When it was finished, the Hall was by far the largest hall in England at that time, and probably in Europe. Measuring seventy three metres by twenty, it boasted a floor area covering one thousand five hundred and seventy four square metres, with a length of almost four cricket pitches end-to-end. Remarkably, for the time, it needed no intermediate columns to support the beautifully ornate arched roof timbers. With stained glass windows all around, the largest and most impressive was the South Window, which is relatively new, the old window having been destroyed during the Blitz. The big arched window is inlaid with the coats of arms and monograms of famous parliamentarians, and lists the ones who gave their lives in two World Wars.
This type of large open and unrestricted floor area was usually good news for assassins, but there is such a thing as being too open. The Chameleon noted from photographs that when the hall was laid out for conferences the steps that take up the South End of the hall are used for the presentations. The stone steps effectively form a raised platform on three levels, which is ideal for allowing the speakers to be seen from the floor of the hall. But because the hall provided very little cover, and was not ideal for snipers, the Chameleon would only strike during the conference if all else failed.
The first of three encrypted messages arrived at the Chameleon’s inbox, [email protected], and the recipient immediately began to make notes and plan the next seventy hours.
The conference program noted that the troublesome Victoria Hokobu was due to speak from the raised podium at ten o’clock on Thursday morning, and the client’s view was that if she was still speaking fifteen minutes later it would be too late; the damage would have been done. The Chameleon doodled on a lined pad while thinking; the words read:
‘Violets are blue,
Roses are red
Mrs. Hokobu
Will soon be dead’
Catchy, but probably not one of our bestsellers, the Chameleon thought.
Chapter 5
Vastrick Security, No 1 Poultry, London, Monday Noon.
Whilst the Chameleon was planning how to end Victoria Hokobu’s life, Geordie and Dee were working just as hard to preserve it.
At the client’s request, Dee had secured a Mercedes S Class Pullman Guard bulletproof saloon car with invisible armour, meaning that from the outside the car looks like any other production model. Nonetheless it has a larger engine, bullet resistant glass, a full armour plated pan protecting the underside of the car, further armour in the doors with the engine and radiator being protected against light arms fire by Kevlar shielding. The car also sported ‘drive flat’ tyres. Geordie was picking the car up from Exotic Cars of Longford Ltd, on Bath Road, near Heathrow Airport. They had been lucky to get the Mercedes at short notice, because such hire cars are very rare in London.
Dee was handling the accommodation. This was a little easier to arrange, because in London there are a number of expensive apartment buildings with extensive security arrangements and full time guards. A few even have permits allowing trained personnel to access handguns, which the police insist are kept in secure cabinets on the premises. Dee had rented an apartment from a regular supplier; the apartment was on the sixth floor of Parnell House on Oakley Street in Kensington. The secure car park could only be accessed through gates operated from the CCTV room.
Dee Hammond’s task was to ensure that between now and Mrs Hokobu’s presentation to the conference, she spent as much time as possible either in the bulletproof car or the secure apartment.
***
Over the years, clients had often baulked at the security arrangements made to keep them safe, arguing that they could hide away behind impenetrable walls on their own, and that the reason they hired Vastrick was so that they didn’t have to be isolated. Victoria Hokobu had made the same point. She was making her first visit outside Africa with her husband, and she wanted to enjoy London.
Geordie was not too concerned about showing the couple around the sights of London. He decided that he would simply choose the destinations randomly, so that no-one following would know where he was heading next. The car was a silver S Class Mercedes, of which there were thousands in the City, and so it would be relatively anonymous. In any case, Geordie was well trained in anti-surveillance techniques and he could spot a tail and lose it in London with ease.
But that was a problem for tomorrow, because the African couple were yawning every few minutes, having not slept at all during their twelve-hour flight from Bangui. All they wanted now was to go to their apartment, have English fish and chips, and watch British television until they fell asleep. Geordie offered to stay overnight with them, as their second bedroom would be far larger and more luxurious than his budget hotel room, and he would be on expenses.
Consequently, by early afternoon Geordie was driving the Mercedes in the direction of Fryers Tuck In, a fish and chip takeaway on the Kings Road, less than half a mile from the apartment. Gentle snoring was coming from the back seat, where both of his passengers were out for the count and leaning against each other.
They would soon wake up when they smelled cod and chips three times with salt, vinegar and mushy peas, Geordie thought, smiling.
Chapter 6
Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Monday 4pm.
The Chameleon printed out the encrypted file that had been sent by email. One of the reasons the Maratis were good customers was that their background information was always thorough, no doubt obtained by bribery and torture. Another reason that they were good to work for was that their targets were usually evil, low profile, unguarded and accessible.
The final reason that the Chameleon accepted the assignment was that someone very senior at MI5 had initially referred the Maratis to the Chameleon with the old code words. This meant that, in the view of that individual at least, the assassinations were probably in the UK’s national interest.
The notes in the extensive file explained that Victoria Hokobu had promised her head of security, Vincent Utembo, that she would seek protection when she landed in London. Vincent had told her that he would sleep more easily if she travelled in an armoured vehicle. She promised him she would follow his instructions. That was almost the last promise he received.
Utembo had received one final promise from the policemen who had shot him dead two hours ago. It was:
“Tell us all you know about the Hokobus’ trip to London and we will spare the lives of your wife and children.”
The photographs of the carnage in the humble stone built house were a testament to the emptiness of that promise.
The Chameleon could not know which security company the Hokobu woman would contact, but whoever she approached would need to hire in one of the half dozen bulletproof cars available for hire in the Home Counties. They would probably hire it today and keep it until after the Hokobus’ flight back on Friday.
***
The Chameleon made the fifth and final call to determine who was hiring armoured cars at the last minute; this call was to Exotic Cars of Longford, one of the few companies listed as suppliers of Protective Cars for hire. This last call would ensure that all of London’s specialist car hire companies had been contacted.
“Exotic Cars, Alexander speaking.”
“Alexander, I hope that you can help me. This is Highgate Protection Services and we need to hire a bulletproof car as soon as possible.”
“I’m sorry; I’ve just hired out the last armoured Mercedes.”
“Damn! Was it the wine coloured S Class shown on your website?”
“No, it was the silver S Class on the next page. When do you need it? It is due back on Friday night, so if you need it for the weekend...” Alexander offered hopefully.
“That would be ideal; can I book it tomorrow when the boss gets back?”
“Sure, that would be fine.”
“OK, until tomorrow. Oh, just one more thing; the car that you just hired out wasn’t booked by our sister company Douglas Protection Services in the Isl
e of Man, by any chance?”
“No, I’m afraid not. A guy from Vastrick Security picked it up.”
“OK. Thanks, Alexander, I’ll call back tomorrow,” the Chameleon lied, hanging up the phone.
This was by far the most likely candidate, and so a minute or two later the Vastrick website was showing on the Celebrato computer screen and the contact number listed was being dialled.
“Vastrick Security, Andy speaking.”
“Hello there. I am calling from the UN Ending Slavery, Ending Poverty, organising committee. Could I speak to Victoria Hokobi please?”
If Katie, the usual receptionist, had answered the phone she would have blurted out that Mrs Hokobu was the correct pronunciation, and that she had just left, but Andy was a little wilier. He suspected someone was fishing for information.
“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone of that name. Are you sure you wanted Vastrick Security?”
“Yes, quite sure. That’s odd. When we parted at Heathrow this morning after flying in from Bangui she said she was coming to see you. I do hope that she is OK.”
“Well, she doesn’t have an appointment, but if she does call on us do you have a message for her?”
“Yes, I do. Could you please tell her that we will do a sound check at eight o’clock on Thursday morning before she speaks at ten?”
“I’m sure that Mrs Hokobu is fine, and if she should happen to turn up at our door, I will be sure to pass on the message.”
The Chameleon smiled and put down the phone. It had seemed at first as though Vastrick was a dead end, but the young man on the phone confirmed the Chameleon’s suspicions when he pronounced her name Huckooboo, whereas the Chameleon had deliberately, but mistakenly, referred to her as Mrs Hokobi.
Chapter 7
Vastrick Security, No 1, Poultry, London, Monday 5pm.
Andy tapped on Dee’s office door and stepped inside. Dee motioned for him to take a seat whilst she finished typing a sentence on her computer. Andy watched her; she was a little shorter than his five feet ten inch frame, perhaps by a couple of inches. She was athletically built but she had the curves of a real woman. Her face was framed by flowing auburn hair that settled on her shoulders. Her hair shone with good health, or with good conditioner, or both. Dee wore little make up in the office but her facial beauty was defined by her finely sculpted cheekbones and her pretty nose. It was hard to believe that she was so tough.
“Well, Andy,” Dee smiled, and he felt a mellow warmth pass through him. “She’s a married woman now,” ran through his mind in an unspoken mantra, as he concentrated on the matter in hand.
“I took a call, allegedly from the UN Conference organisers, who were confirming a sound check for Mrs Hokobu on Thursday morning. I told them that we were unaware of anyone of that name but said that if she contacted us we would pass on the message.”
“Well done. It could have been a fishing exercise,” Dee mused.
“It was. I rang the organisers but they told me they don’t have sound checks for individual speakers.”
“The press trying for an exclusive, do you think? Or perhaps something more sinister?”
“I don’t believe it was the press, but I’ve listened to the tapes again. The caller referred to the client as Mrs Hokobi, but later in the conversation I’m afraid I called her Mrs Hokobu. They must know she is our client now.”
He waited for a blast from his new Vice President, but she sat quietly, thinking. Her well manicured hands sported short nails, with the lightest of pink nail polish. They were steepled, showing her expensive engagement ring and her gold wedding ring carved with Celtic symbols.
“OK. We don’t know how they tracked her to us, and I doubt that she told anyone she was coming here, given that she said that she had never heard of us until she saw our illuminated posters at Heathrow. On the positive side, they know she is being protected. On the negative side, they could sit in the lobby downstairs until she shows up and try something there.
Andy, you’d better warn our security men at the front door to keep their eyes open for any unusual activity and I’ll call Geordie and tell him not to come to the office. We’ll work from their apartment.”
“OK, Dee. And, sorry,” Andy said as Dee smiled again.
“Don’t you worry, we all make mistakes. Mine usually end up with me being shot.”
They both laughed and then set about making their calls.
Chapter 8
Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Monday 6pm.
The silver bulletproof Mercedes on the www.ExoticCarsLongford.com website sported the number plate X14 ECL. Presumably ECL was intended to represent Exotic Cars of Longford, the Chameleon thought.
So, what was known so far? Hokobu has hired Vastrick Security, less than a mile away from Spitalfields, close to Bank Station. Vastrick have hired the silver bulletproof Mercedes with the registration number X14 ECL.
How does that help? The Chameleon had only been in the killer for hire business for three short years, but one can learn a great deal in three years.
It didn’t feel like three years. In fact, the Chameleon’s dismissal from the service still rankled. It hardly seemed fair that one day you are asked to dispose of some foreign troublemaker, no questions asked; the next the Western Governments all get politically correct and you are surplus to requirements. What did they honestly expect their trained killers to do next? Work in an office, perhaps, or a factory? Drive a bus?
Any job was going to be an anti climax after the adrenaline-fuelled assignments these government agents had fulfilled in the past. The Chameleon was no different. Admittedly, operating a successful company was challenging and the original goal had been to raise enough cash from killing to buy a legitimate firm and then retire from the assassination business. The trouble was, that wasn’t enough. It was impossible to duplicate the adrenaline rush, the fear, the power of control over life and death, the satisfaction of watching the aftermath of a project, police looking for a killer whilst walking right past you without giving you a second glance.
Looking more like a greetings card executive than a notorious assassin had its advantages.
The Chameleon dialled a familiar number.
“Hello, David. How’s life in TfL’s Congestion Charges Department?”
“No, not you again! Why can’t you leave me alone? I’m going to lose my job if I keep helping you.”
David sighed; working in the Transport for London Congestion Charge Office was stressful enough without any aggravation from his mystery caller. David issued PCN’s - Penalty Charge Notices - and he had a target for the week. He had to ensure that any motorists who avoided the charge paid up, one way or another. If he spent time helping the Chameleon he would fall behind, and he would be spoken to yet again. Worse still, if his superiors ever found him using the system for personal reasons he would be sacked on the spot.
All this for fifteen quid an hour, he thought. He used to be a steel fixer until the slump. He made more in a day during the construction boom than he did in a week here. The Chameleon issued a gentle reminder.
“David, I am the holder of the secrets. I have never let you down and I don’t expect you to let me down. No-one forced you to take part in the movie with that poor woman.”
“I was high. Someone had spiked my drink and I didn’t know it was going to be released on the Internet. There were four other men there. Why pick on me?”
“David, the other four are also helpful to me, but I must say that to perform as you did when drunk was deeply impressive. Anyway, we’re wasting time. You have targets to meet. The vehicle you are looking for is a silver Mercedes saloon with the registration number X14 ECL.”
“What do you want me to do?” The man sighed with resignation.
“I want to know where it is all day tomorrow.”
“OK, but I’m not on until ten in the morning, and I finish at six. Also, you need to remember that I can only track it when it goes past a camera with plate r
ecognition.”
“That will serve my needs. Thanks Dave, it’s always a pleasure.”
The Chameleon terminated the call and wondered whether tomorrow could be the day. The excitement was already rising. It had been a while since the Israeli hit. It hadn’t been a difficult job, as the Mossad had been misdirected by a public threat from Hamas, which they had dealt with, and so they hadn’t thought that the minister was at any risk in the private closed meeting later in the day. The Chameleon clearly remembered the looks on their faces; the panic; happy days.
“One day I think I’ll write an autobiography and give away all of my trade secrets,” the Chameleon thought with a satisfied smile, “and I’ll start with the Parisian job.”
Chapter 9
Hôtel D’ Israel, Rue De Rivoli, Paris, France. 3 months ago.
Laurent Gascoigne was not a typical Mossad agent. His parents had immigrated to Israel when he was a child, making him eligible for military service. Laurent had intended to pursue a career in architecture until he found his real home in the army. When his service was completed he was approached by ‘The Insitution’, short for Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, the Israeli national intelligence agency. In English it is better known by its Hebrew name, Mossad.
He was attractive to the Mossad because he was French born and held a French passport. He also spoke fluent French with a Normandy accent. The Mossad had around fifty permanent agents across Western Europe, and a native with total loyalty to the mother country was a prize of great value.
So it was that Laurent found himself walking up Rue Geoffroi L'Asnier towards his hotel. He had just been to the Mémorial de la Shoah to do his final reconnaissance. The Israeli Minister for Culture would arrive early in the morning at Charles De Gaulle Airport and would travel directly to the Museum. In the memorial gardens he would speak about French-Jewish relations and a joint heritage. He would also refer to the Holocaust and salute the many brave resistance fighters who harboured Jews who would otherwise have been slaughtered.
On this occasion Laurent was working with Shin Bet agents. These men were members of the Internal Israel Security agency (ISA), Sherut haBitachon haKlali, known in Israel by the acronym Shabak. Elsewhere in the world they were colloquially referred to as Shin Bet, the old name for the security agency.
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