Текст книги "Chameleon"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 7

Vastrick Security, No 1, Poultry, London, Monday 5pm.

Andy tapped on Dee’s office door and stepped inside. Dee motioned for him to take a seat whilst she finished typing a sentence on her computer. Andy watched her; she was a little shorter than his five feet ten inch frame, perhaps by a couple of inches. She was athletically built but she had the curves of a real woman. Her face was framed by flowing auburn hair that settled on her shoulders. Her hair shone with good health, or with good conditioner, or both. Dee wore little make up in the office but her facial beauty was defined by her finely sculpted cheekbones and her pretty nose. It was hard to believe that she was so tough.

“Well, Andy,” Dee smiled, and he felt a mellow warmth pass through him. “She’s a married woman now,” ran through his mind in an unspoken mantra, as he concentrated on the matter in hand.

“I took a call, allegedly from the UN Conference organisers, who were confirming a sound check for Mrs Hokobu on Thursday morning. I told them that we were unaware of anyone of that name but said that if she contacted us we would pass on the message.”

“Well done. It could have been a fishing exercise,” Dee mused.

“It was. I rang the organisers but they told me they don’t have sound checks for individual speakers.”

“The press trying for an exclusive, do you think? Or perhaps something more sinister?”

“I don’t believe it was the press, but I’ve listened to the tapes again. The caller referred to the client as Mrs Hokobi, but later in the conversation I’m afraid I called her Mrs Hokobu. They must know she is our client now.”

He waited for a blast from his new Vice President, but she sat quietly, thinking. Her well manicured hands sported short nails, with the lightest of pink nail polish. They were steepled, showing her expensive engagement ring and her gold wedding ring carved with Celtic symbols.

“OK. We don’t know how they tracked her to us, and I doubt that she told anyone she was coming here, given that she said that she had never heard of us until she saw our illuminated posters at Heathrow. On the positive side, they know she is being protected. On the negative side, they could sit in the lobby downstairs until she shows up and try something there.

Andy, you’d better warn our security men at the front door to keep their eyes open for any unusual activity and I’ll call Geordie and tell him not to come to the office. We’ll work from their apartment.”

“OK, Dee. And, sorry,” Andy said as Dee smiled again.

“Don’t you worry, we all make mistakes. Mine usually end up with me being shot.”

They both laughed and then set about making their calls.

Chapter 8

Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Monday 6pm.

The silver bulletproof Mercedes on the www.ExoticCarsLongford.com website sported the number plate X14 ECL. Presumably ECL was intended to represent Exotic Cars of Longford, the Chameleon thought.

So, what was known so far? Hokobu has hired Vastrick Security, less than a mile away from Spitalfields, close to Bank Station. Vastrick have hired the silver bulletproof Mercedes with the registration number X14 ECL.

How does that help? The Chameleon had only been in the killer for hire business for three short years, but one can learn a great deal in three years.

It didn’t feel like three years. In fact, the Chameleon’s dismissal from the service still rankled. It hardly seemed fair that one day you are asked to dispose of some foreign troublemaker, no questions asked; the next the Western Governments all get politically correct and you are surplus to requirements. What did they honestly expect their trained killers to do next? Work in an office, perhaps, or a factory? Drive a bus?

Any job was going to be an anti climax after the adrenaline-fuelled assignments these government agents had fulfilled in the past. The Chameleon was no different. Admittedly, operating a successful company was challenging and the original goal had been to raise enough cash from killing to buy a legitimate firm and then retire from the assassination business. The trouble was, that wasn’t enough. It was impossible to duplicate the adrenaline rush, the fear, the power of control over life and death, the satisfaction of watching the aftermath of a project, police looking for a killer whilst walking right past you without giving you a second glance.

Looking more like a greetings card executive than a notorious assassin had its advantages.

The Chameleon dialled a familiar number.

“Hello, David. How’s life in TfL’s Congestion Charges Department?”

“No, not you again! Why can’t you leave me alone? I’m going to lose my job if I keep helping you.”

David sighed; working in the Transport for London Congestion Charge Office was stressful enough without any aggravation from his mystery caller. David issued PCN’s – Penalty Charge Notices – and he had a target for the week. He had to ensure that any motorists who avoided the charge paid up, one way or another. If he spent time helping the Chameleon he would fall behind, and he would be spoken to yet again. Worse still, if his superiors ever found him using the system for personal reasons he would be sacked on the spot.

All this for fifteen quid an hour, he thought. He used to be a steel fixer until the slump. He made more in a day during the construction boom than he did in a week here. The Chameleon issued a gentle reminder.

“David, I am the holder of the secrets. I have never let you down and I don’t expect you to let me down. No-one forced you to take part in the movie with that poor woman.”

“I was high. Someone had spiked my drink and I didn’t know it was going to be released on the Internet. There were four other men there. Why pick on me?”

“David, the other four are also helpful to me, but I must say that to perform as you did when drunk was deeply impressive. Anyway, we’re wasting time. You have targets to meet. The vehicle you are looking for is a silver Mercedes saloon with the registration number X14 ECL.”

“What do you want me to do?” The man sighed with resignation.

“I want to know where it is all day tomorrow.”

“OK, but I’m not on until ten in the morning, and I finish at six. Also, you need to remember that I can only track it when it goes past a camera with plate recognition.”

“That will serve my needs. Thanks Dave, it’s always a pleasure.”

The Chameleon terminated the call and wondered whether tomorrow could be the day. The excitement was already rising. It had been a while since the Israeli hit. It hadn’t been a difficult job, as the Mossad had been misdirected by a public threat from Hamas, which they had dealt with, and so they hadn’t thought that the minister was at any risk in the private closed meeting later in the day. The Chameleon clearly remembered the looks on their faces; the panic; happy days.

“One day I think I’ll write an autobiography and give away all of my trade secrets,” the Chameleon thought with a satisfied smile, “and I’ll start with the Parisian job.”

Chapter 9

Hôtel D’ Israel, Rue De Rivoli, Paris, France. 3 months ago.

Laurent Gascoigne was not a typical Mossad agent. His parents had immigrated to Israel when he was a child, making him eligible for military service. Laurent had intended to pursue a career in architecture until he found his real home in the army. When his service was completed he was approached by ‘The Insitution’, short for Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, the Israeli national intelligence agency. In English it is better known by its Hebrew name, Mossad.

He was attractive to the Mossad because he was French born and held a French passport. He also spoke fluent French with a Normandy accent. The Mossad had around fifty permanent agents across Western Europe, and a native with total loyalty to the mother country was a prize of great value.

So it was that Laurent found himself walking up Rue Geoffroi L'Asnier towards his hotel. He had just been to the Mémorial de la Shoah to do his final reconnaissance. The Israeli Minister for Culture would arrive early in the morning at Charles De Gaulle Airport and would travel directly to the Museum. In the memorial gardens he would speak about French-Jewish relations and a joint heritage. He would also refer to the Holocaust and salute the many brave resistance fighters who harboured Jews who would otherwise have been slaughtered.

On this occasion Laurent was working with Shin Bet agents. These men were members of the Internal Israel Security agency (ISA), Sherut haBitachon haKlali, known in Israel by the acronym Shabak. Elsewhere in the world they were colloquially referred to as Shin Bet, the old name for the security agency.

Shin Bet was tasked with keeping the Minister safe, and so a team of five agents were staying with Laurent on the Rue De Rivoli, less than five hundred metres from the Shoah centre.

Laurent was tense; a more accurate term would be nervous. The Shin Bet believed that the threat was minimal and that the Gendarmerie and Shin Bet together could eliminate any threat. Laurent was not so sure. There had already been a threat, called in from a phone in a service station on the A1 road. The threat was validated by the agreed code word, and the bomb had been found concealed under a motorway bridge, just yards from where the motorcade would have passed. A remote trigger wired to a mobile telephone would have detonated the explosives. In short, the explosives could have been detonated from anywhere; there was no need for Hamas to have anyone within sight of the explosives to set them off as the Israeli motorcade passed, given that the visit would be televised live from the arrival to the departure four hours later.

The reason for Laurent’s nervousness was that Shin Bet and the Israel based Mossad personnel were already celebrating. The rumour was that an assassin known as ‘le caméléon’ would try to humiliate the Mossad during the visit as a reprisal for not being paid for the earlier assassination of a Hamas leader.

The official ‘internal – eyes only’ explanation was that Islamic Fundamentalists did not want the assassin killing innocent French people along with the Minister, as they were already under pressure in France. They had therefore undermined his plan and called in a warning using the recognised codes.

It made sense, but Laurent didn’t believe a word of it. He figured that if he was planning to take out the Minister, he too might plant a bomb as a diversion. No one was listening to him, however, and so security was down to nine men: himself, five Shin Bet advance agents, and three more Shin Bet agents in the car with the Minister.

***

The five Shin Bet operatives had chosen a table in a booth out of sight of the door and of the bar. They took the additional precaution of concealing their illicit spirits in glasses of coke. The ‘no alcohol’ rule had been well and truly broken since the uptight Mossad man left to do another useless walk around.

“Hello, gentlemen. You can’t hide from me.” The men looked appreciatively at the pretty French girl in a black skirt and white blouse, carrying the tray of drinks. Her badge read Mari-Hostess.

“We are offering you complimentary drinks as it now six o’clock. Would anyone like one?”

In a few seconds the tray was empty and the shot glasses were drained.

One of the Shin Bet men saw the Mossad man heading towards the bar.

“Mari, please take these glasses away with you. We cannot be seen with them. We have a tattle tale in our midst.”

Mari looked puzzled, but she smiled anyway and went on her way. As soon as she rounded the corner she set the tray down on an empty table and removed her badge. Two minutes later, having recovered her coat from the back of a chair, she was stepping out onto Rue De Rivoli. As she walked towards the Louvre she took out her mobile phone and pressed redial.

“Hello.” The voice at the other end was English.

“It is done; all five took the drinks and consumed them.”

“Thank you, Justine. You have been as efficient as usual. I will send you a little bonus this time,” the Chameleon promised, whilst silently thanking some supreme being for the ready availability of Botox in Paris.

***

Laurent had been called from his bed at five in the morning. All five of the Shin Bet men were ill. They had blurred or double vision and partial paralysis. They wanted to vomit but their gag reflex wasn’t working. The doctor had diagnosed botulism, and an ambulance was coming to take the men to hospital.

They had all eaten together at an exclusive Thai Restaurant on Rue de Rivoli the previous evening, and they were blaming the food. Once again Laurent’s alarm bells were ringing. There were now only three Israeli security personnel to protect the Minister.

It was too late to call off the visit, and in any event the Duty Controller back in Tel Aviv told Laurent that he was panicking for no reason. He was reminded that the French, who had assigned undercover armed Gendarmes, were providing the real protection. The Israeli security officers were mainly there as a visual deterrent.

***

Rue Geoffroy L'Asnier is a cobbled street the width of a single car. The paving on both sides is lined with black steel bollards to protect pedestrians, as the pavements are, in places, little more than two feet in width. In short, Laurent thought, this is a terrorist’s wet dream. If you were looking for a good place to ambush someone, this would be the first place you would choose. Laurent had been nervous before; now he was scared.

The Minister was due in a few minutes, and the Palestinian protestors were out in force, carrying banners that read: Two State Solution, Free the Palestinians, Stop Building in the West Bank. They were pre printed in both French and English, and mounted on boards that were affixed to long handles.

In security circles, operatives on protective duties normally like to have a line of sight cleared before they will enter a road or street, but that was impossible here. The banners completely obscured the sight lines.

Nonetheless, the plan was working so far. The uniformed Gendarmes had cleared the top of the street to allow free access to the limousine. The Minister would get out of the car and walk less than fifteen metres to the relative safety of the gardens, which were ringed with machine gun toting French police. Once the Minister had finished, the Gendarmes would move the protestors onto Allez De Justes, behind the limousine, to allow it to freely exit the bottom of the one-way street.

Laurent’s main concern remained the few metres between the car and the garden. He had to concede that everything looked secure, but this was where the Shin Bet men would have been stationed, if they hadn’t been in hospital.

Laurent looked around as the limousine turned into the narrow road. The only building overlooking the arrival and departure was an academy of some kind, but luckily the windows were barred and opaque. The ancient building had two half glazed green doors that in normal circumstances would open outwards, but which were today barred and padlocked to prevent access or egress to the arrival point. The glazing was opaque Georgian wired glass which was protected by vertical steel bars at six-inch intervals.

Outside each green door was a worn stone step around five feet wide, and three French students sat on each step. Even though they were probably aged no more than sixteen or so, they had been frisked.

The car pulled up, and Laurent took up his position. His duty was to open the car door when it was safe to do so and let out bodyguard number one. Bodyguard number two would exit from the far side of the car.

In a few seconds both doors were open and the two bodyguards were looking around to assess any threats. They made the decision that the greater threat was the demonstration rather than the seated students, and so they placed themselves between the protestors and the Minister as he exited the car.

Two missiles flew over the police line, but Laurent and the bodyguards deflected them with their hands. One balloon was filled with flour, the other with ketchup. Laurent got the ketchup, and as he parried it away it burst open and covered him.

Eager to get the minister into safety, the bodyguards shielded him from the crowd by walking to the side of him, one slightly in front, one slightly behind. This allowed the minister to walk with some dignity towards his smiling host, who had his arms outstretched in welcome. The Minister moved towards his host, but never reached him.

The Rabbi on the welcoming committee was the first one to notice something odd. The three students on the stone step were looking up to where the glazed panel in the door had simply disappeared, leaving an opening. It had been removed silently. Before he could shout a warning, a black machine pistol poked through the orifice and fired off a controlled burst of six rounds. Every one hit the sprightly eighty two year old Minister.

Suddenly there was mayhem. The police did not know where the shots had come from, and by default surrounded the crowd of protesters. Laurent and the Rabbi pointed to the door, where three students were now cowering and crying, but they could not make themselves heard. Laurent withdrew his sidearm and ran to the door.

One of the Gendarmes from the garden rushed out to see the minister bleeding to death on the ground, and the Rabbi shouting in Yiddish and pointing to the door. The Gendarme saw a man running away holding a gun, and had to make a split second decision. He fired.

***

The Chameleon was delighted that the plan had worked so well. Of course, it had meant the sacrifice of a perfectly good backpack bomb to give the Israelis’ intelligence community a false sense of security. The bombers’ code words were easy to repeat; the Chameleon had used them before when working for the Mossad.

Justine had done well. Just a couple of drops of Botox, or Botulinium Toxin, was enough to cause considerable distress but not death.

The French Police had kindly obliged by barring the doors to the academy, meaning that no one could give chase. The Chameleon had been in the Academy all night, first hiding and then stripping away the glazing beads and putty holding in the glass from the inside. The rest had been easy; the glass was replaced, being held in only by blu tack. From the outside it looked the same, but it could be removed in two seconds. Finally a pinhole viewer inserted into a hole drilled in the door allowed the Chameleon to see exactly when the Minister was in range.

Perfect. The Chameleon relaxed into the first class seat on the Eurostar, and ordered dinner.

***

The Duty Controller at the Mossad HQ in Tel Aviv sat with his head in his hands. He had just presided over the death of an Israeli Minister he had been charged with protecting, by an assailant who had managed somehow to get clean away without being seen by anyone.

One of his best agents had been cut down by friendly fire, and was probably already dead when he slid down the wall he had been thrown against by the impact of the French Gendarme’s 9mm parabellums. Pictures of him would find their way onto the front pages of newspapers around the world because, in the rush to evacuate the dying Minister, no one had stopped the paparazzi. Ari looked at the photos of the whole crime scene that were being offered for sale on the Internet, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the handsome young French Israeli sitting against the wall. Laurent still had his gun in his hand; blood had poured from his mouth after two of the rounds had destroyed his lungs, the whole picture becoming even more bizarre when one took into consideration the fact that he was also covered in tomato ketchup.

Even worse for Israel was the likelihood that, beside the picture of Laurent on the front pages, would be the picture of the pregnant Palestinian woman lying dead on the pavement on Rue Geoffroy L'Asnier, dead eyes staring, having been run down by the panicking Israeli Limousine driver.

The phone rang and an electronically enhanced voice spoke.

“Perhaps now you will pay your debts. Usual account, by the end of the week, or I work my way through the Cabinet.” The phone line was disconnected.

Ari knew the Chameleon would have to be paid, despite what he had done. The government must never know that this was all about a dishonoured debt. If they ever found out, the Mossad would be closed down within a week.

Anyway, it wasn’t Ari’s problem any more. He had been fired ten minutes before the call came in.