Chameleon - A City of London Thriller (13 page)

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Behind the
podium hung a huge screen onto which was projected a map showing
exactly where Marat was situated. It was followed by a series of
slides showing the undeniable beauty of the central African veldt
and the more rugged rocky landscape rising from it. The pictures
showed lush pastureland, bony looking cattle and healthy looking
goats. There were views of flowing rivers edged with reeds and
overhanging branches. Finally there were shots of the wildlife
lying lazily in the sun, looking inquisitively at the
cameraman.

“
My dear
friends from around the world, this is my country, the country
where fifteen generations of my family were born and where they
lived. Invaders have come and gone over centuries; the last was
King Leopold of Belgium, but seldom did their influence reach as
far as Marat. I doubt that my ancestors would even have known who
their ruler was, had it not been for the Christian missionaries who
accompanied the soldiers and who strayed further than they were
told was wise.

As a result
many people in our peaceful communities, numbering around two
hundred and thirty five thousand souls in total, a few less than
live in Brighton and Hove on the English south coast not far from
here, converted to Christianity.

With the
landscape you see before you, with the rivers for water and the
pastureland for grazing, it was possible for us to live, eat and
celebrate our good fortune without desecrating the landscape or
forcing away the wildlife.

Until
independence Marat never asked for, nor was it offered, any aid
from the central government or from the international community. We
led simple lives and we were even able to trade goat meat and wheat
to the other tribes in the Congo region who lived in less friendly
environments.

Then a mining
company named De Souza discovered Tanzanite in our mountains, and
our lives changed.”

Photographs of
the mountains were replaced with pictures of beautifully cut
tanzanite stones in hues of blue and violet. Mrs Hokobu continued,
and in a soft, soulful voice reflected to the silent audience, “Oh,
how could something so beautiful bring with it such
ugliness?”

There appeared
on the screen mines, roads, shantytowns and crude mud huts built to
house miners. Broken down vehicles and mining equipment had been
left rusting by the side of the road, as newer versions were
brought in to increase production.

“
Old Mr De
Souza promised to make us all rich, and perhaps at the beginning he
meant what he said. The men left the villages and the farms and
went to work in the mines for money. They worked hard and were paid
well, but the farms were left to the women, who despite their hard
work could not produce enough food to feed Marat. Soon all of our
money was going to buy essential foods from elsewhere, food that we
could easily have grown for ourselves. We were no longer
self-sufficient.

Then came
independence and a new government, and hope was restored. They
would rein in the mining company and ensure that we could once
again have a mixed economy, where mining and agriculture worked
together to provide our prosperity.”

The whole time
she was speaking, this robust and healthy vision of African
womanhood held her audience entranced as photographs were projected
one after another on to the large screen behind her, to illustrate
her words and accentuate her mood.

“
Since
independence the Maratis have become virtual slaves to the mine
owners. When the miners complain about safety, working conditions
or poor pay, their demonstrations are put down by the government
forces supplemented with mercenaries, all of whom are well fed,
clothed and armed. They have the latest military equipment and they
drive the best European cars, whilst the miners and the farmers
live in poverty.”

Pictures
showing barren farms and tired miners were projected behind the
speaker. They were followed by pictures of robust, healthy police
officers and soldiers smiling at the camera in their smart uniforms
and proudly showcasing their shining vehicles.

“
Then we had
a visit from the UN. Mr Kofi Annan, you are a beloved figure in
Marat,” Victoria said, looking directly at the elderly statesman in
the audience.

“
Your help
and aid has been generous and continuous. However, the UN officials
sent to assist the poor, the enslaved and the sick have gradually
been restricted to the capital. Their travel permits have been
revoked, in an attempt to prevent them distributing the aid fairly
and to monitor how it is spent.

If you choose
not to believe me, then please do the maths yourself. We are a
nation of two hundred and thirty five thousand souls and the
government in 2007, the last year for which figures are available,
received one hundred and thirty five million dollars in aid. Now
you can see that represents almost six hundred dollars per year per
person. Usually our miners and their families survive on less than
five hundred dollars a year.

Add to that
the generous aid provided by charities and we should be a country
with a healthy and well-fed population, but we are not.

The United
States and Great Britain built us twelve schools to assist in the
African literacy programme; four still operate, but the others are
now regional government offices, mining company offices and even a
private dwelling.

We had a
hospital built by the European Union. For the first two years
Europeans staffed it whilst we had our people trained. As soon as
the Europeans left, the funds to pay for staff were redirected and
the trained staff were not paid. Some remain as volunteers, but
many left for jobs abroad.”

Pictures of
forlorn schools and a hospital were projected.

“
You may have
seen the photographs of Nation Day in Marat recently, where dancers
and performers entertained the President and lauded his
accomplishments. Please look at this photograph.” She
paused.

A colourful
photo of dancers in native dress filled the screen. More followed,
all showing happy smiling faces and healthy bodies.

“
Not one of
the people in the pictures you have seen is Marati. They are
wearing the tribal dress of the Congo. They were employed to take
part in these celebrations.

So, you ask,
is this big African lady mad? Is she a liar? Does she seek to
deceive you in order to ask for more aid?

Please feel
free to make your own decisions about my motives but, having done
so, please act on your feelings. Do not line the pockets of greedy
mining companies and Mercedes-driving ministers with luxury villas
in the south of France.

My plea to the
UN, and to all of you within the sound of my voice, is this; you
ensure that the corruption is ended and that the current aid gets
to the people and I will guarantee you that in three years we will
be offering aid to others, not asking for aid for
ourselves.”

She paused as
the audience began to clap. The applause began at the back of the
hall and quickly spread to the dignitaries at the front. The Marati
ambassador stood and walked out, as did the Zimbabwean ambassador.
Victoria let them go in silence before she continued.

“
Africans
throughout the continent are ambitious. They have glorious
aspirations. They want to be seen as equals to the developed world.
We do not want to be third world or second world; we want to be
first world, as many of you know. With our peoples, our lands, our
hard work, we can survive on our own but only if you stop our
leaders from abusing their power, stealing our money and smothering
our hope.”

Victoria
paused whilst the applause died down, and then removed her
headscarf to reveal a close cropped hairstyle.

“
Ladies and
gentlemen.” Suddenly the voice, the accent and the intonation was
very English. “I notice that the Marati delegation has left us. I
wonder why? I am not Victoria Hokobu. I am, however, her sister at
arms. I admire Victoria and her relentless efforts on behalf of her
people tremendously, but it is with deep sadness and regret that I
announce her assassination yesterday.”

There was an
audible intake of breath as the shocked audience came to the
realisation that their speaker was dead. A picture of the Hokobus,
smiling and happy in front of the London Eye, faded to a picture of
them lying dead in the back of the Mercedes.

“
I have
presented Victoria’s speech exactly as she prepared it. I believe
that we have all honoured her memory by listening to her words
today. I further believe that if we genuinely want to honour her
memory we will say that today was the day when we started to change
the way we give aid. Today was the day we started to end slavery.
Today was the day we restored hope to the poor.”

Angela Barry
left the podium to return to her acting role in the Lion King, and
the audience were left looking at a picture of the Hokobus enjoying
the interior of Westminster Abbey. The caption read:

“
Victoria
Hokobu, Stateswoman; 1975 to 2011.

Chapter
21

The Strand,
London, Thursday 9:30am.

Gillian Davis
walked briskly past the entrance to the old tube station. Passers
by rarely noticed the red brick-coloured tile facade, the locked
security gate or the signs boldly proclaiming ‘Piccadilly Rly’ and
‘Strand Station’. Hardly surprising, perhaps, as the station had
been closed since 1994, after a somewhat inglorious
history.

Built in the
Victorian era, the station was home to a branch line which had the
advantage of giving access to three different underground lines.
The area around the station was thriving when the work began, but
even before the station was completed, retailers, commercial
offices and home owners moved further away from Aldwych and into
the up and coming commercial areas of the City and the West
End.

Initially two
double platforms were built, but one was abandoned and bricked up
after just a few years’ use, in 1917. As a result, the work on the
remaining passenger tunnels and the final lift shaft were never
completed.

The Strand
Station also lost its name when the more popular station at nearby
Charing Cross was opened and was initially named the Strand
Station, leaving the old Strand Station to be renamed as The
Aldwych Station.

By the Second
World War the station was little used, and so it was closed as a
functioning station to permit its dual use as an air raid shelter
and a secure underground storage facility for works of art from the
National Gallery, including the Elgin Marbles. The platform which
had been sealed in 1917 served as an impenetrable vault for the
duration of hostilities, before being resealed in 1946.

The Aldwych
platforms at the station stumbled on after the war and managed to
remain in use for another forty eight years, thanks largely to the
reopening of the theatres in the area. The Strand Station finally
closed its doors to the public in 1994. The old station experienced
a new lease of life in 2001, when terrorism became a real threat to
Londoners. It was assumed, almost prophetically, that the most
obvious threat to the city was an attack on the Tube system. Thus
the Special Air Services, the Secret Intelligence Services and the
Metropolitan Police secretly used the Strand Station, its platforms
and tunnels, for anti-terrorist exercises and emergency training
purposes.

By 2006 MI5
had adopted The Strand Station as its own. Their operatives created
offices by partitioning platform areas and they continued to manage
the facility for the other users. This cooperation continued until
2008, when the police and MOD moved their offices and security
drills to another unused Tube station in a less busy area in North
London. By the time Gil returned to the Strand Station, it had
stood silent and empty for two years and was gathering
dust.

Gil knew, from
passing the station entrance on the way to the City, that it was
embedded into the buildings which now house Kings College London,
and that it was protected by nothing more than a painted plywood
hoarding and a security shutter. Nonetheless, whilst Gil could have
been inside within a minute, the Strand was always busy and, even
on a freezing morning like this, inquisitive students were hurrying
past on their way to class.

Gil walked
past the station entrance without slowing, and turned right into
Surrey Street. She walked down the deserted, steeply banked street
until she arrived at a loading bay. Two large shutter doors faced
her, labelled ‘Exit’ and ‘Entrance’. Faced in the same shiny red
coloured tile as the station front, this had once been the side
entrance to the Strand Underground Station.

To the extreme
left of the tiling stood a single white door which looked as though
it had not been maintained for years. The sign on the door bore the
simple message, “Keep Clear, Fire Exit”.

Despite its
dilapidated appearance, Gil knew that the door was steel reinforced
and regularly used, mostly at night. Ensuring that she was alone,
Gil approached the door, setting down her briefcase as she withdrew
her key. The lock was a simple one, old but sturdy. This would have
to be opened the old fashioned way; her electronic lock pick would
not be strong enough to turn the old tumblers.