“And who exactly is being tasked with executing this innocent man, who as far as we know is enjoying a peaceful retirement growing spuds? Oh, that’s right. Gil Davis. The real Chameleon!”
The last three words were screamed in a tone that scared even Maureen Lassiter, and she had rehearsed it with the Director just moments before. Mitchinson’s whole body shook and tears welled in his eyes.
“Unless you want to spend the rest of your career in Iraq armed with a stick, poking at suspected IED’s, you will do two things. Firstly, you will stop the killing of Doug Mc Keown in its tracks and you will get him back here so that competent operatives can carry out a proper investigation. Second, you will ensure that Wondergirl is peacefully at rest by the time I write my next report for the Home Office next Friday. Could I be any clearer?”
“No, sir,” Barry replied, voice trembling.
“Now, get out of my office before I get the bomb squad recruiting officer in here to sign you up.”
Barry stood up and looked at the Director and his PA with their stony faces, and exited the office, convinced that he could feel his superior’s malevolent stare piercing his back.
In the men’s room Barry splashed his face with cold water, lamenting his situation. He had ordered an innocent man’s execution at the hands of the real assassin, and she was primed to carry out the execution this weekend.
What was worse, significantly worse, was the fact that the real Chameleon had ‘gone dark’ at noon and neither Barry nor Tim had any way of contacting their former Wondergirl to call off the assassination.
Barry might just as well put a contract out on himself; at least Gil Davis would make his exit from this miserable existence quick and relatively painless.
***
Gordon Traylor, Director of Special Investigative Services, had been hotly tipped to be the new head of MI5, thanks to his cooperation with the last government. He had done all of the hard work on the “sexing up” of the Iraqi Invasion Portfolio but John Scarlett had taken the flak, the praise and then Tony Blair’s promotion.
Rankling as it did with Traylor, he knew his time would come, but first he had to clean house. He would not take the blame for policies former government ministers sanctioned. Now here he was, caught in the middle of a civil war in Marat.
Two years ago Marat had been on the brink of civil war when strikes brought the mines to a standstill, but with his help the Marati Government were able to finance a mercenary brigade and suppress the uprising. In return, the British Government won a forty million pound order for mining machinery to be manufactured in a marginal midlands constituency, and Mrs Traylor now owned a Tanzanite necklace containing more carats than little Peter Rabbit could eat in a lifetime.
Doug Mc Keown had happily carried out Traylor’s bidding even after ‘Mac’ had left the service. Hell’s teeth, Traylor had even suggested the name. The Director had always known that he could trust ‘Mac’ to keep quiet about his former Director’s involvement whilst the pay checks rolled in, but Gillian Davis? There was a girl he would never trust.
With both versions of the Chameleon out of the way, Traylor’s links with a dozen or more unauthorised assassinations would be severed, and he could look forward to heading up the firm and enjoying a well-funded retirement. If only that idiot Mitchinson could ensure that the former Wondergirl was terminated, and soon.
Feeling much happier now that he had a plan, he lifted his BlackBerry and called a London number. Tonight he needed the kind of distraction that Mrs Traylor would never provide.
The phone trilled three times before a husky female voice answered. “Ter Haar Architects, Eloise speaking.”
Chapter 26
Cryostorage UK, Ariel Way, White City, London.
Saturday 10am.
Gil left Wood Lane tube station and found herself on Wood Lane itself, staring at the White City HQ of the BBC. Housed in unspectacular brick buildings behind security gates, the area was quite busy as staff readied themselves for a move to Salford in Manchester. The young assassin caught sight of equipment and files being loaded into vans ready for the long drive north.
Turning left, Gil passed under the old grey steel bridge that carried the local tube trains, only to be confronted by an unlikely modern office building with imposing black glazing set into a modern red brick tower. The building was only a few storeys high but it looked impressive in this low rise, formerly run down, area. Before she entered the smoke glass doors of Network House she turned to look at the postmodern architectural monstrosity on the other side of Ariel Way, which was the new Westfields Shopping Mall. Enclosed in light grey cladding, the huge building looked more industrial than commercial. Still, they had a memorable logo and no doubt the front entrance was impressive. Gil had no intention of finding out. An LED matrix mounted on one of the bleak grey walls flashed that the shopping centre car park had 3769 parking spaces available.
A number of media related companies were housed inside the Network building, including a couple of TV Production companies; not surprising, perhaps, given the proximity to BBC White City.
At the reception desk Gil introduced herself as Mrs Doug Mc Keown and was directed to the Isa Labella Café, which was situated in Network House on the ground floor, and where one Arthur Bellwood was waiting. He would have stood out in a crowd, as he was very tall and thin with the demeanour of an undertaker. His lank hair was unfashionably long and fell below his starched white collar. Arthur did not have to stand out in a crowd, as it happened, because he was the only person there.
Gil walked towards him and extended her hand. He wiped his hands with a napkin to remove any residue of egg yolk or HP sauce that might have migrated from his full English breakfast to his fingers.
“Mrs Mc Keown. It is a pleasure to meet you at last, though you are much younger than I expected, and these are less than convivial circumstances.”
“Thank you, Mr Bellwood. I am the second Mrs Mc Keown. A trophy wife, I fear, but one who loved Douglas dearly and who was stubborn enough to fight his first wife for his remains.”
“Indeed so, Mrs Mc Keown, and may I say that whilst you have all the necessary attributes of the said trophy wife, your obvious affection, intellect and endurance speaks of a much deeper relationship.”
Gil nodded mournfully, whilst casually wondering whether Arthur Bellwood spoke like this at home. Perhaps he did. Perhaps when he arrived home he would announce himself.
“I’m home, dear. Your respectful and devoted husband wishes to join you for a brief evening repast. How does that dutiful request combine, or otherwise, with your own plans?”
“Oh, do shut up, Arthur. Your dinner is in the oven. I’m off to the Gala bingo. It’s big prize night.”
Whilst she had been daydreaming, Arthur had continued speaking, but Gil decided that whatever he said would have been flattering but irrelevant. Her eyes turned to the aluminium case beside the table.
The case was about the size of a large carry on bag that one might use in an aircraft. It had a demountable handle and wheels. On the top of the case, in front of a sturdy looking carrying handle, was a transparent strip which encased diodes that glowed an attractive blue colour. As she watched the last diode turned red.
“As discussed, everything has been carefully stored since the unfortunate East European conflagration, and now,” he patted the case, “the remnants of a life well lived have been lovingly packed into this refrigerated carrier.”
“I see,” Gil responded, curiosity piqued. “How long do I have before Douglas defrosts?”
Bellwood looked at Gil as if she had uttered a vile expletive, but then he replied respectfully.
“The blue lights indicate a satisfactory internal temperature. There is a battery and a small condenser unit in the base. It is cold outside and so you probably have around six hours before you need to attach the case to the mains with the built in lead.” The dour man pointed to a mains lead built into the back of the case.
Afte
r a little more funereal banter, Gil asked a question that had been at the forefront of her mind for a while.
“Arthur - I may call you Arthur?” Bellwood’s lips moved from their fixed position, which denoted a frown, into a straight line. Gil took this to be Arthur Bellwood’s smile of assent.
“Why do you meet in this office building when we can see you premises out of the window?” Gil pointed to the end one of three single storey industrial units, which carried the name of Cryogenic Storage UK. The building was probably only twenty five metres away.
“Ah, your perceptiveness has indeed penetrated my little affectation for being overly sensitive. The fact is that I retain a small office here in Network House for meeting clients, as they often feel uncomfortable about being in the same building as a significant number of departed carbon based life forms of the same species.”
“Frozen dead bodies, you mean?” Gil said, cutting to the chase.
“Indeed so. Your talent for assembling a blunt précis has, once again, lanced my sentient sentimentality with the sharp point of factual observation.”
“Now he is taking the Mickey,” Gil thought, and Arthur’s lips quivered at the corners as if fighting to lift in the semblance of a smile, but all the while being hindered by the underuse of the necessary facial muscles.
***
Twenty four hours later, having checked the contents, Gil would leave the case with Damian Basford, the forensic pathologist routinely used by the service to examine the bodies of those who had died on assignments. She had already written a brief note, which read:
Dear Tim/Damian,
Here are Mac’s remains. Not many, I’m afraid. I used a little more DHX than I needed. Sorry. Attached is a certified DNA printout confirming the remains are Doug’s.
G.
Chapter 27
Vastrick Security, Nr 1 Poultry, London. Monday 17th January 8:45am
The weather had improved dramatically over the weekend and the daytime high was predicted to be as high as ten degrees Celsius, or 50 degrees Fahrenheit, almost tropical compared to the weather a week earlier.
Dee was sitting at her desk awaiting the arrival of Sergeant Scott, who had telephoned to say he would call in on his way to work. Geordie was back in Newcastle, thanks to the East Coast line being open again between Kings Cross and Edinburgh Waverley. It was better for him to be away from the constant reminders of the Hokobus. Many of the staff had been avoiding Conference Room 1, where the Hokobus belongings were being stored now that the police had finished with the apartment. It had been cleared by a furious property agent, who complained that he was losing rental income by the day.
As Dee stared out of the window, her laptop chimed a familiar buzzing tone; she had an incoming Skype call. A thumbnail picture of her husband Josh appeared above a green lozenge shaped screen button that read ‘accept call with video’. She steered the mouse over the button and clicked, opening the video page. The image from her own webcam appeared first. It was Monday morning and she already looked washed out and tired. She quickly pushed her long auburn hair into shape and smiled. An arrow that had been chasing its own tail around the screen cleared, and a large video pane opened. A tanned and relaxed Josh Hammond appeared in the window.
Dee had known Josh for only a few months, but she felt like they had been together for years. They say that love prospers in adversity, and for this particular couple it had proven to be true. Dee had been assigned to protect Josh from a serious death threat just a few months ago, and had managed to get shot on two separate occasions whilst fulfilling her obligations. They married in haste but had no intention of repenting at leisure; the truth of the matter was that they were still smitten with one another.
Josh grinned at her. Unconventionally handsome with short dark hair, and clean-shaven, his white cotton shirt was open at the collar, as it usually was when he was calling from Dubai.
“Hi, Dee. I just wanted you to know that we’ve settled the claim and I’m looking for a flight back, but the schedules have been thrown off by the snow at your end and dust storms here.”
“So, what does that mean, lover boy? When will I have a man in my bed again?”
“Well, if you insist on waiting for me to be that man, I guess Thursday or Friday. The flights out are always packed on Thursday, but Friday should be easier, given that it’s the first day of the weekend.”
They had both learned to come to terms with the weekend in the Middle East being Friday and Saturday. Nonetheless, Josh continually confused Dee when he called from the office on a Sunday proclaiming it to be Monday, obviously confused because he was so familiar with the working week starting on Monday.
“Josh, I have Sergeant Scott arriving shortly....”
“Give him my regards and tell him I’ll bring him back a stick of Dubai rock,” Josh interrupted, unaware that the short time lapse meant that his wife was still speaking. She managed a smile, which faded quickly.
“I will, but I want you to know that this has been an appalling few days. I need you home. I love you.”
“Everybody loves me, but you get first shout. I love you too. I promise I’ll send someone else out here next time. But Dee...”
“Yes?”
“The Hokobus couldn’t have had better friends or more dedicated protectors than you and Geordie, and I think they would be praising you for starting the process that has ended Benjamin Matista’s presidency.”
“What?” This was a surprise to Dee.
“Yes. I forget we’re four hours ahead of you. I just heard on CNN that President Matista was arrested by Congolese troops at the border. He was dressed as a woman and was hiding in the back of a truck. The trucks in the convoy were laden with Tanzanite, works of art, furniture and millions of dollars in various currencies.
They think he emptied the National Bank vaults before attempting to leave the country.
Hold on.” Josh turned his head towards a TV set and his face took on a gentle blue hue.
“Yes, there we are. He’s been taken back to Katamimba to face trial. It seems that he’s likely to be enjoying the cuisine of the Katamimba Prison for a while to come.”
Dee punched the air.
“With any luck they’ll hang the arrogant, thieving bastard.”
“Whoa there! Who has taken over my wife, and where did Dee go? You didn’t even get this angry when you were shot, twice, last year.”
“There was a difference.” She smiled, a warmer and less forced affair than before.
“Oh yes, and what was that?” Josh asked already suspecting the answer.
“Morphine,” his wife replied breathlessly.
“I think I proposed to you when you were under the influence of morphine.”
“That would explain a lot,” Dee joked.
There was a tap on the door and Dee beckoned in Sergeant Scott.
***
After a brief and humour laced chat between Scott and Josh, the various parties said their goodbyes and ended the call. The Detective Sergeant sat down and opened his backpack, retrieving a file.
“OK, Paul, just give me the bad news.”
“How do you know it’s bad news?”
“An old police edict - good news on the phone, bad news in person.”
“Am I that predictable or what? Anyhow, the DCI was spot on when he said that MI5 would protect the name of their officer. I have an email from the Director who says that they are currently recalling the suspect from a distant assignment, and that they will debrief the operative in the next day or two. If the operative can possibly have been involved they will consider handing her to us for questioning, with the proviso their internal counsel is also present.”
“Great. So, she did it, and they’re going to make sure that she disappears one way or another.” Dee threw her pencil onto the desk to display her disgust.
“Dee, I think we both know DCI Coombes is cuter than that. He has an alternative plan.”
Dee looked at the DS and raised her
eyebrows questioningly.
“Go on, DS Scott. Do tell.”
“Well, last year we all helped MI5 out on an operation in Cyprus. You, of course, still bear the scars of the bullet wound. The MI5 man who was responsible for letting things spiral out of control that day was Norrie Boyle, ex job.”
“I know him well,” Dee nodded. “We shared a hospital room. We both had bullet holes in us, as you so sensitively reminded me. I haven’t heard from him since he went down for surgery, except to say that I know he fully recovered.”
“Actually he didn’t fully recover. There was some internal organ damage and he is now desk bound at Thames House. DCI Coombes reckoned Boyle owed you a favour and had a brief chat with him. I’m expecting to bump into Norrie Boyle at the Wig and Pen at around noon today. Would you be interested in a spot of lunch, by any chance?”
“That’s a lawyers’ bar, isn’t it? Just opposite the Royal Courts. I thought it was members only?”
“Don’t worry. The smoke filled gentleman’s bar you remember is a nice Thai Restaurant now.”
***
Gil was trying to come to terms with her life as a woman of leisure. That morning she had awoken to an alarm clock that had not sounded for the first time in years. New owners and managers would be swarming around Celebrato Cards and organising things their own way.
By Saturday at noon she had her money, and the company she had built passed to the new owners at midnight last night. She had already cancelled her gym membership, as the Spitalfield gym was miles out of her way now and the lease on her furnished flat ran out at the end of the month.
Gil had few personal possessions, and today they were going into storage indefinitely whilst she set out on a journey she should have completed many years ago.
Chapter 28
Wig and Pen, 229/230 The Strand, London. Monday 12:05pm
As Dee and DS Paul Scott approached the Wig and Pen it looked just the same as it always had, somewhat quaint and ancient. The place was steeped in history and, being across the road from the Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand, it had survived since the seventeenth century as a favourite drinking house for judges, barristers and solicitors. Anecdotes about the place abounded in legal circles, and rumour had it that clerks had often been dispatched from chambers to rescue a tipsy barrister from the Wig and Pen to remind him he was due in court in an hour.
Chameleon - A City of London Thriller Page 12