Chameleon - A City of London Thriller (2 page)

Not until De
Souza’s father and uncle discovered Tanzanite in those central
African mountains in the 1990s did anyone even seek political
control of the country. Until then Marat had been run as a State
Administered Region of the Congo, without its own formal government
or elections, without an army and without indigenous
police.

The beautiful
violet blue Tanzanite which was now heavily mined in Marat changed
all of that. More expensive and far rarer than diamonds, Tanzanite
was found in significant quantities, and suddenly fortunes were
there to be made. De Souza Mining had calculated that there must be
billions of dollars’ worth of Tanzanite in Marat.

Within a year
the UN oversaw elections, and after an expensive and brutal
campaign, Benjamin Matista was elected president. He then proceeded
to place his closest advisers in the roles of chief of police and
head of the tiny Marat army. There were persistent rumours that
Matista was a Somali and that he was not in fact born and raised in
Marat, as he had claimed in the election campaign, but no-one
questions the President too harshly when he controls the army and
the police.

A portrait of
the President in an impressive uniform adorned the wall behind the
reception desk. Also located in the reception area was a secure
display of Tanzanite, which looked real to De Souza, and if so, the
display would be worth over a million pounds if sold in Hatton
Garden, a sum that would release tens of thousands of Maratis from
poverty.

The De Souzas
were not in a position to complain, however. They had made a
fortune from Marat with their exclusive mining rights.
Unfortunately, whilst the President and his government had more
money salted away than they could ever spend, they would
continually tell the people that once the army and police were
funded, along with the improvements to the roads and
infrastructure; there was no money left for education and welfare,
unless of course, the people of Marat would agree to work ever
longer hours in the mines.

Recent UN
studies showed that the majority of Marat’s population were
educated, fed and cared for by international aid and by
humanitarian charities, an unacceptable situation for a country
with great mineral wealth, but the UN had bigger problems elsewhere
in Africa that demanded their urgent attention. The elected
authorities who siphoned off the aid money, and, whose greed knew
no bounds, whose consciences knew no shame, also sought to hinder
the international community’s fight against Marati
poverty.

Martin De
Souza felt grubby even dealing with these people who dined in
London’s finest restaurants and lived in penthouse apartments,
whilst their own ethnic groups or tribes starved and lived in
squalor. In the opinion of Martin De Souza, it was only the fact
that most of the country belonged to the same tribe as their
leaders that made a descent into civil war was unlikely.

“
Hello. So
good to see you again.” A giant of a man strode towards De Souza,
extending his hand. He was over six feet tall, heavily built and
girded in an impressively tailored suit. His hair was short; his
teeth were as white as ivory and his skin was that rich dark brown
hue that looks almost purple in the right light.

“
Jalou, how
good to see you too,” De Souza managed to say before his companion
ushered him out of the door, his huge strong hand in the square of
the mining executive’s back.

“
Come, let us
take a walk. It is such a wonderful day,” Jalou suggested. His
African accent had a deep timbre that commanded respect.

The man is out
of his mind, De Souza thought, but didn’t say. It was well below
freezing outside. Nonetheless, he braved the cold wind and the icy
streets to follow the big diplomat to a corner coffee shop, where
they both ordered and then sat down in easy chairs either side of a
low table.

The diplomat
spoke first. “Martin, it is not good business to come into the
Embassy unannounced. The Ambassador and his brother cannot be
involved with our troubleshooting duties.”

The
Ambassador’s brother was the President of Marat.

“
I had no
alternative, Jalou. The Hokobu woman has just landed at Heathrow
Airport.” The Afrikaaner pronounced Hokobu as
Huckooboo
, just as the lady herself
did.

“
This is not
possible,” Jalou stated, shaking his head. “You have made a
mistake. My contact in the British Security Services would have
informed me.”

“
No mistake.
I saw her for myself. She arrived from Bangui on a KLM flight,
changing at Schiphol. My informant deliberately stood behind her at
passport control and he overheard her say to the Border Agency
Officer that her return journey was booked with KLM and that she
leaves Friday evening. Luckily she is a loud woman, because my
informant was obliged to eavesdrop from the yellow line five feet
away from the passport desk. My opinion is that she had someone
drive her across the border into the Central African Republic, so
that you would not know she had travelled.”

The news
seemed to agitate the diplomat greatly.

“
This is very
bad news. She was supposedly under virtual house arrest. She will
now speak at the international conference on Thursday morning and
will, at the very least, cast our government in a bad light. At
worst she will persuade the Americans and British to send their aid
by way of food, medicines and clothing rather than in cash. Then
the foreign aid workers distributing the aid will spy on us, and
our income streams will be interrupted.”

“
That need
not happen, Jalou. You have the Chameleon here in London. You have
used him before.”

“
Martin, we
have just seventy two hours before she speaks. Even that cold
hearted killer will not be happy with such an
assignment.”

“
I think you
underestimate the Chameleon, Jalou. Whilst we have no real idea who
he is, we do know that with very little notice he killed the
Israeli Minister of Culture when he was in Paris opening the Jewish
Memorial Centre, despite the fact that the Mossad was guarding the
minister. Victoria Hokobu has no such protection; she has just her
husband to watch over her.”

Jalou Makabate
thought about the potential problems Mrs. Hokobu could cause and
decided that investing in the Chameleon was necessary and urgent,
if a little expensive. The assassin usually demanded one million
dollars per successful hit, and he always ensured that he was paid.
The Chameleon’s clients had been told that the reason the Israeli
Minister had been assassinated, and the Mossad embarrassed, had not
been political. It was simply because the Mossad had refused to pay
the balance of the fee for assassinating a Hamas leader. Whilst the
Israeli cabinet made a huge fuss and complained to the
international community that it was an unconscionable act of evil
by Hamas, the Mossad knew the reality, but they weren’t saying.
Good marketing for the Chameleon, and a certain way of ensuring
that he did not suffer bad debts.

***

Once he was
alone, Makabate’s first phone call was to the Marati head of State
Security, a fellow Somali, instructing him to pick up and question
Vincent Utembo, the Hokobus’ head of security, immediately.
Makabate understood very well that if he reported to the Ambassador
before he knew the woman’s plans for her stay, and subsequently had
a plan to prevent them, he would be punished for allowing her to
make the journey. Makabate had no intention of being sent back to
Marat, through no fault of his own, where they would soon have him
living in a hut somewhere, supervising a mine.

Once he had
made his wishes known to the security chief in Marat he pressed the
speed dial headed UKFO. Across London, in Thames House, a rarely
used mobile phone rang. “Diplomatic Support Services,” a male voice
announced rather uncertainly.

“
Hello, this
is your friend at St James’ Place.”

***

Maureen
Lassiter was a spinster of a certain age, but she had certain
desires. A middle class woman of her standing had no right knowing
how to affect, and control, men in the way she did. Although
relatively plain, she stayed fit and slim and she had practised her
lascivious craft since her days at University. Consequently, few
men had been able to resist her temptations, and fewer still had
been in any way disappointed when they submitted to her
charms.

Nonetheless,
she had learned to be careful with her office based affairs. Even
now the outer office door was locked and the sliding sign on the
door had been moved from Director: ‘Available’ to, Director:
‘Unavailable’. For additional security, the inner door between her
own outer office and the Director’s inner sanctum was also latched
from the inside. With luck, their illicit coupling would go
unnoticed, as long as she muted her cries of satisfaction. Fully
comprehending that an affair with a superior officer was never wise
and could occasionally be dangerous, she simply could not help
herself. This was especially true when that lover was in a position
to exploit his government calling for personal financial gain.
There was no doubt that Maureen enjoyed the thrill, and the risk of
being caught, but she also enjoyed the beautiful garden flat in
Richmond that she could never afford on her government salary
without help from a regular top up from an account in the Isle of
Man.

Maureen was on
the tips of her toes leaning on the wide window ledge, biting her
bottom lip as she looked out over the Thames four floors below. Her
trim naked rear was facing in towards the office where her lover,
who was sweating and breathing heavily, sought to satisfy her
needs. She had satisfied his needs some fifteen minutes
earlier.

Just as she
sighed, whimpered her approval and relaxed her awkward stance, a
phone rang. It wasn’t the director’s desk phone or his government
issued mobile, which she kept in the outer office. Rather it was an
old mobile phone which rarely rang these days. Her sweating lover
picked it up from the desk, and looked at it, holding it close to
his face as he recovered his spectacles. Recognising the caller
from the phone’s colour screen, he put his finger to his lips to
silence his conquest as he struggled to lift up his trousers with
his left hand. As casually as he could he answered the
call.

“
Well, hello
there, JM. We haven’t spoken for – oh, it must be over two years.”
There was a mild rebuke in the tone, suggesting that the man who
answered the phone felt he had been impolitely ignored.

“
The damn
Hokobu woman is in the UK and you did not alert me.”

“
We have been
keeping a check on her - free of charge, I might add - purely as a
gesture of goodwill. But I cannot expect my Border Agency contacts
to keep me informed of everyone of interest who lands in the UK,”
the MI5 man lied.

In fact, the
man on the phone had no such contacts, and was not in a position to
place Mrs Hokobu on any ‘persons of interest’ list. Nonetheless,
there was no need for these foreign functionaries to know that; he
would keep taking their money as long as they believed that they
had a powerful ally in government circles.

“
It seems she
landed at Heathrow today, and if she speaks at the Poverty and
Slavery conference, all of our lifestyles will be affected.” The
remark was pointed and was understood.

“
I
understand, but how can I help my good friends, the Marati
government?”

“
I would like
to employ the Chameleon to ensure that the governance of Marat and
the arrangements with our foreign aid donors remain as they
are.”

“
You know
that the Chameleon will want a million US dollars?”

“
Of course.
We are willing to pay.”

“
Would I be
correct in assuming that you want me to persuade the Foreign Office
to maintain its position that the woman is nothing more than a
Marxist rabble-rouser who wants to take Marat towards the Far East
and nationalise British investments?”

“
Yes. I want
to know that the UK government will not threaten our aid too
robustly if there is a liberal outcry at her absence from the
conference.”

“
I can
arrange that. A report from MI5 with a ‘dodgy dossier’ on Mrs
Hokobu will be prepared today. Shall we say the usual fee, payable
to the usual company?” His tone had changed and he suddenly sounded
excited.

“
Yes. One
hundred thousand pounds will be paid to Britannic Investment Group
in the Isle of Man later today.”

“
Thank you.
You will receive an authenticated receipt, for tax purposes, for
the sum paid, which will itemise a number of consultancy
services.”

Maureen’s
sweaty lover paused before he continued, smiling at her as they
shared a secret Jalou Makabate could never be a party to. Namely,
that when the African diplomat had visited this very office four
years ago, to garner support from the UK for the suppression of
awkward Marati tribesmen, he had received nothing from the visit
except the names and numbers of a few mercenary outfits in southern
Africa.

The plain fact
was that, whilst UK companies had profitable mining interests in
Marat, neither the Foreign Office nor the security services had any
interest in the former Belgian colony. Introduced to MI5 by an
informant by the name of De Souza, Makabate’s request to meet was
accepted purely out of politeness. No-one had any intention of
helping this posturing dictatorship, but Marat did have an unending
supply of Tanzanite.