Now, out of nowhere, a liberal politician with very libertarian views was responsible for overseeing the security services and in due course she would find out about ‘special operations’ and would blow her perfectly coiffed top.
Gil knew that she was expendable as soon as Mac was declared officially dead. She reckoned she had a week.
Her plans made and her body boiled she stepped out of the tub bright red where the water had touched her skin.
“The Japanese are right,” she thought as a feeling of calm and wellbeing swept over her naked body. “Being in hot water does concentrate the mind.”
***
Sitting at her desk, Gil followed the chaos in Marat with interest. Luckily they had paid her before their accounts had been frozen. There were rumours that one of the old South African statesmen was heading to Marat to convince the President to stand down and to announce free elections.
The phone on her desk rang with long single tones. It was an internal call. She pressed the speaker button and addressed the receptionist.
“Yes, Jenny, what is it?”
“Mr Donald Roper is here for your nine thirty appointment.”
“All right, thank you. Bring him in and organise some refreshments. He has walked all the way across Spitalfileds to get here; that’s a good four hundred yards.”
Jenny sniggered as her boss’s words reached her over the headphones. The receptionist removed her headset and ushered the rotund lawyer into Gil’s office.
Don Roper was no taller than five feet and his body shape could best be described as spherical. Nonetheless he was sharp and efficient and he had been advising Gillian since she was a teenager.
After the formalities had been dealt with, Don Roper took a wad of papers from his briefcase and laid them on the table.
“Gilly, I have to say this is the worst idea you have ever had. Are you absolutely certain you want to proceed?”
“Absolutely, Don. We’ve had a good offer for the company, valuing it at almost fourteen million pounds. I only ever invested three million, and most of that was recovered from the ever generous Gordon Brown and Peter Mandelson.”
“I have to warn you that if you proceed there can be no turning back. Your interest in Celebrato ends tomorrow once the money is transferred, as will your job as MD.”
“It’s OK, Don. The staff are the happiest I have ever seen them and I don’t really run the company day to day anyway.”
The next thirty minutes were spent with Don passing papers to Gil, explaining what each meant in layman’s terms, Gil nodding and signing without hesitation. By the time the meeting had ended, the Chameleon’s tenure in her day job at Celebrato Greeting Cards was coming to an end.
***
Two hours later Gillian Davis, known as Gil to her friends and as the Chameleon to no-one, sat in front of a video camera, surrounded by her head office staff and watched by the Celebrato Production staff by a live link to Warrington.
With a level of emotion that surprised even her, she explained how together they had all helped turn a failing company into a success. She openly admitted that her relative youth and inexperience had meant that she had relied on everyone to work together to make the company work.
There were tears in many eyes, including her own, as she explained the terms of the sale and why she had felt it necessary to stand down at this particular moment. Gil then wished them luck and thanked them for a loyalty that meant there had not been a single resignation on her watch.
Andrew Glenn was due to reply for the staff and to pay tribute to their retiring Chief Executive when he was put off his stride by the reaction from the Warrington site. Two or three workers began to sing ‘for she’s a jolly good fellow’ and by the time they got to the end of the first line everyone at Warrington and in London had joined in.
Tears were streaming freely down Gil’s cheeks in a way that she had never known before; she had to put her flat hand to her chest to control her imminent sobbing. What was she doing? She had allowed these people to get to her. Get a grip, she told herself firmly; it’s a business. Gil was just regaining control of her emotions as the strains of the song died away, and then a young man in a Celebrato polo shirt appeared on the large screen in London. In a strong Lancashire accent he spoke across the ether directly to Gil.
“A year ago I was unemployed and I didn’t really care. My girlfriend had no respect for me, even though she never said so. I was drinking my time away, doing nowt, and then the CEO of a card company comes into the Job Centre and talks to us about improving ourselves and offering us the chance with a new job.” He paused.
“Miss Davis, me Mum, Dad and girlfriend are well pleased with me these days, and I think I have you to thank for that.” He finished, and there were shouts of ‘Hear! Hear!’ before the camera pulled back to reveal a human-sized Celebrato Greeting Card signed by everyone. The dedication read: “We love you and will always remember you.”
Suddenly everything Gil had achieved or done paled into insignificance against this heartfelt and emotional tribute. She felt like the Grinch when he discovered that his heart had grown two sizes. The Chameleon fizzled away and Gillian Davis stood in her place, one hundred percent soppy woman, one hundred percent disappointed not to have realised before this moment where she had been most appreciated.
Chapter 24
Hokobu Incident Room, Scotland Yard, London. Friday, 4pm
Sergeant Scott had worked with DCI Coombes for almost two years, and he was used to his moods, mostly bad. The DCI was one of the last of the old style detectives who often found himself fuming at the political decisions of his uniformed superiors.
Just a few months ago they had worked on a case with Dee Conrad of Vastrick Security, a case which would have ended with a murdering, blackmailing criminal escaping justice had it not been for some nifty detective work and some unorthodox policing. One way or another, the perpetrator got his comeuppance in the end.
Scott sat facing Dee Conrad, who had recently married and was now Dee Hammond. Sitting beside the attractive investigator was her companion, Geordie, whose anxiety was clear. Scott was familiar with Geordie, as he had taken the bodyguard’s statement on the day of the Hokobus’ murders.
Coombes joined the three of them on a telephone link from his home, where he was suffering from suspected swine flu. His shaky voice was not helped by the fact that the scratchy phone line and tabletop speaker made him sound as if he was speaking from the other end of a long empty corridor.
“Come on, then, Scott. Tell us what you’ve got. I can only promise you a few minutes of lucidity,” Coombes moaned hoarsely.
“That’s all I can ever expect,” Scott muttered under his breath, and Dee and Geordie smiled.
“I heard that, Scott. Now get on with it.”
“OK. We have some good news.” The others waited in anticipation as Scott brought the relevant report to the top of his sheaf of papers. “The Scene of Crime supervisor has just reported that they have found a contact lens in between the seat and the backrest in the rear of the Mercedes.”
“Can they get prints off a contact lens?” Dee asked, knowing that in the recent past it had not been possible.
“It might be possible. If they can get the prescription from the lens we may be able to use it to identify the owner and force a confession from a suspect,” Coombes added.
“Well, there’s good news and bad news on that front. First, the bad news is that the contact lens is not a prescription lens. It’s a cosmetic lens. It changes eye colour to brown but it isn’t a corrective lens. So, that isn’t so helpful, except that we can assume that the wearer was not brown eyed. However, there is a partial print with enough whorls and ridges to provide comparison.”
“Any hits on the fingerprint database?” Coombes asked impatiently.
“Yes, as a matter of fact there is. We are fifty per cent sure that the fingerprint belongs to a woman referred to as Miss AD, 34792 on the MOD database. So she may be a sol
dier.”
“Bloody hell. Odds on she’s a spook, MI5, MI6 or someone else in the inappropriately named Secret Intelligence Services.”
“What makes you think that?” Dee Interjected.
“Well, Mrs Hammond, if it was a serving soldier the fingerprint search would have given us the full name immediately, as well as a photograph. Also, the numbers given to service personnel are much longer and are coded to give personal information to those in the know. A five figure number is almost certainly a personnel code. We have those, too; we use them when we log on to book annual leave and such.”
“I see. But why would our own government want the Hokobus killed?”
Coombes hesitated before answering.
“Who knows? Half the time they don’t know what they’re doing. They’re bloody dangerous. Last year we had one of theirs turn up zipped up in a suitcase and the Met spokesman had to go on record as saying it looked like a suicide, because no-one at Thames House would tell us a damn thing.”
The conversation turned to how the police were going to persuade the MOD, or whoever, to reveal the identity of the individual and put them forward for questioning. Coombes was pessimistic.
“The last time an undercover operative turned up as a murder suspect, he was kept in a room with a tribunal consisting of an Assistant Police Commissioner, an MI5 team leader and a serving Army Brigadier. I asked the questions via an audio link to the room and the suspect answered to them, not me. If they deemed his answer as safe, and not a threat to national security, he would answer the question again for my benefit. Bloody farce.”
“Who decides whether the suspect stands trial, then?” Geordie asked.
“The tribunal will decide that, and the likelihood is it would be a military court and the hearing would be in camera. That means in private for your benefit, Scott,” Coombes jibed as Scott scowled.
“When will we know whether they are going to offer up Miss AD for questioning, Boss?”
“It takes time, Scott, and interminable bloody patience. Fact is, as a first shot across our bows they will probably come back on Monday and say they have questioned the individual and the operative offered a reasonable explanation for the contact lens. They will also confirm that the operative was away on assignment when the killings happened and so could not have been responsible.”
“What if they’re lying, Boss?”
“Bloody hell, Scott! Were you born yesterday? Of course they’ll be lying. They won’t even bother speaking to the operative unless the Commissioner kicks up a fuss with the Home Secretary.”
Geordie’s face was red with rage and Dee placed her hand on his arm to placate him.
“Terry, are you saying that if this person turns out to be the killer she might not even be tried?”
“Dee, as we are now obviously on first name terms, I’m not letting another spook slip through the net. But don’t be surprised if the suspect turns up dead at her own flat, with a written confession next to an empty bottle of pills.”
“Either way,” Geordie added ominously. The others in the room looked in his direction. His jaw was set in determination.
Chapter 25
MI5 Headquarters, Thames House, London, Friday 5pm.
Barry Mitchinson was bemoaning his lot. He was sitting in a cubicle in the middle of the office, with no window in sight. An air conditioning and heating duct, placed to suit an entirely open plan office, was sited directly above his head, a head almost free of the encumbrance of hair thanks to male pattern baldness.
As a result, he was always too hot in the winter and too cold in the summer. He was actually sweating today, although that might be down to the toothache. Barry had lost a filling last week and his NHS dentist couldn’t see him until after the weekend.
The phone rang and he picked it up. He tried not to sound bored. “Internal Investigations.”
“Hello, Mr Mitchinson. The Director of Investigative Services is standing beside me. He would like to see you now. He has a fifteen minute window.”
“Well, actually, I was just going out of the door as you rang,” he lied, “otherwise I’ll miss my train.”
“Mmm,” the Director’s PA intoned with apparent disinterest. “I’ll tell him you are on your way, then, shall I?”
Barry was left with a dialling tone. He slammed the receiver down.
“Damn!” he spat out venomously.
***
Maureen Lassiter had been the Director’s PA during his entire professional career; wherever he went, she went. She knew more about him than his wife. In fact, his wife would sometimes ring the PA to ask her what she should buy him for Christmas.
As Barry Mitchinson entered the Director’s suite, Maureen stood up. Without acknowledging his presence, she led him into the Director’s office and wordlessly pointed him in the direction of a hard seat facing the Director. Maureen closed the door behind them and sat on a comfortable sofa under the famous painting of Wellington at Waterloo. She flipped open her pad and looked at the poorly attired Mitchinson, who was clearly on tenterhooks.
The Director continued to write and did not look up. Barry was already sweating from that damned air conditioning outlet and was aware that the un-ironed check shirt he was wearing was now showing large damp patches under the arms and on his back. Furthermore, his unfashionable glasses had steamed up and he didn’t have anything to polish them with. All this and it was literally freezing outside.
Suddenly realising that his sleeves were still rolled up, he began to unroll them.
“Don’t bother, Mitchinson. I don’t think your tribute to Haute Couture can be improved upon.” The Director looked across at Maureen Lassiter and she returned the expected smile. “So, I was just wondering whether you would like working in the post room.”
Barry looked puzzled at the Director’s comment.
“You see, Mitchinson, since I took over this chair you have been demoted – sorry, vertically reallocated, no less than three times.”
Maureen winced in the background. She knew what was coming. The Director continued.
“Now you are sitting in the middle of a football field sized office with no staff and the worst job in the building.”
“Yes, Director. I was meaning to ask about that.”
The stare from the Director told the functionary that now was not the time.
“Two years ago you had an office with a Thames view; you had a driver and one of our famous expense accounts. Now you are a nobody, in an office full of nobodies, snitching on his colleagues. Tell me, Barry, how does Eloise feel about that?”
Eloise Ter Haar was Barry’s allegedly loyal wife. This alleged loyal wife had reverted to her maiden name, ‘for business purposes, darling’, as soon as he had been demoted from Assistant Director. Eloise mixed in the same circles as the Director in her role as her father’s business partner. Ter Haar Architectural Design had clients across the globe and Eloise was forever gloating about her job and her successful career. Barry suspected that she had been intimate with her clients on many occasions to secure assignments. He was also quite certain that she had slept with the Director of Investigative Services, whom Barry and Eloise had known since college.
Barry did not answer the question, knowing that there was no way to win that verbal battle.
“Not satisfied with ruining your own career, it appears that you are doing your level best to ruin mine, too.” The malevolent look on the Director’s face caused a shiver to run down Barry’s spine.
“Tell me, Barry, what was the last thing we discussed in this office?”
Barry knew the answer very well, but neither his brain nor his mouth reacted to the question.
“Maureen. If you please,” the Director asked in the direction of his PA. “It seems that Barry here has suffered a memory lapse.”
The PA read from her pad. “Mr Mitchinson explained that an ex employee of the service had taken to assassinating public figures for money, under the guise of the Chameleon. The s
aid employee was known as Douglas ‘Mac’ Mc Keown.”
“I see. Maureen, does your note record my response?” the Director asked in a clearly rehearsed dialogue.
“You asked Mr Mitchinson if he was certain that ‘Mac’ was the Chameleon.”
“And what was his answer, please, Maureen?”
“He said he was absolutely certain, he was one hundred per cent sure.”
“I see. Well, Barry. Are you still certain that Mac is the Chameleon and that he eliminated the Israeli foreign Minister?”
“Yes, Director. I am still certain.”
“Do you believe that he is also responsible for the death of the Hokobus, on my patch?”
“Absolutely, sir.” Barry felt he was on sure ground.
“Maureen, the file, please.” The PA handed a manila folder to the heavily perspiring Barry, who now feared the worst.
“Barry, is that a fingerprint request from the Met?”
“Yes.” Barry knew his tooth still ached but he couldn’t feel it. He just wanted to die.
“So, it seems the police have evidence that one of your former assassins killed the Hokobus, who were here as guests of the Foreign Office. Would have been nice of them to tell us, of course, but nonetheless, that person was not Doug Mc Keown, was it? It was Gil Davis, your former Wondergirl from special operations.”
Barry went white and felt sure that he would faint, but the Director continued regardless.
“Guess who was on Eurostar the day before the Israeli shooting, and who returned to St Pancras in the evening of the day of the shooting?”
The defeated Barry Mitchinson sighed what he feared would be the answer.
“Gil Davis?”
“So, Barry. Let me see if I can sum this up. Your Wondergirl from special ops is actually the Chameleon. Maureen, who, with all due respect to her, is a personal assistant with no special training, found this out with one phone call to HM Customs and the Border Police.
In the meantime, you, having used the full resources of the investigative branch, conclude that Mac is the Chameleon and you are so certain that you convince me to issue a notice on him.” The Director paused.
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