and not obliged to fend off questions.

With that, he clambered
down the steps, at the foot of which were three very senior RAF officers waiting
in line to salute him in the belief he must be extremely important. He
not only had had a special
flight for just himself, but also had a high-powered car with a motorcycle
escort waiting to pick him up.

Caught unawares, Holt
played out a scene similar to ones he had seen in films involving snobbish British
officers and simply said, ‘Um, carry on men’ as he passed by them on his way to
the sleek official car.

Left
nonplussed and thinking that even
Her Majesty the Queen would have deigned to acknowledge their presence with a
few sympathetic empty words, the officers wondered who he might be. Would they one
day be able to boast to their wives that they had met him?

With
the
police motorcyclist clearing the
way, the
official
car
whisked
Holt
up to
London’s West End and
,
to avoid drawing attention
,
dropped him off
as usual
at the Reiss fashion store
in
Vigo
S
treet
,
just
at the top of
Sackville
Street
.

He was thankful for the commandant’s
advice that he grab some breakfast. Even so, he was getting peckish, and in
view of his sudden feeling of importance even felt emboldened to acquaint Cut-Glass
of the fact. To his surprise and concern, she demonstrated none of her former
disdain.

‘Yes, Jeremy, I’d
gladly go over the road and get you something. Anything you like.’

She had become protective,
even motherly, showing the generous inner being Sir Charles had mentioned as
being under that haughty exterior. But did her radical change of demeanour result
from his having been chosen for some suicide mission? A jet down to London just
for him, followed by an official car with a motorcycle escort clearing the way,
as if he were a cabinet minister, and now respect from Cut-Glass herself. She
surely knew something.

‘Jeremy,’ said Sir
Charles, looking less self-assured than usual. ‘Sorry to have dragged you out
of bed at such an ungodly hour. However, this is a matter of the utmost
urgency.’

‘Sir Charles, it was
quite something having those senior officers with all their stripes saluting me
at Northolt as if I were James Bond. The only thing missing was 007’s naval
commander’s uniform. I hope I am not being sent into the lion’s mouth. I may
not be as lucky as he would be.’

‘I am afraid, Jeremy, the
lion’s mouth may not be so wide of the mark. What we have in mind for you could
be dangerous, very dangerous. On the other hand, it could prove very
pleasurable, if you are up to it.’

The pause before Sir
Charles continued made Holt even more apprehensive.

‘To cut to the chase, while
you were in Japan another specialist section somewhat similar to ours came to
us asking if we had someone on our staff or files with a particular profile
that happened to be precisely yours. Not knowing what it was about, we admitted
we did.’

‘You mean, they wanted
someone with exactly the profile I had to have to join Giraffe?’

‘Precisely. They said
it was highly unlikely anything would ever come of it, but a suspected
terrorist organization was looking for someone with that profile, and they thought
they might be able to infiltrate them via such an individual. As you were away
in Japan and it was too delicate and complicated to discuss other than face to
face, we somewhat reluctantly submitted an application in your name.’

‘That’s a bit much.’

‘I know, but the fact
of the matter was that we did not think they would be interested in you, as you
would only be one of a large number of potential applicants, some, such as ex-IRA
elements, with much more proven credentials in the field. Indeed, when there
was no response we thought it really had come to nothing, and as the department
concerned had insisted on absolute secrecy I did not mention it to you on your
return.’

‘That makes sense.’

‘The trouble is, a
couple of days ago, while you were playing tiddlywinks up in Scotland, we
received a positive reply to your application, with a rendezvous fixed for tomorrow
afternoon in Birmingham – hence the rush. We did not give your home address or
details of where you work or worked, so they cannot be following you as yet.’

‘That’s something. But
if they are still seeking experts like me, any action must be a long way off.’

‘That’s what we all
thought, but SIGINT – that’s GCHQ – has just found a tenuous link between people
possibly related to them – they call themselves The Owl, by the way – and
speculation in the money markets. Such concerted betting against the pound sterling
suggests that some dramatic event is imminent.’

‘What can I do? If what
you say is true, there would no time for me to find out anything useful.’

‘I know it’s a long
shot, but it’s the only shot we have. Besides, information you might glean undercover
could prove useful even after the event, whatever that might turn out to be.
Their looking for someone talented like you suggests that whatever they are contemplating
for now will only be an appetizer.’

‘Which means?’

‘You might have to remain
undercover for some time, but hopefully not too many years. Anyway, we want you
to go up to Birmingham and try and get accepted, and play it by ear. There will
surely be a proving period before they accept you – that is, if they ever do.
If you feel it is getting too hot for comfort, you can always tell them you
have lost interest and pull out. Of course, you will have to do that before you
learn any of their secrets, in which case there is no knowing what your fate
might be. I am sorry to have to put it to you so bluntly but feel it only fair
to be frank.’

‘It would be just like
when I applied to join you, except that you would have only used the Official
Secrets Act to ensure I kept my mouth shut. They would surely have more
definitive ways.’

He was seamlessly
moving into the real cloak-and-dagger world without any special training or
preparation. It was all moving too fast.

‘I’m not sure I am cut
out for that type of thing. I’m no James Bond.’

‘That’s what makes you
so credible. That’s your USP.’

‘I’ve heard of mission
creep; this is mission leap. Not at all what I signed up for, though of course I
want to do my bit.’

‘I think you should
have a look at the questionnaire we completed online in your name, which is Jeremy
Benet, by the way. You will be glad to know you offered your services as a technician,
not a suicide bomber.’

‘Nice of you!’

‘Not necessarily. The reward
for being a suicide bomber was pretty juicy – seventy-two virgins in heaven.
Sorry to joke over something as serious as this, but you see we had to select a
reward with sexual facets for you. After some discussion, we put you down for a
trophy wife. Even Sandra thought that would be fitting.
“
Not bad going,” she said, “for
a young man like you needing experience”.’

 From the reference to
his needing more experience, Holt surmised Cut-Glass had also read the
transcript of his exploratory interview with the major.

‘Run your eyes over it,
Jeremy. Come back and tell me what you think. Whether you might see your way to
helping us out. You could save very many lives. And remember, you can always
pull out – well, at least initially.’

The old story – saving
lives! Funny how the people telling you that never risked their own, except
perhaps in the case of the major, who might well have done so while on active
service.

Holt went back to the
room where he had waited before. The downloaded application form that they had
filled in on his behalf had no indication regarding the nature of what he was
applying for – rather like the situation when he completed the application to join
Giraffe, already a year before.

At least they had not
portrayed him as some kind of messianic madman willing to sacrifice his life
for the cause, and had presented him very much as he had presented himself to
them. There was none of the chip-on-the-shoulder stuff, and perhaps that was
his appeal.

Whoever had filled in
his application had done a perfect job; not that it would have been so
difficult with his application to join the service to hand. He could not really
quibble.

Only when he reached the
Rewards Menu on the last page did he understand Sir Charles’s reference to virgins
in heaven, which was one of the ‘dishes’ on offer. One could choose only one dish,
be it a seemingly light hors d’oeuvres or a more substantial main course. One’s
options depended not only on one’s role but also on one’s age, and even being
already in heaven.

Some options were
self-explanatory, but for young Holt some were not. For instance, there was the
Gandhi, for which one had to be over seventy years old. A footnote explained that
Gandhi used to share his bed with young women, including his granddaughter,
with the females naked and purporting to be virgins. This was allegedly so he could
demonstrate he could resist temptation. Anyone opting for the Gandhi had to
vouchsafe to keep his hands at least to himself. Also featured was Tossed Boys’
Salad, with no explanatory footnote. Seemingly, the list had been drawn up by
someone with a sense of humour, and perhaps all options were not intended to be
taken seriously.

Not much could be wrong
with the Trophy Wife option, though that too had a footnote, saying physical consummation
was not guaranteed, but rendering other men intensely jealous was.

Holt found himself in
an impossible position. He had come to regard Sir Charles as an idolized
substitute for his father, making refusal even more difficult.
Then there was the matter of
saving many lives. The only plus for him personally was that taking such risks
should elevate him in Celia’s eyes
– since their return from Japan, she had
seemed tantalizingly distant – and possibly enable him to win her over. Finding
the thought of living without her unbearable, he really had no choice.

In accepting what was quite
possibly a suicide mission, he would insist that he be answerable only to Sir
Charles and Giraffe, which of course was precisely what Sir Charles wanted, as
it ensured he would be in a pivotal position.

‘You will,’ said Sir
Charles when he returned to announce his acceptance, ‘have to attend a crash
course in undercover operations.’

‘Not much time.’

‘No. Such courses normally
last six weeks and not the six hours available, but it’s better than nothing.’

After they had
discussed various aspects of the mission for another hour or so, Sir Charles
summoned Cut-Glass.

‘Sandra, as we hoped
and you anticipated, our Jeremy has agreed to go undercover, at considerable risk
to his person. He is going over to the Yard to see Inspector Holmes for some
tips on how to survive. Please accompany him to Piccadilly and help him hail a
taxi – something you are very good at.’

 With no time for
second thoughts, Holt found himself at the kerb on Piccadilly as Cut-Glass adeptly
hailed a taxi before others standing nearby with the same intention could catch
the driver’s eye.

‘Good luck, Jeremy!’

‘Thanks, Sandra.’

He was going to need it,
and the risk he had taken of calling her by her Christian name seemed trivial by
comparison.

Inspector Holmes, a
surprisingly kindly man in his fifties who had himself for many years worked undercover,
was still in overall charge of several major operations. With his worn face bearing
a couple of scars, he looked as though he had lived through some tricky
situations.

Unlike many of the
offices at the Yard, Holmes’s afforded some privacy, which was fortunate, as
the first thing the policeman did was to go over to a grey filing cabinet and
take out a bottle of whisky and a couple of glasses and put them down on his
desk, where there was already a bottle of sparking water. Holt was sitting in
the chair placed sideways in front of the smallish steel desk.

‘Working undercover,’
said the inspector, returning to his rather more comfortable chair on the other
side of the desk, ‘you must avoid two things: getting emotionally involved – including
falling in love, which is worst of all – and too much alcohol, so you had
better have a drink now. You look as though you could do with one.’

With that Holmes poured
them both a generous double shot and passed one of the glasses to Holt,
commenting, ‘I drink it neat, but put some water in if you like.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Holt,
leaning over the table for the bottle of water and pouring a good measure into
his glass.

‘The secret,’ continued
Holmes, ‘in undercover work is to blend in by being as far as possible oneself.
Being oneself helps one avoid stupid mistakes and means one does not have to
lie so much, which in itself is stressful and means one can easily get caught
out.’

‘I can see that.’

‘In your case, you should
obviously highlight the qualities – practical joking, and the idea that you
think yourself to be superior intellectually and technically to the
run-of-the-mill terrorist. Your reason for applying is purely boredom – you are
not able to make use of your talents. You have no political or religious axe to
grind. That forestalls tricky questions about political affiliations and
relationships.’

‘That’s good, and true.’

‘The greatest danger for
you, Holt, will not be at the beginning but at the end, when you take the inevitable
initiation test.’

‘Initiation test? I wasn’t
expecting that.’

‘Virtually all gangs, terrorist
organizations – even secret services – use them after first assessing you to
see whether you are worth the trouble.’

‘What might it involve
in my case?’

‘Almost anything. Could
mean shooting the prime minister, in which case we might very well end up
shooting you ourselves. By the way, that’s a joke.’