Текст книги "Chameleon"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 27

Vastrick Security, Nr 1 Poultry, London. Monday 17 ^th 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.

The ancient premises were reputed to be the only building on the Strand to have survived the Great Fire of London. Built in 1625, number 230 was the home of the Gatekeeper of Temple Bar who, it is said, unwittingly began the catering tradition at this site by offering “a penn’orth of meat and bread” to the crowds who used to gather at the Temple Gate. Even now, the Outer Temple Building is just a few metres away along the Strand in the direction of Trafalgar Square.

The last time Dee had been in the disreputable old pub it had a roaring fire and the snug feel of an old inn. It was the sort of place where you wouldn’t have been surprised if someone came and sat down opposite you wearing a frock coat and nodded a greeting with a head covered by a powdered wig.

Today, whilst some character had been retained, the Thai Square Restaurant which now occupied the old building was bright, fresh and modern; everything that the old Wig and Pen was not.

The pair sat down and ordered from the menu. The food looked good, the service was attentive and, for London, the prices were very reasonable. Whilst Dee waited for her Dim Sum and sparkling water to arrive she kept her eye on the door.

A waiter appeared with her drink and her starter. He also brought out a Tiger Beer and a Chicken Satay for her lunch companion. As they were finishing their appetisers the door opened and in walked Norris Boyle, the ex policeman who had taken a bullet last year whilst trying to save Dee. He looked thinner and there was a pained look on his face. After an apparently nonchalant perusal of the clientele, he wandered over to their table.

Dee stood and hugged the MI5 man, showing the kind of camaraderie that can only be cemented by being shot by the same gun. Boyle was taken aback by the show of affection, but nonetheless returned the hug heartily.

“Miss Conrad, you look great. The last time we met neither of us were at our best.” He smiled and then grimaced.

“Sorry. The bullet I took caused some intestinal damage and the cold weather seems to set it off. They reckon it’ll heal eventually. I bloody well hope so. I’m getting rather tired of bland food and Complan.”

Dee moved across the bench seat and Boyle slipped in beside her. He nodded to the waiter and silently mouthed ‘the usual’ before leaning over the table and taking DS Scott’s last stick of Satay Chicken. Dipping it into the peanut sauce, he added unnecessarily, “You don’t mind, do you Paul? It’s one of the few things I can eat these days.” DS Scott clearly did mind, but he smiled anyway. His ex colleague had earned a lot of brownie points with the DS when he was on the job.

***

Dee was eagerly tucking into a dish listed as ‘weeping tiger’, sirloin beef with a rich North Eastern Thai sauce on steamed rice, when Norrie interrupted his attack on the Lamb with black pepper on noodles, to speak in hushed tones.

“I don’t like murderers getting off scot free, so I’m going to give you a leg up on your investigation.” He scooped a forkful of lamb and noodles into his mouth and chewed slowly, clearly savouring the taste. Downing a good mouthful of the house red, he continued.

“Shouldn’t really, you know. Red wine is one of the worst things for my stomach. Anyway, let me tell you a story.” The MI5 man finished the last mouthful of food, set down his cutlery and placed his elbows on the table. He leaned in and spoke quietly, conspiratorially even.

“MI5 and MI6 are widely misunderstood, mainly because of the films and TV series that show spies in a very adventurous light. Not so in reality. Over ninety per cent of our people are desk bound, here or abroad. They gather information, analyse it and decide if there is any threat to us, or to our allies.

I wouldn’t say this to anyone else but it’s all a bit of a sham, really. The mystique and the fiction surrounding Five and Six help us to maintain our budgets and give the impression that our spooks have their hand on the tiller. We keep our jobs by persuading the country that we are all safe as long as the security services are keeping the terrorists at bay. I have no idea why the public believe it. We couldn’t even control the IRA during the 1970s, and there were only a handful of them just across the Irish Sea.

Truth is, we usually find out about terror threats and terrorist acts on CNN or Sky News, same as you. We had four guys, full time, running contacts in Eastern Europe, shelling out bribes to get the specifications of the Ukrainian Hand Held Rocket launchers sought after by Al Qaeda. They came up with nothing. Last August, an edition of Jane’s Defence Weekly published the full specs, capability and weaknesses. We now have an annual subscription that gives us all fifty two copies a year for a hundred and ninety six quid.

Don’t get me wrong. Five do a good job, but we have a handful of analysts. Jane’s alone have a hundred and thirty correspondents around the world. CNN, Fox, Sky and BBC News have thousands. If we’re being realistic, who is likely to get the news first?”

Dee couldn’t work out whether she felt any more or less safe after hearing Boyle’s rant.

“For your information. Miss AD 34792, does not exist. Neither the initial nor the number relate to any individual in our employment, past or present.”

Both Dee and Scott looked puzzled. Either Boyle was lying, or, the MI5 email was nonsense.

“AD is code for ‘avoid disclosure’ and 34792 is the finance code for funds spent under the ‘special operations’ budget. The Special Operation Group was disbanded when the Labour Government realised they would not be getting back in.

The partial fingerprint you found probably belongs to Gillian Davis, formerly Special Operations, UK and Europe. She was predominantly a field operative and her file is marked ‘HVA-S/O’. Before you ask, it stands for High Value Asset – Strategic Control/ Offensive.”

“Are we talking a Licence to kill? Did she have a 00 rating?” DS Scott joked. Boyle wasn’t amused.

“Paul, Dee – I’m being serious here. In essence, High Value Assets are used to carry out assignments that save British or Allied lives. They may take out the charismatic head of a terrorist organisation, hoping that it can’t function without his military or religious leadership. If they’re right, then numerous squaddies’ lives can be saved because close engagement with that group never becomes necessary.

Your suspect, Gillian Davis, was strategically controlled whilst in the service; that means that someone handled her, someone from very high up in the command structure. That someone must have had the power to order her to act offensively on behalf of the UK government. Then, once ordered, she was free to kill or maim personnel and destroy enemy assets or reputations at her discretion.

She could not, however, decide her own targets. An HVA-S/O who picked their own target or ignored orders would be severely disciplined and may well not make it home.”

There had been a lot to take in. Dee had promised herself a dessert, but now didn’t feel in the mood.

“How sure are we that the print belongs to this Gillian Davis?” she asked.

“Well, the partial print alone will convict no-one; it has fewer points of comparison than we need to convince a judge. But add that to the fact that your man was taken down by a very professional female with a rare chemical or venom of some kind – typical spook behaviour, by the way – and you have Gillian Davis.”

“Has she used this method of killing before?” DS Scott wondered out loud.

“Possibly. The opposition don’t usually send us post mortem results. But a quick look at her profile might help.”

Boyle reached into his inside pocket and withdrew a sheet of A4 paper, folded into three. He unfolded it to reveal the black and white picture of a pretty fair-haired girl and lines of closely printed text.

Dee and Paul Scott read the sheet together, each holding one side of the paper.

“Hell’s teeth, you’re good, Boyle. You need to get back to the Met. We need guys like you. She has a BSc. in Chemistry, with honours, no less, and a Masters in Forensic Chemistry! So, we let a pretty young chemist loose on the world’s bad guys. Man, the glass ceiling is well and truly shattered. It’s equal opportunities for all at MI5.”

“It does look damning,” Dee contributed. “But what will you do if the police pick her up and her bosses start looking for the leak?”

“Don’t sweat it, Dee. Her former boss – let’s just call him Barry – heads up internal investigations and he couldn’t find a leak in his own underpants. He fell from grace just before they shut down the special operations team. It seems that he authorised the destabilisation of that guy,” – he pointed to a picture on the front page of the Times – “when he was running for his party’s nomination.” The picture portrayed an imposing African American man shaking hands with the Chinese Prime Minister, whilst standing at the White House Podium in front of the Stars and Stripes.

Dee and DS Scott uttered the same expletive in unison.

***

It was late in the evening when DS Scott finally returned Dee’s call, which he had promised he would as they left the restaurant.

“Dee, the address we have on file for Davis is useless. The local constabulary say that it’s a former gamekeeper’s lodge in the grounds of a big house near Basingstoke in Hampshire. There are dozens of people called Gillian Davis around the country, and Facebook lists forty-six in London alone, none of whom look like our girl. I’m sure we’ll find her, but it may take some time.”

“OK, Paul. Let’s just hope we find her before MI5 do, otherwise she’ll never see the witness box. The likelihood is that she will find herself in a box of the terminally enclosed kind.”

“You’re probably right about that. We’ll work as fast as we can, but if your computer genius – what’s his name?”

“Simon?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Simon. If Simon can work his database magic while we’re doing the legwork it would really help.”

“OK, Paul. He’s on the case as of now!”

***

Simon left Dee’s office with his instructions. There would be hundreds of women named Gillian Davis around the country, but it was likely that he would find only one with her qualifications and skills, and only one with her stunning good looks.

He sat down at his console and ordered in pizza. He would work through the night, grabbing what sleep he could in one of the office sleeping pods at the end of the corridor.

Simon looked like a geek, but a smartly dressed geek. Vastrick had standards that applied to all, even the oddball IT types. Simon had a degree and several other qualifications that suggested he could make any computer sing and dance or recite a soliloquy of one’s choosing. That description was not too far from the truth. The young analyst typed in the name Gillian Davis, and ran his first combined high-level search which interrogated the White Pages, the Electoral Rolls and the Registers of Births and Marriages. His enquiry returned over two hundred premium results. These were women of all ages who matched the input data exactly.

Simon clicked on the left hand bar of the results page and typed in Gillian Davis’ age, then ticked the box +/– 5 years. The results were instant, and the list narrowed to twenty-three premium results.

He was just five minutes into his ‘overnight’ search when he clicked on ‘show only results with photos’.

There were only five results, but he was quite certain that the person he was looking for was showing at number one. Just to make sure, he clicked on the hyperlink. It was her; there was no doubt in his mind. Gillian Davis MD of Celebrato Cards was shown receiving the Young Business Leader of the Year award at the London Chambers of Commerce dinner in 2008, and the photograph captured the same alluring face he had seen on the black and white print which Norrie Boyle had supplied.

In another twenty minutes the young analyst had found another six photos of the suspect, including one of her being awarded a Prize for Chemistry, along with an old press article from the Times, explaining that the British Olympic Committee had ruled the young Gillian Davis out of the National Rifle Team due to a recurrent shoulder injury.

Simon hoped that Dee had not left for home. He had taken less than thirty minutes to do what Dee had thought would take a day. In forensic computing you got lucky occasionally, finding the right data at first pass rather than at the hundred and first pass. It was a bit of a fluke, really, but Simon wouldn’t be telling his boss that.