Free LONDON ALERT by Christopher Bartlett

were over – in fact, the country’s zenith had been around 1900 – and even
its secret services, as well as diplomatic services, were short of money. Lavish
receptions and entertaining were mostly things of the past, and travel expenses
were being pared to the bone, with the result that agents were missing out on
the little perks they once so much enjoyed, though these had hardly ever
extended to 007’s Dom Pérignon champagne.
    By pretending to be on
their honeymoon, agents could sometimes claw back some of the perks they
enjoyed in the old days and, notably, hope to be granted upgrades in hotels. On
their return to London, some would have dozens of complimentary condoms to give
away, as some hotels seemed to believe half a dozen were required. The more
brazen officers would then dole them out to secretaries, saying that while too
small for them they should be ample for their partners.
    Holt had heard the
story of how, before Russia became an ally in World War II, the Russians placed
an order for condoms of gigantic proportions to enrobe the tips of the guns on
their tanks and prevent dirt getting in. The minister responsible for manufacturing
told Churchill that the Russians’ ulterior motive was to sap British workers’ morale
and wanted to refuse. Churchill allegedly told his minister the problem could
be solved simply by having the workers put ‘Small’ on the packets.
    Apart from saving
money, having agents share rooms helped keep them out of trouble and away from
temptation. It also made it more difficult for foreign services to contact
individuals personally.
    Peter had warned Holt that
a mature understudy was waiting in the wings to take Celia’s place should he
fail the test at The Loughty .
    ‘Don’t worry,’ joked jealous
colleagues, ‘with the understudy in question, you will have the commiseration
of the hotel bellboys when you come down for breakfast after the big night.
They might even propose something on the side to lift your spirits. By the way,
Blackwell often briefs and debriefs the females going to The Loughty,
ostensibly to ensure they handle their partners appropriately and are not
importuned. You had better be careful.’
    Such comments were
making Holt apprehensive. The understudy sounded terrible, but then even
someone with only slightly above average looks could never compare with Celia.
More to the point, he did not like the thought that his nemesis, Blackwell,
would be involved.
    Colleagues who had been
to The Loughty would not
be drawn on what had happened to them personally there, other than to say it
was a great experience, provided one did not make a fool of oneself. In fact, it
was not a hotel at all but a training-cum-test establishment operated by the service
to train operatives, who came increasingly from more humble backgrounds, in the
ways of upper, if not high, society. As most could already handle a knife and
fork, it was more a question of teaching them how to deal with sommeliers and
not look ridiculous when faced with a menu written in French or Italian.
    Arriving at the local
station in the late afternoon, Holt and Celia climbed into the second of the five
taxis waiting outside the station on the assumption that the leading one would
most likely have been sent to test them.
    ‘The Loughty is far too
expensive for the likes of people coming here to visit us locals,’ said the elderly
driver, turning round to face them in the back seat when he should have been
concentrating on the road. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, turning back to see where
they were going, ‘it’s always fully booked. You two were lucky to get a room.’
    A converted country
house set well back from the road, The Loughtywas much more stylish
than they had anticipated. A miserable agent, who had doubtless joined one of
the services expecting to be engaged in something more glamorous, carried their
bags up to their room and hovered for a tip – obviously to teach agents the
usual protocol on arriving