Текст книги "Chameleon"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 1 0

Hokobu Apartment, Parnell House, Oakley St, Kensington, London, Tuesday 8:30am.

The morning was grey and miserable but the frost wasn’t as cruel as it had been on previous mornings. Deep cloud cover seemed to have kept the temperatures to just below freezing. Dee turned onto Oakley Street. She had travelled on the tube from Greenwich, where she shared an apartment with her new husband Josh Hammond. Her coat collar was turned up, ineffectively, against the wind and her breath was expelled in clouds of water vapour through the scarf she held in front of her face.

Parnell House was a six-storey brick building, as anonymous as it was faceless. Probably built in the 1950s, it offered a view of an expanse of brickwork, windows and a flat roof to those passers-by who deemed it worthy of examination. The building had no aesthetic value that Dee could determine, but she knew that it was about to be listed as the minimalist architect that designed it was now popular again after years in the wilderness, thanks to a scathing critique of his work by an outspoken royal. In the centre of the long low building was an opening with apartments built above it. The opening was about six metres wide and four metres high. A metal grating which was actually an electronically operated gate filled the space. To the left hand side was a turnstile, which was operated by an electronic key fob or by the guard behind the glass window.

This level of security ensured that the only way into Parnell House was past the guard on duty. Dee stepped up to the turnstile and the guard pressed a button which initiated a buzzer, indicating that Dee could push on the turnstile and enter the security office.

Once inside she explained who she was and showed her driving licence, which was retained, and in return she was given a security card hanging from a lanyard, which was labelled VISITOR. The guards were all ex military types with abundant muscle and menace, all with short haircuts and no stubble. Their blazers and ties were identical. They were as anonymous as the building they were guarding. Five minutes after leaving the place, any description you gave of the guard that assisted you would probably fit every guard on the roster.

A capable but silent guard accompanied Dee right to the door of the Hokobus’ apartment and waited until she entered, before returning to his post downstairs. In the elevator, recently refurbished to its 1950s grandeur (which wasn’t in fact very grand at all), Dee had asked why the security was so much more visible than the last time they had used the facility. The guard mentioned that the premises were almost permanently on Condition Black Alert due to the sensitivity of the security services to the presence of one of the occupants. The guard would not say who it was, but Dee knew anyway, as did anyone who read the newspapers.

The sixth floor apartment housed the Hokobus, but the fourth floor was home to one of the Crown Princes of the United Arab Emirates whilst he studied in London. His Highness Crown Prince Arbaaz bin Al Salfah was studying Economics and Politics at Post Graduate level at the LSE and he appeared to be a clean-living, dedicated Muslim, which was not always the case with crown princes from the Middle East.

Geordie stood in the kitchen preparing breakfast. The aroma of bacon was irresistible and the sound of it crackling on the grill made Dee feel hungry, even though she had already had a breakfast of bran flakes and orange juice.

“Mussi, you must make some breakfast for your lady boss, she is too thin,” Victoria joked. “In Marat she would be the last girl to be picked in a marriage festival.”

Geordie simply smiled and shook his head. Dee sidled up to him and looked to see what other goodies were cooking. It was to be a traditional English breakfast with bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and baked beans.

“Why does she call you Mussi?”

“Don’t ask. It’s a longer story than you’ll have the patience for listening to.”

***

Breakfast was enormous fun. Samuel and Victoria knew a host of amusing anecdotes about life in Marat. They regaled Dee and Geordie with tales of their village hermit, who won second prize in the local lottery and was presented with a fridge as his prize. He lavished much attention on the gleaming new appliance, ensuring that it was always full; the handbook said it was more efficient when it was full. Unfortunately, the old man did not realise that in order for it to work properly it needed to be plugged into a source of electricity, which didn’t matter anyway as his traditional Rondel home had no access to such modern marvels.

Their village itself was modern and well equipped, thanks to aid provided by the US, Canada and the UK under the UN programme. Victoria was ashamed that they needed aid when the country produced so much wealth, only for it to be stolen by the mining companies and the authorities.

Before the conversation became too sombre, Dee jumped in to lighten the mood.

“So, why do you call Geordie here ‘my little Mussi’?”

Victoria told them the story.

“In our folklore a village in the central bush was being terrorised by a big lion who would come into the village and take food and people away. The menfolk were scared of the giant beast, the womenfolk stopped singing and the children no longer laughed and played.

Then a little white boy came to the village selling sticks, and he promised that if the villagers bought all of their sticks from him he would get rid of the lion. The villagers made the promise and little Mussi had the lion chase him into the forest, to the biggest tree in the jungle. It was so big that it took an hour to walk right around it. The foolish lion began chasing Mussi round and round the tree, but soon the wise Mussi was sitting high in the branches. The foolish lion ran around the tree chasing Mussi all day and all night and all the next day, whilst Mussi slept in the branches.

The next morning when Mussi came down from the tree the lion was exhausted. It had worn its legs away with all of the running and it was all skin and bone. Mussi killed the lion easily with his spear, and returned to the village wearing the lion’s magnificent mane around his shoulders. The menfolk became brave again, the women sang happy songs about Mussi and the children laughed.

So, you see, he is my little Mussi, he has come to save me from the lions who would terrorise me into silence, and who would like to stop me singing.”

Dee did not know what to say and so she said nothing. Victoria Hokobu carried on eating, mopping up the last of the egg yolk with her fried bread.

***

The next hour was spent discussing security arrangements with Geordie, which had been devised in response to the risk assessment carried out in the office on Monday.

Content that the Hokobus were as safe with Geordie, or little Mussi, as with anyone, Dee waved them off in their armoured Mercedes and set off for the tube station on foot. The temperature had risen dramatically by perhaps a degree or so, and now it was only as cold as the outer reaches of Antarctica.

Chapter 1 1

St Margaret’s Church, Westminster Abbey, London, Tuesday 2:30pm.

The beautiful church of St Margaret stands beside and behind Westminster Abbey. It is laid out parallel to the famous abbey but predates the better-known building. The medieval building, which consists of the church itself and a somewhat oversized tower, was the third church built on the site and was consecrated in 1523. To place the church in its historical perspective, the glorious stained glass window at the front of the church was specially made for King Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon in 1520.

Since then the church has served as the chapel of the House of Commons, and Sir Walter Raleigh lies buried in front of the altar. There are also exquisite windows dedicated to Caxton and Milton.

The church was designed and built along Norman lines. When viewed from the front there is a central nave and chancel with a high roof. On each side there are small chapels, choir stalls and a vestry. These have lower single pitched roofs which are shallow and which attach to the central body of the structure. There is a triple arched public entrance at the front of the building and the tower is on the left front of the building when viewed from the Abbey.

For the Chameleon, the history of the church was not as important as its position and its ongoing repairs. As with all churches of its age, St Margaret’s needed constant renovation. The tower had been repaired recently and now the shallow monopitch roof between the nave and the tower was receiving attention, but work had been halted when the freezing weather arrived and it would not commence again until spring.

The Chameleon had been on the roof between the nave and the tower for some time, but lying still in freezing conditions was part of the sniper’s job description.

Concealed under a tarpaulin shelter erected by the builders to keep the roof watertight until it could be permanently repaired, the Chameleon was partially protected from the biting wind.

It was never far from the Chameleon’s thoughts that this might be a waste of time. There was no guarantee that the Hokobus would even visit the Abbey, but in the assassination game one sometimes had to play the odds.

Tourists to London listed Westminster Abbey in the top three historical attractions visited. It was ranked even higher for Anglican Christians, which was the faith observed by the Hokobus. Added to that information, the Mercedes had already passed plate recognition cameras at three other favourite tourist destinations; Tower Bridge, Covent Garden and Trafalgar Square. The Chameleon also felt confident in taking the view that a visit to the London Eye today would be a waste of money, given the mist and poor visibility, especially when tomorrow morning was expected to be bright, cloud free and freezing cold again. No, all in all it was a good bet that the Hokobus would want to sample the London Eye on a clear day, if at all.

As for the Abbey, normally there were two main points of entry, the main front doors and the side door perpendicular to St Margaret’s Church. Concerned about the heating bills, the Abbey custodians were directing the few hardy visitors who were out and about to the smaller side entrance, which had an enclosed lobby and which allowed the Abbey to retain at least some of its heat. This was not uncommon in the cold winter months, as the Chameleon had discovered during a routine research exercise.

As a result the Chameleon was covering the only entrance in use today, and so if the Hokobus visited the Abbey they would die.

The Chameleon had noted that there were three possible approaches to the side entrance of the Abbey; from the rear, the Palace of Westminster, passing between the Abbey and St Margaret’s Church; from the side, from Victoria Street, passing in front of St Margaret’s Church, and from the front, walking towards the Chameleon’s eyrie.

The Chameleon had considered using the bell tower for the assassination, but there was no published schedule of services and so a lone sniper might be discovered at any time. It was a pity, really, because the louvres that were designed to allow the chimes to be heard would have been ideal concealment for the US built M107 Semi-Automatic long-range sniper rifle.

In the Chameleon’s opinion, the M107 was a beautiful gun to look at and to use. Introduced in 2002, it has a battleship grey, non-reflective coating and at fifty seven inches, or around a hundred and twenty five centimetres long assembled it is a mere thirty-eight inches, or a metre long, in take down mode. The M107 comes with detachable carry handle, spiked detachable bipod to support the barrel and a monopod that can be used to support the rear grip. Thanks to these features, once the sniper had set the rifle up to target the kill zone the M107 would not move so much as a millimetre, and the sniper needed only to pull the trigger to deliver one of the ten .50 calibre bullets in its magazine.

The Chameleon adjusted and focused the scope rings one more time, and waited for the call.

***

Geordie had spent the day crisscrossing London under a leaden grey sky, taking the Hokobus to see the Tower of London, Tower Bridge, the London Dungeon (at least it was warm in there), Trafalgar Square and Covent Garden. Now they were on the last leg of their trip, the Palace of Westminster.

They had intended to view the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey tomorrow, but the weather was too miserable and grey for their trip to the London Eye and so they swapped out tomorrow’s trip for today’s visit.

The Hokobus loved the Houses of Parliament. The attendants were dressed in antiquarian outfits, which they found quaint. They stared in awe at statues and paintings of famous parliamentarians they had previously only seen in books. Now, however, they wanted to visit the centre of their religion.

The Anglican congregation in Marat, and in the whole of Africa, is very conservative and there are distinct disagreements with the Mother Church on issues such as women priests and homosexuality but, nonetheless, the Abbey was the spiritual home of the Hokobus.

Geordie sat his clients in the Mercedes, even though they could have walked the couple of hundred metres to arrive at the Abbey’s side entrance.

“Right, I’m going to drop you at the gate on Victoria Road and I’ll stay there as long as I can. But you probably know by now I’ll like as not get moved on. So, when you are ready to come out of the Abbey, press the call button on the walkie-talkie and I’ll drive up to the gate. Only when you see me at the gate do you come outside, OK?”

The couple nodded their assent to their protector’s plan.

***

“The Mercedes has just passed the plate recognition camera at Parliament Square.” The text message on the Chameleon’s phone had been delivered almost an hour ago. The chances were that they would look around the Houses of Parliament and then come to the Abbey, and so the Chameleon had to remain alert.

A silver Mercedes pulled up at the side gate and two Africans disembarked. Waving to the man in the car, they headed towards the Abbey. It had to be the Hokobus. If it wasn’t them, it was a very unfortunate African couple who happened to look a lot like the Hokobus, the Chameleon thought, smiling.

The Chameleon could have stepped forward and taken the easiest of all shots as the couple walked in front of St Margaret’s Church, but the downward angle of the shot would mean that the sniper would be visible to anyone looking up. It would be far better to wait until they walked alongside the Abbey, where the Chameleon could shoot with impunity whilst remaining totally concealed under the tarpaulin.

The Chameleon adjusted the M107 for a point midway between St Margaret’s Church and the side entrance. That would mean shooting them from behind, but a .50 calibre shell at this range would kill almost wherever it hit.

The Hokobus were walking past St Margaret’s when it began to rain again, but this wasn’t the insidious drizzle of earlier in the day; this was torrential rain. The Chameleon was still relatively dry under the tarpaulin, but visibility was now deteriorating quickly.

Victoria Hokobu erected a large transparent umbrella, which covered the heads of herself and her husband, and they hurried towards the door.

The Chameleon was ready, aim and distance precisely set. The plan was simple; breathe out, squeeze the trigger and then repeat for the grieving husband.

The Chameleon tracked the couple over the rear sights until they came into the field of vision of the scope, finger on the trigger, breathe out and......

Without warning, all hell suddenly broke loose. The Chameleon’s slight tremor on being assaulted by the cacophony of sound was enough to send the bullet flying over Victoria Hokobu’s head before burying itself harmlessly in the soft turf beyond.

The Hokobus were both safely inside the Abbey by the time the Chameleon clamped on the sonic ear defenders which had been lying beside the gun. The chance had passed, and now, even with the defenders in place, the noise was still unbearable.

“Bloody hell!” the Chameleon shouted angrily, unheard over the bells clanging in the tower just five metres away. It wasn’t just the sound, which was painful enough when situated so close to the bells, but the vibration was horrendous. The sound waves were pummelling the Chameleon’s organs. It was actually nauseating in the same way travel sickness would be. The Chameleon had to get out of here very quickly. This wasn’t the day or the time. Retreat; try again tomorrow.

The Chameleon ran across the roof to the back of the church and slid down the builder’s ladder. Dismantling the gun in the relatively peaceful setting of the walled garden, the Chameleon cursed again and placed the rifle, jumpsuit and ear defenders in the specially padded guitar case.

The squally rain shower had stopped as quickly as it had begun, and the Chameleon hopped over the small ornamental wall and joined the other wet tourists walking around Parliament Square.

***

An hour later, back in the Celebrato offices, the Chameleon’s ears were still ringing, although the nausea had passed. Moving into the private bathroom reserved for the MD’s use, the Chameleon looked into the mirror.

The reflection did not show any discomfort, rather it showed a smiling young woman with icy blue eyes and fair hair falling to her shoulders. She was nearly thirty years old now but her genes, her simple beauty regime and her constant gym attendance made her look as good as any twenty one year old. As it was, most people could not bring themselves to believe that she was the Managing Director of a major greetings card company. She could only imagine what her clients would think if they ever found out that that she was also the Chameleon. Perhaps if they knew her history they would understand.

Chapter 1 2

Tallgarth Manor, Stratfield Turgis, Hampshire. 1995

It was Gillian’s considered opinion that she had not really started living until she was twelve years old, which had been two years ago. More precisely, she believed that her life began on the day Uncle Nick had first placed a shotgun in her small young hands.

Now, at fourteen, as she sat on the lower limbs of an old horse chestnut tree with a hunting rifle in her lap, she had become an expert markswoman. As she rested and pondered, a small brown rabbit poked its nose out of the bushes. It sniffed, moved and inch or two and sniffed again. Deciding that the coast was clear, and that there were no predators around, the rabbit hopped into the open and froze. Its ears were pricked and its eyes were scanning. After a moment the rabbit decided that it could neither hear nor see any obvious threat, and ran across the opening to nibble on a leaf low to the ground.

Gillian could have shot the rabbit from where she was without any trouble at all, even though at fifty yards most other people wouldn’t even be able to see it. But where would be the fun in that? Instead she threw a horse chestnut at the bush the rabbit was feeding on. The startled rabbit bolted, and in a fraction of a second it was crossing the open woodland towards safety.

Gillian knew she had just seconds to prepare, aim and shoot the rabbit as it crossed the five metres or so to safety. By the time the rabbit bolted, the rifle was raised and was tracking ahead of the rabbit. Once her aim was steadied she instinctively calculated where the rabbit would be when the bullet arrived.

The rabbit darted across the opening, zigzagging to throw off any potential predator, and Gillian fired. The rabbit heard the shot and leapt into the air using all four legs for propulsion, another natural and instinctive manoeuvre to avoiding being caught. Unfortunately for the rabbit, Gillian had anticipated a leap and had aimed high. The rabbit caught the round in mid jump, and the velocity of the bullet carried it even higher and into the bushes.

Gillian did not bother collecting the rabbit. There wouldn’t be much of it left anyway after falling prey to a .308 calibre shell.

***

Having deposited the rifle back in the hunting lodge where Uncle Nick made his home, Gillian wandered through the woods in direction of the manor house, where she lived with her parents. Gillian didn’t know how many acres the manor house, grounds, hunting lodge, woods and fields covered but she knew it must be over three hundred, given the time it took to drive around it in the Land Rover.

Gillian was a rather solitary child, her strict parents believing that her prospective friends were beneath her and lacked the necessary status to be real friends. Instead she was obliged to attend a private school with equally privileged kids, most of who were intellectually stunted. Gillian put it down to in-breeding.

At school Gillian was considered to be brilliant in maths and the sciences. She was competent in the humanities and average at sport, except of course anything that involved hand to eye coordination.

Gillian was on the county teams for Target Archery, Field Archery and shooting. She had medals in all three events, two of them at national junior champion level. She even had an outside chance of competing in the upcoming Commonwealth Games in Kuala Lumpur in 1998.

Despite all of her success she was mostly miserable, and her times riding, shooting and fishing with her gamekeeper uncle provided her happiest memories.

Gillian heard a noise behind her, but before she could turn around a strong arm was around her throat. The man holding her lifted her off her feet and she began to black out from a lack of oxygen reaching her brain. The man dragged her into the bushes, took his right arm from around her throat and pushed his right hand inside her clothing, grabbing at her developing breasts. She tried to scream but now his left hand was over her mouth. Once her blouse and bra were pulled aside revealing her post pubescent torso, the man came around in front of her and stared at her exposed flesh before pushing her to her knees.

A few minutes later the assailant uttered a guttural groan and looked down at Gillian one more time before slapping her, replacing his genitalia and running off. Gillian was left sobbing and trying to rearrange her clothes to restore her dignity. Whilst the man had not raped her, he had forced her to commit an act that was equally disgusting. Gillian wiped her mouth on her sleeve, trying to erase the taste of him. During the whole episode the man had merely grunted. He had never uttered a word. His face had been concealed the whole time by his balaclava. Even so, she knew exactly who he was. It was Les Vaughan from the village; unemployed, part time poacher and renowned wife beater.

Gillian knew she should report the incident to her parents, but they were not the type of people with whom she felt able to discuss this sort of thing. She needed Uncle Nick, but he wouldn’t be back from the races until tonight. So she headed wearily back to the lodge to clean herself up and so avoid being questioned by her parents.

***

Once she had cleaned herself, Gillian took her fleece from the hook in the hall of the lodge and left, locking the door behind her. She had walked only a few yards when she heard a squealing sound. When she investigated she found a large hare trapped in a poacher’s wire snare. The harder the hare pulled, the tighter the wire noose around its leg became.

Gillian was scared. She knew that when the poacher heard the noise he would come running to collect his prize. She needed to get away as quickly as possible and so she ran back to the Lodge, locking herself in.

She was in the lodge for only a minute or two when she had an epiphany. She knew what she must do. She decided that she would never again allow herself to be a victim. She knew if she did nothing about the assault she would regret it for the rest of her life. If freedom from vermin like Les Vaughan meant facing her fears, then so be it.

***

Les Vaughan heard the sound of a hare screaming. It had obviously been caught in one of his snares. He headed in the direction of the noise. His shotgun was broken, the barrel hanging over his arm to avoid any accidents. He clubbed the hare with a lead filled sap and set about cutting it free. Hare wasn’t the best of game meat, but it would be fine in a casserole.

“Hey, Les, I knew it was you,” Gillian shouted from twenty yards away, looking over the branch of a tree.

“Oh. I see you enjoyed it so much you came back for more!” Les laughed and gestured with his groin.

“You aren’t going to get away with it,” Gillian shouted, with some bravado.

“Oh yes I am, you little bitch! You say anything and I’ll kill you and then your whole family. Understand?” Anger underpinned the threat, making it sound real.

“I wasn’t going to tell anyone, Les, I was just going to stop you getting away with it.” There was a hint of triumph in her voice that Les failed to pick up until he saw the rifle resting on the tree branch and pointing in his direction.

In one swift move he flicked the shotgun closed and cocked both barrels, raising it in Gillian’s direction, but he was too late and he knew it. A look of horror crossed his face in the fleeting seconds before what had been his face was destroyed by a .308 calibre round as it hit him above the bridge of his nose before exiting at the back of his head, with a goodly proportion of Les’s brain following it.

Gillian walked over to the lifeless body of her attacker and stamped on his genitals.

“So that’s what it’s like killing another human being,” she thought to herself.

***

Nick Davis was almost forty. His only marriage had failed years ago and the only worthwhile thing in his life was his niece. He loved her with all of his heart; she was more like a daughter than a niece. She was beautiful and clever. She would do well for herself, he thought, better than any Davis had before her, and he intended to make sure of it. To see her so distressed as she described the earlier attack she had endured made him feel simultaneously angry and helpless.

He was disgusted by what she had been subjected to, and reflected that if she hadn’t killed Les he would most certainly have done so himself, but Nick would have taken his time over it. Les would have suffered; he would have made quite sure of that. There was, however, one more thing he could do to protect his niece.

Nick had taken Gillian home, and on the journey he explained what he was going to do. She just smiled at him and hugged him.

“I love you, Uncle Nick,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. Nick blushed, knowing that anything he had to do to protect his niece would be worth it.

***

The next morning Nick stood by as the scene of crimes officer declared that it looked like a suicide, and that it had probably happened yesterday afternoon when Nick was at the races.

The man in charge seemed to be Sergeant Grahame, who was everyone’s idea of the avuncular country policeman. In Nick’s favour, Les Vaughan had been responsible for about half of the Sergeant’s workload since he was a kid.

“It looks like he had a few drinks. He stinks of whisky, and this empty bottle has his prints all over it. Then he evidently sat against this tree, placed the both barrels under his chin and blew his brains out with his shotgun. There is GSR all over his hands – sorry, gun shot residue. Using both barrels means he has pretty much ruled out the need for a post mortem, because there isn’t much left of him to examine.”

Nick had no regrets about using Les’s own shotgun to obscure the real cause of Vaughan’s death, but he did wonder what impact the shooting of another human being would have on his sweet natured niece.

Two weeks later, after a cursory and largely unsympathetic investigation, the eventual official conclusion was that Les had committed suicide. To the despair of his parents, his wife refused to attend the funeral.