LONDON ALERT

by Christopher Bartlett

  There was no flash or explosion. The missile’s momentum alone had been enough.

  Nelson was no longer there.

  Chapter 17

  Taken

  Holt got up at seven and turned on the television, just as any normal guest would.

  Virtually all the main channels had extensive coverage of the felling of Nelson. The TV stations and media organizations had received phone calls from someone calling himself the Owl, claiming responsibility for the action at Trafalgar Square – carried out because the country no longer merited such a hero. According to the Owl, the country had sunk to such a low that those attending the next Remembrance Day ceremony at the Cenotaph to commemorate those who gave their lives in the world wars should hang their heads in shame.

  At exactly 7.30 there was a knock at his door, which Holt opened holding the silver case in his left hand. The woman in a room maid’s uniform gave the password, and he handed over the case with the laser target-designator without further ado.

  Closing the door, he felt very pleased with himself. Not only had he completed the initiation test without a hitch and without having to assassinate anyone, let alone the prime minister, he had also covered his official backside by forewarning Giraffe, and he had impressed Celia into the bargain.

  With few hard facts, the early-morning TV news coverage was reduced to repeatedly showing clips of the sandstone statue of Lord Nelson lying shattered on the ground, just as it had repeatedly shown Saddam Hussein’s toppled statue in Baghdad.

  The newscasts said that just before the arrival of the cruise missile, someone had let off a loud percussion grenade at the foot of the column. This had emitted a nauseating smell, causing the five people sitting at its base to move well away. The newscasters were able to interview the individuals concerned, who considered themselves mighty lucky. One even said how considerate the terrorists had been to make them scatter before Nelson arrived on their heads.

  The BBC’s authoritative security correspondent, Frank Gardner, was saying the government had no idea as to who the Owl might be, and that the incident differed from almost all others in that great care had been taken to avoid loss of life – as evidenced by the detonation of a device at the foot of the column to cause anyone there to move away.

  As the government had been forewarned, Holt knew they could have shot down the cruise missile or sent it off course. As he had surmised, the prime minister must have considered his mission so important that it was worth taking the flak from the press, who, as usual, not knowing the whole story, were already accusing the secret services of bungling.

  Anyway, Holt had the satisfaction of proving himself to both parties.

  None of the so-called experts trotted out on TV and the radio on such occasions knew what to make of it. Much of traditional England was in a state of shock, seeing their most famous hero toppled in such a dramatic manner. Holt could not help kicking himself for not having thought up the idea himself – it was just the sort of outlandish scenario Sir Charles would have admired and expected him to have come up with.

  On the dot of 9 a.m., he walked out of the hotel, with no one paying much attention, as the staff were constantly nipping into the office or the breakfast room to see the TVs there and try and find out what had happened just outside their door during the night. However, as Holt exited the hotel, a policeman moved towards him as if about to question him, but before the officer had taken more than a couple of steps, a tall figure standing nearby quickly stepped in, showed an ID, and told him to back off. The service was protecting him, for if he were taken into custody even temporarily, he might be compromised and at the very least suspected of having revealed something.

  He had not anticipated the amount of disruption his night’s work would cause. Trafalgar Square was a traffic node, transited by many bus routes, not to mention other vehicles. With the square cordoned off as a crime scene, all this traffic had been diverted, causing total gridlock. Much of central London was at a standstill. No wonder he had been told to walk and catch an underground train outside the immediate area.

  On exiting the hotel, he turned right and walked down Spring Gardens, past the life-size white horse sculpture outside the British Council building, with its often ignored notice telling people not to mount it, and crossed The Mall at the first spot with an island midway across. He walked a hundred yards to the right towards Buckingham Palace, then turned left onto the footpath leading to the bridge across the lake.

  Someone must have been watching or tracking him via his mobile phone – which he had, as instructed, switched on as he had entered the park – for it rang when he was halfway across. A voice said, ‘Go to St James’s tube station and take an underground train to Bank station, and from there walk along Leadenhall Street to London Bridge. Cross the bridge on the left-hand side, during which time you will receive further orders.’

  Holt began to feel a trifle uneasy. He had detected a change in tone in the communications. Prior to the initiation test, it had always been a matter of instructions; now it was curt orders. Was it because they considered him to already be part of their organization and were taking him for granted, or was there some other significance? Still, there was nothing he could do. He would have to wait and find out – somewhat like the waiting period before he had been accepted for the service.

  The paralysis of road traffic in central London meant the underground was packed, and he had to wait for the third train before he was able to squeeze his way on, and then only with difficulty. He was glad to be getting off at Bank only a few stops distant. With such a crush, he had to be careful not to slip down into the wide gap between the curved platform and the train at that station.

  In keeping with the station name, the imposing building of the Bank of England was just outside. Five minutes’ walk along Leadenhall Street brought him to London Bridge. As instructed, he crossed over to the left-hand side. And again, when halfway across the bridge, his phone rang, with the voice saying, ‘At the traffic lights at the end of the bridge, cross over to the other side of the first street, called Tooley Street, and turn left on the other side so you are walking parallel to the railway lines and the River Thames. Walk along Tooley Street for about three hundred metres, until you come to a road tunnel passing under the railway tracks. Turn right into the tunnel and walk straight ahead on the right-hand side, with the traffic coming towards you.’

  The pavement on the other side of Tooley Street was crowded with people going to the underground and railway stations. Also, there were queues consisting mostly of families waiting to visit the London Dungeon for a scare. After weaving his way through the crowd, Holt finally reached the entrance to the tunnel under the railway lines and turned into it.

  Dark, dank, and depressing, the tunnel was a long one, with the sheer volume of traffic of all sorts coming through towards him adding to his discomfort. Why choose such a god-awful place? To think a week before he had been on the sunny Côte d’Azur.

  On reaching the halfway point, he could see the daylight at the exit beckoning him, but just then two ambulances, one behind the other with sirens blaring, screeched to a stop alongside him, leaving a gap between them which happened to be exactly abreast of him. As he was wondering why they should stop there, with no sign of anyone injured either in the road or on the pavement, he heard the nearside rear door of the leading ambulance behind him spring open 180 degrees. He could see it not only blocked his retreat but also would prevent anyone walking along the pavement behind him from seeing him. Likewise, the nearside door of the ambulance in front of him had sprung open, blocking the view of anyone ahead.

  Two well-built men wearing balaclavas came out from nowhere to grab him. Taken by surprise, he put up no resistance as they bundled him into the back of the leading ambulance and held him still while a nurse with her face obscured by a surgical mask pressed a cloth soaked in chloroform over his mouth and nose. Even before he had lost consciousness, the ambulance had begun to move.

 
The whole operation having only taken about twelve seconds, the ambulance was out of the tunnel so quickly that no one observing from above would have imagined anything untoward had happened in the interim.

  On failing to see Holt exit the tunnel, anyone watching from a helicopter or later looking at satellite images would have been unable to determine in which of the many vehicles entering and exiting the tunnel he would have been. Also, from above it would have been impossible to note the registration number on their number plates. Anyway, they were probably waiting for him to walk out of the other end of the tunnel. As evidenced before, the Owl was certainly a clever operator.

  Holt’s memories of his subsequent interrogation were vague. He finally woke up to find himself in bed in a darkened room with wires linking him to a monitor, which must have triggered an alert, for a nurse soon came in and turned up the light.

  As the nurse’s face was obscured by a mask, like that of the one who had held the pad soaked in chloroform to his mouth in the ambulance, he could not tell whether it was the same one.

  ‘How do we feel?’ she asked as though it really mattered to her.

  ‘My head hurts.’

  ‘That’s to be expected in view of what we have been through this last week, or couple of weeks, my dear. What would you like for breakfast?’

  The ‘my dear’ and the royal ‘we’ made the nurse sound almost kindly. Was this some good-cop, bad-cop scenario? Or was she mimicking the nurses in Dr No’s lair to psyche him out? He had been interrogated or kept unconscious for goodness knows how long surely to disorientate him time‑wise.

  ‘Coffee most of all,’ he replied.

  He had no idea what time of day it was. He did not even know what day of the week or of the month it was.

  Could he have fallen by mistake into the hands of operatives of another government department, who did not realize he was one of them? He might have admitted toppling Nelson, thereby raising their suspicions. Everything was a blur.

  He did not ask for much for breakfast, just juice, more coffee, and toast. When the nurse had cleared that away, she gave him his instructions.

  ‘You must prepare yourself for your make-or-break meeting with His Wisdom. To start with, you need a shower and a shave. Also, you must clean your teeth and comb your hair and evacuate your bowels – I can give you an enema, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks very much, but no thanks.’

  ‘Always trying to help.’

  ‘What do you mean, “His Wisdom”?’

  ‘The Owl, of course. He will be watching you, though you will not actually be able to see him. Besides, you yourself will feel better if you are cleaned up and decent. To tell the truth, you look awful, my darling.’

  ‘Thanks very much…love.’

  ‘You can talk like that to me, but you must address the Owl as Your Wisdom.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. It’s no different from calling an ambassador Your Excellency or the Queen Your Majesty. After you’ve done it several times, it will roll off your tongue. Remember this is, as I just said, going to be your make-or-break session.’

  Holt considered asking her what make or break meant, but finally thought better of it. She would not know much anyway, though the mention of the word ‘make’ implied a possible positive outcome, whatever that might be. All he knew about owls was that they could see into the far distance in dim light at night, rotate their head 270 degrees, and had wings that enabled them to descend noiselessly without alerting their prey, somewhat like fifth‑generation stealth aircraft.

  After the shower and shave in the en suite bathroom, he did indeed feel better. No need for help from the nurse, who meanwhile had been busying herself in his room.

  Chapter 18

  Make or Break

  Seeing him reappear with a towel around his midriff, the nurse told him to put on the pair of convict’s striped overalls lying on the bed and watch the TV until summoned. The drab outfit undid all the good the shower had done him. It seemed destined to add to his humiliation.

  The television had a recording of BBC Breakfast for the morning Nelson had been knocked off his perch. The public would never know the role he had played, though he was glad Celia knew.

  After about twenty minutes, the sound of the door being unlocked signalled the return of the nurse – he could tell it was the same one by her voice and a stain on her otherwise immaculate uniform. She led him out and along a passage, before ushering him into a large bare room with an expensive‑looking chair set in the middle facing a large flat‑screen monitor. After telling him to sit down and wait, the nurse left the room, gently closing the door behind her. It was only then that he realized there was no door handle on the inside.

  Certain that the large mirror to the left of the screen was two-way and unsure of who might be observing him, he began to fidget. As far as he knew, he had carried out the initiation test as instructed and not put a foot wrong. Yet his subsequent treatment meant something had gone awry and that they knew he was not what he purported to be.

  What was going to be his fate? ‘Make or break’, the nurse had said. Did her solicitude mean she knew his life might be almost over? After what seemed a full ten minutes but was in fact probably much less, a rustling sound emanated from the speakers inset in the wall on either side of the monitor.

  Was this going to be another interrogation?

  He felt bad that the combination of scopolamine and threats had made him confirm he worked for Giraffe so easily. He tried to console himself by telling himself that, not being a field agent, he had no training in resisting interrogation. What else had he revealed under the effect of the truth drug? Perhaps much more, but another consolation was that it was not like giving away the names of fellow agents, like many had done under torture by the Gestapo in World War II. He did not know their names and now realized the rule about not discussing personal matters with fellow agents was a wise one.

  ‘Look at the monitor!’

  The loud, distorted voice had caught Holt by surprise. He looked at the enormous screen, which was flickering into life, showing Whitehall, along which he had walked to The Trafalgar hotel. And coming into view was he himself. Worse still, the video footage taken from the front clearly showed him going through his supplication routine – designed to attract attention without it being noticed by anyone following behind him. Of course, viewed from the front, as shown on the monitor, it was only too obvious. His heart sank as the voice emanated from the speakers again.

  ‘Holt, Jeremy Holt. That is your real name, isn’t it?’

  Holt had to reply in the affirmative; there was no point in denying it. Though he felt he was talking directly with the Owl, the latter’s voice seemed to be passing through some form of scrambler, distorting it and adding superfluous stock words and phrases such as ‘um’ and ‘come to think of it’ to make it difficult to identify. [For clarity, these are omitted here – editor.]

  ‘In World War II, when we – um, the British – captured German spies, we gave them the choice of either being shot or working for us as double agents. Fortunately for us, many opted for the latter, and thanks to them we were able to deceive the Germans in key areas, notably the quantity of fighters we could produce per week during the Battle of Britain and the location of the landings on D-Day. Helped us win the war.’

  ‘Are you giving me that choice?’ responded Holt with a shaky voice.

  ‘Too early to say. You thought you could trick us?’

  ‘Was it that video that made you suspicious?’

  ‘No. We only came upon it a couple of days later, though your crossing over to the other side of Whitehall on the way to the hotel left us puzzled.’

  ‘So when did you know?’

  ‘When we learnt Charlie had informed the prime minister about our intentions. You, Holt, were the only person who could have revealed we intended to topple Nelson with a cruise missile. So we were onto you hours before. What we didn’t know was how involved you were
with Giraffe and, indeed, my chum Charlie-boy.’

  ‘There’s not much I can say.’

  ‘You’ve already said more than enough, though with truth drugs one can never be sure how much is valid.’

  Holt had to admire the Owl’s choice of initiation test. Toppling Nelson was serious enough, publicity-wise, to ensure the security services would inform the prime minister if only to protect their backs. It was a simple way to test him and at the same time learn whether he was working undercover or in league with the security services.

  ‘Under questioning,’ continued the Owl, ‘you begged us to lay off, bleating abjectly you were merely a backroom boy tasked with coming up with 9/11-type ideas, which indeed was what we wanted you for.’

  ‘I was only a cog.’

  ‘Cogs get their teeth sheared off when the driver makes a mistake. Charlie should be ashamed – sending a boy to do a man’s job. You’re not cut out to be a James Bond, though even 007 would have relished Consuela. Though I am not sure she would have indulged him to the extent that, for some reason, she did you.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Your Wisdom.’

  ‘Aha, aha, I see our nurse briefed you correctly.’

  ‘That’s all she said, other than that this would be make or break, and very important.’

  ‘We have checked up on what you were doing. Truth be told, there was little likelihood of someone even as intelligent as you imagining what we might do, but then we are not the typical al-Qaeda-type organization. Though it’s a pity Charlie found you first; you would have been more valuable to the country, to the world, working for us.’

  To try to save his skin, Holt immediately agreed that had the situation been reversed, things might well have been very different. He told himself he was not really letting down the service, since the Owl was so highly placed, or so well connected, he obviously already knew what Giraffe and Sir Charles did.

  Being unable to see the face behind the mirror made replying difficult. It was quite possible no one apart from a technician was there and the Owl was miles away, even in the South of France on Vessos or a similar vessel. The next question came as something of a surprise.