Chameleon - A City of London Thriller (15 page)

“
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 and
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.

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.”