Free LONDON ALERT by Christopher Bartlett Page A

at a high-class establishment. Holt gave him a couple
of pounds with a dismissive gesture to humble him even more and give the
impression he was a habitué of such places.
    Sharing a room did not
mean sharing beds, for there were twin beds separated by a bedside table with the
usual telephone.
    Just as they were settling
in, there was a knock at the door that was too sharp to be that of a room maid.
Indeed, it proved to be the hotel manager, obviously a more senior agent who
had had his cover blown or was otherwise deemed operationally ineffective. His
crisp manner reminded Holt of the World War II Stalag Luft prison camp
commandants he had seen in films.
    ‘I have been briefed
about your relationship – or rather, lack thereof – so have given you well-separated
twin beds as requested. Actually, in the Far East many couples and especially
married ones generally prefer them.' With an overlong look at Celia, he added, ‘The
beds can usually be pushed together, so one gets the best of both worlds.’
    Dinner, he told them, would
be the centrepiece of their stay. A table had been reserved for them at eight.
    ‘Dress is smart
casual.’
    Having said somewhat
ambiguously he was looking forward to seeing more of them, he left them to
their own devices.
    With time to spare
before dinner, they went for a pleasant walk in the woods that formed part of
the estate, returning at about seven thirty to spruce up for eight. Though Holt
was well aware Celia was no longer a teenager, her nubile look and childish mannerisms
made him feel like an uncle taking a pubescent niece out for a treat and having
to share a room with her, albeit with her mother’s permission.
    The thought of the
potentially embarrassing situation lying ahead was making him edgy, and just like
many a young lady disappointed at her father’s failure to measure up to her
impossible hopes and expectations, Celia came up with the first of what were to
be many put-downs of the evening.
    ‘Get a grip, man! There’s
no need to worry about not rising to the occasion.’
    What language and what
cheek. What double entendre. It was a bit rich having someone so young and
virginal lecturing him about not having to prove his prowess in the bedroom. He
could only retort meekly that it was an unusual situation.
    ‘I never had a sister. I
wish I had. I would not feel so awkward.’
    ‘We’re not meant to
discuss our private lives in the service. You know that, don’t you?’
    ‘You’re right, as usual.
You’ve been in the business longer than I.’
    Continuing with her
schoolgirl-on-a-day-out gush, she babbled on.
    ‘Let’s make the most of
it. It’s not every day one can feast oneself on the house like this. If you
cannot get your head round the brother-and-sister act, just imagine we’re twelve-year-olds
on a sleepover who would never dream of doing anything really naughty.’
    The ‘really naughty’ got
Holt’s imagination going. Not only did he lack a sister, he had never been on a
sleepover either. The goody-two-shoes kids she was referring to must have been under
ten years old to be that innocent.
    Just as he was
formulating a remark to try to take her down a peg, she interrupted his train
of thought.
    ‘Stop trying to make a
big thing out of a little thing. All we have to do is to be natural – in other
words, make the most of the goodies, including the champagne. I’ve heard from
other agents that this place is fabulous in that respect. Anyway, I’m famished.
Time we went down for din-dins.’
    Holt presumed she was
putting on this din-dins primary-school act to wind him up even further but
guiltily found it appealing. Was she purposely being provocative?
    In the words of the
late bon viveur and restaurant critic Michael Winner, The
Loughty dinner was truly ‘ historic ’ ,and had the establishment
not been restricted to a special clientele it might well have earned a Michelin
star.
    During a holiday Holt
had spent in France while a student, a French