Текст книги "Chameleon"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 2

Fitness Forum, Spitalfields, London, Monday 10a.m.

Just a five minute walk from Liverpool Street Station, in East London, lies Spitalfield Market. It has been the site of a busy market since 1638, when King Charles gave a licence for flesh, fowl and roots to be sold in what was then known as Spittle Fields. Three hundred and seventy two years later, and now located within the historical Horner Buildings, the area has become a paradise for shoppers who can buy anything from cheap trinkets to valuable works of art.

The Chameleon could see much of the street activity below, through the first floor plate glass window in front of the treadmill. Despite the extreme distance and high speed showing on the treadmill video screen, the Chameleon was breathing easily, though coated in a sheen of perspiration.

Just as the machine was slowing for a “warm down”, a vibration on the Chameleon’s left arm signalled that a text message had been received on the mobile phone hotline. Only very wealthy clients ever dialled that number.

After a brief delay, the Chameleon wandered into the corridor and looked at the message.

“Call JM from St James’s Square,” the cryptic message read.

An attractive woman in her thirties came up the stairs, admired the Chameleon’s washboard stomach and nodded an appreciative silent greeting, which was returned.

The Chameleon showered, dressed and left the gym, passing through the crowds on the street before swiping a card at the entrance of an impressive modern office block just a quarter of a mile away.

Sitting at a desk in a glass walled office, the Chameleon affixed an electronic voice changer to the telephone handset before dialling the client’s number.

“Jalou Makabate speaking.”

“This is the Chameleon. Send encrypted details of the assignment to the usual email address and I will action your request.”

“It must be done within seventy two hours. Will that be enough time?” Makabate asked.

“It will have to be,” replied the electronic voice that sounded much like the artificial voice of Stephen Hawking. “Ensure that the down payment is paid to my account within twenty four hours.”

“Good. This woman is a danger to all of the good citizens of Marat. She is determined to destroy the peace in our country and incite a civil war that will claim many innocent lives. Her followers have already formed a militia that has maimed and abused many in an attempt to scare them into following her communist ambitions for our free country.” Makabate paused. “Oh, and by the way, Peter Wright at the Foreign Office says hello.”

“Yes, whatever you say,” the electronic voice responded.

Makabate was familiar with these brusque conversations, and so was not surprised when the call ended abruptly without any further warning or good wishes.

***

Relaxing back into the sumptuous leather chair befitting the founder and Managing Director of both Celebrato Greeting Cards Ltd. and its online presence at www.Celebrato.tv, the Chameleon pondered.

‘So, the boys at MI5 are still playing their childish games, code words indeed. Still, it seems that someone at Thames House wants this woman taken down, and for a million US dollars it’s a done deal, code words or no code words.’

Smiling as the world passed by on Spitalfields Square, fifty feet below, the Celebrato MD thought, ‘It’s all very well spending your days designing and printing bespoke greeting cards and making money the hard way, but one does need a hobby.

Chapter 3

Vastrick Security, No 1 Poultry, London, Monday 10am.

Dee and Geordie had listened carefully to Victoria Hokobu and her husband, and had taken meticulous notes.

Victoria Hokobu began by explaining that she used her maiden name, even though she was happily married to the distinguished looking Samuel Etundi, who was sitting by her side. Both in their mid thirties, the pair made a handsome couple.

Victoria and her husband were both from the M’baka ethnic group who traditionally spoke the NgBaka Ma’bo language. Hailing from what is now called the Central African Republic, their tribe settled in the mountainous landscape in the region that now forms Marat, in the late eighteenth century. In 1972 they were eventually recognised as a separate state by the United Nations, albeit they were still administered by their former parent state. Now, however, the nation state of Marat has a president and a burgeoning bureaucracy and lies sandwiched between the Central African Republic and Cameroon. Victoria explained, somewhat mournfully, that a tribal council had peacefully ruled Marat for two hundred years until Blue Violet Tanzanite was discovered in the mountains.

Wary of the sudden interest in Marat in 1996, Jaafar Hokobu, Victoria’s father, opposed the creation of a republic but was overruled by the other tribal elders, who foresaw great riches coming into the new republic. But, by 2001, the majority of the people had come to realise that the new president and his followers were robbing them. These were evil men who claimed M’baka heritage but who could not speak the NgBaka Ma’bo dialect.

Looking to Jaafar Hokobu to lead a popular uprising, the people began to withdraw their labour from the mines. Jaafar Hokobu was arrested, along with most of the other leaders of the uprising, who ‘confessed’ to their treason whilst in prison. Most were executed and white South African mercenaries were drafted into the tiny Marati army to help restore order and set the mines working again.

According to Victoria, the people of Marat, who numbered less than the population of Brighton, were virtual slaves in their own land. By travelling secretly into the Central African Republic, she and her husband had been able to fly to the UK from a city called Bangui without being apprehended. From Bangui KLM operated regular flights to Europe.

Their air fares were being paid by the organisers of a UN Conference to be held in central London, entitled; Ending Slavery, Ending Poverty. The conference was expected to present hard evidence of the corruption endemic in the continent of Africa, and to press for aid to be distributed fairly to those in most need by non-governmental organisations.

By acting in this way, Victoria was to argue, the richer nations could avoid their generous aid lining the pockets of the rich government officials who stole from their own people.

Victoria was intending to expose the Marati Government as thieves and show the world the real poverty being suffered by her people. She would say that the M’baka were a proud people who would not need aid if they could share in the national wealth created by the large Tanzanite deposits. It was the threat of this disclosure that she believed would lead her government to attempt to kill her before she addressed the conference in seventy two hours’ time.

***

Geordie sat with Dee in her office, temporarily separating themselves from the potential client, and together they examined the three stones that were being offered to them in payment for their services. The accompanying documentation said that they were; BVve, internally flawless and excellent. In short, these were the best possible Blue Violet very exceptional stones, cut perfectly to the square/princess design. Each stone was just over 10 Carats in weight and so the three together would be worth around thirty thousand dollars. That worked out at around seven thousand pounds per day for this three-day assignment.

Dee had already sent a message to Tom Vastrick, their President, who was holidaying in Vermont, asking for his opinion, but they both expected him to say; “Do what you think is right. You people are there, I’m not.”

The two sat together in Dee’s office and discussed the main problem faced by Close Protection Operatives or Bodyguards in the UK, which is that they have only passive deterrents at their disposal. These are items such as body armour, and bullet resistant glass and bodywork on cars. The only other protection they can offer is to keep themselves between the client and assailant; not an attractive proposition if the assailant is armed with a sniper’s rifle and the bodyguard is armed with nothing more potent than pepper spray.

In their favour was the fact that both Dee and Geordie had attended special courses at Quantico, taught by FBI trainers. Whilst they had not been in the same classes, they were in the USA at the same time, they had both attended similar lectures, and both had completed the same units over a six-month period.

They had been taught a number of secret service techniques, including those used to protect the President of the United States. They had firearms training, and they spent two weeks on counter terrorist training. They spent an enjoyable and adrenaline filled week on defensive driving and pursuit driving. Finally, they had been taught the latest (and dirtiest) moves in hand-to-hand combat.

But despite all of their undoubted skills, Dee now had three scars from bullet wounds, and Geordie had one scar from a knife blade in his leg and a further scar in his back from a wickedly sharp Shuriken throwing star.

In many ways it was inevitable that those who were routinely required to face that kind of danger would illegally carry deterrent sprays, batons, knives and even tasers; anything to try to slow down a madman with an agenda.

Dee made a decision. “Geordie, I think we have to help this lady. She’s probably overstating the risk, but between us we could carry out a detailed risk assessment and cover the obvious danger areas.”

“I’ll go along with that, Dee. With any luck it’ll all pass without incident,” he said, his Geordie brogue coming to the fore.

Of course, neither Geordie nor Dee could possibly have known about the Chameleon’s involvement, but it would have made no difference if they had; their task was to make it as difficult as possible for any assassin, no matter how skilled, to get to Victoria Hokobu.

Chapter 4

Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Monday Noon.

The Celebrato Greeting Cards headquarters were contained within a single floor of the grey framed office building on Spital Square. The outside walls consisted of floor to ceiling windows which had a green hue when viewed from the street.

The offices were always busy, but the main business was conducted from a factory unit in Warrington, in the North West of England, halfway between Manchester and Liverpool. The unit was strategically placed with easy access to the M62 and the M6, but the best part of the deal was that the former Labour Government’s Business Minister had awarded Celebrato a grant which meant the rent and rates were subsidised for ten years, and that the printing and distribution plant was provided virtually free of charge.

By ensuring the plant was efficiently organised, Celebrato cards could be produced and distributed by just thirty operatives working a three-shift rota.

Celebrato had been bought for peanuts by its current Managing Director, the Chameleon, from the founder’s grandson, who had run the greeting card company into the ground, despite its profitable history of producing high quality cards which spanned fifty years or more. Since the takeover three years ago ‘Capitol Cards’ had closed its shops, gone online and changed its name.

Business was booming. Costs and quality had been reduced but prices had remained stable. All of the major supermarket chains retailed the standard Celebrato cards, as did a major national newsagent chain. The bespoke cards, ordered online, were created in Warrington by a few minimum wage software jockeys, so that mums, dads and grannies around the country could receive personalised cards with their names or personal photographs on the front. The most expensive ones even allowed the buyer to record a short audio message.

As a result the Chameleon’s initial investment had rocketed in value. The MD guessed that if Celebrato’s customers knew that the takeover of Capitol Cards had been funded by the Chameleon’s assassination of a troublesome Iranian, they would not be impressed.

***

The Chameleon’s quick search of the Internet revealed the venue and timetable for the UN Conference Ending Slavery, Ending Poverty. It was to be held in the magnificent Westminster Hall, which had hosted the Pope during his state visit to the UK in September 2010. The Conference would run from Wednesday to Friday, with sessions from nine in the morning to five in the afternoon each day. The Chameleon noted that there were also numerous receptions, where attendees could wring their hands and concern themselves with the problems of the poor as they quaffed champagne and ate smoked salmon.

The section of the website dealing with the history of the medieval hall was interesting, however. Commenced in 1097 under William II, the son of William the Conqueror, it was completed two years later. It is said that the King had conceived the project to impress his new subjects with his power and the majesty of his authority. The hall must have impressed the twelfth century serfs, because it impressed a cynical assassin in the twenty first century.

When it was finished, the Hall was by far the largest hall in England at that time, and probably in Europe. Measuring seventy three metres by twenty, it boasted a floor area covering one thousand five hundred and seventy four square metres, with a length of almost four cricket pitches end-to-end. Remarkably, for the time, it needed no intermediate columns to support the beautifully ornate arched roof timbers. With stained glass windows all around, the largest and most impressive was the South Window, which is relatively new, the old window having been destroyed during the Blitz. The big arched window is inlaid with the coats of arms and monograms of famous parliamentarians, and lists the ones who gave their lives in two World Wars.

This type of large open and unrestricted floor area was usually good news for assassins, but there is such a thing as being too open. The Chameleon noted from photographs that when the hall was laid out for conferences the steps that take up the South End of the hall are used for the presentations. The stone steps effectively form a raised platform on three levels, which is ideal for allowing the speakers to be seen from the floor of the hall. But because the hall provided very little cover, and was not ideal for snipers, the Chameleon would only strike during the conference if all else failed.

The first of three encrypted messages arrived at the Chameleon’s inbox, [email protected], and the recipient immediately began to make notes and plan the next seventy hours.

The conference program noted that the troublesome Victoria Hokobu was due to speak from the raised podium at ten o’clock on Thursday morning, and the client’s view was that if she was still speaking fifteen minutes later it would be too late; the damage would have been done. The Chameleon doodled on a lined pad while thinking; the words read:

‘Violets are blue,

Roses are red

Mrs. Hokobu

Will soon be dead’

Catchy, but probably not one of our bestsellers, the Chameleon thought.

Chapter 5

Vastrick Security, No 1 Poultry, London, Monday Noon.

Whilst the Chameleon was planning how to end Victoria Hokobu’s life, Geordie and Dee were working just as hard to preserve it.

At the client’s request, Dee had secured a Mercedes S Class Pullman Guard bulletproof saloon car with invisible armour, meaning that from the outside the car looks like any other production model. Nonetheless it has a larger engine, bullet resistant glass, a full armour plated pan protecting the underside of the car, further armour in the doors with the engine and radiator being protected against light arms fire by Kevlar shielding. The car also sported ‘drive flat’ tyres. Geordie was picking the car up from Exotic Cars of Longford Ltd, on Bath Road, near Heathrow Airport. They had been lucky to get the Mercedes at short notice, because such hire cars are very rare in London.

Dee was handling the accommodation. This was a little easier to arrange, because in London there are a number of expensive apartment buildings with extensive security arrangements and full time guards. A few even have permits allowing trained personnel to access handguns, which the police insist are kept in secure cabinets on the premises. Dee had rented an apartment from a regular supplier; the apartment was on the sixth floor of Parnell House on Oakley Street in Kensington. The secure car park could only be accessed through gates operated from the CCTV room.

Dee Hammond’s task was to ensure that between now and Mrs Hokobu’s presentation to the conference, she spent as much time as possible either in the bulletproof car or the secure apartment.

***

Over the years, clients had often baulked at the security arrangements made to keep them safe, arguing that they could hide away behind impenetrable walls on their own, and that the reason they hired Vastrick was so that they didn’t have to be isolated. Victoria Hokobu had made the same point. She was making her first visit outside Africa with her husband, and she wanted to enjoy London.

Geordie was not too concerned about showing the couple around the sights of London. He decided that he would simply choose the destinations randomly, so that no-one following would know where he was heading next. The car was a silver S Class Mercedes, of which there were thousands in the City, and so it would be relatively anonymous. In any case, Geordie was well trained in anti-surveillance techniques and he could spot a tail and lose it in London with ease.

But that was a problem for tomorrow, because the African couple were yawning every few minutes, having not slept at all during their twelve-hour flight from Bangui. All they wanted now was to go to their apartment, have English fish and chips, and watch British television until they fell asleep. Geordie offered to stay overnight with them, as their second bedroom would be far larger and more luxurious than his budget hotel room, and he would be on expenses.

Consequently, by early afternoon Geordie was driving the Mercedes in the direction of Fryers Tuck In, a fish and chip takeaway on the Kings Road, less than half a mile from the apartment. Gentle snoring was coming from the back seat, where both of his passengers were out for the count and leaning against each other.

They would soon wake up when they smelled cod and chips three times with salt, vinegar and mushy peas, Geordie thought, smiling.

Chapter 6

Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Monday 4pm.

The Chameleon printed out the encrypted file that had been sent by email. One of the reasons the Maratis were good customers was that their background information was always thorough, no doubt obtained by bribery and torture. Another reason that they were good to work for was that their targets were usually evil, low profile, unguarded and accessible.

The final reason that the Chameleon accepted the assignment was that someone very senior at MI5 had initially referred the Maratis to the Chameleon with the old code words. This meant that, in the view of that individual at least, the assassinations were probably in the UK’s national interest.

The notes in the extensive file explained that Victoria Hokobu had promised her head of security, Vincent Utembo, that she would seek protection when she landed in London. Vincent had told her that he would sleep more easily if she travelled in an armoured vehicle. She promised him she would follow his instructions. That was almost the last promise he received.

Utembo had received one final promise from the policemen who had shot him dead two hours ago. It was:

“Tell us all you know about the Hokobus’ trip to London and we will spare the lives of your wife and children.”

The photographs of the carnage in the humble stone built house were a testament to the emptiness of that promise.

The Chameleon could not know which security company the Hokobu woman would contact, but whoever she approached would need to hire in one of the half dozen bulletproof cars available for hire in the Home Counties. They would probably hire it today and keep it until after the Hokobus’ flight back on Friday.

***

The Chameleon made the fifth and final call to determine who was hiring armoured cars at the last minute; this call was to Exotic Cars of Longford, one of the few companies listed as suppliers of Protective Cars for hire. This last call would ensure that all of London’s specialist car hire companies had been contacted.

“Exotic Cars, Alexander speaking.”

“Alexander, I hope that you can help me. This is Highgate Protection Services and we need to hire a bulletproof car as soon as possible.”

“I’m sorry; I’ve just hired out the last armoured Mercedes.”

“Damn! Was it the wine coloured S Class shown on your website?”

“No, it was the silver S Class on the next page. When do you need it? It is due back on Friday night, so if you need it for the weekend...” Alexander offered hopefully.

“That would be ideal; can I book it tomorrow when the boss gets back?”

“Sure, that would be fine.”

“OK, until tomorrow. Oh, just one more thing; the car that you just hired out wasn’t booked by our sister company Douglas Protection Services in the Isle of Man, by any chance?”

“No, I’m afraid not. A guy from Vastrick Security picked it up.”

“OK. Thanks, Alexander, I’ll call back tomorrow,” the Chameleon lied, hanging up the phone.

This was by far the most likely candidate, and so a minute or two later the Vastrick website was showing on the Celebrato computer screen and the contact number listed was being dialled.

“Vastrick Security, Andy speaking.”

“Hello there. I am calling from the UN Ending Slavery, Ending Poverty, organising committee. Could I speak to Victoria Hokobi please?”

If Katie, the usual receptionist, had answered the phone she would have blurted out that Mrs Hokobu was the correct pronunciation, and that she had just left, but Andy was a little wilier. He suspected someone was fishing for information.

“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone of that name. Are you sure you wanted Vastrick Security?”

“Yes, quite sure. That’s odd. When we parted at Heathrow this morning after flying in from Bangui she said she was coming to see you. I do hope that she is OK.”

“Well, she doesn’t have an appointment, but if she does call on us do you have a message for her?”

“Yes, I do. Could you please tell her that we will do a sound check at eight o’clock on Thursday morning before she speaks at ten?”

“I’m sure that Mrs Hokobu is fine, and if she should happen to turn up at our door, I will be sure to pass on the message.”

The Chameleon smiled and put down the phone. It had seemed at first as though Vastrick was a dead end, but the young man on the phone confirmed the Chameleon’s suspicions when he pronounced her name Huckooboo, whereas the Chameleon had deliberately, but mistakenly, referred to her as Mrs Hokobi.