LONDON ALERT Read online

  LONDON ALERT

  Other Books

  by Christopher Bartlett

  (Print and Kindle editions)

  Air Crashes and Miracle Landings

  Sixty Narratives:

  How, When…and Most Importantly Why

  The Flying Dictionary

  LONDON ALERT

  By

  Christopher Bartlett

  Copyright 2015 © Christopher Bartlett

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-0-9560723-4-4

  Published

  April 2, 2015

  by

  OpenHatch Books UK

  londonalert.co.uk

  Chapter 1 Just a Boy

  Chapter 2 More Than a Boy

  Chapter 3 Your Profile Fits

  Chapter 4 Cut-Glass and Sir Charles

  Chapter 5 Not so Black and White

  Chapter 6 Miss Innocent and Dr Blackwell

  Chapter 7 Terrorist Ways

  Chapter 8 The Loughty

  Chapter 9 The Bare Cheek

  Chapter 10 Japan

  Chapter 11 VIP for Half a Day

  Chapter 12 Mission Creep or Leap?

  Chapter 11 Undercover

  Chapter 12 Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc

  Chapter 13 What Did You Expect?

  Chapter 14 Rethinking Democracy

  Chapter 15 US Ambassador’s Reception

  Chapter 16 Shine It on Nelson’s Chest

  Chapter 17 Taken

  Chapter 18 Make or Break

  Chapter 19 Return to the Fold

  Chapter 20 Captain Holt

  Chapter 21 London Alert

  Chapter 22 COBRA

  Chapter 23 Dangerous Ducks

  Chapter 24 Tower Bridge

  Chapter 25 Errant Missile

  Chapter 26 Better for Having Waited

  Chapter 27 No Pain, No Gain

  Chapter 28 Time to Try for Another One

  Chapter 29 Go On, Tell Me!

  Chapter 30 What If…?

  Acknowledgements

  The Author

  DISCLAIMER

  All featured characters are fictitious, despite any fortuitous resemblance to actual people. This also applies to the government departments and operations centres, and while the headquarters of the three main UK security establishments, two in London by the River Thames and one in Cheltenham, do exist, what is purported to go on there is also purely fictional, as in the James Bond films.

  Details in CIA briefing papers for US presidents about to receive foreign dignitaries are, as far as this book is concerned, merely humorous fiction.­

  The political views of the Owl or any other of the characters should not be construed as being those of the author.

  Had Hollywood had the prescience to make a disaster film showing young men learning how to fly but not how to land, and using that knowledge to hijack four fuel-laden airliners and fly them into iconic US buildings, would 9/11 have ever happened? Had it, Hollywood would have been blamed, just as transpired after the first ‘bomb on a plane for insurance’ film.

  Christopher Bartlett, London, 2015

  Chapter 1

  Just a Boy

  The master had been called away, leaving the twenty or so fresh‑faced boys unsupervised and ten‑year-old Holt a chance to demonstrate his prowess as a practical joker.

  With his giggling classmates looking on, he snapped a piece of blackboard chalk in two. Holding the front half in his left hand and a gimlet in his right, he bored a hole from the break almost right up to the tip. Into this hole he inserted a broken-off Swan Vestas strike-anywhere match from a very old box he had found lying around in his father’s shed. He pushed the match in so the head would end up almost at the tip of the chalk.

  The boys gathered around him were already chuckling in anticipation as he neatly cemented the two halves of the chalk together to make the break invisible and handed the chalk to the boy standing beside him.

  ‘Quick,’ said Holt. ‘NT could be back at any moment.’

  The long-haired boy grabbed it, hurried over to the blackboard, replaced it on the tray and pocketed the two other chalks, so Nervous Tom – the nickname given to the master unjustly alleged to be a Peeping Tom – would have to use it.

  NT was indeed soon back, surprised to find the classroom unusually quiet, with the boys absorbed in their books rather than fighting. Turning away to face the blackboard, he was unaware of their smirks as he picked up the doctored chalk and began to write.

  They all waited in expectation, but nothing happened. Soon he would finish writing his instructions for their homework and be finished with the chalk. Holt was wondering whether his hands, sweaty with excitement, had dampened the match head.

  Suddenly, there was a loud crack. The tip of the chalk caught fire, shocking the hapless NT so much that he let out a scream and danced around in panic, as if he were being electrocuted with alternating current and unable to let go of the wire. His relief when the flame fizzled out was tempered by the sight of the boys bent double, laughing at his expense.

  Two days later Holt was half dozing in the afternoon French class when there was a sharp knock on the classroom door. The master went to it and pulled it open to reveal the headmaster’s secretary. They engaged in a brief whispered conversation. His face looking grave, the master turned towards the class and called out, ‘Holt.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘The head wants to see you. You had better take your things with you.’

  With the whole class looking at him and wondering what his punishment was going to be – expulsion maybe – Holt gathered up his textbook and exercise book and shoved them into his satchel. He then followed Mrs Jones, the middle-aged secretary, along the corridor and down the wide staircase to the headmaster’s office.

  ‘Come in,’ came the muffled voice of the fifty-year-old head in reply to her knock.

  Pushing open the door, she called out, ‘Here’s Jeremy,’ rather than using his surname, as she usually did, and indicated that he should go in.

  ‘Hello, Jeremy, do sit down,’ said the head, who, although not an awesome figure, still managed to make the boys wither by the way he used sarcasm and raised his brush-like eyebrows to indicate disbelief. He was actually quite a small man.

  He pointed to the leather settee facing a similarly covered armchair, in which he himself proceeded to sit. These comfortable chairs were the ones used for discussing embarrassing personal matters, such as the facts of life. For a telling off, one would normally be left standing or sat in one of the hard wooden chairs facing his desk.

  ‘Jeremy, I’m afraid I have some bad news…’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘Your father and mother were involved in a serious car accident early this morning. They were so badly hurt that they were helicoptered to hospital, where your father was declared DOA.’

  ‘DOA?’

  ‘I’m sorry. That means dead on arrival.’

  ‘What about Mother? How’s she?’

  ‘She is in intensive care and I’m afraid in critical condition.’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘Indeed you must. And as soon as possible. Your aunt is at the hospital, and we’ve arranged for a taxi to collect you and take you there. The school is paying for it, so there’s nothing for you to worry about in that regard.’

  ‘How will I know where to go when I get there?’

  ‘Just go to the emergency wing and ask for intensive care. They will probably call your aunt so she can fetch you.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all Holt could say. He did not know what to think, other than praying his mother would be okay.

  ‘Mrs Jones will give you a cup of tea while you are waiting. It should not be long.’

  The h
eadmaster walked over to his desk to call his secretary on the intercom. In moments she was back, having no doubt expected to be called to take the heartbroken boy in hand.

  ‘It will,’ said the kindly woman, ‘take over an hour to get to the hospital, so you’d better go to the toilet before collecting your coat and things. I’ll make you that cup of tea.’

  Even though he was only there for a pee, Holt went into a cubicle so no one would see the tears welling up in his eyes. He remained there for a good ten minutes, flushing the toilet to mask the sound of him blubbing when a boy did come in. Consoling himself with the thought that he would be seeing his mother, he wiped his eyes and returned to Mrs Jones’s office, having collected his coat and satchel from his locker.

  Fortunately, the boys were still in class, and no one had seen his red face or had an opportunity to ask the nature of his presumed punishment for the chalk prank.

  When the caretaker called Mrs Jones to announce the arrival of the taxi, she informed the headmaster, who came out to accompany them to the school entrance, where the taxi was waiting.

  She gave him a hug as he was about to climb into the back seat.

  ‘Our thoughts are with you,’ said the headmaster before closing the door and signalling to the driver that he should move off.

  The journey through busy traffic to the hospital seemed interminable, and Holt began to feel more and more depressed. He had a sinking feeling and wondered whether he was going to be sick. At one point the driver turned to him and asked if he was all right.

  ‘No, not really,’ he answered. ‘Mum and Dad had a car crash. Dad’s dead and Mum is in a bad way.’

  ‘You poor boy. I don’t know what to say. What can one say other than that we never know what might happen in life? I’d better keep my eye on the road – we don’t want you to be injured as well.’

  ‘If Mum dies, I don’t know what I will do. Might as well be dead.’

  ‘Don’t say that! There’s always something one can look forward to.’

  ‘Can’t think what it could be.’

  After exchanging a few words with the driver, Holt felt a little better. Anyway, they were arriving at the hospital. He would be seeing his mother.

  He also began to feel a little guilty in that he had always taken his parents, and especially his mother, for granted. He had just been beginning to appreciate her, having gone through a period where he thought females were inferior.

  ‘All the best,’ said the driver as Holt stepped out of the car. He was so enfeebled, he had to slam the car door shut a second time.

  Apart from attending a hospital when he broke his wrist, he had never been to one.

  ‘Intensive Care is halfway down the green corridor, on the left. You can’t miss it,’ said the receptionist at the main desk.

  He didn’t miss it and pushed open the double doors leading to another passage. A few yards down there was a window marked ‘Reception’. He gave his mother’s name and was told to sit down on one of the nearby chairs and wait.

  ‘Your aunt will come for you.’

  Holt had never hit it off with the woman, for she was actually the wife of his mother’s brother, who unfortunately was away on business in the Far East.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Jeremy.’

  ‘Hello, Auntie. How’s Mum?’

  ‘Not good at all. She has internal injuries, ruptured liver and spleen, other complications as well. Good job you’ve got here in time. The doctors don’t think she has long.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘She keeps asking for you…so come along, dearie.’

  What an impersonal word. ‘Love’ would have been friendlier. She might have shown some fake compassion by holding his hand. Though had she done so, he probably would have felt worse.

  His mother was in a private room, with all sorts of tubes attached to her. The nurse standing beside the bed said, ‘Your son’s here.’

  The seemingly lifeless figure stirred, and his mother’s eyes opened.

  ‘Come nearer. I can’t see well.’

  ‘Oh, Mummy…’

  ‘Jeremy. My Jeremy.’

  ‘Dad’s dead.’

  ‘I know. Go and say goodbye to him. For you and for me. Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘I have not got long, so listen carefully. I’ve signed a paper making my brother, Harry, your guardian. Auntie Dorothy has agreed to look after you. There will be some money in trust for you, but not much, as there is still the mortgage to pay on most of the house. Oh dear, I feel so tired. Give me your hand and kiss me.’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘Try and do something in later life of which Father and I would have been proud…’

  ‘I will.’

  Holt leant over and kissed his mother on the cheek and squeezed her almost-lifeless hand as she sank back on her pillow.

  ‘I think he should go now,’ said the nurse, adding that there was not much more he could do other than say goodbye, which his mother might just be able to hear.

  ‘Goodbye, Mummy,’ murmured Holt with tears welling up in his eyes.

  Holt’s aunt pulled him away by the arm and led him out of the room as the nurse leant over the bed to tend to his mother, who was not responding. The nurse had lifted her eyelids and was shining a torch into her eyes.

  Once in the corridor, Holt demanded to see his dad.

  ‘He’s dead. Nothing you can do for him now,’ snarled his aunt, before adding, ‘There’s no point – plus I’ve been here long enough.’

  As they passed the nurses’ station, Holt turned to face the senior nurse standing behind the desk.

  ‘I want to see my dad. I promised my mum I would say goodbye to him for her as well.’

  ‘He’s been stone-dead for hours,’ said his aunt angrily.

  ‘I think it would be all right,’ replied the nurse, who was actually a sister. ‘He’s in the room over there…Nurse Barnes, can you take this little boy to say farewell to his dad? Just two or three minutes will mean a lot to the dear boy. Just don’t drag it out and get him too overwrought.’

  Unsure of what ‘overwrought’ meant, Holt let the young nurse take his hand and lead him into the room where his father was lying in bed, with his head low because there was no pillow. She pulled back the sheet to reveal his face, which though ashen gave Holt the impression his father was alive.

  Gingerly, as befitted the schoolboy he was, he kissed him on the forehead.

  The cold sensation as his lips touched his father was a shock he would remember forever.

  Chapter 2

  More Than a Boy

  The school had a bursary to help boys in difficult circumstances and agreed to let Holt stay on without the fees being paid for the term and a half remaining until summer.

  ‘It will give you time to find your feet,’ had said the headmaster.

  It did in a way, and especially at the beginning, because everyone was so kind. A couple of boys had told their mothers, and they invited Holt to their homes for the weekend. There, he was showered with attention, compassion, and even love, which was a far cry from what he received from his aunt. However, after five weeks, when things were getting back to normal, a tremendous feeling of loneliness overcame him. Gone for a time was the laughing boy playing practical jokes.

  Even though his mother and father had had to struggle to pay the mortgage on the house and the school fees, they were considerably richer than his uncle and aunt, who with the connivance of the solicitor had moved into his parents’ house. Just about able to find the money to pay the mortgage using some of the money earmarked for Holt, they did not have much left to spend on him. He could not expect any more holidays abroad.

  That was not strictly true, for the first summer, the brigadier’s family next door invited him to join them on their holiday in France. What made the holiday with them especially enjoyable was the presence of their vivacious daughter, Samantha. She was a year older than he and, as a girl, so much more mature, and he was
well aware she was quite out of his reach. That did not prevent the sight of those bronze thighs emanating from her tight shorts being a mixture of pleasure and torment. Yet, unlike many attractive girls that age, she never put him down or ignored him. In fact, she always listened to what he had to say with interest.

  Unfortunately, the brigadier had retired from the army, and the family soon after moved away, down to Hampshire.

  After a year at an ordinary secondary school, Holt was accepted at a grammar school. Without seeming to do any work he managed to pass exams with top grades. The trouble was that apart from his unrequited interest in the opposite sex, he had lost his appetite for life. In fact, it was not just sex that he lacked but emotional contact.

  His mother’s dying wish that he do something in life of which she and Dad could have been proud haunted him, but becoming increasingly withdrawn and lonely, he could not focus on anything.

  The mean-spiritedness of his aunt, which had rubbed off on his uncle, a decent but disappointed man, did not help matters. They would run down anyone who was successful and would even try to nip any aspirations Holt might harbour in the bud. Of course, they did it subtly. Their favourite phrase seemed to be ‘We thought you would have…done the sensible thing’ – i.e. not done it. Another was, ‘Aren’t you getting above yourself?’

  Although very able, he could neither draw nor dance. The former ruled out an obviously noble career in medicine, as boys doing that did biology, which meant dissecting animals and drawing them lying in foul-smelling formaldehyde.

  Not being able to dance – maybe he got so stressed and frustrated he could not get the rhythm – made getting to know girls nigh impossible. Anyway, they found the tense vibes emanating from him off-putting, in addition to finding his conversation too serious.

  He got through school virtually unnoticed, apart from the times he played the odd practical joke. He was not viewed as a swot, because he did not need to swot. He tried to keep a low profile and had already left the school when the A-level exam results confirming he would get the expected scholarship to Cambridge came out. By then he had grown quite tall, but remained thin rather than elegantly slim.