Текст книги "Chameleon"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Sister Margaret Rose watched in stunned amazement as Sister Angelica placed he hand gently on Jamal’s forehead and whispered;

“Your mother and sisters are waiting for you.” On hearing the words, Jamal stopped shaking, his body relaxed and the fear that had shown in his eyes disappeared. His brown eyes widened, softened and teared up. Five minutes later he was pronounced dead by the paramedics.

***

Jamal’s body was taken to the USA on a covert flight, along with the hysterical author Hasan Yasin. In Washington DC a grateful FBI Director rang Thames House to thank his MI5 counterpart for seconding a British operative to the Cuban arena and for running an operation that would have been logistically impossible for an American agency to carry out alone.

For her part, Sister Angelica would not say how she knew that Jamal had sisters who had passed on before him. All she would say was that, when God wanted you to know something that would bring comfort to a suffering soul, he would allow his servants to be his mouthpiece.

Later that day Sister Margaret Rose passed through the airport in full regalia, purportedly heading to Rome via Panama, but actually diverting to Heathrow to land in the UK as Gillian Davis.

Chapter 43

National Shrine, El Cobre. Cuba. Present Day, Thursday 9am.

When Gillian looked into the bathroom mirror she saw exactly what she had wanted her watchers to see. A pretty woman with long fair hair who had been overly enthusiastic when applying her make up. Her long dress covered her entire body and legs. Not even her feet were visible. In short she looked like a WAG or soap star on holiday.

With a deft move of her left hand she removed the wig, revealing a dark short bob hairstyle, one so beloved by women of the cloth. The difference it made to her appearance still shocked Gillian, even though she’d had eighteen hours to get used to her new look.

The day before in, the women’s spa at the hotel, the Cuban hairdresser had pleaded with her new client not to have her magnificent long mane of fair hair butchered, but Gil was insistent. The hairdresser muttered to herself in Spanish as she cut the hair short and coloured it with a French semi permanent crème which the chart described as being Noir: Nombre Une, or almost black. Two hours later the Hairdresser threw up her hands in despair and called Gil a “Mujer Loco”, or crazy woman, when Gil admired her new cut and then proceeded to take a long fair haired wig from her bag and place it over her new style, making herself look exactly the same as she had when she had walked in.

The Chameleon lived up to her nom de plume and minutes later she was clad from head to foot in black, with her face scrubbed clean of make-up. Gil did not need make-up to be pretty, but she looked very different from the heavily made up woman who had walked into the bathroom.

“They only ever see the uniform,” she said to her reflection.

Sister Margaret Rose, as she had now become, was dressed in a traditional habit with a pristine white coif covering her neck and head. She wore a plain silver ring on her left hand that denoted she was a Bride of Christ, and a large silver Crucifix hung from her neck on a black cord and rested on the pristine starched white coif. The outfit was completed by a black woven woollen belt which had her Rosary hanging from it and a pair of unfashionable spectacles glazed with plain glass. Once she had crammed her few belongings into the traditional, top opening, hand held black bag, the image would be complete. The passport and picture were now almost eight years old, but the hairstyle was identical and the picture was clearly a freshly scrubbed younger version of the Sister Margaret Rose who would fly to Nassau in the Bahamas very soon.

***

“Sister Angelica, I am so grateful for your help. I appreciate that seeing a worldly woman like myself wearing these sacred robes must be hard for you to bear,” Sister Margaret Rose pondered.

“Nonsense, my child, we will do whatever it takes to further the Holy Mother’s work under this godless communist regime. And in that regard I must thank you for your generous donation. I assure you, even without it I would have assisted you without any hesitation in return for your brave efforts on behalf of this order in 2005.”

Gillian Davis knew that her six figure donation would keep the nuns of El Cobre in funds for a year or more. Three more nuns of varying sizes and shapes gathered in the corridor as Sister Angelica hugged Sister Margaret Rose, blessed her and bid her a safe journey. The shortest and oldest nun, Sister Therese, took the bag and exited the dormitory with the three taller nuns.

***

Thom Passarell was already fed up of coffee, and the tourists had only been gone forty five minutes. He looked up to see four nuns exiting the building. It was a somewhat amusing sight; three were tall and had their hands concealed in their capacious sleeves, their arms in a cradling position. They were giggling. The last nun was about four feet six inches tall and she scurried behind the others with a stern look on her aged face that spoke volumes about her disapproval of her younger sisters’ public behaviour.

Light relief over, Passarell ordered another coffee and resumed his observation of the Basilica’s sole public entrance.

***

Inside the Basilica, Sister Angelica examined her handiwork and smiled at her finished product.

“I feel a little vulnerable dressed like this, Sister Angelica,” the novice nun admitted, temporarily concealing her Novice’s calf length work habit under Gillian Davis’s flowing summer dress, and replacing her veil with a flowing wig of fair hair.

Sister Angelica looked at the heavily made up face of the young woman and worried that she looked a little too much like a dancer at the Copa Cubana, but that was how her predecessor had arrived. Handing the novice a pair of Gillian Davis’s oversized sunglasses, she gave final instructions.

“Your veil is in the handbag. When you get to the Ducal Hotel restaurant, eat the set lunch and sit in the back, well away from the window. When the bus arrives to take the tourists to their next destination, go into the hotel restrooms, discard the dress, wig, hat and sunglasses, scrub your face and replace your veil. Wearing the habit under the dress will be warm, but it is the only way.”

The older nun paused for thought. “After you have done that, walk straight to the front desk and ask the concierge to order you a taxi. I want you back here in three hours.”

The novice was excited and nervous in equal measures as she passed an hour waiting for the bus.

***

When the tourist bus arrived, Thom Passarell looked over to ensure that his quarry was in the throng. He need not have worried; the sun hat, the glasses and the flowing summer dress stood out from the scantily dressed crowd who clambered aboard the bus, which then headed for the old city and lunch. Thom paid his bill. He was in no hurry. He knew exactly where the bus was headed.

***

At 10:30am Sister Margaret Rose presented her passport and boarding card to the uniformed customs official. He glanced at it with little interest before making a joke.

“The Bahamas, Sister? Perhaps you will be getting a nice tan.” He laughed at his own joke as the nun glared at him, only her face and hands visible. In a broad Irish accent the nun rebuked him, using the name on his badge.

“Christos, how would your mother feel if she knew how you treated the servants of the Saviour whose name you bear?”

The man visibly blanched, then offered a subdued apology as he quickly stamped her exit visa into her passport.

Gillian Davis smiled as she headed to gate 107 and her seventy minute flight to Nassau in the Bahamas. If everything worked out according to plan it would be almost 2pm when her followers realised that they had lost her, by which time she would be on a casino cruise ship bound for Fort Lauderdale.

***

Thom Passarell was annoyed with himself when he lost contact with his quarry. For almost an hour he searched high and low in the hotel, but she was nowhere to be seen. Passarell knew that she had not climbed aboard the bus, which had waited an extra ten minutes for her to show.

Nonetheless, he wasn’t worried. Some time later that night she would return to her hotel room and to her belongings, and when she did his team would be waiting.

Chapter 4 4

Nassau Cruise Terminal, Festival Place, Nassau Thursday 1pm

The seventy minute flight from Havana to Nassau had proven uneventful. The fifty seat turboprop aircraft, which was owned and run by Bahamasair, was comfortable enough and the aircraft appeared to be relatively new. The De Havilland Dash 8, painted in a yellow and aqua branding, had landed exactly on time at the Lynden Pindling International Airport.

Passing through the capacious airport building was swift and efficient. Less than thirty minutes after touching down, Gil had exited the hangar sized terminal building and was waiting at the courtesy car stand, where a jolly Caribbean man in a bright yellow and green shirt was awaiting her arrival.

“We will have you on your cruise liner within the hour, Sister,” he smilingly promised, not questioning why a nun should be considering a cruise, let alone a casino cruise.

The Chevy sedan almost floated along John F Kennedy Drive on its way to the cruise terminal before turning onto Coral Harbour Road. The sun was shining, the skies were a pristine and cloudless blue and there was little or no traffic to contend with. Gillian began to relax.

Eventually the car pulled into a side road and a multicoloured building constructed of timber, in the old Colonial style, stood before them. The sign on the top said “Starbucks”. They were everywhere. Gillian tipped the driver well and entered the modern cruise terminal. Her first port of call was the restroom.

Gillian removed the nun’s habit and all of the associated accessories, to reveal a pair of shorts and a Hollister So-Cal Tee shirt underneath. From the nun’s bag she extracted a foldaway Suzy Smith shoulder bag, which she proceeded to fill with her toiletries, a change of underwear and her make-up. At the bathroom counter she applied make-up to her face and gel to her hair, spiking it to make it a little more contemporary. Satisfied that she looked nothing like Sister Margaret Rose, but perhaps more like her bad sister, Gillian packed the black case with the nun’s habit and paraphernalia. Slipping her old passport into the concealed pocket at the bottom of the bag, she retrieved the new passport she was about to use for the first time and slipped it into her pocket.

The DHL man behind the Terminal Cargo Counter was happy to despatch the nun’s bag back to Cuba for his attractive new customer. He grinned widely, white teeth gleaming as he spoke.

“For you, Lady, I have a special rate, just forty eight dollars.” Gillian paid in cash and checked the address on the DHL plastic sack that encompassed her escape disguise. Satisfied that it would reach Sister Angelica intact, she left the cool interior of the air conditioned terminal building and stepped into the sun to walk the few yards to the large cruise liner berthed at the jetty. As she walked along the paved walkway, she turned to look back at the bright orange and yellow building proudly displaying a sign which read “Festival Place” and wished that she could stay awhile. The Bahamas were such a friendly group of islands.

Gillian walked along the gangway and stepped up to a handsome young American man dressed in a white dress uniform with a naval cap and shorts. He announced himself by name and rank and wished Gillian a safe return to the United States. He scanned her passport but took little notice of its contents; she was, after all, an American passport holder returning to the States on a casino boat.

***

Unbeknown to her MI5 bosses, in 2007 Gillian had started a long and quite laborious process to obtain American Citizenship, a social security number and a US Passport. She had only received them after her third face to face interview at the US Embassy in London at the end of 2009. Given that her entitlement was based entirely on her paternity – she was born to a US citizen, who was her father – her shiny new passport gave her name as Gillian Miles. In due course Gillian Davis, Sister Margaret Rose and two other identities would become history, and she would be like everyone else – one name, one identity, one future.

Sitting at the bar sipping a Margarita, Gillian Miles looked across the casino floor beyond the slot machines and over towards the Blackjack table. Perhaps she would try her luck later. She rubbed her finger around the edge of the cocktail glass, displacing the salt, and sipped her drink. The orange flavoured liqueur slipped across her tongue with a slight acidic tang. That would be the lime. Then the Tequila hit. She would have to be careful. She didn’t want her first entry to the States as a citizen to be on a stretcher. Gil had played many parts and had many skills, but she had realised at an early age that she reacted to alcohol very quickly and that if she wanted to be sharp she would just have to be abstemious. The last thing Gillian Miles wanted was not to be in control. That was her weakness, and also her nightmare.

Gillian took a quick glance at her watch as she felt the boat pull away from the jetty. It was 2pm. About now her watchers in Cuba would be wondering how they had lost her in a hotel with one main entrance. She smiled as she imagined the confused looks on their faces when they realised that she was never returning for her suitcase, her clothes and her hair straighteners.

Chapter 4 5

Green Earth Fashions, Church Place, London, Thursday 7pm

The fashion shoot was coming to an end. Katie was wearing the last of the summer range of dresses made from fair-trade cotton. So far she had worn a plethora of tee shirts, shorts, jeans, scarves, jackets and skirts. The mission statement of Green Earth Fashions was to produce high quality fashions from cotton and other sustainable materials secured from reputable sources. The entire supply chain was under the control of Maxi Jameson, former actress, singer and flower child.

Katie was much more astute than Dee had given her credit for. Katie had asked to see the certificates and audits that showed where the materials had come from and who had manufactured them. Once she was satisfied that the evidence was in order, she asked to see copies of the payslips for the Sri Lankan girls and women who had tailored the clothes. Noting that some of the girls were as young as twelve, she asked to see Maxi. There followed a long discussion which resulted in Maxi persuading Katie that the girls were still in education but that they had to help support their parents, and for many it was a choice between selling their sewing skills or their bodies.

It was only after this twice yearly audit that Katie donned the first of the outfits. She had now been sitting in front of the lights for almost five hours and when she was finished, at 8pm, she would be hosting a video web chat with Green Earth Fashion customers and fans of the Clara Campbell movies.

Dee had taken the opportunity of leaving Katie with the Green Earth security men for an hour, earlier in the day, when she had been able to meet up with Geordie.

***

It was hard to believe that just a week had passed since the assassination of the Hokobus, and Pete was still feeling the effects of his failure to protect them. He walked past St. James’ Church on Piccadilly, glancing down St James’ Place to see if there was any sign of Dee outside Green Earth’s premises. There wasn’t. It was unlikely anyway because, although the freezing conditions had passed for the time being, it was still wet and cold in the capital. As if to confirm his limited expectations of the weather, a steady drizzle started to fall. Pete walked briskly on past the stone entrance of the BAFTA offices and Princess Arcade to Ristorante Bagio, which combined a cafe and restaurant. As he opened the door, Franco stepped up to greet him and shake his hand vigorously.

“Mr Pete, so nice to see you again! You wanna use my upstairs office for stake out again?”

“No thanks, Franco, I just want a drink and maybe a bowl of pasta,” Geordie replied as he removed his leather jacket.

“Ah, it is a pity; I made more money on the stake out than I took in the cafe that entire two weeks,” Franco lamented as he departed to the kitchen.

Dee arrived exactly on time and sat with her colleague. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently. She hadn’t seen him since he had been back to Newcastle after the shooting.

“Are you OK, Pete?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice.

“No, Dee, I’m not. Not really. It’ll take a while yet. But I want to keep busy.” Dee nodded in understanding. She had been obliged to rest up for almost two months after being shot twice in quick succession last year, and it nearly drove her insane. She rubbed both of her old bullet wounds unconsciously as they always ached more in cold, damp weather.

“It is the beautiful Miss Conrad!” Franco enthused as he lifted her right hand to kiss it. “I live in the hope that someday you will return my affection and return to Sicily with me as my wife.”

Dee smiled as she replied.

“Firstly, it’s Mrs Hammond now.” Dee displayed her ring finger, and Franco looked crestfallen. “Second, Mrs Bagio might have something to say about that, and, thirdly, you don’t come from Sicily, Frankie, you were born in Chislehurst.” Her suitor replied in a whisper, dropping all pretence of an Italian accent.

“Congratulations, Mrs Hammond, but please keep your voice down. The tourists lap this stuff up.”

***

In the hour that they spent together, Pete explained all that he had been able find out about Gillian Davis’ childhood. He produced an article from the Financial Times that explained the generous nature of Ms Davis’ sell off of Celebrato, and handed the press cutting and the file to Dee.

“Simon has done a lot of the work, and I’ve added the insights I gained in Hampshire. If you turn to the back page you’ll see something interesting.” Pete waited for Dee to turn the pages.

There, in the back of the manila folder, was a Google map showing the exact location of Denton Miles III’s estate near Lynchburg, Virginia. It was accompanied by a satellite version of the same plan, and a photograph of the plantation house which occupied the site.

“Sooner or later she’ll end up there, you know, Pete.”

“Maybe sooner than you think.” Pete pulled a post-it note from his wallet. “As of yesterday Gillian Davis has a search and arrest warrant out on her, issued under orders from MI5. According to your friend in MI5, they believe that she has fled the country. Oddly enough, they believe she flew out of Newcastle.” Pete’s Geordie accent suddenly seemed more pronounced.

“I’m flying to the US with Katie tomorrow. If Ms Davis shows up in Virginia, I’ll make sure I’m there. I’ll have to clear it with Tom Vastrick, but I don’t foresee any problem with me spending a few days tracking down an assassin with a price on her head.” Dee’s focus altered and she stared into the distance, way beyond the dark wet pavements of Piccadilly. Geordie tried to regain her attention and succeeded in a dramatic fashion.

“Before you think about bringing her in, you might want to look at page eleven.”

Dee turned to page eleven, where she saw a full colour headshot of a handsome American man with salt and pepper hair and George Clooney style weathered face. She looked down at the notation that identified him as Denton Miles III and gasped when she read the short bio Simon had prepared.

“I don’t believe it!” she blurted, finishing the sentence with a string of unladylike expletives.

Chapter 4 6

Director of Operations Office, MI5, London, Thursday 7pm.

Maureen Lassiter wanted to go home. She was tired and emotionally drained and she was needy. She knew that Barry would be at her apartment and she needed some desperate, physical activity to take her mind off things. Barry wasn’t the best lover in the world but she didn’t have to encourage him to handle her roughly. As she got older her passions grew stronger and all embracing lovemaking made the years slip away. In the midst of her passion she felt like a girl again.

Her mobile phone rang with a tone that sounded like an old fashioned bell telephone ringing in the distance.

The news wasn’t good. The two clowns in Cuba had managed to lose Gillian Davis and now they were relying on their back up plan; wait for her to return to the hotel and snatch her. They actually seemed confident that this was still overwhelmingly likely, and had gone as far as hiring an outside team for the snatch. Maureen wasn’t so confident. Thom Passarel and Jared Stevens had been the victims of cutbacks. They were now only part time and they received little or no training. They were well out of touch.

Maureen listened to their timetable for the plane taking off from Cuba with Davis on board and the estimated landing time at Brize Norton Airfield, then she said her goodbyes and hung up.

Before placing her mobile in her bag she dialled her own phone. It was an odd feeling. She hadn’t rung that number in the ten years she had been living there. What would be the point? Normally there would be no-one there. Maybe in the future when she and Barry were together...

“Maureen?” Barry sounded impatient and tetchy. Her message was not going to improve his temperament.

“Barry, I think she’s gone. The part timers are convinced she has no idea they are watching her, but my guess is that she spotted them a mile off and they won’t be seeing her again.”

Barry swore loudly, frustration and anger getting the better of him.

“OK. She’s travelling on her own passport so put her name on the Terror Watch List at every airport which takes direct flights from Cuba, and there aren’t that many. Concentrate on the short haul flights, like Panama. She will arouse suspicion if she travels long haul without her luggage.” He paused. “With any luck we’ll get her overnight. Anyway, you may as well come home, I need you here.”

Maureen Lassiter closed down her work station and set off for home. She decided that she would allow Barry to work out his frustrations on her if he wanted, as long as his pent up aggression had a carnal outlet.