Текст книги "Chameleon"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 1 9

Vastrick Security, No 1 Poultry, London, Wednesday 4pm.

Geordie, recently released from the accident and emergency unit at Guys and St Thomas’ Hospital near London Bridge, was looking at Dee’s plan and smiling for the first time since the deaths of the Hokobus.

“This is brilliant! It is a real tribute to Victoria. How did you manage to arrange it so quickly?”

“I spoke to Angela, explained the circumstances and she insisted on helping. I didn’t even have to ask. She adores you, apparently. What is it with you and these older women?” Dee paused. “Anyway, grateful as she was for your protection in 2009, she said that it was the cause that obliged her to become involved.”

“Aye, she insisted on calling me Bonnie Lad because she heard that Geordies use the expression. No-one had called me Bonnie Lad since me Granddad died.”

They went over the plan again in detail so that Angela’s hard work would not be in vain.

***

The telephone rang at the Celebrato Cards reception. The receptionist answered the phone, avidly following her usual script.

“Ms Davis, please. Tell her that Peter Wright from the Foreign Office is calling.” His name was not Peter Wright, nor was he from the foreign office; that was an in joke based on the fact that an ex employee called Peter Wright had almost ended MI5’s secret existence by publishing his notorious book ‘Spycatcher’. The caller expected Gil to recognise the long unused code for an urgent meeting.

He was eventually put through to a voice he recognised, even after all of this time.

“Gil, it’s Tim McKinnon. We need to meet urgently.”

“Well, hello to you, too, Tim. It’s been a long time. You never write, you never call....”

“Sorry, Gil. How have you been? Are you married yet? Kids?”

“I expect you already know the answer to those questions and many more. Do you still keep files on ex employees’ lives after the service?”

“Astute as ever, I see. I know most of what you have been up to, yes. As for me, I married Celeste, after the world’s longest engagement, and now we have two kids. But we can catch up on all of that when we meet.”

“Why are you so convinced I will agree to a meeting at all?”

“It will be a ‘coded’ meeting, Gil. The top bosses think it’s that important.”

Gil considered the prospect of a ‘coded’ meeting so long after she left the service. A coded meeting was a formal meeting held under the Code for Operatives as determined by the Official Secrets Act. Such meetings were held rarely, and so the subject matter was going to be serious.

“OK Tim, where and when do we meet?”

“The Tunnel, as usual. Ten in the morning, tomorrow.”

“You spies are all the same. Why not McDonald’s for a change? Why an abandoned tube station? It’s all a bit cold war, isn’t it?”

“We still have a facility down there. You will find your way in quite easily. There is only a standard three lever lock to beat. It should take you all of ten seconds, unless you’re rusty.”

“I’ll be there, Tim, but I have a company to run. I can’t afford to do anything more than talk for free.”

“Don’t worry, I have a budget.”

Chapter 20

Westminster Hall, London: Thursday 9:55am.

The hall was laid out much as it had been for the visit of Pope Benedict XVI a few months earlier. The seating was laid out on the lower level floor in theatre style. The first few rows had comfortably upholstered seats and were reserved for invited guests. The rank and file of attendees sat on barely padded chairs which appeared to have been in use since the Second World War.

This was the third day of the conference but by far the most important. Today the discussion was on foreign aid and how to ensure it reached the needy and helped the UN to defeat slavery and poverty. In today’s gathering were over forty ambassadors, the UK Foreign Secretary and the former UN Secretary General Kofi Annan. The Secretary of State for the US was joining the current UN Secretary General, Ban Ki Moon, in the UN Building to participate by video link. Both looked sprightly, considering it was five o’clock in the morning where they were sitting.

The first talk was scheduled to last twenty minutes, and it was to be a plea for fairness in the distribution of aid by Victoria Hokobu, daughter of the late, but still revered, African statesman Jaafar Hokobu.

As the crowd settled the UK Foreign Secretary rose and walked to the podium. A man of medium stature who had been in the public eye since he had vocally supported Margaret Thatcher on TV as a teenager, he was now shaven headed in an attempt to conceal the fact that he was prematurely balding. In the familiar nasal tone that reflected his upbringing in a middle class home in North Yorkshire, he opened the ceremony by inviting Bishop Kuma Matwami of Nigeria to offer an invocation and prayer for the poor and afflicted.

There followed a minute or two of business, explaining to the delegates where the fire exits, restrooms and most importantly, the refreshments were situated. The Marati Ambassador and brother of the president, His Excellency Solomon Matista, sat expectantly beside his aide Jalou Makabate.

Solomon Matista was as ruthless as his brother, but today, in just a few moments, a woman he had only heard of in Marati folklore was due to speak to the audience. Of course, he had been assured that she was now dead, and so he had offered himself as reserve speaker in case she could not make the conference. He sat ready with his notes, preparing to give a twenty minute presentation saluting the fine work of Victoria Hokobu in bringing to his brother’s attention the abuses of state and foreign aid. This practice, he would assure the audience, had now been ended thanks to the great efforts of President Matista.

The UN official completed his announcements with the introduction of Victoria Hokobu, the African Human Rights Campaigner from Marat. The audience followed the official and applauded when the introduction was made.

The Marati delegation smiled at the prospect of the confusion that would reign when it was clear that their key speaker was not present.

From behind a screen at the side of the stage strode a large African woman dressed in brightly coloured clothes and smiling widely. The Marati ambassador’s jaw dropped open as, in the familiar sing song dialect of the tribes of central Africa, she began to speak.

“Good Morning Mr General Secretary, Secretary of State and Mr Foreign Secretary. I am Victoria Hokobu and I am here to talk to you about how your generous aid is failing to lift central Africans out of slavery and poverty.”

***

The murderous look on the face of the Ambassador sent Jalou Makabate scurrying out of the great hall, fumbling with his cell phone as he exited into the freezing cold morning air. The big African shivered as he dialled the number for the Chameleon’s answering service. As soon as the girl picked up at the other end he yelled into the phone.

“This is JM of St James’s square. I need a return call to this number immediately. There is an emergency.” Then he remembered the agreed code. “The patient needs further treatment.”

He stood outside, exhaling clouds of warm carbon dioxide into the chilled air. He could feel the cold in his bones already, but he dared not return until he had an explanation.

After an interminable and uncomfortable wait, that was in real time only eleven minutes, his phone vibrated. He answered immediately. The voice he heard was not as distorted as it usually was.

“JM, your call is unnecessary; the patient did not survive the operation.”

“Is that so? Then how do you explain that the patient is standing in the hall behind me, ending my career, and quite possibly, my life? I paid you a million dollars, for heaven’s sake!”

The Chameleon paused for a moment and spoke into the distortion device.

“JM, your money was well spent. I can assure you that the patient and her husband are in the company of angels. Call me again when you know the full story.”

The line went dead and Jalou entered the building to find his way to the great hall blocked by a uniformed figure.

“Sorry, sir, we cannot allow re-entry during a speech. But don’t worry; she is only scheduled to speak for another five minutes.” The security guard smiled but made it clear that there would be no exceptions.

Makabate picked up his phone again and speed dialled a mobile phone number he knew would be answered quickly. The phone rang twice before it was answered.

“Makabate, what the hell do you think you’re doing? This number is for emergencies only!” The voice was very English, and the enunciation was very definitely developed at a public school.

“This is an emergency! The Hokobu woman is speaking to the conference now. This is a disaster for all of us, and it is your fault because you allowed her into your country.”

“I told you before, I can’t keep operatives at every port of entry, it would draw attention to our arrangement.” The Englishman paused and shuffled some papers whilst he drummed up a convincing lie. “Jalou, I have a scrolling message running across the bottom of my laptop screen, highlighted in yellow. It that tells me that Mrs Hokobu and her husband are dead and that the police are investigating. She simply cannot be speaking in that hall. It’s impossible. Now, tell the Ambassador that I will do all that I can to ensure that the British Establishment gather around to discredit this insane woman, and we can all get back to profiting from the Tanzanite mining.”

Jalou Makabate was not appeased. He ended the call, then sat down heavily on a stone bench and waited whilst his life, and possibly Marat itself, was brought down by the indestructible Victoria Hokobu.

***

Behind the podium hung a huge screen onto which was projected a map showing exactly where Marat was situated. It was followed by a series of slides showing the undeniable beauty of the central African veldt and the more rugged rocky landscape rising from it. The pictures showed lush pastureland, bony looking cattle and healthy looking goats. There were views of flowing rivers edged with reeds and overhanging branches. Finally there were shots of the wildlife lying lazily in the sun, looking inquisitively at the cameraman.

“My dear friends from around the world, this is my country, the country where fifteen generations of my family were born and where they lived. Invaders have come and gone over centuries; the last was King Leopold of Belgium, but seldom did their influence reach as far as Marat. I doubt that my ancestors would even have known who their ruler was, had it not been for the Christian missionaries who accompanied the soldiers and who strayed further than they were told was wise.

As a result many people in our peaceful communities, numbering around two hundred and thirty five thousand souls in total, a few less than live in Brighton and Hove on the English south coast not far from here, converted to Christianity.

With the landscape you see before you, with the rivers for water and the pastureland for grazing, it was possible for us to live, eat and celebrate our good fortune without desecrating the landscape or forcing away the wildlife.

Until independence Marat never asked for, nor was it offered, any aid from the central government or from the international community. We led simple lives and we were even able to trade goat meat and wheat to the other tribes in the Congo region who lived in less friendly environments.

Then a mining company named De Souza discovered Tanzanite in our mountains, and our lives changed.”

Photographs of the mountains were replaced with pictures of beautifully cut tanzanite stones in hues of blue and violet. Mrs Hokobu continued, and in a soft, soulful voice reflected to the silent audience, “Oh, how could something so beautiful bring with it such ugliness?”

There appeared on the screen mines, roads, shantytowns and crude mud huts built to house miners. Broken down vehicles and mining equipment had been left rusting by the side of the road, as newer versions were brought in to increase production.

“Old Mr De Souza promised to make us all rich, and perhaps at the beginning he meant what he said. The men left the villages and the farms and went to work in the mines for money. They worked hard and were paid well, but the farms were left to the women, who despite their hard work could not produce enough food to feed Marat. Soon all of our money was going to buy essential foods from elsewhere, food that we could easily have grown for ourselves. We were no longer self-sufficient.

Then came independence and a new government, and hope was restored. They would rein in the mining company and ensure that we could once again have a mixed economy, where mining and agriculture worked together to provide our prosperity.”

The whole time she was speaking, this robust and healthy vision of African womanhood held her audience entranced as photographs were projected one after another on to the large screen behind her, to illustrate her words and accentuate her mood.

“Since independence the Maratis have become virtual slaves to the mine owners. When the miners complain about safety, working conditions or poor pay, their demonstrations are put down by the government forces supplemented with mercenaries, all of whom are well fed, clothed and armed. They have the latest military equipment and they drive the best European cars, whilst the miners and the farmers live in poverty.”

Pictures showing barren farms and tired miners were projected behind the speaker. They were followed by pictures of robust, healthy police officers and soldiers smiling at the camera in their smart uniforms and proudly showcasing their shining vehicles.

“Then we had a visit from the UN. Mr Kofi Annan, you are a beloved figure in Marat,” Victoria said, looking directly at the elderly statesman in the audience.

“Your help and aid has been generous and continuous. However, the UN officials sent to assist the poor, the enslaved and the sick have gradually been restricted to the capital. Their travel permits have been revoked, in an attempt to prevent them distributing the aid fairly and to monitor how it is spent.

If you choose not to believe me, then please do the maths yourself. We are a nation of two hundred and thirty five thousand souls and the government in 2007, the last year for which figures are available, received one hundred and thirty five million dollars in aid. Now you can see that represents almost six hundred dollars per year per person. Usually our miners and their families survive on less than five hundred dollars a year.

Add to that the generous aid provided by charities and we should be a country with a healthy and well-fed population, but we are not.

The United States and Great Britain built us twelve schools to assist in the African literacy programme; four still operate, but the others are now regional government offices, mining company offices and even a private dwelling.

We had a hospital built by the European Union. For the first two years Europeans staffed it whilst we had our people trained. As soon as the Europeans left, the funds to pay for staff were redirected and the trained staff were not paid. Some remain as volunteers, but many left for jobs abroad.”

Pictures of forlorn schools and a hospital were projected.

“You may have seen the photographs of Nation Day in Marat recently, where dancers and performers entertained the President and lauded his accomplishments. Please look at this photograph.” She paused.

A colourful photo of dancers in native dress filled the screen. More followed, all showing happy smiling faces and healthy bodies.

“Not one of the people in the pictures you have seen is Marati. They are wearing the tribal dress of the Congo. They were employed to take part in these celebrations.

So, you ask, is this big African lady mad? Is she a liar? Does she seek to deceive you in order to ask for more aid?

Please feel free to make your own decisions about my motives but, having done so, please act on your feelings. Do not line the pockets of greedy mining companies and Mercedes-driving ministers with luxury villas in the south of France.

My plea to the UN, and to all of you within the sound of my voice, is this; you ensure that the corruption is ended and that the current aid gets to the people and I will guarantee you that in three years we will be offering aid to others, not asking for aid for ourselves.”

She paused as the audience began to clap. The applause began at the back of the hall and quickly spread to the dignitaries at the front. The Marati ambassador stood and walked out, as did the Zimbabwean ambassador. Victoria let them go in silence before she continued.

“Africans throughout the continent are ambitious. They have glorious aspirations. They want to be seen as equals to the developed world. We do not want to be third world or second world; we want to be first world, as many of you know. With our peoples, our lands, our hard work, we can survive on our own but only if you stop our leaders from abusing their power, stealing our money and smothering our hope.”

Victoria paused whilst the applause died down, and then removed her headscarf to reveal a close cropped hairstyle.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Suddenly the voice, the accent and the intonation was very English. “I notice that the Marati delegation has left us. I wonder why? I am not Victoria Hokobu. I am, however, her sister at arms. I admire Victoria and her relentless efforts on behalf of her people tremendously, but it is with deep sadness and regret that I announce her assassination yesterday.”

There was an audible intake of breath as the shocked audience came to the realisation that their speaker was dead. A picture of the Hokobus, smiling and happy in front of the London Eye, faded to a picture of them lying dead in the back of the Mercedes.

“I have presented Victoria’s speech exactly as she prepared it. I believe that we have all honoured her memory by listening to her words today. I further believe that if we genuinely want to honour her memory we will say that today was the day when we started to change the way we give aid. Today was the day we started to end slavery. Today was the day we restored hope to the poor.”

Angela Barry left the podium to return to her acting role in the Lion King, and the audience were left looking at a picture of the Hokobus enjoying the interior of Westminster Abbey. The caption read:

“Victoria Hokobu, Stateswoman; 1975 to 2011.

Chapter 21

The Strand, London, Thursday 9:30am.

Gillian Davis walked briskly past the entrance to the old tube station. Passers by rarely noticed the red brick-coloured tile facade, the locked security gate or the signs boldly proclaiming ‘Piccadilly Rly’ and ‘Strand Station’. Hardly surprising, perhaps, as the station had been closed since 1994, after a somewhat inglorious history.

Built in the Victorian era, the station was home to a branch line which had the advantage of giving access to three different underground lines. The area around the station was thriving when the work began, but even before the station was completed, retailers, commercial offices and home owners moved further away from Aldwych and into the up and coming commercial areas of the City and the West End.

Initially two double platforms were built, but one was abandoned and bricked up after just a few years’ use, in 1917. As a result, the work on the remaining passenger tunnels and the final lift shaft were never completed.

The Strand Station also lost its name when the more popular station at nearby Charing Cross was opened and was initially named the Strand Station, leaving the old Strand Station to be renamed as The Aldwych Station.

By the Second World War the station was little used, and so it was closed as a functioning station to permit its dual use as an air raid shelter and a secure underground storage facility for works of art from the National Gallery, including the Elgin Marbles. The platform which had been sealed in 1917 served as an impenetrable vault for the duration of hostilities, before being resealed in 1946.

The Aldwych platforms at the station stumbled on after the war and managed to remain in use for another forty eight years, thanks largely to the reopening of the theatres in the area. The Strand Station finally closed its doors to the public in 1994. The old station experienced a new lease of life in 2001, when terrorism became a real threat to Londoners. It was assumed, almost prophetically, that the most obvious threat to the city was an attack on the Tube system. Thus the Special Air Services, the Secret Intelligence Services and the Metropolitan Police secretly used the Strand Station, its platforms and tunnels, for anti-terrorist exercises and emergency training purposes.

By 2006 MI5 had adopted The Strand Station as its own. Their operatives created offices by partitioning platform areas and they continued to manage the facility for the other users. This cooperation continued until 2008, when the police and MOD moved their offices and security drills to another unused Tube station in a less busy area in North London. By the time Gil returned to the Strand Station, it had stood silent and empty for two years and was gathering dust.

Gil knew, from passing the station entrance on the way to the City, that it was embedded into the buildings which now house Kings College London, and that it was protected by nothing more than a painted plywood hoarding and a security shutter. Nonetheless, whilst Gil could have been inside within a minute, the Strand was always busy and, even on a freezing morning like this, inquisitive students were hurrying past on their way to class.

Gil walked past the station entrance without slowing, and turned right into Surrey Street. She walked down the deserted, steeply banked street until she arrived at a loading bay. Two large shutter doors faced her, labelled ‘Exit’ and ‘Entrance’. Faced in the same shiny red coloured tile as the station front, this had once been the side entrance to the Strand Underground Station.

To the extreme left of the tiling stood a single white door which looked as though it had not been maintained for years. The sign on the door bore the simple message, “Keep Clear, Fire Exit”.

Despite its dilapidated appearance, Gil knew that the door was steel reinforced and regularly used, mostly at night. Ensuring that she was alone, Gil approached the door, setting down her briefcase as she withdrew her key. The lock was a simple one, old but sturdy. This would have to be opened the old fashioned way; her electronic lock pick would not be strong enough to turn the old tumblers.

Gil chalked the large uncut key and inserted it into the lock and turned it until she felt resistance. She then withdrew the key and looked at the marks made in the chalk by the levers. She quickly selected the master key that most closely matched the lever marks and inserted it, and then, with a small amount of jiggling supported by brute force, she turned the key and the levers clicked over. The door was now unlocked. She stepped inside and pulled the door closed but she did not lock it. A good operative always maintains access to a quick exit route.

Almost immediately inside the passageway she found the ornate public entrance, secured by a trellis shutter and a modern Yale type lock. This time her electronic lock pick would be fine.

Gil pulled what looked like a torch from her pocket and slid a switch on the tubular body of the object forward two positions. Three titanium prongs sprang out of the end, all so closely grouped that they were almost touching. The young woman carefully pushed the three prongs into the lock until they each hit resistance. She then slid the button back one notch, and there was a whirring sound as the prongs moved back and forth into position. The red diode on the handle turned green, and the end of the electronic pick rotated like an electric screwdriver, unlocking the shutter.

***

Gil had deliberately arrived early so that she could scout the area. Her MI5 trainers had impressed upon her that accessing premises through locked doors and securing the area were among the basic tenets of ‘spy craft’. As Gil had never considered herself a spy, she preferred the term ‘tradecraft’.

The ornate ticket office and entrance was in pristine condition; the famous Leslie Green design was familiar from her childhood, as it was the same colour scheme used on most old tube stations. The back offices were cluttered, but somehow managed to convey the impression that the staff had just left for lunch. The age and style of the abandoned desks and equipment gave the room the appearance of a scene from an old black and white movie.

Oddly enough, the reason the whole station was in such good condition was that film and TV companies often used abandoned Tube stations such as this one for period dramas, and for blockbuster movies such as the James Bond and Narnia series of movies, amongst others.

Gil wandered through the station, relying on the dim glow emanating from the emergency lighting. There were two interconnecting lifts at ground level that formerly provided the main route to the platforms. These lifts, however, were going nowhere. When the station was closed to the public, steel beams were inserted under each lift, holding them forever in place. The lifts were labelled with the plate of the Otis Elevator Company, and were the original lifts as installed in the 1890s. Beside the lifts was a concealed shaft, circular on plan and lined with concrete blocks. This shaft had been prepared for the third lift, which had never been installed. The third lift shaft was deeper than the others; it sank seventy feet to give access to the abandoned platform that had been closed in 1917, and which was resealed after use in the Second World War. The lift shaft now offered the only access to those two long forgotten platforms.

Gil moved the wood plank cover aside, and was not surprised to see a rope suspended from a steel joist which spanned the three-metre opening, and running down to the platform level. This was nothing to do with the operation of the underground station; it was a ‘drop cable’. In training exercises, when operatives needed to descend in a hurry, they could attach a standard climber’s cable brake, which gripped the rope and released it when a hand-sized trigger was squeezed. The hand operated brake allowed the operative to descend at his or her own speed, like abseiling. Alternatively, one could do a free abseil, without equipment, but one needed good gloves and boots, not to mention nerves of steel.

Satisfied that she was alone, Gil sat in the refurbished lift car on the wooden bench and waited. As she waited she contemplated the technology that had been available to the Otis Elevators over a hundred years ago and marvelled that lifts today were only cosmetically different from their forebears.

As a child visiting London, Gil had once asked the lift attendant at Covent Garden Tube station why there was a door in the side of the lift. He explained that the lifts were not square but were shaped as a handed matching pair. In the event that one lift got stuck, the other lift could be lowered alongside, the doors opened and the passengers could easily be transferred into the working lift.

An ingenious idea, but not used in modern lifts. Why? Would we rather have people sitting for hours in stuffy lifts, waiting for an engineer or fireman to rescue them? Progress, she thought wryly. Have we really made any?

Her ‘Chameleon’ cell phone interrupted her thoughts. She was reluctant to answer it at that moment, but she switched on the electronic voice distortion and spoke to her answering service.

Concerned that the steel around her not only disrupted the cell phone signal but that it also reduced the effectiveness of the voice disrupter, she called her erstwhile African employer.

Jalou Makabate sounded panicked. He had just seen Victoria Hokobu at the conference and had immediately assumed that the Chameleon had failed to kill her. Gil was not alarmed. She had ensured the happy couple were at eternal rest before departing their Mercedes. Someone had obviously found a clone to replace the majestic Mrs Hokobu.

When Gil was handed the assignment she had seen the flaw in Makabate’s plan immediately, but it had not been her place to mention it. She had been instructed to kill the husband, too, in case he simply substituted for his dead wife at the conference, but what if they’d had yet another substitute waiting in the wings?

She told Makabate to calm down, and explained that if he bothered making even arbitrary enquiries he would discover for himself that the Chameleon had indeed completed the assignment and the Hokobus were dead. At that she hung up, hearing a noise on the spiral staircase.

***

“Gillian! Wow! You don’t look a day older!” Tim McKinnon said with all honesty, as he looked his old colleague up and down.

Tim did look a day older; many days older. He had always been an athletic five feet eight inches, but he had now developed a paunch and was carrying a good twenty pounds of excess weight. His skin looked sallow and tight, lines showing at the eyes. He still had radiant blue eyes, but now they were perched beneath a receding hairline of dark hair, cut in the military style.

“How did you get in without coming in through the doors?” Gillian asked.

“Old trade secret,” he smiled. “If you go down the line about twenty yards there’s an emergency exit that comes up at the Aldwych. It’s quite safe. The line has a safety bar fixed across the tracks, which prevents the line being made live in error. Every couple of years or so they go live and bring a train in here to test some new development. They were here last year, trialling the video projection system for advertising.

You’ve probably seen the door at the Aldwych. It looks like an emergency exit from the offices above, but in fact it was installed during the war for the bigwigs to be able to move about without being seen by the hoi polloi in the air raid shelter.”