Текст книги "Chameleon"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 1 6

The London Eye, Southbank, London, Wednesday 10am.

The Chameleon had spent the evening refining and reducing a batch of Redweed to a clear concentrated gel. Given her past experience, she knew that the degree to which she diluted the gel with liquid propellants would also determine its potency. On her first attempts as a student she had killed a lab rabbit with it whilst experimenting, but since then her detailed records had ensured that the solution was mixed and delivered in the proper proportions.

When she was satisfied that the mixture was disabling, but not fatal, she dispensed the clear liquid into a small perfume bottle with a vaporiser top so that it could be dispensed as a spray.

Now, as she sat and waited outside the London Eye, she hoped that she had guessed correctly and that this morning the Hokobus would take advantage of the beautiful clear skies to overlook a glistening but freezing cold London skyline from one of the London Eye’s capsules.

Gil had decided that she needed to travel by car today and so she hired a ‘Smart Car Fortwo’ from Quick Cars at Waterloo. The Chameleon had taken a risk carrying a rifle through the streets of London yesterday and she wasn’t about to risk carrying another firearm today. The chances of being stopped and searched in terrorist threatened London were too great. Assassins operating in London had to be more inventive.

Dressed in black tights, sensible shoes, black skirt and white blouse with a black chequered scarf, she could easily be mistaken for a policewoman. The look would be complete when she attached a large blue Police Community Support Officer logo to the back of her padded winter jacket and a Metropolitan Police badge onto the front. The jacket and the logos were perfect copies of the real thing, as was the policewoman’s hat she carried in her bag. The Chameleon had purchased the uniform, a variety of badges, warrant cards, fake radios and police equipment from the night security man at a London television studio costume department. Just in time, too, because now that The Bill had come to an end the Metropolitan Police were securing all of the cast uniforms to prevent their auction to the public. The last thing they needed was to have individuals passing themselves off as police officers.

Gil would attach the necessary Metropolitan Police idents with Velcro later; she did not want to be caught posing as a police officer and so she would limit her time in the public eye whilst in full uniform.

Parking the car in the Shell Centre close to the London Eye, the only parking anywhere near to the attraction, Gil paid the fee and attached the ticket to her car windscreen. She had parked in one of the small bays reserved for city cars where two such cars could use one normal space. It also meant that she would be at ground level in the multi-storey car park underneath the great tower block, and away from the security cameras.

Leaving her disguise and equipment in the car for the moment, she repeatedly walked a short circular route that would allow her to see the Hokobus, should they board the London Eye.

***

Boredom and the seeping cold were fast becoming her enemy when at last the Chameleon noticed the customised silver Mercedes turn into the Shell Centre car park. The driver chatted to the attendant as if they were friends, and the driver handed the man a twenty-pound note surreptitiously. It appeared that the bribe worked, because the silver Mercedes drove straight into a large parking space reserved by a brass plate for Mr Jochen Friede, who presumably wasn’t expected in today.

As the occupants alighted from the car the driver, a well built and powerful looking man in an unaccountably lightweight jacket, looked around, seeing everything. He was clearly a professional. That might make her job a little harder, but that was why she charged a million dollars per hit, although she had reluctantly agreed a discounted rate for two assassinations in one day.

Gil completed her final circuit of the area, by which time she had observed the Hokobus taking their place in one of the London Eye’s capsules. She set her watch on the thirty minute timer and headed back to her car.

Unless there is a technical problem, the London Eye will usually rotate at the speed of a running tortoise, taking thirty minutes to complete a rotation. This ensures that passengers can mount and disembark without the wheel having to come to a complete stop.

***

Geordie was regretting his bravado of earlier in the day when he had decided on the lighter weight jacket. He was spending as much time keeping warm as watching the clients; not that they were in any danger on the Eye.

They had almost completed the revolution, which meant that in a few minutes they would be back in the Mercedes, heater blazing in an effort to reproduce the tropical temperatures the Hokobus favoured.

As a distraction he let his gaze wander to a pretty Community Support Officer whose hair was bunched up under her hat. The brown-eyed officer was quite stunning and almost make-up free, or at least it appeared so.

As she approached he stood up from the bench.

“Excuse me sir, could you look at this photo and read the description and tell me if you have seen this young girl today?” The policewoman handed him a sheet of A4 paper containing a photograph and a description of a young girl aged around thirteen.

When Geordie looked up to confirm that he had not seen her, the policewoman had a handkerchief pressed to her nose and mouth and a perfume spray pointing at his face. A fine mist was sprayed into his mouth and nostrils; he breathed it in, puzzled at first as to what was going on. Was he suspected of something? Was this pepper spray?

Then it hit him. His mouth was dry, he had no saliva, he couldn’t swallow and he couldn’t breathe. He panicked and started to flap around before his limbs were paralysed too. The policewoman took hold of him gently and sat him on the bench, and then she made him lie flat.

“This is temporary. It only lasts ten minutes or so. I am going to push in your diaphragm. Concentrate on breathing from there. Your thorax is paralysed but you can still breathe.”

Geordie was desperate for breath but as soon as the woman expelled air using his diaphragm he could breathe again, though with difficulty. He lay on the bench, paralysed by fear as much as by the drug, as the policewoman stroked his cheek and smiled, her deep brown eyes belying her intent.

“You’re doing fine. You’ll be fully recovered before you know it.”

Geordie saw the Hokobus in the distance, hurrying toward them and looking concerned as the policewoman called for the urgent attendance of paramedics, using her non-working radio.

***

Gil had watched as the bodyguard began to ready himself for departure and she had picked that moment to approach him with her most radiant smile. He went down as predicted, and luckily the mixture had been about right. He would start to regain use of his internal organs in around ten minutes, and his motor functions and speech would be fully restored around five minutes after that.

She had to work fast. She approached the Hokobus, who looked very worried at the sight of their temporarily disabled bodyguard.

“Mr and Mrs Hokobu?”

“My husband is actually Samuel Etundi, but yes, that is us,” Victoria replied, her worried eyes flicking quickly from the policewoman to the bodyguard beyond.

“Your bodyguard here fears that he has been poisoned in an attempt on your lives,” Gil explained, and Victoria’s eyes and attention refocused on her quickly as she continued speaking in her best calming, authoritative voice. “He asked me to get you to the safety of your armoured car as soon as possible. Does that sound right to you?”

“Yes. We have such a car.” Etundi spoke this time, looking around in the hope of spotting it.

“OK, let’s go. The paramedics and my colleagues are seconds away. They will be here at any moment to take care of him, but I need to get you to safety.”

Reluctantly they followed the Chameleon as she held up the keys she had taken from the bodyguard’s pocket.

“Please be well, little Mussi,” Victoria said affectionately as she kissed the paralysed man on the forehead.

Geordie was desperately trying to speak, to warn them, but his body would not respond. Tears of frustration formed in his eyes.

***

Gil pressed the remote control and the doors opened.

“Quickly, please. Every moment you are in the open you are in danger.”

The Hokobus sat in the rear seat and held one another as they heaped praise on the policewoman who had acted so swiftly in their defence. Gil smiled, and for a moment felt regret that someone wanted this happy couple dead. However, Gil knew from her own experiences that even the most evil dictators could be pleasant when they wanted to be. She had a job to do, and she always took pride in her work. The Hokobus were going to die.

“I just need to make some notes,” the Chameleon said as she locked the doors of the car. She reached into an inside pocket, as if for a notebook, but when she turned back to face them she had her nose and mouth covered.

The spray did its work for the second time that day, and Gil escaped the car and waited for the spray to disperse. Keeping her face pointed away from the security cameras, she extracted a hypodermic needle from her pocket.

The Hokobus were not just paralysed; they were also confused because they could see that the hypodermic syringe was empty. Gil carefully tapped the side of Samuel Etundi’s neck and found his carotid artery. She carefully inserted the needle and injected air into the artery that carried blood directly to the brain.

The Chameleon repeated the procedure with Victoria Hokobu, whose face had hardened with resolve. Good for you, Gil thought; you have chosen not to die in fear, but sadly your death is inevitable.

Before the paralysis caused by the redweed solution wore off, the two Africans were dead from the predicted pulmonary embolisms. The Chameleon had used this methodology many times before when a stroke or heart attack needed to be induced. The air bubble she injected into each victim would be trapped in an artery in the brain or elsewhere, where it would cause a blockage and an embolism. Injecting into the main carotid artery is usually most effective, as it tends to shut off the oxygen supply to the brain very quickly.

Less than ten minutes had passed since she had sprayed the bodyguard. Gil reset her watch and wiped her mind of all regret as she walked the few yards back to her hire car.

Chapter 1 7

The London Eye, Southbank, London, Wednesday 11am.

Geordie was sitting in the back of the ambulance when Dee arrived at the scene. There were sightseers, policemen, yellow tape and news reporters everywhere. The policeman protecting the cordon would not let Dee past the tape without permission from a detective and, whilst he was radioing for that permission, Dee saw Detective Sergeant Scott and waved.

Last year DS Scott had been involved in the case where Dee had been shot and, whilst they were not particularly close friends, they did get along well. DS Scott came to the tape and lifted it for Dee to enter. He was not smiling, but he nodded briefly by way of greeting. He touched her arm gently.

“Dee, it’s good to see you again, but I wish it hadn’t been in such unhappy circumstances. Geordie tells me that you were both becoming close to the victims.”

Dee nodded. “Paul, they were such lovely people. I don’t normally get attached to clients but with these two you just couldn’t help yourself.” She recognised that she needed to control her emotions.

“Come on, I’ll take you to your man, but I have to warn you that for a tough Geordie and former soldier, he is pretty upset.” Scott led Dee to the ambulance, where she could see Geordie sitting on a bed with an oxygen mask over his face. He looked pale and totally forlorn. DS Scott invited Dee to come and find him when she was finished talking to her partner, and he walked away towards the parking lot.

The scene was somewhat surreal; just a couple of hours ago she had been laughing and joking with Geordie and the Hokobus and now two were dead and the other didn’t look as though he wanted to go on living.

Dee climbed into the ambulance alongside Geordie and the paramedic. The paramedic carried out some checks, ensured the monitors were working and spoke to Dee.

“His blood oxygenation levels are really low, not dangerous but it wouldn’t take much of a drop to cause a problem. So, please make him keep the mask on as much as possible.” With that he picked up a clipboard and stepped outside to write up his notes.

Dee took Geordie’s hand in both of hers and stroked it. For the first time since she had known him he looked vulnerable, mortal even. Geordie was a man’s man; he was athletic, strong, loved sport and had an inner compunction that drove him to protect the weak. As she looked at the strong, rather hirsute, hand in hers, she thought of his wife and children and how much they would have lost if the assassin had taken him as well.

“It was my fault, Dee.” Geordie used his other hand to pull down the oxygen mask that was secured to his face by two white elastic straps. “All I had to do was to keep them safe for another twenty four hours.” He fell silent and his eyes glazed over as he receded into his shell, lost in his thoughts of self-recrimination.

“Look, Pete, you can never keep a client one hundred per cent safe unless you lock them up somewhere and never let them out. Armies of armed protectors surrounded the Pope, Reagan, the Kennedys and Martin Luther King and they still got shot. We do all we can and I’m sure that the Hokobus, wherever they are now, will know that.”

Geordie, otherwise known as Pete Lowden to the world, looked at Dee and spoke from the heart.

“Dee, I don’t want to sound cruel but these people had a mission, a purpose; they could have saved thousands of Africans from poverty and starvation, whereas most of our clients are self important nobodies who are only afraid for themselves.”

“Pete, I’ve been thinking about how we can pay a tribute to them and get their work done in their absence. I’ll talk to you about it later. Now, get some rest and get that oxygen level back up.” The young woman gently placed the mask back on her colleague’s face before kissing him on the forehead.

***

“Miss Conrad. Oh, sorry, I mean Mrs Hammond. I didn’t think we’d ever meet again, at least not in our professional capacities.” Detective Chief Inspector Coombes and Dee had endured an uncomfortable start to their relationship when he arrested her in connection with a murder enquiry where she had initially been a suspect. Since then, however, they had established a good working relationship that was based on mutual respect.

“Terry, I just don’t know what to say. We’re devastated. We were protecting this couple.”

“Dee, if it helps at all you had no chance. This was a contract hit by one of the best. If this attempt had failed there would have been another and so on until we reached this point.” He paused and looked at Dee. “I know that Geordie feels bad about this, but the best thing we can all do is find the killer. The reason that is particularly important is because, in my view, when we find the killer we’ll find someone who has a number of other murders to their name.”

The DCI and the Vastrick Vice President walked over to the car where the bodies were still being examined in place. The Scene of Crimes Officer walked over to them. The SOCO was in his early forties, short but slightly underweight. His hair had receded long ago and was wispy and red where the colour still remained amongst the grey.

“DCI Coombes. Oh, and who is this beautiful lady? She’s a definite improvement on Scott.”

“This is Dee Hammond, Warren. She isn’t on the force. She heads up Vastrick Security.”

“Well, my dear,” the SOCO continued, “you are privileged indeed. Terry here normally wouldn’t let a civilian near the crime scene. But then, you are Dee Conrad. We almost met once before. I was the SOCO at the Tottenham Press shootout, although you were obviously injured at the time so I’m not surprised that you don’t remember me. I’m pleased to meet you properly at last and to see that you appear to be totally recovered.”

Dee shook Warren’s hand and explained why she was there. The older man shook his head mournfully as if wondering to himself why people had to hurt one another, especially the caring ones who could do so much good.

His report was succinct but full of surprises.

“The couple were disabled by a gas or gaseous liquid that contained either a strong muscle relaxant or a paralytic. We won’t know the exact details until we have the tox screen done. Then, like some kind of spy movie, they are not shot, stabbed or strangled but are injected with air, directly into the carotid artery, here.” The examiner pointed to his own carotid artery. “This is a very tricky procedure and it’s not guaranteed to work at all, let alone kill. Often it will cause brain damage or result in a recoverable stroke or coronary. Here it killed, and quite quickly too.

My guess is that the relaxant they were given first would have prevented them from suffering. Embolisms are extraordinarily painful, usually.

Finally, I would suggest that this is a professional job. Beyond that I would say that this type of execution is usually the province of governmental assassins, or black ops as they like to call it in the States.”

He promised that an interim report would be ready by that evening, with a full report within seven days.

Coombes and Dee wandered across to DS Scott, who had been busy interviewing eyewitnesses. When they arrived at his side he had a puzzled look on his face.

“I think we have a problem, Guv,” he said uncertainly. “Every witness saw the same thing. A policewoman approached Pete Lowden. He collapsed and she ushered the victim couple away.”

“A policewoman?” Coombes replied quizzically.

“That’s what they all say, Guv.”

Chapter 1 8

Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Wednesday Noon.

The offices were bustling when Gil returned to the office, properly attired and bearing no resemblance to the policewoman of that morning’s events. She had been ready to leave her apartment when she remembered that she had left her brown contact lenses in and so she quickly removed the left lens, restoring her steely blue-grey eye. When she came to the right eye she noticed it was missing. It must have fallen out sometime during the morning. One brown eye and one blue eye would have been hard to explain at the office. Worse was the possibility that she had left behind a clue to her identity.

Not being identified was clearly a key objective when one was working as an assassin, and so when she was working on assignments the Chameleon liked to wear uniforms, because witnesses could rarely see past the uniform to notice any identifiable features on the wearer. Then, just to be certain, if you could hide your hair and change your eye colour, the chances of the witnesses providing a worthwhile identification were almost nil.

Gil sat down at her desk, but before she had time to worry about missing contact lenses her assistant came into her office.

“Miss Davis, I have been trying to call you all morning. The accountant has been on the phone and he wants you to call him immediately.”

“Thank you, Sheila, I’ll do that now before I get drawn into other things.” The assistant left her office and Gil dialled a familiar number.

“Duncan, this is Gil. I believe you called me and left a message.”

“Gil. Yes, I did. Great news, I think. Anyway the Clayton Card Chain has upped the offer for Celebrato. They have almost no online service and we have no shops. They see a tremendous synergy.”

The Celebrato MD sighed. During the last year, Clayton Card Chain had made an offer for her business almost every month.

“Then they are wrong, Duncan,” she answered. “You know as well as I do that if we had our own card shops the major retailers would be reluctant to stock our cards, and that’s where we make most of our turnover. I agree that the high margin sales would increase if we sold through an extra one hundred and thirty card shops, but ultimately we would lose turnover. They must know that.”

“Gil, maybe they do and maybe they don’t. Perhaps they have a strategy to overcome the risk of reduced turnover and maybe they don’t. What I do know is that they now think that we are worth fourteen and a half million pounds.”

Gillian tried not to react. Her share of the company would net her well over ten million pounds in a scenario such as that, a five fold return on her investment over the past two years.

“OK, Duncan, tell them I am ready to talk, but that I want an exit plan for the end of the year. I’m done with working for other people.”

The Chameleon sat back in her comfortable leather chair and breathed out heavily, relaxing every muscle. She was on the verge of a fourteen million pound deal and she still had the Chameleon money in the bank in Grand Cayman, amounting to over eleven million dollars, with a million more due today.

Gillian Davis was a rich woman, thanks to both the original Chameleon and her own business acumen. She thought back to Mac, the original Chameleon, and how he had not lived to enjoy the fruits of his labours. He had earned just less than half of the US Dollar account, but on his demise the joint account became hers alone.

Out of nothing more than sentimentality, Gil had spent almost a year searching for Mac’s relatives so that she could pass on the frozen remains of her partner for burial and dispense his share of the money, but she found only two living relatives, a wife and daughter who both refused to bury his remains. They were so awful when she spoke to them that she wanted to terminate both of them. Whilst she restrained herself, she could not bring herself to pass on his money to women who vilified him so completely.

Gil missed Mac, otherwise known as Douglas Mc Keown, because he had been both her partner and her confidante. The age difference also meant that he treated her like a daughter and never made any romantic advances. He was almost a replacement for Uncle Nick; almost, but not quite.

Mac had an intense dislike of working with governments who had to use mercenaries to win or maintain control of their own countries, but as an assassin it was inevitable that he would eventually be hired by one. As a result, Mac had been in the Ukraine with an assignment to detonate a bomb at a political rally and kill the trouble-making opposition leader. Perhaps Mac should have followed his first two rules; don’t work for zealots and don’t work with amateurs.

Working under the scrutiny of CCTV and observation by his government employers who recorded the whole process on DVD, Mac had been careful and cautious in his preparations; he had handled the explosives and detonators by the book. His methodology was foolproof except for one thing; an idiot Irishman whom the client assured Mac was an explosives expert. Whilst they were packing the perfectly safe and malleable Semtex into two briefcases, the Irishman inadvertently detonated his Semtex. The explosion simultaneously detonated Mac’s otherwise stable Semtex just inches away. The two men were almost vaporised. The building was destroyed and the DVD picture vanished into a universe of white noise. Eventually Mac’s belongings were sent to the Chameleon’s London drop box, with a note of regret and an explanation that no further payment was due. Thankfully, Mac’s employers were religious extremists who believed that they were under an obligation to ensure that as many body parts as possible were properly interned. As a result the drop box contained the DVD and a receipt for Mac’s remains, which had been sent to Cryostorage UK, in London. Gil knew that sooner or later she would have to recover the remains and have them interred, but somehow it never seemed to be the right time.

Later Gil would reflect on why Mac had come into the forefront of her mind at the exact moment that someone else was looking for him urgently, an ex colleague whose search for the Chameleon would bring him to her door.