LONDON ALERT

by Christopher Bartlett

  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.

  Chapter 14

  Rethinking Democracy

  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.

  Chapter 15

  US Ambassador’s Reception

  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 Winfield 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.

  Chapter 16

  Shine It on Nelson’s Chest

  Like a deep-sea diver surfacing too rapidly from the depths, Holt felt numb as he looked out the train window at the countryside, and then the outskirts of London flitting by. More than the lovemaking, it was Consuela’s emotional depth and empathy that had, for the first time since losing his parents, made him feel really alive and at one with himself. How he missed her.

  Inspector Holmes had warned him that when working undercover, falling in love was an absolute no-no. Unless he got Consuela out of his mind, he would arrive in London with his instructions unread and mess everything up. He ripped open the envelope and noted that the language was not as polite as before, as if he already belonged to the Owl.

  INSTRUCTIONS

  At 3 a.m. tomorrow morning, we are launching a cruise missile to knock Lord Nelson off his pedestal on top of his column in Trafalgar Square, just like Saddam Hussein’s statue was yanked off his.

  You, Benet, will be the target designator.

  A room at The Trafalgar hotel with an unobstructed view of the upper part of the column has been booked for you under the name Hawke, and you will find the credit card used to book it attached to the back of these instructions. (You nominally checked in three days ago, with someone going to the room every day to rough up the sheets and so to make it seem occupied. You should not have to use the card, as we will keep the room for another couple of nights to avoid suspicion, and someone else will settle the bill using an identical copy.)

  You will find the target-designating laser, together with the operating instructions, in a silver case in your room. Do not drink too much beforehand – or afterwards, for that mat
ter. You will need a steady hand.

  When the train on which you are now riding arrives at Marylebone station, walk to Baker Street station, where you will take a Jubilee Line train to Westminster station. On exiting the ticket barrier at Westminster, you will take the Bridge Street exit, facing you as you exit at the ticket wickets, turn right, and walk the few yards before turning right again into Whitehall. Walk calmly towards Trafalgar Square, keeping to the right-hand side.

  This will take you past the Cenotaph war memorial to those who so nobly gave their lives in the world wars only for their heroic work to be undone by successive governments, and continue until you reach Number 33, a pub called The Silver Cross, which is the last pub before Trafalgar Square. Have a drink there and leave for the hotel at 5 p.m., a time when the reception begins to get busy and you will be least noticed.

  Detach the other card attached to the back of these instructions to open the door to Room 507, your room.

  We hope you will prove yourself worthy to remain one of us on whatever basis might then seem appropriate. You will have the satisfaction of having done a good deed, for England no longer deserves its greatest hero.

  The Owl

  Relieved that he had not been asked to kill someone directly, Holt was still concerned at the prospect of people being injured or killed when the missile struck the statue and exploded. The specified route to the hotel along Whitehall, with its government ministries and prime minister’s residence, was something of a godsend as it was covered by some of the most sophisticated CCTV camera monitoring systems in the country, and there was a good likelihood he would be identified and tracked.

  Still trying to stop Consuela popping up in his thoughts, he eased back in his second-class seat as the train entered the long tunnel just before Marylebone. Normally on returning to London, he would be nonchalantly on his way to Giraffe or home. Today was to be different.