Chameleon - A City of London Thriller

by J Jackson Bentley

  Geordie, otherwise known as Pete Lowden to the world, looked at Dee and spoke from the heart.

  “Dee, I don’t want to sound cruel but these people had a mission, a purpose; they could have saved thousands of Africans from poverty and starvation, whereas most of our clients are self important nobodies who are only afraid for themselves.”

  “Pete, I’ve been thinking about how we can pay a tribute to them and get their work done in their absence. I’ll talk to you about it later. Now, get some rest and get that oxygen level back up.” The young woman gently placed the mask back on her colleague’s face before kissing him on the forehead.

  ***

  “Miss Conrad. Oh, sorry, I mean Mrs Hammond. I didn’t think we’d ever meet again, at least not in our professional capacities.” Detective Chief Inspector Coombes and Dee had endured an uncomfortable start to their relationship when he arrested her in connection with a murder enquiry where she had initially been a suspect. Since then, however, they had established a good working relationship that was based on mutual respect.

  “Terry, I just don’t know what to say. We’re devastated. We were protecting this couple.”

  “Dee, if it helps at all you had no chance. This was a contract hit by one of the best. If this attempt had failed there would have been another and so on until we reached this point.” He paused and looked at Dee. “I know that Geordie feels bad about this, but the best thing we can all do is find the killer. The reason that is particularly important is because, in my view, when we find the killer we’ll find someone who has a number of other murders to their name.”

  The DCI and the Vastrick Vice President walked over to the car where the bodies were still being examined in place. The Scene of Crimes Officer walked over to them. The SOCO was in his early forties, short but slightly underweight. His hair had receded long ago and was wispy and red where the colour still remained amongst the grey.

  “DCI Coombes. Oh, and who is this beautiful lady? She’s a definite improvement on Scott.”

  “This is Dee Hammond, Warren. She isn’t on the force. She heads up Vastrick Security.”

  “Well, my dear,” the SOCO continued, “you are privileged indeed. Terry here normally wouldn’t let a civilian near the crime scene. But then, you are Dee Conrad. We almost met once before. I was the SOCO at the Tottenham Press shootout, although you were obviously injured at the time so I’m not surprised that you don’t remember me. I’m pleased to meet you properly at last and to see that you appear to be totally recovered.”

  Dee shook Warren’s hand and explained why she was there. The older man shook his head mournfully as if wondering to himself why people had to hurt one another, especially the caring ones who could do so much good.

  His report was succinct but full of surprises.

  “The couple were disabled by a gas or gaseous liquid that contained either a strong muscle relaxant or a paralytic. We won’t know the exact details until we have the tox screen done. Then, like some kind of spy movie, they are not shot, stabbed or strangled but are injected with air, directly into the carotid artery, here.” The examiner pointed to his own carotid artery. “This is a very tricky procedure and it’s not guaranteed to work at all, let alone kill. Often it will cause brain damage or result in a recoverable stroke or coronary. Here it killed, and quite quickly too.

  My guess is that the relaxant they were given first would have prevented them from suffering. Embolisms are extraordinarily painful, usually.

  Finally, I would suggest that this is a professional job. Beyond that I would say that this type of execution is usually the province of governmental assassins, or black ops as they like to call it in the States.”

  He promised that an interim report would be ready by that evening, with a full report within seven days.

  Coombes and Dee wandered across to DS Scott, who had been busy interviewing eyewitnesses. When they arrived at his side he had a puzzled look on his face.

  “I think we have a problem, Guv,” he said uncertainly. “Every witness saw the same thing. A policewoman approached Pete Lowden. He collapsed and she ushered the victim couple away.”

  “A policewoman?” Coombes replied quizzically.

  “That’s what they all say, Guv.”

  Chapter 18

  Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Wednesday Noon.

  The offices were bustling when Gil returned to the office, properly attired and bearing no resemblance to the policewoman of that morning’s events. She had been ready to leave her apartment when she remembered that she had left her brown contact lenses in and so she quickly removed the left lens, restoring her steely blue-grey eye. When she came to the right eye she noticed it was missing. It must have fallen out sometime during the morning. One brown eye and one blue eye would have been hard to explain at the office. Worse was the possibility that she had left behind a clue to her identity.

  Not being identified was clearly a key objective when one was working as an assassin, and so when she was working on assignments the Chameleon liked to wear uniforms, because witnesses could rarely see past the uniform to notice any identifiable features on the wearer. Then, just to be certain, if you could hide your hair and change your eye colour, the chances of the witnesses providing a worthwhile identification were almost nil.

  Gil sat down at her desk, but before she had time to worry about missing contact lenses her assistant came into her office.

  “Miss Davis, I have been trying to call you all morning. The accountant has been on the phone and he wants you to call him immediately.”

  “Thank you, Sheila, I’ll do that now before I get drawn into other things.” The assistant left her office and Gil dialled a familiar number.

  “Duncan, this is Gil. I believe you called me and left a message.”

  “Gil. Yes, I did. Great news, I think. Anyway the Clayton Card Chain has upped the offer for Celebrato. They have almost no online service and we have no shops. They see a tremendous synergy.”

  The Celebrato MD sighed. During the last year, Clayton Card Chain had made an offer for her business almost every month.

  “Then they are wrong, Duncan,” she answered. “You know as well as I do that if we had our own card shops the major retailers would be reluctant to stock our cards, and that’s where we make most of our turnover. I agree that the high margin sales would increase if we sold through an extra one hundred and thirty card shops, but ultimately we would lose turnover. They must know that.”

  “Gil, maybe they do and maybe they don’t. Perhaps they have a strategy to overcome the risk of reduced turnover and maybe they don’t. What I do know is that they now think that we are worth fourteen and a half million pounds.”

  Gillian tried not to react. Her share of the company would net her well over ten million pounds in a scenario such as that, a five fold return on her investment over the past two years.

  “OK, Duncan, tell them I am ready to talk, but that I want an exit plan for the end of the year. I’m done with working for other people.”

  The Chameleon sat back in her comfortable leather chair and breathed out heavily, relaxing every muscle. She was on the verge of a fourteen million pound deal and she still had the Chameleon money in the bank in Grand Cayman, amounting to over eleven million dollars, with a million more due today.

  Gillian Davis was a rich woman, thanks to both the original Chameleon and her own business acumen. She thought back to Mac, the original Chameleon, and how he had not lived to enjoy the fruits of his labours. He had earned just less than half of the US Dollar account, but on his demise the joint account became hers alone.

  Out of nothing more than sentimentality, Gil had spent almost a year searching for Mac’s relatives so that she could pass on the frozen remains of her partner for burial and dispense his share of the money, but she found only two living relatives, a wife and daughter who both refused to bury his remains. They were so awful when she spoke to them that she wanted to terminate both of them. Whilst
she restrained herself, she could not bring herself to pass on his money to women who vilified him so completely.

  Gil missed Mac, otherwise known as Douglas Mc Keown, because he had been both her partner and her confidante. The age difference also meant that he treated her like a daughter and never made any romantic advances. He was almost a replacement for Uncle Nick; almost, but not quite.

  Mac had an intense dislike of working with governments who had to use mercenaries to win or maintain control of their own countries, but as an assassin it was inevitable that he would eventually be hired by one. As a result, Mac had been in the Ukraine with an assignment to detonate a bomb at a political rally and kill the trouble-making opposition leader. Perhaps Mac should have followed his first two rules; don’t work for zealots and don’t work with amateurs.

  Working under the scrutiny of CCTV and observation by his government employers who recorded the whole process on DVD, Mac had been careful and cautious in his preparations; he had handled the explosives and detonators by the book. His methodology was foolproof except for one thing; an idiot Irishman whom the client assured Mac was an explosives expert. Whilst they were packing the perfectly safe and malleable Semtex into two briefcases, the Irishman inadvertently detonated his Semtex. The explosion simultaneously detonated Mac’s otherwise stable Semtex just inches away. The two men were almost vaporised. The building was destroyed and the DVD picture vanished into a universe of white noise. Eventually Mac’s belongings were sent to the Chameleon’s London drop box, with a note of regret and an explanation that no further payment was due. Thankfully, Mac’s employers were religious extremists who believed that they were under an obligation to ensure that as many body parts as possible were properly interned. As a result the drop box contained the DVD and a receipt for Mac’s remains, which had been sent to Cryostorage UK, in London. Gil knew that sooner or later she would have to recover the remains and have them interred, but somehow it never seemed to be the right time.

  Later Gil would reflect on why Mac had come into the forefront of her mind at the exact moment that someone else was looking for him urgently, an ex colleague whose search for the Chameleon would bring him to her door.

  Chapter 19

  Vastrick Security, No 1 Poultry, London, Wednesday 4pm.

  Geordie, recently released from the accident and emergency unit at Guys and St Thomas’ Hospital near London Bridge, was looking at Dee’s plan and smiling for the first time since the deaths of the Hokobus.

  “This is brilliant! It is a real tribute to Victoria. How did you manage to arrange it so quickly?”

  “I spoke to Angela, explained the circumstances and she insisted on helping. I didn’t even have to ask. She adores you, apparently. What is it with you and these older women?” Dee paused. “Anyway, grateful as she was for your protection in 2009, she said that it was the cause that obliged her to become involved.”

  “Aye, she insisted on calling me Bonnie Lad because she heard that Geordies use the expression. No-one had called me Bonnie Lad since me Granddad died.”

  They went over the plan again in detail so that Angela’s hard work would not be in vain.

  ***

  The telephone rang at the Celebrato Cards reception. The receptionist answered the phone, avidly following her usual script.

  “Ms Davis, please. Tell her that Peter Wright from the Foreign Office is calling.” His name was not Peter Wright, nor was he from the foreign office; that was an in joke based on the fact that an ex employee called Peter Wright had almost ended MI5’s secret existence by publishing his notorious book ‘Spycatcher’. The caller expected Gil to recognise the long unused code for an urgent meeting.

  He was eventually put through to a voice he recognised, even after all of this time.

  “Gil, it’s Tim McKinnon. We need to meet urgently.”

  “Well, hello to you, too, Tim. It’s been a long time. You never write, you never call....”

  “Sorry, Gil. How have you been? Are you married yet? Kids?”

  “I expect you already know the answer to those questions and many more. Do you still keep files on ex employees’ lives after the service?”

  “Astute as ever, I see. I know most of what you have been up to, yes. As for me, I married Celeste, after the world’s longest engagement, and now we have two kids. But we can catch up on all of that when we meet.”

  “Why are you so convinced I will agree to a meeting at all?”

  “It will be a ‘coded’ meeting, Gil. The top bosses think it’s that important.”

  Gil considered the prospect of a ‘coded’ meeting so long after she left the service. A coded meeting was a formal meeting held under the Code for Operatives as determined by the Official Secrets Act. Such meetings were held rarely, and so the subject matter was going to be serious.

  “OK Tim, where and when do we meet?”

  “The Tunnel, as usual. Ten in the morning, tomorrow.”

  “You spies are all the same. Why not McDonald’s for a change? Why an abandoned tube station? It’s all a bit cold war, isn’t it?”

  “We still have a facility down there. You will find your way in quite easily. There is only a standard three lever lock to beat. It should take you all of ten seconds, unless you’re rusty.”

  “I’ll be there, Tim, but I have a company to run. I can’t afford to do anything more than talk for free.”

  “Don’t worry, I have a budget.”

  Chapter 20

  Westminster Hall, London: Thursday 9:55am.

  The hall was laid out much as it had been for the visit of Pope Benedict XVI a few months earlier. The seating was laid out on the lower level floor in theatre style. The first few rows had comfortably upholstered seats and were reserved for invited guests. The rank and file of attendees sat on barely padded chairs which appeared to have been in use since the Second World War.

  This was the third day of the conference but by far the most important. Today the discussion was on foreign aid and how to ensure it reached the needy and helped the UN to defeat slavery and poverty. In today’s gathering were over forty ambassadors, the UK Foreign Secretary and the former UN Secretary General Kofi Annan. The Secretary of State for the US was joining the current UN Secretary General, Ban Ki Moon, in the UN Building to participate by video link. Both looked sprightly, considering it was five o’clock in the morning where they were sitting.

  The first talk was scheduled to last twenty minutes, and it was to be a plea for fairness in the distribution of aid by Victoria Hokobu, daughter of the late, but still revered, African statesman Jaafar Hokobu.

  As the crowd settled the UK Foreign Secretary rose and walked to the podium. A man of medium stature who had been in the public eye since he had vocally supported Margaret Thatcher on TV as a teenager, he was now shaven headed in an attempt to conceal the fact that he was prematurely balding. In the familiar nasal tone that reflected his upbringing in a middle class home in North Yorkshire, he opened the ceremony by inviting Bishop Kuma Matwami of Nigeria to offer an invocation and prayer for the poor and afflicted.

  There followed a minute or two of business, explaining to the delegates where the fire exits, restrooms and most importantly, the refreshments were situated. The Marati Ambassador and brother of the president, His Excellency Solomon Matista, sat expectantly beside his aide Jalou Makabate.

  Solomon Matista was as ruthless as his brother, but today, in just a few moments, a woman he had only heard of in Marati folklore was due to speak to the audience. Of course, he had been assured that she was now dead, and so he had offered himself as reserve speaker in case she could not make the conference. He sat ready with his notes, preparing to give a twenty minute presentation saluting the fine work of Victoria Hokobu in bringing to his brother’s attention the abuses of state and foreign aid. This practice, he would assure the audience, had now been ended thanks to the great efforts of President Matista.

  The UN official completed his announcements with the introduction of
Victoria Hokobu, the African Human Rights Campaigner from Marat. The audience followed the official and applauded when the introduction was made.

  The Marati delegation smiled at the prospect of the confusion that would reign when it was clear that their key speaker was not present.

  From behind a screen at the side of the stage strode a large African woman dressed in brightly coloured clothes and smiling widely. The Marati ambassador’s jaw dropped open as, in the familiar sing song dialect of the tribes of central Africa, she began to speak.

  “Good Morning Mr General Secretary, Secretary of State and Mr Foreign Secretary. I am Victoria Hokobu and I am here to talk to you about how your generous aid is failing to lift central Africans out of slavery and poverty.”

  ***

  The murderous look on the face of the Ambassador sent Jalou Makabate scurrying out of the great hall, fumbling with his cell phone as he exited into the freezing cold morning air. The big African shivered as he dialled the number for the Chameleon’s answering service. As soon as the girl picked up at the other end he yelled into the phone.

  “This is JM of St James’s square. I need a return call to this number immediately. There is an emergency.” Then he remembered the agreed code. “The patient needs further treatment.”

  He stood outside, exhaling clouds of warm carbon dioxide into the chilled air. He could feel the cold in his bones already, but he dared not return until he had an explanation.

  After an interminable and uncomfortable wait, that was in real time only eleven minutes, his phone vibrated. He answered immediately. The voice he heard was not as distorted as it usually was.

  “JM, your call is unnecessary; the patient did not survive the operation.”

  “Is that so? Then how do you explain that the patient is standing in the hall behind me, ending my career, and quite possibly, my life? I paid you a million dollars, for heaven’s sake!”

  The Chameleon paused for a moment and spoke into the distortion device.

  “JM, your money was well spent. I can assure you that the patient and her husband are in the company of angels. Call me again when you know the full story.”

  The line went dead and Jalou entered the building to find his way to the great hall blocked by a uniformed figure.