Chameleon - A City of London Thriller (30 page)

Dee smiled as
she placed a comforting arm around Katie’s shoulder. She was an
only child, and had often envied her friends who had younger
sisters, whose hair they would style and tweak as if they were a
live doll.

The two of
them had a busy schedule for Thursday, today and Friday,
culminating in a late Friday flight back to the USA, but luckily
the first assignment for Thursday was at eleven in the
morning.

They sat on
the chair in silence for a while until Dee noticed Katie’s shallow,
rhythmic breathing. Recognising the younger woman was falling
asleep, she roused her gently, and they both retired to their beds,
hoping for a good rest before the next day’s turmoil started
afresh.

Chapter
41

Room 431, Hotel
Nacional, Havana. Cuba. Thursday 7am.

From its privileged location on top of a promontory
overlooking Havana's coastline and seawall drive, the Nacional
wa
s perfectly placed. Room
431 commanded a magnificent view of the sea and the bustling Vedado
section of Havana. With its elegance and timeless
splendour
,
the Nacional had played host to hundreds of celebrities from the
world of arts, science and politics since the 1930s, according to
the brochure, and Gil could see why. Its location in the busiest
part of town, its one hundred year heritage and its closeness to
Old Havana, about a twenty minute walk along the Malecon, made it
an ideal holiday spot. It was a pity she would not be taking full
advantage of her stay.

Gil had been up early and had been busy. Once she was
dressed and ready to go, she tidied the bed and replaced the tissue
box on the table top beneath the TV. The hidden camera would have
immediately sprung into action, being activated by sensing any
motion, and the watchers would now be enjoying full audio and video
coverage of Gil’s tidying up.

***

Holmes and
Moriarty had switched duties at 6am, and so Thom Passerell would be
keeping his eye on the Chameleon until later tonight, when she
would be snatched and rendered back to the UK. The plan was that
Jared and Thom would follow her into the room, where she would be
apprehended by three subcontractors from a local security company.
As well trained as she was, Gillian Davis would not be able to
meaningfully resist, rather she would be met with overwhelming
force and a very potent chemical cosh.

Thom looked at
the screen showing the hotel room. The box covering the hidden
camera had been removed in a bout of tidying up by the target, who
was now fussing around and making herself ready for her long (and
last) tourist day in Cuba.

The camera had
the equivalent of a wide angle lens and so almost the entire room
could be seen. Against the wall he could see a designer suitcase on
a stand constructed so that it folded flat in the wardrobe when not
in use. The lid of the suitcase was open and clothing and
toiletries spilled out. A hot air brush was left cooling on the
opposite bedside table, beside a can of hair spray and a can of
Sure deodorant.

Gil Davis came
into view. She was dressed in a long floaty summery dress that hung
from her shoulders and brushed the floor. Her fair hair was flowing
across her shoulders and down her back. A large floppy sun hat
completed the ensemble. Gil looked in a mirror as she set the hat
correctly on her head, and Thom noticed that she was very heavily
made up, but did not wonder why. He supposed it was just something
women always did.

Satisfied with
her appearance, the target turned on her heels and flounced out of
the room. Passerell watched her enter the lift on the hotel
security camera screen, and he waited patiently until he caught
sight of her in the lobby. Security camera number five in the lobby
showed Gillian enter the restaurant for breakfast. The MI5 man shut
down the monitors, let himself out of the room and walked along the
corridor to room 431. He slid the housekeeping room card into the
slot, and when the light turned green he entered the Chameleon’s
room.

The bathroom
was a mess. Towels were strewn carelessly in the bath and on the
floor. Moisturiser and toothpaste lay by the wash basin with their
lids off. This was one untidy lady. Moving to the bedroom, he saw
that underwear was draped over the back of a chair, whilst all of
the occupant’s clothing, books and beauty paraphernalia had been
left loosely packed in the suitcase. On the desk was an itinerary
for Gilllian’s stay: Today the tour, tomorrow a rest day, Saturday
a boat trip and Sunday a 4x4 trip into the country’s interior. At
least the lady was organised in one aspect of her life. How she had
survived in the service with such an untidy mind bemused Thom, or
would have done had he given it any thought.

If Thom had
been as alert as he should have been, he might have given some
thought to the possibility that, as a trained agent herself, she
had allowed him to see just what she wanted him to see. As it was,
he left the room happy that all was well, in order to follow his
quarry once she left the breakfast room.

***

Gil sat with
two girls from Newcastle whom she recognised from the plane the day
before. They amused and entertained her with their exploits of the
previous evening, where they had cruised the local bars looking for
olive skinned young men who would succumb to their obvious blonde
charms. They had been particularly successful and, as a result, had
just parted company with three such lotharios who had stayed the
night, still hung over if the girls were to be believed, when they
came down for breakfast.

“
I hope
this
National Shrine is interesting,”
Tanya said, moving on to the day’s outing. “If it isn’t I’m going
to stay on the bus and have a sleep.” She paused and winked at Gil.
“Cos I didn’t get much sleep last night, pet.” Both Geordie girls
laughed, and Gillian frowned in mock disgust.

The bus ride
to the National Shrine of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre was short
and uneventful. From the outside the Basilica, a minor Basilica in
the parlance of the Catholic Church, is not especially impressive.
It is a whitewashed building with three maroon coloured domes. The
two smaller domes sit either side of the larger one, which tops the
central tower. It is inside the basilica where the greater
attraction lies for tourists. Once through the door and out of the
glare of the bright Cuban sun, the interior comes alive with detail
and history. The stained glass is bright and colourful, redolent of
the art deco age from which it originates. The Basilica, built in
1926, also houses the famous brightly coloured original statue of
the Lady of Charity. In this statue the Lady is depicted as a
Rubenesque woman with well rounded proportions, dark skin and rosy
cheeks. The National Shrine was, to the Catholic Church, no more
than a sanctuary until 1977, when the Pope granted it the status of
a Basilica.

When the old
bus rattled to a halt outside the building, the tour party all
disembarked and stood together as a Cuban Tourist guide with a blue
pennant on a long stick approached. The blue pennant was emblazoned
with a yellow logo and the name CubaTurista. After a brief shouted
introduction, informing the group that the bus would return for
them in two hours, the loud Cuban woman led them inside the
Basilica.

***

Thom Passerell
had secured an ancient Havana taxi, a 1958 Chevrolet Impala; it was
a blue saloon version with masses of shining chrome, a deep ‘v’
symbol on the bonnet and a stretched Chevrolet badge nestling in
the V. The seats were well worn leather which was so smooth and
hard that if you didn’t hold on around corners you slid from one
side of the car to the other.

With no
conviction that the old car would complete the journey, he asked
the driver to follow the old tourist bus that was carrying his
quarry to the National Shrine.

Although it
was only just after eight in the morning, it was already hot and
sultry. Thom knew, from spending years in Cuba, that the elderly
taxi would have no air conditioning. Nonetheless, this taxi did at
least have glass in all of its windows, albeit two windows were
stuck halfway down, never to move again, allowing warm air to blow
in. At least he had a draught.

Forty five
minutes later Thom paid the driver and listened as the tour guide
explained that the tour bus would return around eleven o’clock. He
watched as the tour group went inside, and noted that Gillian Davis
was on the edge of the group. He reverted to Cafe Cubana, on the
other side of a busy road, which was awash with street furniture
advertising Havana Coffee. Carefully selecting a pavement table
with a view over the entrance to the Basilica, he ordered a Cafe
Americana and waited.

***

Once inside
the Basilica, which is no more than a name for a minor cathedral in
which a Bishop might reside, the tourists began snapping away at
the colourful interior. The fact that the National Shrine was here
at all, let alone be open to the public, was more to do with
Castro’s fear of the population than his fear of God. The Catholics
had ruled Cuba with a firm hand before the revolution, the people
heeding their church more than their secular leaders, and the
revolutionaries were deeply suspicious of the church and its
influence. The visit of Pope John Paul II a few years earlier had
led to the Sisters of Mercy being allowed back into Cuba in greater
numbers to care for the Basilica, but even now the male clergy were
few in number and were subject to constant surveillance.

It was the
Sisters of Mercy who interested Gillian, and so she wandered down
the aisle, past the altar and to an ornately carved heavy wooden
door. The door itself and the walls around depicted the story of
how the Virgin Mary, or Lady of Charity, had protected the three
Juans as they journeyed to the Bay of Nipe in treacherous waters to
collect salt. A nun was polishing the brass work beside the
door.

“
May I help
you, my child?” the nun asked in Irish accented English.

“
I’m looking
for Sister Angelica. I have an appointment. My name is Margaret
Rose and I am from England,” Gillian replied.

“
You have
fallen far for a convent girl, Margaret Rose.”

“
I am always
ready to be saved, Sister,” Gillian replied as expected.

The nun used a
heavy brass key to open the carved door.

“
Sister
Angelica is studying in her cell; it is the last door on the
right.”

Gillian went
inside and the door closed behind her, the brass lock clicking
loudly into place and the sound reverberating around the stone
walls and stone flagged floor of the dormitory section of the
Basilica. The passageway was brightly lit as the expensive stained
glass in the public areas had given way to heavy clear leaded glass
in the sparsely decorated private areas. A marble statue of Jesus,
who looked distinctly Cuban, wearing a pained expression and a
crown of thorns, was the only statuary in the long hall. Gillian
tried to walk quietly, but there could be no silent approached in
this stone clad echo chamber.

She tapped on
the end door and opened it. Sitting in a high chair, peering into a
giant illustrated text, was Sister Angelica. The Sister was wearing
the traditional holy habit, or tunic. Made of black serge, it had
the usual two sets of sleeves, the outer sleeves being rolled back
for working. Over the habit she wore a white coif which covered her
neck and head. The outfit was topped off with the traditional black
veil which hung around the shoulders.

Sister
Angelica removed a pair of half moon glasses and smiled. Her face
radiated genuine warmth.

“
Sister
Margaret Rose, it is good to see you again. It has been a long
time.” The middle aged nun referred to Gillian by her alias. “It is
almost six years since you last spent time within these hallowed
walls. I can only hope that it is not as long since you entered the
confessional.” With that the nun came around the elevated desk and
hugged Gillian Davis, then kissed both of her cheeks in a brief
blessing.

Chapter
4
2

National Shrine, El
Cobre. Cuba.
Six Years Ago,
May 2005.

The rainy
season was almost upon Cuba and the temperature had fallen to
around 76 degrees Fahrenheit, whilst the humidity remained high at
around eight five percent.

Sister
Margaret Rose was uncomfortable in her habit. It was just too warm
for the full formal dress of a Catholic nun, but rules were rules.
Sister Margaret kept her eyes on the thin stream of visitors
entering and exiting the shrine, offering historical asides and
anecdotes as the situation demanded. A popular and young nun, she
was also very pretty, and many young men had suddenly started
taking church attendance seriously in the week or so since she had
arrived, fresh faced, from England.

About half of
the visitors were locals who crossed themselves and lit candles.
The others were foreign tourists who took photos and ticked another
Basilica off their bucket list.

Margaret Rose
smiled at the latest arrival, whose olive skin might have suggested
to a casual onlooker that he was Hispanic and, although Margaret
Rose knew differently, she still addressed him in Latin American
Spanish.