LONDON ALERT

by Christopher Bartlett

  The doors all had digital locks with touchpads. That and the CCTV cameras probably explained why no one had accompanied him. Also, it was a Saturday, and maybe on weekdays they had someone more mobile than the caretaker to take visitors up the stairs. Overall, it was a spooky place. Possibly inhabited by spooks.

  He paused for half a minute to gather his wits before knocking twice on the door to Room 14, making sure the knocks were sharp enough to suggest he was a confident young thing.

  Instead of the expected ‘Come in,’ there was the sound of footsteps. The door opened.

  ‘Jeremy Holt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Major Bell. Glad you decided to drop in and have a word.’

  The major had put him at his ease right away; perhaps too much at ease.

  The sizable room had light streaming in through two large sash windows to create a very relaxing atmosphere. The high ceiling added to the feeling of traditional elegance.

  The first thing that struck Holt about his interviewer was how well turned out he was, with a well-cut suit in a material that hung comfortably on his large frame. He looked fit, though his face showed he obviously managed to enjoy the good things in life. Holt guessed he was in his late forties.

  In keeping with his relaxed style, the major said in a strong but gentle voice, ‘Do sit down,’ indicating a comfortable chair in front of a large wooden desk, behind which he went to sit, with his back to the window.

  Holt tried to move into as comfortable a position as possible and adjust his jacket, which had ridden up. The green treetops visible behind the major for some reason reassured him.

  ‘We told you this would be an exploratory interview, and so it shall be,’ said the major on looking at Holt with an X-ray gaze, ‘but to start with, I am afraid I shall be doing all the exploring. It will be recorded so that those for whom you might possibly be working, not to mention the security people – who have their noses everywhere these days – will be able to judge for themselves.’

  He pressed a button on his desk.

  ‘Interview with Holt, started at 10.10…’

  Holt cleared his throat and thought he should at least say something.

  ‘I don’t know what I might be letting myself in for.’

  ‘It is early days. You haven’t let yourself in for anything yet. No point in worrying about the home stretch before getting to the first fence. We have to start by sussing you out, to use a phrase my children have recently latched on to. Are you ready?’

  ‘I’m ready as I ever shall be.’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot. Would you like a coffee or tea?’

  ‘No, thanks, but I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.’

  The major pressed a button on his phone and asked for it to be brought. They chatted amiably until a middle-aged woman came in with a tall crystal glass and placed it, with a beermat underneath, on the desk just to Holt’s left, as if already aware he was left-handed. Maybe she had simply checked the documents he had submitted and there was nothing sinister. The major did not speak until she had closed the door quietly behind her.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Holt. The reason a certain department is interested in you is that your profile combines three talents: firstly, creativity, demonstrated by the practical jokes and so on you liked to play at school and university – don’t let me ever hear you call it uni! Secondly, technical know-how. And thirdly, lateral thinking. And, of course, you have an extremely high IQ.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Holt, none too sure what it was that he could see.

  ‘In a nutshell, how would you sum yourself up? How do you feel about yourself?’

  Holt had not been expecting something so direct, knowing that job interviews sometimes start with the interviewer asking what it was about their organization that made the interviewee want to join, but of course in this case he did not even know what the organization was. He would have to be frank, even immodest. To hell with it – he had to say something.

  ‘I lost much of my love for life when my parents died, and could not focus on anything in particular and decide on a career. I missed opportunities to do something serious on the science side. The trouble is, if you do not use your intelligence, you switch off and end up demotivated and lose it.

  ‘Sometimes I think I would like to get away from it all, like a Swiss guy I met once on one of those small-size cargo ships that take a dozen or so passengers. One night there was a film show, and afterwards I casually asked him what he thought of it, and he came up with an unbelievably insightful analysis worthy of Sigmund Freud. Found out he used his brilliant mind and knowledge of geology to help oil companies find oil but preferred the easy life on the boats, going from one place to another with no responsibilities. I felt a bit like him – too clever by half, as they say – and wondered whether I should do the same. No grief.’

  ‘But whiling away your time on a boat is not really you, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have heard about the pranks you played in your schooldays and were aware that your parents were tragically both killed in that terrible car crash, which might be a plus, as you will not have them prying into your affairs, though the psychiatrists might wonder whether that makes you damaged goods and make a meal of that.’

  ‘I think I have fully recovered from their demise.’

  ‘I would not be so sure. These things have a long-term effect. I know from having lost comrades in action. Anyway, psychiatry is not my domain, I’m glad to say. First, tell me about school. Anything that suggests you have initiative other than as regards playing practical jokes.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything special.’

  ‘It does not have to be miraculous. Just think of something – I’ve got to have some nitty-gritty. Oh, sorry. I’ve been told by the PC brigade not to keep using that word. Fortunately, most of my work is covered by the Official Secrets Act, which means I cannot be taken to public tribunals by anyone pretending to have been offended. Anyway, forget I said it. Try to put some flesh on the bones of your submission – that actually sounds worse to me. You know what I mean. Tell me something that shows initiative. Imagination.’

  ‘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.’

  ‘Any
thing 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?

  Chapter 4

  Cut-Glass and Sir Charles

  Needing a break and some fresh air, he decided to accept the brigadier’s long-standing invitation to visit him at his new residence in Hampshire, where he had moved on retiring. He might 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, mor
e 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.