Текст книги "Chameleon"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 36

The Frank Sinatra Suite, The Savoy, London. Wednesday, 5pm.

The remnants of their room service meal stood under giant chromium domes on a hotel trolley waiting to be collected, so when the door bell rang Dee presumed it was room service coming to collect the food from the pricey art deco suite.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“It is Dominic, Ma’am. I have your guest Ms Li Li Sung with me.”

Dee checked the small TV monitor in the concealed recess by the door, and when she was satisfied that the visitors were as announced, she opened the door.

Dominic held open the door as Li Li Sung entered the suite followed by a bell hop who wheeled in a trolley with four dress hangers suspended from a brass rail. The dustcovers protecting and concealing the dresses bore the distinctive oriental logo of Li Li Sung Design.

The small mixed-race designer headed straight for Dee Hammond, seemingly ignoring the famous starlet whose room this was, hugging her warmly. There was obviously no air kissing in this relationship.

“Dee, my darling woman, you look so well, and you haven’t put on a single pound. That will help.” Li Li Sung turned to Katie Norman and presumptuously addressed her.

“Katie Norman, I know that you already have a dress. Personally you are wasted on Jacamo’s design; he has no sense for the burgeoning woman. He is such a good friend but he needs more to work with you in the area of décolletage.” The designer pulled up the shoulders of Katie’s blouse and tilted her head. She then placed the palms of her hands on the sides of the starlet’s chest and pushed in gently. Katie blushed.

“Katie Norman, I will make your next dress. You need a woman’s touch, more shoulder, less cleavage, something that flatters your girlish figure. As for the breasts, don’t worry. I will make them as tantalising and edible as fresh pomegranates. I myself am not belaboured by mammalian excess and so I know how to exaggerate their impressiveness.”

Katie Norman and Dee both laughed out loud as a blushing Dominic and the bell hop made a hurried exit from the suite, wheeling away the remnants of the Gordon Ramsay creation that had been served up by the chefs at the Savoy Grill on the ground floor.

Li Li looked puzzled at their obvious discomfiture but turned her attention to the dresses hanging on the rail. Dee spoke for the first time since the designer entered the room.

“Katie, as you will have guessed this is Li Li Sung; she is my Chinese-Korean dress designing friend.”

“I do not know why I continue to be your friend. I designed your wedding dress and now these evening dresses, and not a penny do I see. You are a cheap woman.”

Katie laughed again before Dee explained that Li Li charged more for a dress than the close protection operative earned in a month, but they shared a very rich friend who considered herself forever in Dee’s debt. As she unzipped the second dust cover, Li Li spoke again, this time in Katie’s direction.

“I have fun at her expense, of course, I do like dressing ordinary working women and it is a challenge to hide her big gun in one of my form fitting creations.”

Katie looked at Dee, who shook her head and grimaced as if to confirm that she never carried a gun, let alone concealed any kind of weapon in the second skin that Li Li Sung called a dress.

***

Over the next hour the three women joked and laughed as Dee tried on all four dresses, promenaded around the suite, posed in front of Frank Sinatra memorabilia and had digital photographs taken of each episode.

Eventually, as they all sat in front of Li Li’s laptop, Dee decided on the full length black evening dress in chiffon with satin panels breaking out from the split. As usual the built up straps and the under bust detailing were woven with gold thread embroidered into the shapes of Chinese symbols. The dress was archetypal Li Li Sung; understated, elegant and reasonably modest.

After a few small adjustments, the dress was fitted and the result was spectacular. Dee stared at the other two women in the room as they looked at her in awe.

“What?” she asked, wholly unaware of the impact she would have on the press when she walked up the red carpet with Katie.

“Do you think they will even notice I’m there?” Katie asked Li Li, who shook her head.

“They will be too busy saying, look there is a plain Englishwoman made beautiful by that fabulous Li Li Sung design.”

All three laughed as the Las Vegas themed clock on the wall, between a picture of Frank Sinatra with Marilyn Monroe and one of him with Ronald Reagan, showed that Dee and Katie had one hour to get ready before the limo showed up. Li Li hugged both girls and left the suite, moaning that all she had to look forward to was a takeaway meal and Emmerdale on the TV. Dee doubted that Li Li had ever allowed either into her tastefully decorated apartment.

Upon Li Li’s departure, two make up girls spent a few awestruck minutes admiring the suite before applying little or no obvious make-up to either face, with the exception of the dramatic eye make-up which highlighted two pairs of the prettiest eyes in London that night. The hair stylist had one final tweak at each client and then Dee and Katie were ready to face the paparazzi.

Chapter 3 7

Terminal 2, Jose Marti Airport, Boyeros. Cuba. Wednesday Afternoon.

The Aero Puerto Internacional, Havana, was named after Jose Marti, the poet and political activist who is still regarded as a Cuban hero despite being killed fighting the Spanish in Cuba in 1895. Gillian liked to pick up a little local knowledge; it helped her to understand the culture of the people she would be relying upon and it kept taxi drivers on their toes.

It had already been a long day. Whilst it was still early afternoon in Havana, it was early evening back in the UK. The charter terminal was relatively modern, having been opened in 1988, and the architecture was a little bland. The design produced a profusion of white surfaces with occasional red detailing, red being the colour of revolution, she imagined. The architectural style was modernist but it still appeared dated. Gil suspected that it was probably some architect’s 1980s vision of what buildings would look like in the next century. If so, they were wrong.

The charter flight from Newcastle had passed quickly, even though Gillian seldom slept on aeroplanes, even in the premium seating. She had passed the time sipping cold drinks and watching three movies, all the time waiting for the flight to be over so that she could get to her hotel and relax.

As she stood in the passport line she noticed a handsome man wearing an olive coloured uniform scanning the recent arrivals. He caught her eye and she instantly knew he was looking for her. He walked purposely towards her.

Extending his hand, he introduced himself.

“Miss Gillian Davis, I am Alejandro Rebelda. I am pleased to tell you that you have special clearance. Please follow me.”

Gillian took his hand and smiled warmly. There was nothing to be gained by objecting to her special treatment.

“If we don’t see you again, pet, we’ll send in the SAS,” John, her aeroplane companion joked, to a good deal of Geordie laughter. Senor Rebelda smiled, taking the jest in good humour.

“Please, all of you enjoy your stay; you will find Cuban hospitality the warmest in the world.” He paused and then played to his immediate audience.

“Ho’way the lads and up the Toon!” he shouted, in a Hispanic version of a Geordie accent, to a rowdy chorus of applause.

“I studied for my Business Degree at Northumbria University,” he confided in a whisper to Gillian. “But don’t tell anyone. I am supposed to be a revolutionary.”

He laughed at his own joke and Gillian joined in.

***

“So, Miss Gillian Davis, you have pulled someone’s whiskers in Whitehall.”

Alejandro was around thirty years old and quite attractive. He was typically Hispanic in appearance, and his olive complexion was flawless except for a shadow of designer stubble. His long dark hair had a natural shine that made it appear almost blue. His brown eyes looked more amused than intense, and Gillian knew that his intention was to get her to relax, but she would remain vigilant, as ever.

“I have a fax, supposedly from the British Home Office, not the police, and so I must imagine that it is from MI5 or MI6. They cover their tracks badly.” He lifted a sheet of paper with Gillian’s photo reproduced very poorly in the top corner.

“It reads; ‘Please apprehend and deport to the UK at your earliest convenience the suspect named above. She is required for questioning.’ Well, I am thinking to myself, what questioning could be more important than a holiday in Cuba? Surely they can wait two weeks?”

Gillian smiled.

“Alejandro – may I call you Alejandro, Senor Rebelda?” He nodded his approval. “I am sure that you know, or will find out, that I was once employed by the British Home Office, and that they are not happy about their ex employees enjoying the revolutionary sun. But I assure you that I have no intention of causing you or your country any harm.”

“I never doubted it for a moment.” Alejandro Rebelda turned to his computer screen. “Look, there is no record of Gillian Davis arriving in Cuba. How strange. I had better report this to the British Home Office. It is a mystery, yes?”

Gillian smiled and nodded.

“I appreciate your help. Now, I fully understand that these administrative activities are expensive and so if there is any way I can reduce the burden on the Cuban tax payer....”

Rebelda held up the palm of his hand in the internationally recognised signal for ‘stop’.

“Please, Miss Gillian, offending your British Home Office and having them thank me through gritted teeth, is more than payment enough for my day’s work. Please, go and enjoy the sun.”

They both stood up as Gillian held out her hand. This time Alejandro kissed it. “You are a beautiful woman. Surely there must be Cuban blood coursing through your veins.”

Gillian laughed and Rebelda smiled in return.

“Remember, we have never met.” With that the Cuban sat down at his utilitarian grey laminated desk and Gillian exited the small goldfish bowl of an office.

Chapter 3 8

The Odeon, Leicester Square, London. Wednesday, 8pm.

The ridiculously extended limousine cruised to a halt at the end of the red carpet, and Dee and Katie waited patiently until security had cleared the space between the red velvet security ropes. Seconds later the doors were opened and cameras flashed continually, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girls’ legs, or more, but they would be out of luck because Katie and Dee were wearing full length gowns and were modestly holding the split seams together until they were in a standing position.

Katie stood for a moment, slowly turning to look in all directions so that everyone could snap a picture of her serene, youthful smile. The photographers were always keen to take photographs of her male co stars and the adult cast members, but they all knew that the newspapers would want to lead with pictures of Katie and her even younger co-star, Amanda Jane Beery.

Dee walked just behind the young starlet as she chatted to fans, signed autographs and posed for pictures. Dee was not carrying a bag, as close protection personnel needed their hands to be free, and so she happily waved at the cheering fans who wondered who this gorgeous auburn haired beauty might be. Slowly the two women made their way up the red carpet. They had another ninety seconds to themselves and then one of the shaven headed security guards would usher them into the lobby for more poses in front of the sponsors’ boards, as the next celebrity limo pulled up to the red carpet exactly on cue.

Given the careful organisation that pandered to the fans and the Press, the red carpet should have been Katie’s alone. So, when a young man in a tuxedo emerged from the neon lit cinema portico that proclaimed the owners were fanatical about film, Dee and the security men watched him closely.

***

Rod Donkin, Big Brother winner and celebrity wannabe, strode purposefully towards Katie Norman, who had her back to him. Beside him was a man Dee recognised from the television. He was a tall well built man with muscles to die for and flowing blond hair. His name was Andy Woods and, despite the dinner suit, he was instantly recognisable as his cage fighting alter ego, the Ghost. More importantly, he appeared to be acting as Rod Donkin’s bodyguard.

Wary of Donkin’s intentions, Dee made her way towards Katie to cut off his approach, only to find that Andy Woods had stepped into her path. If the sun had been up it would have been like standing in the shadow of a mountain. The man was huge. Dee needed to make a decision; diplomacy or action.

Rod Donkin nodded to a press photographer standing against the ropes and in a clearly choreographed move he took Katie by the shoulders, turned her around to face him and proclaimed loudly:

“At last, the world gets to see Clara kissed off screen.”

Dee stepped forward and Woods blocked her way, grinning. Diplomacy wouldn’t save Katie from embarrassment now, and so she acted. Relying on her special forces training, she threw her left fist directly at Andy Woods’ jaw. At first he chuckled as this young woman telegraphed her swing so obviously allowing him to raise his huge crossed forearms to block the punch. The amused look disappeared as he suddenly realised his error. Her watch was on her left wrist; why would she lead with her left if she was right handed?

“Shit!” he exhaled loudly as he caught sight of a second blow on the edge of his peripheral vision. Now it was Dee who was smiling. The giant cage fighter tried to tense his stomach muscles, but he was just too late. Dee’s right fist crashed into his solar plexus, finding the sweet spot just below his rib cage. It was as if she had measured him to find exactly where to land the perfect blow. The breath flew out of him, and he gasped as a sharp pain shot through his body and he instinctively bent forward, using his crossed arms to protect himself from further blows.

Dee knew that as a cage fighter he would be accustomed to working through the pain barrier to fight back, and so before Woods had even begun to adopt a more aggressive posture she grabbed the hair at the back of his head, where the shorter hairs meet the neckline, and pulled hard, forcing his head forward. The cage fighter yelled as the hairs on his neck were pulled taut or pulled out. Once she had the momentum, Dee pushed his head down hard and fast to meet her upcoming knee. There was an audible crack as Woods, still gasping for breath, bounced his forehead off Dee’s knee. Dee let go of the man, who by now would have worked out why security men had shaven heads, and he fell to his knees. To his credit, and Dee’s astonishment, he did not pass out or fall flat to the floor; rather he went down on his hands and knees and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Most men would have been concussed or unconscious or both by now, and whilst he was out of the action for the time being, he was still in the game. If he had offered any further resistance Dee would have aimed a firm kick into his unprotected genitilia to finish him off, but he presented no active threat at the moment

Dee noticed that the crowd had fallen silent, and that the security guards had deliberately turned towards the crowd to prevent the fans from passing the rope barrier, and to save themselves from seeing what happened next.

A purposeful Rod Donkin had, single mindedly, ignored the violent action going on behind him and had now tipped the slight frame of Katie Norman backwards and off balance in some kind of mock Hollywood embrace. Holding her up with his left arm, he used his right hand to stop hers from fending him off as he leaned in for a full kiss on the lips.

***

Katie Norman was surprised to be spun around by the shoulders. At first she thought Dee had spotted some danger, but then she saw the reptilian grin of Rod Donkin. Katie knew what was coming next and, already off balance, she tried to fend off her attacker with her free left hand but Donkin had anticipated the move and grabbed her wrist. Resigned to being kissed by this oaf, she thought to herself, stick your tongue in my mouth and I’ll bite it off. She closed her eyes and grimaced, waiting for the repulsive kiss. But it never came. There was a squeal from Donkin and she was freed from his grasp.

***

Dee saw Donkin’s head go in for the kiss but she was quicker than he was. Her hand flew out and grabbed his left ear, twisting it violently. That was all it took to elicit a girlish squeal from the creep and to have him entirely under her control. She used her left arm to hold Katie until she was safely restored to a standing position and, still twisting Donkin’s ear, she smiled sweetly to Katie and the crowd.

“Take your time, Katie, this odious little pervert and I are going for a walk,” Dee said more loudly than was necessary. The immediate crowd laughed and cheered.

Dee twisted Donkin’s ear further, making him yell and bend almost double. In this position she marched him forward so that all of the crowd and the photographers could see him. Camera flashes lit up the night as Donkin walked forward, bent double, into their viewfinders.

“Are you taking you monkey for a walk, Missus?” one wag in the crowd yelled to lots of good natured laughter. Then one person started making chimpanzee noises and in no time at all the whole crowd had joined in. Walking along bent double, with a woman holding his ear as if he was a naughty chimp, Rob Donkin’s humiliation was almost complete. Tears streamed down his face as his career as a ‘Z list’ celebrity came to a close.

Dee approached the Police Constable at the end of the red carpet and handed over Donkin, who was trying to hide his tear stained face whilst rubbing his ear.

“Officer, please take this man into custody. He has just committed an assault.”

The young constable looked uncertain.

“Leave it to me, Hopkinson, I’ll deal with it.” A female Inspector took Donkin by the arm and led him towards a police van. Donkin initially resisted and stood his ground.

“Do you really want to do this, sir?” the police Inspector asked, the threat apparent in her visage and in her tone. Donkin’s shoulders slumped in defeat and he was handcuffed.

Tomorrow morning Katie would have to compete for the front page photo with a shot of Donkin being led along like a domestic pet, and with the grainy shot of his tear stained face as he was being helped into the white police van.

***

Dee was walking back to the cinema entrance when she spotted the photographer Donkin had nodded to. She beckoned him over and whispered in his ear.

“I saw the nod. You sell one photograph of that low life with my client and I’ll track you down and break your arm. Then if you complain I’ll come back a week later and break the other one. Do you understand? Smile and nod.”

The man’s face had paled but he smiled wanly and nodded.

As Dee rejoined Katie under the cinema canopy she caught sight of Andy Woods, who was recovering in a chair hurriedly brought out from the lobby. She noted that he was now, rather pointedly, sitting on the wrong side of the velvet ropes.

Chapter 3 9

Terminal 2, Jose Marti Airport, Boyeros. Cuba.

Wednesday afternoon.

Gillian Davis joined the rest of the holidaymakers picking up their luggage from carousel number 4, still unsettled by her encounter with the Cuban authorities. She knew that if she wanted to stay out of sight of MI5 she would need more than the cooperation of a minor Cuban functionary, handsome as he was. Gil was convinced that by now MI5 would have an operative in the arrivals hall of the airport, ready to follow her. She planned to make his job easy.

After a fifteen minute wait, Gil’s pink designer suitcase, adorned with the Chanel logo, slid down a metal chute and on to the sectional rubber conveyor that displayed the luggage as it travelled in a large oval. Gillian picked up her case and set it down on the terrazzo floor before elevating the pulling handle. She slipped her carry on bag over the handle and pulled both bags towards the green Nada de declarer – or, nothing to declare – exit.

Having passed through the customs hall and now traversing the arrivals hall, Gillian scanned the crowds of greeters holding up signs seeking named customers for various hotels and car hire companies. To her extreme left she spotted the MI5 watcher. He was dressed in chinos and a Hawaiian styled silk shirt. His Ray Ban sunglasses were perched on his head amid a sea of wavy medium length salt and pepper hair. He had a folded copy of the local newspaper, oddly entitled the ‘Granma’, with the red banner title facing towards her. The reason the observer drew her attention was that he occasionally looked down at the paper before again scanning the crowd of new arrivals. Each time he looked around his hand relaxed a little and the newspaper was lowered enough for Gillian to note that the newspaper was concealing a sheet of paper to which the observer’s attention regularly returned. Gillian was quite certain that the paper contained her photograph and her description.

The man appeared increasingly anxious as he failed to spot his quarry, and so Gil removed her wide brimmed hat and shook loose her long fair hair to give him a better view. She smiled to herself as he spotted her immediately and compared her to the photo in his hand.

Job done, Gil walked off in the direction of her tour group and boarded the bus which would drop her and a rowdy crowd of Geordies and Mackems at the Hotel Nacional.

***

Jared Stevens dropped the newspaper into the trash and followed the tourists out onto the concourse, where he watched as their luggage was loaded onto a bus which had a crudely printed sheet of A4 paper blu-tacked to the windscreen. The writing on the paper read “Nacional”.

Jared waited until the target had entered the bus and the door had closed with a loud hiss of air before he extracted his mobile phone. Carefully scrolling down the Cubacell Nokia 8 phone’s screen, he selected ‘Moriarty’ and pressed the speed dial. The phone was answered almost immediately at the other end.

“Holmes, has the bird landed?” Moriarty asked.

“Yes indeed. She is winging her way to you as we speak,” Stevens responded, replying to his codename.

“Excellent,” Moriarty replied. “I’ll be waiting.”

***

Thom Passerell, alias Moriarty, was the senior half of the two man team that MI5 had assigned to watch Gillian Davis. Neither operative was supposed to be active in Cuba. Usually, they operated entirely separately from the MI5 man in the Embassy, Laurence Hinds, who was allegedly the commercial attaché, a title which fooled no-one, especially the Cubans.

The middle aged Jared Stevens and Thom Passerell constituted a covert unit who were essentially the eyes and ears of Whitehall in the Revolutionary Republic. Both held down real jobs in Havana, and both were part timers. Nonetheless, they were well trained and had been considered to be highly skilled operatives at one time. But, completely against regulations, and the QA policy drafted at Thames House in 2002 that demanded refresher training every two years, neither man had been back to the UK for skills training for over five years. As a result they had become lazy, and their skills were perhaps less well honed than they might have been.

Stevens would take up the surveillance later in the day, but for now he had to return to his office at Cubapetrolio, sometimes known as Cupet, where he needed to finalise a proposal for a new semi submersible oil platform for presentation to the Cupet board the next morning.

***

The elderly bus disgorged the tourists at the Nacional and the concierge staff swarmed over the luggage, hoping that the owners of the individual suitcases would present them with a generous tip when they delivered them to their rooms. Gil waited her turn in line and duly checked in, after touching up her make up using a small compact. She had spotted Thom Passarell as soon as she had walked into the hotel lobby. She obviously did not know his name, but she knew his type.

As Gillian stepped up to check in, Passarell moved over to the counter a few feet away and perused some leaflets offering boat trips and bus tours of the locale.

“Ah, Senora Davis, it is so good to welcome you to Habana,” the small grinning receptionist gushed as he looked at Gillian’s passport. “You are in room 431 which is on the fourth floor. I am sure you will like the room.” Then, after preening his thin, immaculately neat moustache, he pointed to the bank of elevators.

“The lifts are to your left. Is there anything else I can you with?”

Gillian spoke loudly enough for Thom Passerell to hear.

“Yes. I’m booked in for a pampering session this afternoon, I believe?”

The man tapped a few keys on his computer, while his eyes quickly scanned the information on the screen. He smiled at her, and spoke.

“Yes Senora, that is at 4pm for two hours. I also note that you are booked on the city tour tomorrow. That tour is due to leave at eight in the morning. Do you wish an alarm call?”

“Yes please. Tell me, what time does the tour return in the evening?”

The receptionist picked up an itinerary and read off the details.

“After visiting National Shrine of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre, you have a boat tour followed by lunch. The afternoon is spent touring the region by bus, culminating in a delicious dinner at the famous Club Paradiso, where you will be watching and dancing salsa until 11pm, when the bus leaves for your hotel.” He paused whilst he thought. “You should be back at the hotel around midnight tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Gillian replied gracefully. “I have a full week of events planned. I want to make the most of my week in Havana.” The receptionist bowed and Gillian walked across the lobby to be reacquainted with her luggage, which was in the safe hands of a smartly uniformed young man whose name badge read ‘Jesus’.

***

Across the Atlantic a phone rang in Thames House. Maureen Lassiter answered it without giving her name.

“This is Moriarty. Our little bird has settled. This afternoon I will visit her room and by this evening we will have audio in the bedroom and bathroom. There will also be limited motion sensor video from the alarm clock. I’ll send you the IP address of the server so that you can watch and listen in real time on the website.”

“Good. When do you plan to extract her?” Maureen asked.

“We will have a subcontracted team waiting in her room when she returns tomorrow night. They will lift her and she will be on the company transport back to London by the early hours of the morning.”

“That is acceptable. Call me when she has boarded.” At that Maureen replaced the receiver, then lifted it again to dial Barry Mitchinson.

***

Mrs. Docherty went to a good deal of trouble naming her baby boy. After much considered thought she and her husband eventually alighted on a name that was stylish and cool without sounding odd. She called him Vaughan. When her baby boy started school, the much considered name was abandoned and he was thereafter called ‘Doc’. Now approaching twenty nine years of age, he was a geeky computer genius who eschewed people and the outside world for the world of multi core chipsets, motherboards, flat screen monitors and superfast graphic sets. Doc could build, or disassemble, anything electronic.

Without formal qualifications, he rebuilt computers that people had discarded and sold them second hand. He had a ready market, because his reconditioned gaming machines were faster than any production model. Unfortunately, like many isolated young men running virtual worlds from his bedroom, he descended into the murky world of computer hacking. After successful efforts to shut down some of the USA’s top law enforcement websites, he tried to close down the SOCA website. Unfortunately for Doc and his friends, the UK’s Serious Organised Crime Agency had an ex hacker geek of their own, ‘The Repeller’.  Sitting in an almost empty office on a Sunday night and playing war games, ‘The Repeller’ saw an unexpected spike in data requests which were multiplying geometrically by the minute, and quickly realised that his baby was under attack. ‘The Repeller’ quickly took the website offline and repelled the attack by sending back a barrage of data from an array of computers that Doc and his friends simply could not match. The quickly escalating data requests were now swamping their originator’s machines and closing them down, whilst stripping their hard drives. Before Doc managed to shut down his system, ‘The Repeller’ had a full copy of his system registry, along with a list of his IP addresses and his contacts list.

Less than an hour later, whilst Doc was trying to revive his useless computers, the front door came in and his mum screamed as men streamed in to her neatly maintained bungalow. Doc was in trouble.

Since then Doc had been on the side of the angels, or at least of the authorities, and it was here that he found the resources that allowed him to show his capability. Ten years later he had seven ‘apps’ on the top hundred Apple iPhone Apps list, and it was widely believed that Apple had incorporated one of his rejected ‘apps’ into the architecture of the new iPhone 4.

Doc was the UK Security Services go-to guy for anything Apple, be it iPad, iPod or iPhone. Such was his expertise that within days of the release of a new iPad, Doc would be selling his own souped up version at many times the price. Disassembled, improved and reassembled, the iPad VOX looked and behaved like an ordinary iPad, but it also did so much more.

Gillian owned an iPad Vox, iPod Vox and iPhoneVox. They had been extraordinarily useful to her as the Chameleon, and now they were going to be pressed into service to help her escape the clutches of MI5.

Gil Davis had returned to room 431 after her sojourn in the spa and by the pool, and was now sitting on the bed with her iPad VOX. Laying it to one side for a moment, she donned her headphones and walked around the room, holding her iPod Vox and shaking her head in time with some unheard music. She casually danced her way through the en-suite room, tunelessly singing Abba’s Dancing Queen as she went. The iPod was not playing music at all, although there were some three thousand tunes on its hard drive. Rather, the iPod was listening and sending out a series of beeps that would have been perceptible only to dolphins or whales.