‘You were toying with me!’
‘Not really. I never took advantage of the situation to wind you up or play cat and mouse with you. Though, to be honest, having a man dangling helpless before me was pleasurable.’
Holt wanted to tell her that dangling was an unfortunate choice of vocabulary and suggested she was more experienced than she appeared, but before he could do so she gripped his hand tightly and batted her eyelids, just as she had done in bed the night before.
‘I have no regrets, though. For me, last night was all the better for having waited.’
How could he not believe her?
Chapter 27
No Pain, No Gain
The colleagues betting on when Celia would lose her virginity failed to do so when she returned to work after her secret trip with Holt to the Maldives. Yet it was they who some weeks later were the first to sense something different about her.
‘She must be getting it – she looks so satisfied,’ said one. ‘More like beatified,’ replied another. ‘A bit strange if you ask me,’ added a third
She was pregnant!
After waiting in hope for the red dragon and then doing five tests, a worried Celia met up with Holt in the St James’s Park – she was working nearby, attending a meeting at the Foreign & Commonwealth Office between British officials and dignitaries from a South American country.
‘We were careful. I don’t know what went wrong,’ she said after telling Holt the news.
‘No point in a postmortem,’ replied Holt.
‘I know the service would prefer I got rid of it – in fact, they would never need to know.’
‘But do you want to…?’
‘Not really.’
‘We could get married.’
‘Yes…that’s one possibility.’
‘Of course, with your looks there would be no lack of men more than happy…’
‘That’s true.’
‘No need to get married at all, come to that. I wouldn’t tell anyone. Leave them guessing. The only trouble with that is that people in the service might think it was one of your VIPs…a cabinet minister or a fusty old general. That would not look too good.’
‘You’re right there. Tongues would be wagging.’
‘No need to rush. Think it over. I’m always here for you…whatever you decide.’
‘You shouldn’t underrate yourself, Jeremy. I could do a lot worse than you. Please don’t take that badly. I’m being horrible because I feel bad this has happened.’
They wanted to mull it over more but had to get back to work.
The next morning Holt left his mobile phone on his desk at Farringdon, hoping she would not call, for if she did it would surely be to decline his offer. To get it over with.
He therefore picked the phone up with a feeling of resignation when it indicated a call from her. Her voice was merely a whisper, no doubt to avoid others overhearing.
‘…you are the father after all…I’ll marry you,’ was all he could catch, but enough.
Sir Charles, Cut-Glass and envious colleagues, including the always affable Farringdon bureau receptionist, attended the simple wedding some three weeks later. The only outsiders were Celia’s parents, who were doubtless already aware in general terms of the secret nature of their daughter’s work. Holt was not at all surprised to find they were middle of middle class, and decent enough people and not pretentious. Of course, the service would have probably checked them out too before taking her on.
His nominal boss, Peter, was there too, somewhat miffed that Holt had not heeded his order to avoid any hanky‑panky. He had lost his ‘daughter’ but like all fathers had to reconcile himself to the fact that it must have been partly his innocent child’s fault, which was indeed the case.
The ceremony over, Holt had to get right back to work, since the Owl had been upping the ante, angry that most of his or her demands had been kicked into the long grass. Something of which Sir Charles and Holt were only too well aware.
To avoid Holt having to carry around the bulky OwlPhone, they had come to an arrangement whereby, except in a crisis, the Owl would only use it to contact them for major communications twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays at 2 p.m. At other times the Owl would leave messages.
Before the wedding there had been the relatively short message expressing the Owl’s dissatisfaction at the lack of progress and announcing that there would be a major communication on the following Monday.
Bringing the phone with him, Holt arrived at Sackville Street slightly beforehand and went straight up to see Sir Charles, who stood up to greet him and congratulate him on the wedding.
‘No ghastly relatives. You see, working for the service has some advantages.’
‘Thank you, Sir Charles, for coming. It was nice you brought Sandra.’
‘She wanted to come – seems to have taken to you in a motherly rather than a Moneypenny way. She feared we had lost you when you disappeared from sight while undercover and grew quite concerned.’
‘Really,’ replied Holt, somewhat surprised by this revelation, only to be caught off-balance by what Sir Charles was to say next.
‘Sorry you and Celia only had Saturday night and Sunday for the honeymoon. Though I suppose your trip together to the Maldives had some of the trappings. It’s said to be famous for honeymoons.’
Holt had not realized such close tabs were kept on staff, not difficult with them both having travelled on the same flight to the Maldives under their own names. The security people probably flagged up such trips as a matter of routine. They knew that double agents would often arrange to meet their handlers abroad, where surveillance was more difficult and extremely costly. He wondered whether Cut‑Glass was privy to their report – she had given him a knowing smile with raised eyebrows on his return, even though that had been on a different day than Celia.
It was approaching 2 p.m. The OwlPhone rang on the dot, and Holt immediately pressed the Answer key, having made sure the Record light was on. As usual it was the synthesized voice that spoke.
Many of the problems in the country arise from short-termism. Well-meaning people trying to avoid, say, children suffering the consequences of their parents’ stupidity, sloth or even extreme religious beliefs.
Thus impecunious mothers can blackmail society into supporting five or more children and themselves because we cannot make the children suffer.
Likewise mothers who allow their daughters to be mutilated cannot be put in prison because the daughter herself would suffer, though in that case political correctness may also be a factor.
Going to the extreme, one could say that when having AIDS was a death sentence, before the development of new drugs to treat it and even help prevent it, marking anyone HIV-positive likely to be sexually active – say by having the letter ‘A’ tattooed on their forehead – was an option no one dared contemplate.
Sounds awful and cruel, but it could have meant relatively few people would even have had an ‘A’ and many lives would have been saved. Of course, rather than the tattoo, one could have easily used a more subtle marker.
No pain, no gain.
More to follow in ten minutes.
‘You know,’ said Sir Charles, ‘I am beginning to think the Owl must be a highly educated, intelligent person with a logical mind, like Enoch Powell or Lee Kuan Yew. Did you know that those two both got the exceedingly rare distinction of being awarded double firsts with a star at Cambridge?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Look what Lee Kuan Yew made of Singapore!’
‘Yes, though when I was there,’ replied Holt, ‘I heard their government’s campaign to persuade university‑educated women to have more children had failed.’
‘There’s a limit to what you can do in a democracy – even in dictatorships – when it comes to procreation. Do you know that they found that the best way to get people to have fewer children in some underdeveloped countries was to provide electricity?’
‘No.’
‘Well, with electricity the people could have televisions, and consequently not while away their time fornicating.’
‘That’s unforeseen consequences being positive there, though not in England, where the welfare system results in people better off not working at all. But, to return to the Owl, do you think we should look for people with starred double firsts? I got a double first, but not a star.’
‘I would not go that far. There are hardly any anyway. There’s no reason why someone clever but without exceptional academic qualifications cannot be the Owl. He could be a hedge fund manager – or one of us.
‘The point is,’ said Holt, ‘that the Owl wants what many intelligent people more or less want. Can’t we get the government to do more?’
‘If nothing is done,’ replied Sir Charles, ‘the Owl may start thinking in terms of a coup, though making one work in this country, with the unions and the lower ranks in the services and the police unlikely to follow, would be virtually impossible. Also, there is no one of stature who could be made the figurehead. No one respects anyone these days – least of all politicians.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, there was talk of a coup when Wilson was prime minister, and Mountbatten’s name was put forward as a possible interim leader – not that he would have gone along with it. There is no one of his stature or calibre nowadays.’
Their discussion was cut short by the OwlPhone ringing again. As before, Holt pressed the Answer key after making sure the call would be recorded.
Though I believe in ‘no pain, no gain,’ I think we can start off by using the financial stick and carrot to make the changes we seek. After all, it is the financial carrot that is largely responsible for the hordes gathered at Calais.
There are some relatively painless things that can be done using financial incentives and disincentives.
The first is to tackle the obesity epidemic by taxing sugar and salt, doubling the tax when they are combined, as in breakfast cereals, soups, and tomato ketchup. The government, whether it be Conservative or Labour, must stand up to the food industry and refuse to deal with its lobbyists.
Soft drinks with large amounts of sugar would also need to be taxed.
That would be an incentive to reduce the amount in bread, which is far higher than people realize and means they become addicted and fatter.
Finally, child abuse needs to be more broadly defined to include the enslavement of children by devout parents who make them relentlessly study religious texts. This should apply to Jews and Muslims alike.
No one proselytising should enjoy any social benefit. Limits should be placed on faith schools to ensure pupils get a rounded education.
There were a number of other recommendations, some easy and others virtually impossible to put into effect in a democracy, unless introduced forcefully. One of the most problematic was the idea raised at the seminar on the Vessos that there should be weighted voting, with the votes of pensioners and some of those on benefits having less weight. The Owl stressed his intention was not to victimise such sections of society but to ensure that they could not electorally sway society the wrong way.
The Owl said he would be conveying the same demands to the prime minister and the media, and that he was informing Captain Holt and Sir Charles as a courtesy and in the hope they could persuade the government to take the necessary action, even though he did not expect 100 per cent success.
With the prospect of less immediate activity on the Owl front and unable to exert any influence himself, Holt was continuing with his other work and was finally able to clock up a success, enhancing his and Giraffe’s reputation.
The idea came up at one of their weekly Sackville Street meetings, when he said, ‘Sir Charles, if I were a terrorist wanting to do something drawing a lot of attention, I would go for the Shard.’
‘How would you go about it?’
‘The obvious way would be to go up to the observation platform with a bomb. However, as everyone’s bags and handbags are checked, an inside job would be virtually impossible. Anyway, bomb scenarios are not really my remit.’
‘So what else would they do?’
‘Use the window cleaners – or rather, take their places. Have a long banner made of extremely thin material so it would not be difficult to bring it up in the cradle without drawing attention. Then, when half the way up, attach the top of the banner to the glass and let it unfurl for thousands to see. There would be photos in all the papers.’
Sir Charles, rather than informing MI5, sent his men from Farringdon to keep watch on the off chance. One of them called in to say there was some suspicious action, with two suspicious-looking individuals having joined the window cleaners.
Sir Charles then set wheels in motion, informing MI5 and the prime minister. In the end it was quite dramatic. On the day the suspects came to work with a package, they were hauled up to clean the windows, but the ropes kept pulling up their trestle until they reached the top, where, to their surprise, they were arrested before they could achieve anything.
Holt still had to take time off from his main work to meet potential Owls in high society, often having to frequent private members’ clubs, such as The Athenaeum. He began to realize just how influential the service was on being able to join these institutions with just a nod and a wink, despite their long waiting lists.
Truth be told, he did not feel really at home in such august establishments, where members tended to only interact with friends and others equally high up on the food chain. He knew that his socializing was largely for show.
Celia was allowed to stop work well before the due date, as obvious signs of pregnancy were not in keeping with the innocent girl image she so capably projected on her missions accompanying VIPs.
When the big day came, Holt waited nervously outside the delivery room. The wait seemed endless, but finally his reptilian fears were allayed by the doctor coming out to congratulate him on his ‘beautiful little girl’ – something he probably always said to soften the blow when it was not a boy.
Holt’s life with a new baby was made easier than it would have otherwise been by the Owl having granted the British government eighteen months to show they were serious.
Chapter 28
Time to Try for Another One
When twelve of the eighteen-month respite the Owl had granted were already gone, Celia and Holt had taken a much-needed summer break with one-year-old Claire at Saint-Jean-de-Luz on the Atlantic coast in southwest France. Their thoroughly relaxing two weeks were over, and they were making the most of their last afternoon on the beach. The sun was getting low and there was a slight chill in the air.
Supported by her proud father holding her by the shoulders, Claire giggled with delight as another wave rippled over her tiny toes. Tired of bending over, Holt lifted her up and took her over to his wife, who dried her lovingly before putting her down on all fours on the canvas sheet laid out on the sand beside her.
To Holt, his still-young wife looked almost as innocent as she did when he first cast eyes on her in Peter’s office at Farringdon. But had she really been as innocent as she seemed then? Had she been so innocent on that first night in the Maldives, declaring the next morning that ‘it was better for having waited’?
The question was by no means academic, for later that Maldivian morning she went out to get something from the resort shop, leaving her suitcase half-open, with the MI6 honeymoon kit clearly visible. Even though he had suspected it had been intentional, he still felt guilty on examining it and finding one of the reds to be missing.
Ashamed of her virginity, had she wanted him to believe she had used it? Or was it just to introduce a touch of mystery to spice things up? Or was she simply trying to pay him, the renowned practical joker, back in kind?
Whatever the case, she would have had to have already known what her intentions were when packing her case back at the flat in London.
Her angelic chic and elevated status as a s
pecial operative fraternising with the high and mighty made exploring certain avenues off limits. Whenever he questioned her, she would smile and put a finger to her lips, and this applied to personal matters as well. ‘Mum’s the word’ was her pet expression. One she would also trot out to cut short domestic arguments, itself no bad thing.
With no explanation proffered, she would disappear for a few days or even a week or more at a time. Then, on returning, she would put him on his back foot by saying, ‘Let’s look at you,’ followed by ‘Mum’s the word’ and a conspiratorial wink, before they embraced.
Happy but not overjoyed to be back was how Holt would describe these situations. Pretending to be overjoyed would of course have been a sure giveaway she was having an affair. While that was something she could have worked out for herself – it probably featured in her training. The service was careful regarding such details, since in the field they could make the difference between life and death. Irate partners can stir up trouble and bring unwanted attention.
In her absence, there was always more than adequate financial provision for an au pair girl to look after Claire. Some had almost certainly been specially selected to keep an eye on him, even to test him. He was especially wary of the nubile and flirty ones most likely briefed by Blackwell on how to entrap him. One, who had behaved very suggestively right from the moment she arrived, later came out of the bathroom clutching Claire to her naked bosom, with only skimpy knickers on below. That one had been very tempting indeed.
Agents like Holt working independently, like the genius cryptologist seconded to MI6 from GCHQ in the spy-in-the-bag case (his naked body had been found in a locked holdall placed in the bath at his London flat), had come to expect regular monitoring. As already stated, he even wondered whether Celia’s selection as his partner had really been to ensure he did not go off the rails. They did not want him ending up like the cryptologist, dead in a room with the heating turned up so high in summer that his body would putrefy, thereby making the cause of death impossible to determine.
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