LONDON ALERT (5 page)

There were four bell
pushes of a modern design out of keeping with the traditional brass nameplate.
The top three had Christian names beside them – Jennifer, Tim, and Hugh – and
it would have all seemed very innocent had it not been for the CCTV cameras.
Holt pressed the bottom one, marked ‘Symes
’.
 

On hearing a loud click,
he pushed open the heavier-than-expected door and stepped inside to find yet
another door. He tried to open the second one but found that only became possible
once the outer door had snapped shut behind him. Inside was a long, narrow hall
with a straight staircase on the left, a long hallway going to the back
alongside it to the right, and a door with a glass window marked ‘Symes &
Co.’ in black letters on his immediate right.

Just as he was about to
push the door, a hairy hand appeared on the other side and pulled it open for
him. The hand belonged to a portly fiftyish man in shirtsleeves, who, from the
tape measure slung round his neck, was obviously the tailor.

‘Mr Holt? Welcome to
Symes. We’ll see what we can do for you. The major said you needed something
snappy yet elegant.’

Evidently, he had
learnt not to ask clients too many questions – indeed, no personal questions other
than to confirm their name.

An assistant, possibly
an apprentice, wearing a smart suit much too smart for someone barely twenty, stepped
up to relieve Holt of his jacket with unmerited deference, considering the lowly
object was the reason Holt was there in the first place.

Once measured in the
usual places, one slightly embarrassing, Holt was escorted to the shelves along
the right-hand wall of the establishment to choose the fabric. Taken aback by
the wide choice, with some of the gaudier material more appropriate for pop
stars, he was glad to follow the avuncular tailor’s advice to go for one of the
high-class ones with a woollen feel, favoured by the major. The tailor picked
up a bolt of darkish blue cloth with a few highlights.

‘This one would be
ideal. It is informal enough for trendy receptions yet would not be out of
place at a cabinet meeting.’

‘I’m sure that would be
fine – though I don’t expect I will ever attend a cabinet meeting.’

‘One never knows. If it’s
not a cabinet meeting, it might be a reception in the presence of the Her
Majesty or the president of the United States – that is to say, in a
professional capacity, with no food or alcohol, with only your suit to make you
feel you are worth something!’

As soon as the words
were out of his mouth, the tailor looked embarrassed, as if he had said too
much and had better stick to tailoring.

‘Of course, I was only
joking. We’ll let you know when to come back for a fitting – say in about ten
days. We have your number.’

 Having been reunited
with his own jacket, of which he was beginning to feel extremely ashamed, Holt
was gravitating towards the exit at the front of the shop when the young
assistant grabbed his arm.

‘No. It’s this way!’

He was redirected back to
the rear of the shop, where a tall woman with ramrod legs and a generous bottom
ensconced in a tight skirt had suddenly appeared. Her haute couture ensemble followed
her contours without revealing too much, yet just enough.

From her voice, Holt
knew she was Cut-Glass, the uptight dragon he had fallen out with on the phone.
In the flesh, she made him feel even more insignificant as she looked him up
and down, her eyes settling on his suit, the sight of which made her raise her eyebrows
at the tailor’s assistant as if it, and the person wearing it, were something
the cat had dragged in. She was the mistress of put-downs.

She led the deflated
Holt out of the rear door and up the carpeted stairs, past the first floor, and
then up again to the second, where the ceilings were much lower. She knocked on
the door of the first room, pushed it open, and stood back to allow him to go
in, saying, ‘Major Bell would like a few words with you.’

The major was standing
in the middle of the room, smiling.

‘Hello, Holt. Glad you
made it to the home straight. Don’t feel committed. It’s your life. Your
future.’

‘Thanks for the advice.
I’ll keep it in mind.’

'Hope you will be happy
with the suit.’

‘I’m sure I shall,
Major. It’s most kind of you.’

‘Don’t thank me. It was
a good excuse to get you here without a lot of palaver and should come in handy
if you come to work for our lot. A great suit gives one a lift – like
travelling first class or, these days, business class. Of course, a military
uniform with several pips would be even better, but we cannot go that far yet,
can we, Jeremy?’

 ‘I hope I can live up
to it.’

‘I’m sure you shall. It
has been a pleasure making your acquaintance. Since I may never see you again, I
wanted to take this opportunity to wish you all the best, whatever becomes of
you.’

The idea of never being
seen again was troubling, but before Holt could give it any further thought, Cut-Glass
reappeared and indicated that he should proceed in front of her down the stairs
to the lower landing.

‘Wait here,’ she ordered
brusquely, before knocking at a door marked ‘Private
’.
A sharp-looking man in a dark suit
opened it, and they exchanged a few whispered words, whereupon she led him to
another door, at the end of the passage.

‘Wait in there. It’s
all we have free at the moment. I’m afraid it’s not very comfortable.’

That was an
understatement.

Virtually a broom
cupboard, probably not unlike the one at nearby Nobu, the Japanese restaurant where
tennis great Boris Becker had a brief fling with a young woman that cost him a
fortune in child maintenance. Holt smiled to himself, thinking that unlike
Becker he was being
softened up. Unfortunately,
all the secrecy meant it was a joke he would never be able to tell. It was only
much later that Holt learnt that Becker’s tryst had been in a stairwell and not
a broom cupboard.

As if that were not
enough, Cut-Glass soon returned to soften him up even further with yet another of
her put-downs.

 ‘A VIP was here. It
was better they were not seen by commoners.’

Deflated, he allowed
her to lead him back to the door to which they had earlier been refused entry.
The man in the dark suit was this time seated inside at a desk at right angles
to another door.

‘Go straight on in,’ he
said with a nod.

Cut-Glass nevertheless
gave a quick knock to announce their entry and introduced Holt to a tall, wiry man
standing beside a large desk.

‘Sir Charles, this is
Jeremy Holt.’

‘Ah yes. Good. Bring
him in.’

‘We had to
paaark
him in the boxroom until X
vacated the building.’

‘Thank you, Sandra.’

‘Cut-Glass withdrew
discreetly, leaving him in the presence of the person she had called Sir
Charles, who had the style and class – not to mention the cool steeliness – of
those who rise to the top of the civil service and judiciary. He seemed to be quizzically
sizing Holt up.

‘Holt. Not a bad name. Short,
like Bond, but are you aware that Holt was the name of an attractive boy
associated with the notorious Kray twins, who terrorized East London? The boy –
or rather, young man – used to visit the late Lord Boothby’s flat in Eaton
Square, offering sexual services. There were security implications, as a
certain Tom Driberg was associating with them. He almost certainly passed on
information to the Russians.’

‘No, I didn’t know that.
There must be some good Holts.’

‘You’re right. I believe
the sportswriter for one of our popular daily papers is called Holt. He writes
well, by the way, so do not let the Kray association get you down.’

‘I’ll google my name
when I get back home…’

‘Do that. One day you
yourself may come up in a search, though in our business we prefer it not to
come up at all, unless it is a cover role, such as a second secretary at an
embassy.’

‘Yes…but…’

‘You must be wondering
what this is all about, though you must have some inkling, in view of the
questions the major posed, to which, by the way, you furnished highly
satisfactory answers.’

‘I hope I did not give
the impression that I was a potential terrorist.’

‘If you were, you would
not have been so outspoken.’

Holt merely nodded. He
wanted to avoid making some trite remark that would lower him in the great man’s
esteem.

‘Sorry for having to confine
you in the boxroom. My PA can be somewhat daunting on first acquaintance, but I
can assure you she is quite accommodating underneath – that is, when you get to
know her properly.’

Not sure how to take
that remark and wondering whether he was still being tested, Holt chose the safe
middle ground.

‘I doubt whether I shall
ever have the pleasure of finding out what’s underneath.’

The astute answer apparently
reassured Sir Charles that he was dealing with someone with his wits about him,
for he immediately got down to business.

‘Ever since 7/7 we have
tried to find ways to prevent such events from reoccurring in Britain, and
particularly here in London. We have used the services of various expensive
consultants in addition to our own people at Five, which is what we call MI5, and
at Six – that’s MI6 – Special Branch, and in the other departments, but we still
feel vulnerable. One well-known consultant maintains we will always be behind
the curve, as we are always reacting to the last incident.’

‘I can see that,’
interjected Holt inanely. He had to at least say something.

‘After 9/11, the accent
was on flying schools. After the shoe-bomber incident, everyone was having
their shoes checked. After the plot to make bombs by mixing seemingly innocuous
liquids actually on the aircraft, everyone had their toothpaste confiscated if
it was more than 100 cc. All this, the expert said, was ridiculous, as
terrorists would always think of something else. Anyway, replicating 9/11 should
be impossible now passengers know they risk becoming flying bombs and would not
comply with terrorists’ instructions, so why waste so much time on scenarios
like that, he had said?’

Sir Charles paused and
looked at Holt intently, before continuing: ‘This special unit, Giraffe, was
set up by me as a wild card operation to think outside the box. Of course, the
departments I have just mentioned are all working on the problem and coming up
with suggestions. However, they all have vested interests – by that I mean that
their routine work and formal links tend to make them fixate on certain types
of scenario. On the other hand, we who are in a way halfway between Five and
Six – and that hopefully includes you – are free from those hang-ups.’

Was Sir Charles taking
him for granted, or was it a well-honed technique to make him feel committed by
letting him participate in the discussion as if he might already be one of them?

‘We think you are a
rare bird and want you to put yourself in the terrorists’ shoes, thinking up
outlandish scenarios they might use. You would be operating independently, with
support from us, and reporting directly to me, though you would have a nominal
boss with whom you would deal on a daily basis.

‘We have special
authority allowing us to seek the necessary cooperation from the other security
departments. Even so, we must maintain Chinese walls. You could be a great
asset.’

‘Possibly,’ replied
Holt, glad that he was not expected to do anything particularly dangerous.

‘How do you feel about
it?’

‘That type of work,’
replied Holt, ‘requires freedom coupled with the stimulus from others. One
might be looking for merely a couple of great ideas. Thousands of people must
already be doing likewise. How would I be any different?’

‘You, Holt, would be
different because of who you are, the great degree of independence you will be afforded,
the resources at your disposal, and, not least, the conducive environment we
will provide. Think of yourself as being part of an elite team and yet working
as an individual, at times independently.’

‘What would it mean in
practice?’

 ‘Here in London, you
would be working out of Giraffe’s Farringdon bureau, though of course you would
spend much of your time on your own outside, sometimes just wandering the
streets and visiting notable places. Admittedly, it would be difficult to better
– to use an unfortunate word – 9/11. The Twin Towers were the perfect target,
and there are not so many like that.’

Not knowing why he
chose that moment, Holt asked a question that had been nagging him right from
the outset.

‘Giraffe is an odd
name. Why…?’

‘I ostensibly chose the
name Giraffe to convey the idea that we could see over the walls that bounded
the more formal departments and agencies. In reality, it was to make them
subconsciously feel inferior by virtue of having to look up to us and, incidentally,
make our people feel superior by virtue of looking down on them. Don’t quote me
on that. If you do, your life won’t be worth living.’

Here, for the first
time in his life, was someone for whom Holt felt he could happily work. Sir
Charles had sensed this, for he continued without using the conditional, as if
Holt’s commitment to Giraffe were a done deal, which in turn meant Holt began
falling under his spell; as a father figure, he outclassed his late father, who
was no slouch.

Sir Charles quickly
brought him back to reality.

‘Some basic training is
required to ensure you are physically fit and able to cope with difficult
situations – not that we expect you to encounter any in your back-office role. Might
come in useful, though, if someone tries to mug you for your mobile phone! Actually,
the real point of it is to help you think on your feet. Reactions do not always
have to be physical, but physical fitness helps one cope mentally.’