Chameleon - A City of London Thriller (12 page)

Gillian Davis
was a rich woman, thanks to both the original Chameleon and her own
business acumen. She thought back to Mac, the original Chameleon,
and how he had not lived to enjoy the fruits of his labours. He had
earned just less than half of the US Dollar account, but on his
demise the joint account became hers alone.

Out of nothing
more than sentimentality, Gil had spent almost a year searching for
Mac’s relatives so that she could pass on the frozen remains of her
partner for burial and dispense his share of the money, but she
found only two living relatives, a wife and daughter who both
refused to bury his remains. They were so awful when she spoke to
them that she wanted to terminate both of them. Whilst she
restrained herself, she could not bring herself to pass on his
money to women who vilified him so completely.

Gil missed
Mac, otherwise known as Douglas Mc Keown, because he had been both
her partner and her confidante. The age difference also meant that
he treated her like a daughter and never made any romantic
advances. He was almost a replacement for Uncle Nick; almost, but
not quite.

Mac had an
intense dislike of working with governments who had to use
mercenaries to win or maintain control of their own countries, but
as an assassin it was inevitable that he would eventually be hired
by one. As a result, Mac had been in the Ukraine with an assignment
to detonate a bomb at a political rally and kill the trouble-making
opposition leader. Perhaps Mac should have followed his first two
rules; don’t work for zealots and don’t work with
amateurs.

Working under
the scrutiny of CCTV and observation by his government employers
who recorded the whole process on DVD, Mac had been careful and
cautious in his preparations; he had handled the explosives and
detonators by the book. His methodology was foolproof except for
one thing; an idiot Irishman whom the client assured Mac was an
explosives expert. Whilst they were packing the perfectly safe and
malleable Semtex into two briefcases, the Irishman inadvertently
detonated his Semtex. The explosion simultaneously detonated Mac’s
otherwise stable Semtex just inches away. The two men were almost
vaporised. The building was destroyed and the DVD picture vanished
into a universe of white noise. Eventually Mac’s belongings were
sent to the Chameleon’s London drop box, with a note of regret and
an explanation that no further payment was due. Thankfully, Mac’s
employers were religious extremists who believed that they were
under an obligation to ensure that as many body parts as possible
were properly interned. As a result the drop box contained the DVD
and a receipt for Mac’s remains, which had been sent to Cryostorage
UK, in London. Gil knew that sooner or later she would have to
recover the remains and have them interred, but somehow it never
seemed to be the right time.

Later Gil
would reflect on why Mac had come into the forefront of her mind at
the exact moment that someone else was looking for him urgently, an
ex colleague whose search for the Chameleon would bring him to her
door.

Chapter
1
9

Vastrick
Security, No 1 Poultry, London, Wednesday 4pm.

Geordie,
recently released from the accident and emergency unit at Guys and
St Thomas’ Hospital near London Bridge, was looking at Dee’s plan
and smiling for the first time since the deaths of the
Hokobus.

“
This is
brilliant! It is a real tribute to Victoria. How did you manage to
arrange it so quickly?”

“
I spoke to
Angela, explained the circumstances and she insisted on helping. I
didn’t even have to ask. She adores you, apparently. What is it
with you and these older women?” Dee paused. “Anyway, grateful as
she was for your protection in 2009, she said that it was the cause
that obliged her to become involved.”

“
Aye, she
insisted on calling me Bonnie Lad because she heard that Geordies
use the expression. No-one had called me Bonnie Lad since me
Granddad died.”

They went over
the plan again in detail so that Angela’s hard work would not be in
vain.

***

The telephone
rang at the Celebrato Cards reception. The receptionist answered
the phone, avidly following her usual script.

“
Ms Davis,
please. Tell her that Peter Wright from the Foreign Office is
calling.” His name was not Peter Wright, nor was he from the
foreign office; that was an in joke based on the fact that an ex
employee called Peter Wright had almost ended MI5’s secret
existence by publishing his notorious book ‘Spycatcher’. The caller
expected Gil to recognise the long unused code for an urgent
meeting.

He was
eventually put through to a voice he recognised, even after all of
this time.

“
Gil, it’s
Tim McKinnon. We need to meet urgently.”

“
Well, hello
to you, too, Tim. It’s been a long time. You never write, you never
call....”

“
Sorry, Gil.
How have you been? Are you married yet? Kids?”

“
I expect you
already know the answer to those questions and many more. Do you
still keep files on ex employees’ lives after the
service?”

“
Astute as
ever, I see. I know most of what you have been up to, yes. As for
me, I married Celeste, after the world’s longest engagement, and
now we have two kids. But we can catch up on all of that when we
meet.”

“
Why are you
so convinced I will agree to a meeting at all?”

“
It will be a
‘coded’ meeting, Gil. The top bosses think it’s that
important.”

Gil considered
the prospect of a ‘coded’ meeting so long after she left the
service. A coded meeting was a formal meeting held under the Code
for Operatives as determined by the Official Secrets Act. Such
meetings were held rarely, and so the subject matter was going to
be serious.

“
OK Tim,
where and when do we meet?”

“
The Tunnel,
as usual. Ten in the morning, tomorrow.”

“
You spies
are all the same. Why not McDonald’s for a change? Why an abandoned
tube station? It’s all a bit cold war, isn’t it?”

“
We still
have a facility down there. You will find your way in quite easily.
There is only a standard three lever lock to beat. It should take
you all of ten seconds, unless you’re rusty.”

“
I’ll be
there, Tim, but I have a company to run. I can’t afford to do
anything more than talk for free.”

“
Don’t worry,
I have a budget.”

Chapter
20

Westminster
Hall, London: Thursday 9:55am.

The hall was
laid out much as it had been for the visit of Pope Benedict XVI a
few months earlier. The seating was laid out on the lower level
floor in theatre style. The first few rows had comfortably
upholstered seats and were reserved for invited guests. The rank
and file of attendees sat on barely padded chairs which appeared to
have been in use since the Second World War.

This was the
third day of the conference but by far the most important. Today
the discussion was on foreign aid and how to ensure it reached the
needy and helped the UN to defeat slavery and poverty. In today’s
gathering were over forty ambassadors, the UK Foreign Secretary and
the former UN Secretary General Kofi Annan. The Secretary of State
for the US was joining the current UN Secretary General, Ban Ki
Moon, in the UN Building to participate by video link. Both looked
sprightly, considering it was five o’clock in the morning where
they were sitting.

The first talk
was scheduled to last twenty minutes, and it was to be a plea for
fairness in the distribution of aid by Victoria Hokobu, daughter of
the late, but still revered, African statesman Jaafar
Hokobu.

As the crowd
settled the UK Foreign Secretary rose and walked to the podium. A
man of medium stature who had been in the public eye since he had
vocally supported Margaret Thatcher on TV as a teenager, he was now
shaven headed in an attempt to conceal the fact that he was
prematurely balding. In the familiar nasal tone that reflected his
upbringing in a middle class home in North Yorkshire, he opened the
ceremony by inviting Bishop Kuma Matwami of Nigeria to offer an
invocation and prayer for the poor and afflicted.

There followed
a minute or two of business, explaining to the delegates where the
fire exits, restrooms and most importantly, the refreshments were
situated. The Marati Ambassador and brother of the president, His
Excellency Solomon Matista, sat expectantly beside his aide Jalou
Makabate.

Solomon
Matista was as ruthless as his brother, but today, in just a few
moments, a woman he had only heard of in Marati folklore was due to
speak to the audience. Of course, he had been assured that she was
now dead, and so he had offered himself as reserve speaker in case
she could not make the conference. He sat ready with his notes,
preparing to give a twenty minute presentation saluting the fine
work of Victoria Hokobu in bringing to his brother’s attention the
abuses of state and foreign aid. This practice, he would assure the
audience, had now been ended thanks to the great efforts of
President Matista.

The UN
official completed his announcements with the introduction of
Victoria Hokobu, the African Human Rights Campaigner from Marat.
The audience followed the official and applauded when the
introduction was made.

The Marati
delegation smiled at the prospect of the confusion that would reign
when it was clear that their key speaker was not
present.

From behind a
screen at the side of the stage strode a large African woman
dressed in brightly coloured clothes and smiling widely. The Marati
ambassador’s jaw dropped open as, in the familiar sing song dialect
of the tribes of central Africa, she began to speak.

“
Good Morning
Mr General Secretary, Secretary of State and Mr Foreign Secretary.
I am Victoria Hokobu and I am here to talk to you about how your
generous aid is failing to lift central Africans out of slavery and
poverty.”

***

The murderous
look on the face of the Ambassador sent Jalou Makabate scurrying
out of the great hall, fumbling with his cell phone as he exited
into the freezing cold morning air. The big African shivered as he
dialled the number for the Chameleon’s answering service. As soon
as the girl picked up at the other end he yelled into the
phone.

“
This is JM
of St James’s square. I need a return call to this number
immediately. There is an emergency.” Then he remembered the agreed
code. “The patient needs further treatment.”

He stood
outside, exhaling clouds of warm carbon dioxide into the chilled
air. He could feel the cold in his bones already, but he dared not
return until he had an explanation.

After an
interminable and uncomfortable wait, that was in real time only
eleven minutes, his phone vibrated. He answered immediately. The
voice he heard was not as distorted as it usually was.

“
JM, your
call is unnecessary; the patient did not survive the
operation.”

“
Is that so?
Then how do you explain that the patient is standing in the hall
behind me, ending my career, and quite possibly, my life? I paid
you a million dollars, for heaven’s sake!”

The Chameleon
paused for a moment and spoke into the distortion
device.

“
JM, your
money was well spent. I can assure you that the patient and her
husband are in the company of angels. Call me again when you know
the full story.”

The line went
dead and Jalou entered the building to find his way to the great
hall blocked by a uniformed figure.

“
Sorry, sir,
we cannot allow re-entry during a speech. But don’t worry; she is
only scheduled to speak for another five minutes.” The security
guard smiled but made it clear that there would be no
exceptions.

Makabate
picked up his phone again and speed dialled a mobile phone number
he knew would be answered quickly. The phone rang twice before it
was answered.

“
Makabate,
what the hell do you think you’re doing? This number is for
emergencies only!” The voice was very English, and the enunciation
was very definitely developed at a public school.

“
This
is
an emergency! The
Hokobu woman is speaking to the conference now. This is a disaster
for all of us, and it is your fault because you allowed her into
your country.”

“
I told you
before, I can’t keep operatives at every port of entry, it would
draw attention to our arrangement.” The Englishman paused and
shuffled some papers whilst he drummed up a convincing lie. “Jalou,
I have a scrolling message running across the bottom of my laptop
screen, highlighted in yellow. It that tells me that Mrs Hokobu and
her husband are dead and that the police are investigating. She
simply cannot be speaking in that hall. It’s impossible. Now, tell
the Ambassador that I will do all that I can to ensure that the
British Establishment gather around to discredit this insane woman,
and we can all get back to profiting from the Tanzanite
mining.”

Jalou Makabate
was not appeased. He ended the call, then sat down heavily on a
stone bench and waited whilst his life, and possibly Marat itself,
was brought down by the indestructible Victoria Hokobu.