At his request the burial was a small family affair. A spokesman for the family said that Arthur never liked pomp and ceremony and so didn’t expect it at his funeral.’
I folded the paper and looked at my messages. DCI Boniface wanted a statement to confirm that Lord Hickstead had admitted to the murders of Sir Max Rochester and Andrew Cuthbertson. I would probably walk over to Wood Street at lunchtime and do what I could to ensure that Charlotte Cuthbertson benefitted from Andrew’s life assurance policy.
We loss adjusters have hearts as well.
J Jackson Bentley writes both fiction and non-fiction books and has been a published author for over sixteen years. He now works as a Legal Consultant in the UK, the USA, the Middle East and the Far East. His spare time is spent writing at home in the UK and in Florida. Married with four grown children he is currently writing a new thriller set in Dubai which has a horse racing theme.
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Extract from:
CHAMELEON
A City of London Thriller
By
J Jackson Bentley
Prologue
Vastrick Security, No 1 Poultry, London, Monday 9am.
Dee exited Bank tube station and was assailed by the biting cold wind. Banked snow still lay on the edges of roads and pavements but it was now deep frozen and granite hard. The ground underfoot was slippery where the occasional light rain had speckled the ground with water droplets that turned to ice on contact. She could feel the crunch of ice and frost under her boots.
Luckily, Dee didn’t have far to walk. The office block accommodating Vastrick Security was less a hundred yards away, but even that distance was a challenge in this, the coldest January since records began. Almost everyone was wearing scarves across their faces, and those that weren’t had frost forming on their cheeks where their expelled breath had frozen onto their skin before it could evaporate.
The sky was dark grey and heavy laden with black clouds. The winter solstice had passed just a couple of weeks earlier, and there seemed very little difference in the level of daylight between now and the shortest day. At nine in the morning it was just beginning to grow light, and yet it would be dark again by four. The grey clouds meant that the light levels would remain subdued all day, keeping the street lights illuminated almost constantly. Grey skies, grey weather, grey world.
Dee looked both ways before crossing the street, and whichever way she looked it was as if Ansel Addams had taken monochrome photograph of a city in winter. Most of the commuters looked as though they were wearing dark colours to match their dark mood. The occasional colourful outfit stood out like a beacon in this conservative area where neon was rare and the colours used for shop fronts were subdued.
Dee entered the office building through the swing doors and felt the immediate heat of the door curtain scorch her head. In the summer the door curtain would blow a wall of cool air across the entrance to stop the heat penetrating into the working areas. Today the wall was a wall of radiant heat which could have cooked a chicken. She passed through the invisible wall of heat and into the lobby area, which was several degrees cooler than it was designed to be. Glass atria may be great to look at, but they don’t keep much heat in.
Dee took the lift to the Vastrick Security offices. She had officially become a Vice President of Vastrick on January 1st this year, mainly, she suspected, because she had managed to get herself shot three times on her last big case.
When she stepped into the lobby she noticed that Andy was on reception duty. Andy was an investigator and so he was usually in the back office, but Dee guessed that the disruption to the roads and trains meant that some of their people would be working from home again. She was right; there were four backroom staff in the office, one investigator and one close protection operative, other than Dee herself.
Geordie, the other close protection operative, had been stuck in London since yesterday due to the failure of the trains to run from Kings Cross up to Newcastle, where he lived, and from which region he took his nickname. Everyone had called him Geordie for so long it was rare for anyone to refer to him by his real name, Pete Lowden, but everyone in the business knew who Geordie was, and he didn’t mind anyway, and so it really didn’t matter too much.
Dee removed her coat, scarf, boots and other sundry outerwear. Replacing her boots with sensible flat shoes, she was dressed in grey trousers, red roll neck sweater and a black tailored jacket. If anyone had seen what she was wearing for underwear they would have found it amusing. She was wearing her new husband’s thermals and had to admit that they kept her warm. At five feet eight inches tall, she was approximately the same height as Josh, her husband, and so the full length leg of the white thermal leggings tucked nicely underneath her socks.
The attractive young woman both missed and envied her new husband. He had been sitting by the pool at his five star hotel in Dubai enjoying Mediterranean style temperatures yesterday, when they spoke using the video service provided by Skype. He appeared to be enjoying himself far too much for her liking. But Josh wouldn’t be back for another three weeks. He was assessing the value of the loss incurred when a small shopping mall on Sheikh Zayed Road had been severely damaged by fire. The insurers were insistent that Dyson Brecht send out a senior loss adjuster, and Josh’s boss Toby had picked him. Dee would have gone along too if she hadn’t recently taken three weeks’ leave to go on honeymoon, and get shot.
Dee was just settling into her desk and booting up the computer when Geordie came in. He was over six feet tall, muscular without an ounce of fat on him, with close cropped dark hair. He was quite striking in his way. He had the rugged good looks that most women favour. He was dressed in his usual Chinos and Vastrick Polo top. Yesterday someone had asked him how he managed in the cold weather with just a polo shirt and a padded jacket. He looked at them with his piercing blue eyes and joked that he had encountered worse weather than this in the summer in Newcastle, which he then assured the London staff was just inside the Arctic Circle. He had said it with a straight face, and found it amusing that some of them actually believed it.
“We have a walk in,” he said with an economy of words that was typical of him. Despite his appearance he was quite shy around women, something that made him even more attractive to a lot of the female clients.
“It might be a time waster who has no idea of our hourly rates, but bring them in to Conference room 1 and we’ll give them fifteen minutes,” Dee said. Geordie headed towards the reception area whilst she walked across the corridor into the conference room and switched on the lights.
Dee was still asking housekeeping to send someone up to take orders for drinks when the ‘walk in’ stepped through the doorway. The woman was around Dee’s height but her hair was stacked on top of her head and wrapped in a colourful scarf that contrasted well with the rest of her outfit. She was accompanied by a handsome middle aged man dressed in a business suit and tie; her husband, perhaps. Although she was heavily built - she was probably too big for a size twenty dress - she carried herself well. Her ebony skin shone with good health and her dark eyes did nothing to conceal the intelligence that lay behind them. There was no hint of a smile, however, and Dee could see the tell-tale signs of worry which had brought her to their offices.
She was obviously a woman who believed in being direct.
“Hello, Mrs Hammond,” she said, in an accent Dee placed somewhere in central Africa.
“I am Victoria Hokobu and if you do not help me I fear I will be killed in the next seventy two hours.”
Chapter 1
Embassy of Marat, St James Square, London, Monday 9am.
Martin De Souza sat quietly in the reception area of the Marati Embassy and wondered why this poverty stricken nation enjoyed one of the most exclusive addresses for an Embassy anywhere in London.
If he hadn’t been in the mining business he would probably not even know where Marat was on the map of Africa. He suspected most of the world’s population were in the same boat. Could most Europeans point to a map of Africa and confidently point out Chad, Gabon, Guinea, Togo, the Central African Republic or Marat? He doubted it.
When Africa was ruled by the Europeans in the late nineteenth century most of these little countries did not exist, had different boundaries or different names. The area that comprises Marat and the Democratic Republic of the Congo was once considered the personal property of King Leopold II of Belgium. Even when wars were being fought in the late 20th Century in central Africa, nobody was fighting over the tiny mountainous land that was Marat. Not until De Souza’s father and uncle discovered tanzanite in those mountains in the 1990’s did anyone even seek political power. Until then the country 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 that was mined in Marat changed all of that. More expensive, and far rarer than diamonds, suddenly fortunes were there to be made. De Souza Mining had calculated that there were billions of dollars’ worth of tanzanite in Marat.
Within a year the UN oversaw elections, and Benjamin Matista was elected president. He then placed his closest advisers in the roles of chief of police and head of the tiny Marat army. There were rumours that Matista was a Somali and that he was not in fact born and raised in Marat, as he claimed, 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 in the reception area was a 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 Gardens.
The De Souzas could not 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 tell the people that once the army and police were paid for, 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 were agreeable to working even harder 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 there were bigger problems in Africa that had to be managed first. The fight against poverty was also hindered by the authorities who siphoned off the aid money, and whose greed knew no bounds, whose consciences knew no shame.
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 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.
“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’s well below freezing out there. 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. You have made a mistake.”
“No mistake. I saw her for myself. She arrived from Bangui on a KLM flight, changing at Schiphol. My informant stood behind her at passport control and assures me that she told the officer that her return journey is booked for Friday evening. My opinion is that she had someone drive her to the Central African Republic, so that you would not know she had travelled.”
“This is very bad news. She was supposedly under virtual house arrest. She will now speak at the international conference on Thursday morning and at the very least cast our government in a bad light. At worst she will persuade the Americans and British 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 visiting the Jewish Memorial Centre, and the minister was being guarded by Mossad. Victoria Hokobu has no such protection; there is 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, if a little expensive. The assassin demanded one million dollars per successful hit, and always ensured that payment was made. The Chameleon had let it be known to all prospective clients that the reason the Israeli Minister had been eliminated, and Mossad had been embarrassed, was not a political one. It was because Mossad had refused to pay the balance of the fee for assassinating a Hamas leader. Good marketing.
Whilst the Israeli cabinet made a huge fuss and complained to the international community that it was an unconscionable act of evil by Hamas, Mossad knew the reality, but they weren’t saying.
***
Once he was alone, Makabate’s first phone call was to the Marati Chief of Police, a fellow Somali, instructing him to pick up and question Vincent Utembo, the Hokobu’s head of security, immediately. Makabate understood very well that if he reported to the Ambassador before he knew the woman’s plans and had a plan to eliminate her, he would be punished for allowing her to make the journey. He had no intention of being sent back to Marat, through no fault of his own, where they would have him living in a hut somewhere, supervising a mine.
With a few more touches of his iPhone screen the diplomat called an answering service in London, left a message and told the girl that he needed a call back from Chameleon Enterprises by noon.
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48 Hours - A City of London Thriller Page 31
