Chameleon - A City of London Thriller (7 page)

Dee did not
know what to say and so she said nothing. Victoria Hokobu carried
on eating, mopping up the last of the egg yolk with her fried
bread.

***

The next hour
was spent discussing security arrangements with Geordie, which had
been devised in response to the risk assessment carried out in the
office on Monday.

Content that
the Hokobus were as safe with Geordie, or little Mussi, as with
anyone, Dee waved them off in their armoured Mercedes and set off
for the tube station on foot. The temperature had risen
dramatically by perhaps a degree or so, and now it was only as cold
as the outer reaches of Antarctica.

Chapter
1
1

St Margaret’s
Church, Westminster Abbey, London, Tuesday 2:30pm.

The beautiful
church of St Margaret stands beside and behind Westminster Abbey.
It is laid out parallel to the famous abbey but predates the
better-known building. The medieval building, which consists of the
church itself and a somewhat oversized tower, was the third church
built on the site and was consecrated in 1523. To place the church
in its historical perspective, the glorious stained glass window at
the front of the church was specially made for King Henry VIII and
Catherine of Aragon in 1520.

Since then the
church has served as the chapel of the House of Commons, and Sir
Walter Raleigh lies buried in front of the altar. There are also
exquisite windows dedicated to Caxton and Milton.

The church was
designed and built along Norman lines. When viewed from the front
there is a central nave and chancel with a high roof. On each side
there are small chapels, choir stalls and a vestry. These have
lower single pitched roofs which are shallow and which attach to
the central body of the structure. There is a triple arched public
entrance at the front of the building and the tower is on the left
front of the building when viewed from the Abbey.

For the
Chameleon, the history of the church was not as important as its
position and its ongoing repairs. As with all churches of its age,
St Margaret’s needed constant renovation. The tower had been
repaired recently and now the shallow monopitch roof between the
nave and the tower was receiving attention, but work had been
halted when the freezing weather arrived and it would not commence
again until spring.

The Chameleon
had been on the roof between the nave and the tower for some time,
but lying still in freezing conditions was part of the sniper’s job
description.

Concealed
under a tarpaulin shelter erected by the builders to keep the roof
watertight until it could be permanently repaired, the Chameleon
was partially protected from the biting wind.

It was never
far from the Chameleon’s thoughts that this might be a waste of
time. There was no guarantee that the Hokobus would even visit the
Abbey, but in the assassination game one sometimes had to play the
odds.

Tourists to
London listed Westminster Abbey in the top three historical
attractions visited. It was ranked even higher for Anglican
Christians, which was the faith observed by the Hokobus. Added to
that information, the Mercedes had already passed plate recognition
cameras at three other favourite tourist destinations; Tower
Bridge, Covent Garden and Trafalgar Square. The Chameleon also felt
confident in taking the view that a visit to the London Eye today
would be a waste of money, given the mist and poor visibility,
especially when tomorrow morning was expected to be bright, cloud
free and freezing cold again. No, all in all it was a good bet that
the Hokobus would want to sample the London Eye on a clear day, if
at all.

As for the
Abbey, normally there were two main points of entry, the main front
doors and the side door perpendicular to St Margaret’s Church.
Concerned about the heating bills, the Abbey custodians were
directing the few hardy visitors who were out and about to the
smaller side entrance, which had an enclosed lobby and which
allowed the Abbey to retain at least some of its heat. This was not
uncommon in the cold winter months, as the Chameleon had discovered
during a routine research exercise.

As a result
the Chameleon was covering the only entrance in use today, and so
if the Hokobus visited the Abbey they would die.

The Chameleon
had noted that there were three possible approaches to the side
entrance of the Abbey; from the rear, the Palace of Westminster,
passing between the Abbey and St Margaret’s Church; from the side,
from Victoria Street, passing in front of St Margaret’s Church, and
from the front, walking towards the Chameleon’s eyrie.

The Chameleon
had considered using the bell tower for the assassination, but
there was no published schedule of services and so a lone sniper
might be discovered at any time. It was a pity, really, because the
louvres that were designed to allow the chimes to be heard would
have been ideal concealment for the US built M107 Semi-Automatic
long-range sniper rifle.

In the
Chameleon’s opinion, the M107 was a beautiful gun to look at and to
use. Introduced in 2002, it has a battleship grey, non-reflective
coating and at fifty seven inches, or around a hundred and twenty
five centimetres long assembled it is a mere thirty-eight inches,
or a metre long, in take down mode. The M107 comes with detachable
carry handle, spiked detachable bipod to support the barrel and a
monopod that can be used to support the rear grip. Thanks to these
features, once the sniper had set the rifle up to target the kill
zone the M107 would not move so much as a millimetre, and the
sniper needed only to pull the trigger to deliver one of the ten
.50 calibre bullets in its magazine.

The Chameleon
adjusted and focused the scope rings one more time, and waited for
the call.

***

Geordie had
spent the day crisscrossing London under a leaden grey sky, taking
the Hokobus to see the Tower of London, Tower Bridge, the London
Dungeon (at least it was warm in there), Trafalgar Square and
Covent Garden. Now they were on the last leg of their trip, the
Palace of Westminster.

They had
intended to view the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey
tomorrow, but the weather was too miserable and grey for their trip
to the London Eye and so they swapped out tomorrow’s trip for
today’s visit.

The Hokobus
loved the Houses of Parliament. The attendants were dressed in
antiquarian outfits, which they found quaint. They stared in awe at
statues and paintings of famous parliamentarians they had
previously only seen in books. Now, however, they wanted to visit
the centre of their religion.

The Anglican
congregation in Marat, and in the whole of Africa, is very
conservative and there are distinct disagreements with the Mother
Church on issues such as women priests and homosexuality but,
nonetheless, the Abbey was the spiritual home of the
Hokobus.

Geordie sat
his clients in the Mercedes, even though they could have walked the
couple of hundred metres to arrive at the Abbey’s side
entrance.

“
Right, I’m
going to drop you at the gate on Victoria Road and I’ll stay there
as long as I can. But you probably know by now I’ll like as not get
moved on. So, when you are ready to come out of the Abbey, press
the call button on the walkie-talkie and I’ll drive up to the gate.
Only when you see me at the gate do you come outside,
OK?”

The couple
nodded their assent to their protector’s plan.

***

“
The Mercedes
has just passed the plate recognition camera at Parliament Square.”
The text message on the Chameleon’s phone had been delivered almost
an hour ago. The chances were that they would look around the
Houses of Parliament and then come to the Abbey, and so the
Chameleon had to remain alert.

A silver
Mercedes pulled up at the side gate and two Africans disembarked.
Waving to the man in the car, they headed towards the Abbey. It had
to be the Hokobus. If it wasn’t them, it was a very unfortunate
African couple who happened to look a lot like the Hokobus, the
Chameleon thought, smiling.

The Chameleon
could have stepped forward and taken the easiest of all shots as
the couple walked in front of St Margaret’s Church, but the
downward angle of the shot would mean that the sniper would be
visible to anyone looking up. It would be far better to wait until
they walked alongside the Abbey, where the Chameleon could shoot
with impunity whilst remaining totally concealed under the
tarpaulin.

The Chameleon
adjusted the M107 for a point midway between St Margaret’s Church
and the side entrance. That would mean shooting them from behind,
but a .50 calibre shell at this range would kill almost wherever it
hit.

The Hokobus
were walking past St Margaret’s when it began to rain again, but
this wasn’t the insidious drizzle of earlier in the day; this was
torrential rain. The Chameleon was still relatively dry under the
tarpaulin, but visibility was now deteriorating quickly.

Victoria
Hokobu erected a large transparent umbrella, which covered the
heads of herself and her husband, and they hurried towards the
door.

The Chameleon
was ready, aim and distance precisely set. The plan was simple;
breathe out, squeeze the trigger and then repeat for the grieving
husband.

The Chameleon
tracked the couple over the rear sights until they came into the
field of vision of the scope, finger on the trigger, breathe out
and......

Without
warning, all hell suddenly broke loose. The Chameleon’s slight
tremor on being assaulted by the cacophony of sound was enough to
send the bullet flying over Victoria Hokobu’s head before burying
itself harmlessly in the soft turf beyond.

The Hokobus
were both safely inside the Abbey by the time the Chameleon clamped
on the sonic ear defenders which had been lying beside the gun. The
chance had passed, and now, even with the defenders in place, the
noise was still unbearable.

“
Bloody
hell!” the Chameleon shouted angrily, unheard over the bells
clanging in the tower just five metres away. It wasn’t just the
sound, which was painful enough when situated so close to the
bells, but the vibration was horrendous. The sound waves were
pummelling the Chameleon’s organs. It was actually nauseating in
the same way travel sickness would be. The Chameleon had to get out
of here very quickly. This wasn’t the day or the time. Retreat; try
again tomorrow.

The Chameleon
ran across the roof to the back of the church and slid down the
builder’s ladder. Dismantling the gun in the relatively peaceful
setting of the walled garden, the Chameleon cursed again and placed
the rifle, jumpsuit and ear defenders in the specially padded
guitar case.

The squally
rain shower had stopped as quickly as it had begun, and the
Chameleon hopped over the small ornamental wall and joined the
other wet tourists walking around Parliament Square.

***

An hour later,
back in the Celebrato offices, the Chameleon’s ears were still
ringing, although the nausea had passed. Moving into the private
bathroom reserved for the MD’s use, the Chameleon looked into the
mirror.

The reflection
did not show any discomfort, rather it showed a smiling young woman
with icy blue eyes and fair hair falling to her shoulders. She was
nearly thirty years old now but her genes, her simple beauty regime
and her constant gym attendance made her look as good as any twenty
one year old. As it was, most people could not bring themselves to
believe that she was the Managing Director of a major greetings
card company. She could only imagine what her clients would think
if they ever found out that that she was also the Chameleon.
Perhaps if they knew her history they would understand.

Chapter
1
2

Tallgarth
Manor, Stratfield Turgis, Hampshire. 1995

It was
Gillian’s considered opinion that she had not really started living
until she was twelve years old, which had been two years ago. More
precisely, she believed that her life began on the day Uncle Nick
had first placed a shotgun in her small young hands.

Now, at
fourteen, as she sat on the lower limbs of an old horse chestnut
tree with a hunting rifle in her lap, she had become an expert
markswoman. As she rested and pondered, a small brown rabbit poked
its nose out of the bushes. It sniffed, moved and inch or two and
sniffed again. Deciding that the coast was clear, and that there
were no predators around, the rabbit hopped into the open and
froze. Its ears were pricked and its eyes were scanning. After a
moment the rabbit decided that it could neither hear nor see any
obvious threat, and ran across the opening to nibble on a leaf low
to the ground.

Gillian could
have shot the rabbit from where she was without any trouble at all,
even though at fifty yards most other people wouldn’t even be able
to see it. But where would be the fun in that? Instead she threw a
horse chestnut at the bush the rabbit was feeding on. The startled
rabbit bolted, and in a fraction of a second it was crossing the
open woodland towards safety.

Gillian knew
she had just seconds to prepare, aim and shoot the rabbit as it
crossed the five metres or so to safety. By the time the rabbit
bolted, the rifle was raised and was tracking ahead of the rabbit.
Once her aim was steadied she instinctively calculated where the
rabbit would be when the bullet arrived.