An ingenious idea, but not used in modern lifts. Why? Would we rather have people sitting for hours in stuffy lifts, waiting for an engineer or fireman to rescue them? Progress, she thought wryly. Have we really made any?
Her ‘Chameleon’ cell phone interrupted her thoughts. She was reluctant to answer it at that moment, but she switched on the electronic voice distortion and spoke to her answering service.
Concerned that the steel around her not only disrupted the cell phone signal but that it also reduced the effectiveness of the voice disrupter, she called her erstwhile African employer.
Jalou Makabate sounded panicked. He had just seen Victoria Hokobu at the conference and had immediately assumed that the Chameleon had failed to kill her. Gil was not alarmed. She had ensured the happy couple were at eternal rest before departing their Mercedes. Someone had obviously found a clone to replace the majestic Mrs Hokobu.
When Gil was handed the assignment she had seen the flaw in Makabate’s plan immediately, but it had not been her place to mention it. She had been instructed to kill the husband, too, in case he simply substituted for his dead wife at the conference, but what if they’d had yet another substitute waiting in the wings?
She told Makabate to calm down, and explained that if he bothered making even arbitrary enquiries he would discover for himself that the Chameleon had indeed completed the assignment and the Hokobus were dead. At that she hung up, hearing a noise on the spiral staircase.
***
“Gillian! Wow! You don’t look a day older!” Tim McKinnon said with all honesty, as he looked his old colleague up and down.
Tim did look a day older; many days older. He had always been an athletic five feet eight inches, but he had now developed a paunch and was carrying a good twenty pounds of excess weight. His skin looked sallow and tight, lines showing at the eyes. He still had radiant blue eyes, but now they were perched beneath a receding hairline of dark hair, cut in the military style.
“How did you get in without coming in through the doors?” Gillian asked.
“Old trade secret,” he smiled. “If you go down the line about twenty yards there’s an emergency exit that comes up at the Aldwych. It’s quite safe. The line has a safety bar fixed across the tracks, which prevents the line being made live in error. Every couple of years or so they go live and bring a train in here to test some new development. They were here last year, trialling the video projection system for advertising.
You’ve probably seen the door at the Aldwych. It looks like an emergency exit from the offices above, but in fact it was installed during the war for the bigwigs to be able to move about without being seen by the hoi polloi in the air raid shelter.”
“And to protect the nation’s art treasures, too, I suspect,” Gil replied.
“Hey, you remember all of that stuff! Great. Those old tunnels are bricked up now, and there’s no access to the parallel platform any longer.”
The MI5 man sat down beside Gillian and his face began to reflect the seriousness of his message.
“Gillian, the Chameleon has got to go.” Gillian was stunned, but she would not allow her face to show it.
“Who?” she enquired, perhaps a little too innocently.
“Come on, Gillian, you know better than anyone. Mac is the Chameleon. He must have told you. You two were always as thick as thieves.”
“I did suspect, but I could never be sure,” Gillian responded, probing for more information.
“Well, you can be sure. In 2007 the US Government wanted to take out Suleman Grenadiere, the Somali warlord and pirate. They knew he was travelling back to his encampment to trade hostages on a tanker being held offshore, with a well-known oil company.
The road to the encampment was known to be hazardous and narrow. It was easy to defend and there was very little cover. So the US sent in a unit of Army Rangers to watch the road from tree cover on the opposite hill. When Grenadiere’s truck started up the incline they would act as spotters for a F1/11 plane to be launched from the Nimitz aircraft carrier, which would blow the road and the truck to smithereens.
Anyway, the truck came into view and was approaching a hazardous tight bend when the Army Ranger Unit Leader took the coordinates. However, before he could call the coordinates in three quick shots were fired.
The spotter for the Rangers reported that the three nearside tyres exploded. These were the tyres closest to the drop, and the vehicle tilted dangerously but looked as though it might stop safely. Unfortunately for Suleman and his boys, the tyres were blown out on a tight bend and the driver could not manoeuvre the old truck around the bend with only half of his tyres. He lost control of the vehicle.
To cut a long story short, the truck, Suleman and his pirates plunged four hundred feet into the abyss. Not only would they all be dead, there would probably be very little of them left to find, and so the Rangers decided to call it a day.
They were about to leave when, twenty yards away from their position, the foliage lifted up and a man appeared from nowhere. He waved at them, smiled and disappeared into the forest. They must have passed within inches of him on their way to their position without seeing him. The Rangers spotter caught a few good stills of the sniper with the video camera mounted on his scope. It was Mac.
Not only was the shot almost impossible, but Mac had timed the three shots and the ensuing blowout with a precision that seems impossible to simple folk like me.”
When Tim paused in admiration, Gil interjected.
“How does that prove he was the Chameleon?”
“Under pressure from Congress, the Oil Company ‘fessed up’ to the US authorities, admitting that they had paid the standard one million dollars to the Chameleon for a job well done.”
Tim could not have known that he was telling Gil a humorous story she had heard many times, but Gil’s overriding feeling was one of relief. Relief that the service did not know that she was yet another embodiment of the Chameleon.
“OK Tim, I think we can both accept that Mac is the Chameleon, but what has he done that was so wrong he needs to be retired?”
“In a sentence, Paris and the Israeli Culture Minister.”
“That was Mac?” Gil asked, feigning shock. “I heard that was Hamas or some other group.”
“No, it was Mac. He was making a point over an unpaid bill. He even called them afterwards and demanded the money they owed. He got it.” Tim smirked. He obviously liked the idea of Mossad being humiliated, as MI5, MI6 and the police often had to clean up after illegal Mossad operations in the UK in his day.
“That’s harsh!” Gil commented in what she hoped was the right tone, which was intended to be disapproving but admiring.
“I appreciate that this may be difficult for you, emotionally, but Mac has to go and we have to satisfy the Israelis and the FO that he is dead.”
This was the agent’s first mention of the Foreign Office, and Gil picked up on it immediately.
“Why is the FO interested in the death of an Israeli Minister in Paris?” she asked, looking puzzled.
“Gil, this is still Official Secrets Act, Classification 1 information, and as a signatory you are still bound by it, OK?”
“Of course,” she replied, as though it was obvious and expected.
“Well, yesterday the Chameleon topped a visiting dignitary from Marat, along with her husband, and she was unofficially the FO’s guest. She was meant to be speaking at a conference this morning on overcoming poverty and slavery in Marat. Mac put an end to that.”
“I’ve never even heard of Marat. Is it in Asia?” she asked without apparent guile.
“No, I think it’s the furthest African country from a coastline. I don’t know where I dug that up from; maybe a briefing somewhere. Anyway, it was created fairly recently after all the fighting in and around Central Africa and the Congo.
It seems that Mac took the Marati government’s money and snuffed out the resistance.”
“Doesn’t sound like Mac, do
es it? He usually takes out bad guys,” Gil said contemplatively.
“I guess not. I suspect they didn’t tell the Chameleon the whole story.”
No, they certainly did not, she thought to herself.
***
They chatted about old times for another ten minutes, and then Tim came around to the real purpose of the meeting.
“Gillian, as hard as this will be for you, we want you to deal with Mac. You have his trust and you are the only one who came close to beating him in our training exercises. This order comes all the way from the top. Mac has to go, and go soon.”
“I’ll do it, Tim, don’t sweat it.”
There was clear relief on the agent’s face as she continued.
“Mac is a professional. He must know his time is coming. Better he goes out quickly and painlessly at the hands of a friend than suffer because of a botched job by an inept Israeli contractor. He deserves better than that.”
“I agree,” Tim said solemnly. “Gil, look, I trust you, but the people above me want proof of death.”
“I understand, Tim. I’ll be sure to provide evidence that he’s dead.”
Once the paltry fee of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds was agreed, the meeting ended and they both got out of the lift that was going nowhere and left by separate exits.
Chapter 22
Vastrick Security, No 1 Poultry, London, Friday 9am.
Less than twenty-four hours had passed since the world heard from Victoria Hokobu, from beyond the grave, but the news gave testament to the fact that we all now live in a global village. It was being reported that by sunset yesterday, the Marati government had ordered a curfew in an attempt to quell the uprising that began in the villages and which had quickly spread to the mines. The twenty-four hour news channels were giving blanket coverage to the uprising in Marat, which was two hours ahead of GMT.
CNN reported that the South African mercenaries, hired by the government to keep the mines fully operational, had initially been brutal in their efforts to keep the miners working. Television coverage showed that when they were attacked by overwhelming numbers of painted tribesmen, carrying machetes and fearsome primitive weapons, the mercenaries decided that they were not being paid enough to die. The unflappable correspondent on the screen explained that the scenes which followed could not be broadcast because, in their unruly retreat, many mercenaries died, and the miners’ retribution was neither swift nor painless. Many of the routed guards had expected to be repaid in kind for their inhumanity and brutality towards the naturally friendly Marati workers, and they were not disappointed.
The pictures changed to an eye in the sky camera mounted on a helicopter. The unsteady picture showed the Police Station which reportedly housed the State Security Services team that had murdered Vincent Utembo. It was besieged. The BBC News 24 reporter had been in touch with the trapped law officers, and reported that inside the building the men were terrified. In desperation they had called for help from headquarters in the capital, but none was forthcoming. After a brief standoff, the local police threw the state security men responsible for Utembo’s death out of the secure compound, where the gathered crowd fell upon them in a matter of seconds.
***
Inside the police station the screams of the State Security Team permeated the building, and some of the younger policemen broke down and cried, suspecting that they too would be killed. Luckily Sergeant Vambati, the senior officer, was a true Marati. He also had an old and wise head. In a few minutes he and all of his men exited the building, stripped of their uniforms and carrying their entire arsenal of weapons and the keys for their police vehicles.
“We are brothers; we join your fight for freedom. Here, take these weapons and let us use these weapons and vehicles to depose the Somali intruder who says he is our President,” Vambati cried as he ran warrior-like towards the baying crowd.
The crowd surged forward and seized the weapons and vehicles, some taking revenge on policemen who had abused them, but no one died, and afterwards the policemen wisely stood with their fellow Maratis as they moved on to rage against the symbols and offices of government.
***
Back in the Vastrick offices there were mixed emotions; sadness at the unnecessary loss of life, mixed with jubilation that Victoria achieved in death what she had been unable to achieve in life.
The pictures of the Hokobus, which had been leaked to the press, and the police appeals for help in solving their murders, had created a wave of sympathy that politicians around the globe felt that they could not ignore. One after another, world leaders climbed to podia and expressed revulsion at the mistreatment of aid and the appalling murder of the Hokobus.
The local news showed crowds of protestors outside the Marati Embassy, which appeared almost deserted. In the spacious lobby two security guards held firm, but both were English and both were paid little more than minimum wage, and so their commitment to the cause was waning quickly.
The display of Tanzanite which had so prominently illuminated the lobby had gone, and only an empty glass case remained. The valuable stones were now in the Ambassador’s briefcase as he headed to Nice on a British Airways flight, before being driven to his Villa on the water at Cite Lacustre, Port Grimaud near St. Tropez. A heated argument with his brother, the Marati President, ended with the announcement of his early retirement. His brother was enraged at the perceived betrayal, and distraught that the Ambassador refused to continue to fight for the survival of the government in diplomatic circles.
Jalou Makabate sat alone in his apartment. His wife and children were on their way to Mogadishu to stay with her parents. Before she left, his wife accused him and his government cronies of ruining her perfect life in London. She had made it clear that she had no expectation of him joining them, before she cleared out their joint accounts without his knowledge. Jalou would also have been on a plane out of the country, had it not been for a visit from the Metropolitan Police, who wanted to interview him as a material witness, or suspect, in the murder of the Hokobus.
How could this nightmare version of Hades have rained down on him in such a short time? Had not the Maratis bought and paid for the loyalty of the British Government to their rule? Just a year ago the former British Labour Prime Minister had shaken hands warmly with the Marati Ambassador as they signed a contract for yet more mining equipment, plant which would be built in the Midlands. Jalou’s own contact in the British security services had actively assisted in the suppression of the Marati miners’ strikes by canvassing his superiors and promising that full democratic elections would be held in 2012 in return for help now. As was only to be expected, his political and security contacts were no longer available, now that he had no Tanzanite to bargain with.
He rested his head in his large hands and considered his options. The last option was a return to Marat, the landlocked, mountainous hellhole he had helped to govern. Somalia was almost as unpleasant an option. He needed a quiet and beautiful place to spend the rest of his days and his fortune, kindly provided by the hard work of the Marati miners. He settled on Madagascar as a bolthole, but he needed to keep the Metropolitan Police happy. He had been informed by the Foreign Office that his diplomatic immunity had been suspended because, without an appointed Marati ambassador in residence in the UK, there was no one to claim immunity on his behalf. Perhaps he could extract one last favour from his man at MI5.
***
Geordie switched off the TV and walked over to Dee’s desk, taking a seat opposite her. The fact that the government of Marat had ordered the murder of the Hokobus, and that now they were in fear for their own lives, was not punishment enough for him, the man who had happily taken responsibility for their safety. The bodyguard made it clear that he wanted the actual killer brought to justice.
“Dee, this is all very well but I think we owe it to the Hokobus to at least try to find their killer.” The frustration in his voice and the agitation in his body movements barely concealed his anger an
d self-loathing.
Dee leaned back in her chair and smiled at her colleague and friend.
“I agree. Believe me, I’m just as keen for that to happen as you are. We’ll see what we can do to assist the police. I’ll clear it with the boss, but when he sees how much we’re going to get for the Tanzanite, I don’t think he’ll be disappointed.”
“How do you mean?” Geordie asked, looking straight into her eyes.
“Well, according to the broker the Hokobus recommended, the price for Tanzanite has grown by fifteen per cent in just twenty four hours, thanks to the closure of the mines. Our stones are now worth around thirty five thousand pounds.”
Geordie simply stared at Dee. The fact that the gems had increased in value because a beautiful woman and her husband had been killed was anathema to him.
“And, by the way,” Dee added kindly, “you shouldn’t blame yourself for their deaths. I know they wouldn’t want you to.”
It would be a long time before the unhappy bodyguard could accept that simple truth.
Chapter 23
Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Friday 9am.
The Chameleon had not stayed alive and free for so long without being able to see the writing on the wall. Last night, as she soaked in her hot tub, Gil had pondered her meeting with MI5. She had the water very hot, in the Japanese style, so that it was almost painful to climb into. As the jets forced water onto her aching shoulders, she relaxed.
She would give Tim what he wanted; evidence that Mac (or the Chameleon) was dead. That part was easy. Unfortunately it appeared that the special operations unit were cleaning house and she was the last untidy remnant in their otherwise orderly home.
Gil remembered being surprised when she had been made redundant; there were no threats, no suggestion of termination, of trimming loose ends. It was just goodbye, have a nice life; they even arranged a leaving party. Nonetheless, she had always assumed that at some point policies would change, governments would be voted out and new incumbents would sweep in expressing moral outrage at the unauthorised termination of foreign nationals who had become embarrassing, or whose continued existence was inconvenient to the UK or her allies.
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