LONDON ALERT (18 page)

‘ “
Granted”
is a very impolite way of putting it,’ replied Consuela, none too happy with
their implication they did not automatically merit one.

‘My humble apologies. I
am Greek and my English not so good. In Greek it means it is an honour.’

‘Apologies accepted,’
replied Consuela, unfazed.

‘My colleague will show
you the way. Many guests have yet to arrive, so we suggest you relax and come
up to the afterdeck in an hour or so. If you don’t appear, we’ll send someone
down to call you.’

As she didn’t speak
Greek, there was no way Consuela could verify his excuse, but she seemed happy
at the prospect of their having some time alone in their stateroom, leaving
Holt wondering whether they might even find time for a session.

They did, and when they
arrived on the afterdeck they were flushed, as if they had just won a mixed-doubles
tennis match. The two officers who had welcomed them aboard had noticed their
sprightliness, with the elder one asking whether they had recharged their
batteries, and the younger one unable to keep his eyes off Consuela’s lithe
legs.

‘Yes, we really needed
it,’ replied Consuela with a broad smile and what seemed like a wink.

The officers, now
showing due respect, proceeded to introduce them to their host, Zeon, a smooth
elderly man who seemed to be the owner of the ship and master of ceremonies.

‘Great to have you with
us. We were told to look after you as you represent the future. As you can see,
most of the people here are elderly and well established in their careers or
whatever. I do not always agree with what they do or believe. In fact, I hold
these reception-cum-seminars in the hope those attending will be more
enlightened afterwards.’

‘You know,’ whispered Consuela into Holt’s ear after Zeon
had excused himself to welcome the prime minister of some resource-rich
republic south-east of Russia with a name ending in “-stan”
,
‘a luxury yacht is very
different from an ocean liner. There is none of that infra dig competition to
sit at the captain’s table. The crew, including the captain, are here to serve
every whim of the owner or charterer.’

‘To judge from the abundance
of beauties,’ said Holt with a smile, ‘a number of whims are being served,
though none of them could equal you.’

Consuela seemed to
appreciate the compliment, though flattery was hardly necessary in view of the
admiring looks she was getting. Being rich or important, and assuming Holt was
likewise financially well provided for, they knew how money and power attracted
women and were not surprised at the disparity between Holt and Consuela. His Owl
application form had been correct in guaranteeing the satisfaction of other
men’s envious looks, even though not promising he would be getting what they
were thinking.

Zeon returned, having
left X-stan’s prime minister in the good company of one of those young women.
The girls probably would be classed as entertainers rather than crew and
invited onboard for the occasion, so the qualifications Jonathan ascribed to
crew members, notably discretion, would still apply.

Zeon introduced them to
one VIP after another. Sheik so and so, interior minister so and so, and so on.
There were some fifty people altogether, and all were obviously rich and
successful as heads of companies and hedge funds, and as government officials
and politicos from various countries. Was the Owl of their number?

Having given time for
people to circulate with their drinks and make acquaintances, the crew opened
some sliding doors to reveal tables laid out with a sumptuous buffet. Caviar,
lobster, hams, the works. There was none of the meanness of some in the country
set in England, described by Kingsley Amis in
Take a Girl Like You
, who, to save money, would have
an impressive giant ham which was never eaten, as it had toothpicks with cheap
titbits stuck all over it, defending it like the spines on some giant hedgehog
or porcupine.

While Holt felt he was
living the high life, Consuela was looking disdainful, as if it was boring everyday
fare for her. Again, having allowed his guests time to enjoy the food, Zeon
banged on a table with an awl to draw attention.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,
we are very gratified that so many eminent and clever people are here with us
today and hope you are enjoying the buffet designed to suit all tastes. In half
an hour, the talk by
Prof
Toplinski will begin. Those
of you with invitations to attend should make their way to the cinema on Deck 2
so as to be seated by 2
.
25, since proceedings start
at 2
.
30. Meanwhile, make the most
of the food and fine wines. Thank you!’

After finishing, Zeon
came over to Holt and Consuela.

‘Jeremy, I have been
asked to ensure that you attend.’

‘Am I included?’
Consuela asked.

‘There was no mention
of you, Consuela. In fact, I am sure you will be happier with some interesting
people with an interior design business you may soon meet again in New York.
Let me introduce you.’

Zeon seemed very well briefed.
What connection, if any, did he have with the Owl? He said there had been an
intermediary, but there was no knowing whether it was true. For the first time
in a week, Holt would find himself separated from Consuela, and with a mixed
bunch of people, any one of whom might be reporting back to the Owl, if one was
not the Owl himself.

Zeon
had already led Consuela away, leaving Holt to finish his drink alone before
making his way down the couple of decks to the cinema. When he eventually
reached it, he found it to be sizable but not so large as to lose a feeling of
intimacy, making it just right for a lecture.

Others had already taken their seats, and Holt
found himself sitting at the end of the third row next to a fit-looking fiftyish
man, who, without naming the department, even introduced himself as a civil
servant from the UK. For his part, Holt told him he worked for a think tank in
the mother country without citing the name. Neither of them wanted to probe –
or rather, be probed.

After being introduced by Zeon as a political
analyst,
Prof
Toplinski began his talk on rethinking
democracy.

Prime Minister, ladies and gentlemen.

Winston Churchill said something along the lines that
democracy was not perfect but was the best system we have. Until recently, this
perhaps seemed to be so, but raw democracy combined with the shift to favouring
those according to need rather than merit, as in the UK, is having perverse
results.

While Eisenhower with good reason warned of the dangers of
the military-industrial complex, we now have the something-for-nothing complex
supported and supporting local council members and human rights lawyers, where
those not contributing to society have too much electoral sway.

What I am proposing is a society based on a vibrant, creative,
intelligent yet humanistic core. One advantage would be that at a stroke,
religious maniacs, and senile and nonproductive people would be on the back
burner. This would necessitate an electoral system with weighted voting, aiming
to improve society. Thus, pensioners might get a lesser vote, and those not
seriously seeking work might get no vote at all – even those without a vote
would have a surfeit of do-gooders with votes batting for them.

I am not suggesting a crude system where the poor, less intelligent,
and handicapped are victimized, but one where, say, the increasing number of pensioners
do not skew the system as they are doing now. The aim would be, without being a
Hitler, to improve society.

Some societies to some extent get over the problem of the ‘
wrong’ people having too
much electoral sway by having them run by the ‘
party’ and setting certain
qualifications for joining. However, this is open to abuse and corruption, and
then there is the problem of the theocratic societies, like Saudi Arabia
and their enemy, Iran…’

The lecture continued
for a further thirty minutes, after which some of those attending, including
Holt, asked questions – he thought it would make him look good in the eyes of
anyone watching.

On rejoining Consuela,
he merely told her it had been thought-provoking and that he would go
into detail at another time. Ten minutes later, Zeon came over to them to announce
one of the ship’s tenders was waiting to ferry them to the pier, where a car was
waiting to take them to the airport.

They were not back ‘home’ in England until almost
midnight. Too tired for any serious action, they dropped off to sleep in each
other’s arms in Consuela’s bed.

Of
all the interesting things they did
following
their return to England – visiting museums
;
attending concerts, receptions
,
and garden parties – one event
stood out above all others: the reception at Wi
nfield House in London’s Regent’s Park, the official
residence of the US ambassador.

It
was a grand yet relaxed affair
,
graced by the presence of senior
officials
, diplomats, and genuine celebrities. Not only that. The
ambassador, not a career diplomat but as often the case for the London and
Paris embassies, a political appointee, was a close friend of Consuela’s
husband. In consequence, Consuela and Holt were sitting with the ambassador,
his wife, and the elite at the top table.

‘I don’t expect you’ve
met the French ambassador to the Court of
St
James’s, as you Brits say,’ said the
ambassador as he introduced them to an elegant woman.

‘I haven’t had the
pleasure, Your Excellency,’ intoned Holt, pleased that he could conjure up some
diplomatic protocol.

‘
Enchanté
,’
replied the Frenchwoman as if it dropped off her tongue hundreds of times a
day. There followed a stream of dignitaries coming to the US ambassador and his
wife to pay their respects – with Holt and Consuela discreetly whispering
together beside them. Out of politeness, Holt and Consuela would look up to
acknowledge the presence of those being presented.

As yet another VIP
couple approached, Holt looked up to see a cabinet minister and, to his surprise
and indeed shock, his beloved Celia accompanying him. The ambassador, noticing
that Celia was paying more attention to Holt than had the other guests, turned
towards him and introduced him to the minister and especially to her as a
clever up-and-coming young man whose partner was Kentucky Derby royalty.

Of course, the
ambassador had not questioned the nature of the relationship between the VIP
and Celia, just as he had not questioned that between Holt and Consuela. Such
relationships were nothing out of the ordinary in the circles in which he
moved.

Celia had allowed
herself to show a flicker of delight at seeing Holt, but her expression had immediately
blanked out when he showed no sign of recognition in return. He could not risk
trying to take her aside later for a few words for fear of blowing his cover,
or at the very least upsetting Consuela; the Owl, or someone working for him,
might well be present, as the reception had been on the list of those they had
to attend.

As the evening
progressed, Holt caught glimpses of Celia looking decidedly upset, her
discomfiture no doubt aggravated by the fact that even though he was a poor
dancer himself, Consuela’s elegance and long limbs made them an outstanding
couple on the dance floor, and they bathed in the admiration of those watching.
Furthermore, Celia would surely be harbouring thoughts of the two of them in
each other’s arms later in the night.

He knew she would
report having met him at the reception to Sir Charles – and at the top table with
the ambassador to boot. While he would reassure her that he must have been there
in the course of his work undercover, he was hardly likely to explain that it
was he, the respectable Sir Charles, who had selected the trophy wife for Holt out
of a number of questionable options, including Tossed Boy’s Salad.

The ambassador seemed
genuinely disappointed when Consuela told him, on bidding him farewell, that she
would soon be returning to the States and was therefore unable to accept his
invitation to join him on another occasion.

Apart from a few
comments on people they had just seen, including a diplomat with a musty dinner
jacket covered in dandruff, Consuela and Holt said little on the way back to
the house. They seemed to have bonded, even saying little when they climbed
into Consuela’s bed, where they lingered the next morning, as they had nothing
scheduled and plenty with which to occupy themselves.

Holt came down first
and sat in the conservatory, appreciating the well-kempt garden. There had been
a lot of rain, and the lawn was very green. He heard Consuela come down and go
to the front door to see if there was any mail, though it was a trifle early
for the postman.

She came in carrying an
envelope and handed it to Holt. Surprised, he tore it open and read the single
sheet.

You have shown yourself to be staff officer material; now it
is time for the initiation test.

Tomorrow you will take the 15
.
10 train to London. Before you
board, Consuela will give you further instructions to read during the journey.

This is the last you will see of her other than in the media.
Bear in mind that she is not part of our organization. If you care for her, do
not compromise her vis-à-vis her husband, or anyone else for that matter, by
trying to contact her ever again.

Goodbye will be a final goodbye.

The Owl

Not only had the
dreaded moment of the initiation test arrived, it was to be their last twenty-four
hours together. He had had on-off girlfriends, some more on than off, but
he had never been in a relationship with sex on tap day and night. But that was
not all. He had been able to tell Consuela little private things he would be
too shy to admit to other women, notably Celia.

Consuela had said she
loved him
e
,
m
,
p
, but not
h
.

‘What does that mean?’
he had asked.

‘Emotionally, mentally,
and physically, but not as a husband. You’re not husband material. No way.’

The reference to ‘
material’
made him sure it was she who had told the Owl
he was staff officer material.

With no special
programme for the day, they felt rather awkward and unable to make the most of
it. Holt was worrying about what the initiation test would entail and admitted
as much to Consuela, who could only say she could not help, as she had no idea
herself.

They had sandwiches in
a nearby wood for lunch, and then went for a long walk, saying little. Even so,
time went by quickly and it was soon evening.

‘I’ll make a simple
dinner, and let’s just relax like married couples are supposed to do. You had
better be careful not to drink too much. You do not want to do your thing – I mean,
the initiation – with a hangover and perhaps miss the target, whoever that
might be. Sorry, I’m joking, but even so, you should watch it. With a top wine you
should be okay.’

Their last meal. The
wine and food as usual were perfect, but there was something missing.

‘You know,’ said
Consuela in a velvety voice, ‘our relationship may prove to be more productive
than you realize. One thing is for certain: it seems to have made a man of
you.’

‘I don’t know about
that, but I certainly feel different – more confident. I have had, as they say,
the time of my life.’

After watching some television,
they trooped up to bed around 10 p.m. The great finale that the supposedly
confident Holt had anticipated was not to be, and even before he made a move he
had found himself wondering whether anyone could enjoy their last meal before
their execution, however sumptuous.

The combination of
trying too hard and sadness that it was all ending had made him tense up and
unsettled, so in more ways than one it was a letdown. Even when what there was
of it was all over, there was nothing to talk about, as there was nothing to which
to look forward. He lay there, unable to sleep, his future looking bleak.

After a slightly more
successful bout the following morning, Consuela insisted, as on previous days,
on just lying there lost in thought, leaving only time for a late brunch. A
last walk in the woods, again with hardly a word exchanged, was a sorry end. He
had the impression from the few words that Consuela did emit that she was
concerned about his future.

‘As you know,’ she
said, ‘this is the end of the road for you and me. I cannot say how wonderful
it has been to discover the innocent pleasures I never had in my youth. All I can
say is that I wish you all the best and that I submitted glowing reports –
perhaps too glowing – about you. Now it’s up to you, and luck.’

The ride to the station
felt so different from the one when she had collected him from there ten days
earlier. A page had turned. It was over. One consolation was that it was a
clean break, with neither party resentful.

To avoid dragging out
the farewell, Consuela did not even seek out a parking space, merely stopping
at the ‘No Waiting’ drop-off point at the entrance to the station, and, as he
was about to alight, handed him another envelope.

‘I’m sad,’ she
whispered. ‘We were just getting going; you were just getting fully into it. It’s
nice to finish on a high, with no recriminations and no lawyers – one rarely
can.’

‘I am sorry. I was too
stressed last night and even this morning,’ Holt muttered.’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘I suppose it was like
the final at Wimbledon – trying too hard, I blew it.’

‘It was really no big
thing.’

‘You might well say
that,’ replied Holt ruefully.

‘I didn’t mean it that
way. Even with sex, as with gifts that disappoint, on some occasions it is the
intention…the underlying relationship…that counts.’

A policeman was coming
towards them and gesticulating to indicate Consuela should move on.

‘That’s it then,’ said
Holt as he closed the car door, overcome with emotion.

Taking a deep breath,
he spluttered, ‘Goodbye, my love. I’ll never forget you. I only wish I had
something to remember you by.’

‘Hey, take this,’ said
Consuela, slipping a diamond-studded bracelet off her wrist and handing it to
him. The expensive-looking item had on many occasions caught Holt’s eye and
seemed altogether too much to accept.

‘But I haven’t anything
to give you in return.’

‘No need. What you have
given me is perhaps worth infinitely more.’

With the gesticulating
policeman by then only a few paces away, Consuela raised the window to bring their
relationship to its close. Not quite, though, for as she drove off she blew him
a final kiss while mouthing the word
adieu
, French for
goodbye when you are never to meet again.