Текст книги "Chameleon"

Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 24

Hokobu Incident Room, Scotland Yard, London. Friday, 4pm

Sergeant Scott had worked with DCI Coombes for almost two years, and he was used to his moods, mostly bad. The DCI was one of the last of the old style detectives who often found himself fuming at the political decisions of his uniformed superiors.

Just a few months ago they had worked on a case with Dee Conrad of Vastrick Security, a case which would have ended with a murdering, blackmailing criminal escaping justice had it not been for some nifty detective work and some unorthodox policing. One way or another, the perpetrator got his comeuppance in the end.

Scott sat facing Dee Conrad, who had recently married and was now Dee Hammond. Sitting beside the attractive investigator was her companion, Geordie, whose anxiety was clear. Scott was familiar with Geordie, as he had taken the bodyguard’s statement on the day of the Hokobus’ murders.

Coombes joined the three of them on a telephone link from his home, where he was suffering from suspected swine flu. His shaky voice was not helped by the fact that the scratchy phone line and tabletop speaker made him sound as if he was speaking from the other end of a long empty corridor.

“Come on, then, Scott. Tell us what you’ve got. I can only promise you a few minutes of lucidity,” Coombes moaned hoarsely.

“That’s all I can ever expect,” Scott muttered under his breath, and Dee and Geordie smiled.

“I heard that, Scott. Now get on with it.”

“OK. We have some good news.” The others waited in anticipation as Scott brought the relevant report to the top of his sheaf of papers. “The Scene of Crime supervisor has just reported that they have found a contact lens in between the seat and the backrest in the rear of the Mercedes.”

“Can they get prints off a contact lens?” Dee asked, knowing that in the recent past it had not been possible.

“It might be possible. If they can get the prescription from the lens we may be able to use it to identify the owner and force a confession from a suspect,” Coombes added.

“Well, there’s good news and bad news on that front. First, the bad news is that the contact lens is not a prescription lens. It’s a cosmetic lens. It changes eye colour to brown but it isn’t a corrective lens. So, that isn’t so helpful, except that we can assume that the wearer was not brown eyed. However, there is a partial print with enough whorls and ridges to provide comparison.”

“Any hits on the fingerprint database?” Coombes asked impatiently.

“Yes, as a matter of fact there is. We are fifty per cent sure that the fingerprint belongs to a woman referred to as Miss AD, 34792 on the MOD database. So she may be a soldier.”

“Bloody hell. Odds on she’s a spook, MI5, MI6 or someone else in the inappropriately named Secret Intelligence Services.”

“What makes you think that?” Dee Interjected.

“Well, Mrs Hammond, if it was a serving soldier the fingerprint search would have given us the full name immediately, as well as a photograph. Also, the numbers given to service personnel are much longer and are coded to give personal information to those in the know. A five figure number is almost certainly a personnel code. We have those, too; we use them when we log on to book annual leave and such.”

“I see. But why would our own government want the Hokobus killed?”

Coombes hesitated before answering.

“Who knows? Half the time they don’t know what they’re doing. They’re bloody dangerous. Last year we had one of theirs turn up zipped up in a suitcase and the Met spokesman had to go on record as saying it looked like a suicide, because no-one at Thames House would tell us a damn thing.”

The conversation turned to how the police were going to persuade the MOD, or whoever, to reveal the identity of the individual and put them forward for questioning. Coombes was pessimistic.

“The last time an undercover operative turned up as a murder suspect, he was kept in a room with a tribunal consisting of an Assistant Police Commissioner, an MI5 team leader and a serving Army Brigadier. I asked the questions via an audio link to the room and the suspect answered to them, not me. If they deemed his answer as safe, and not a threat to national security, he would answer the question again for my benefit. Bloody farce.”

“Who decides whether the suspect stands trial, then?” Geordie asked.

“The tribunal will decide that, and the likelihood is it would be a military court and the hearing would be in camera. That means in private for your benefit, Scott,” Coombes jibed as Scott scowled.

“When will we know whether they are going to offer up Miss AD for questioning, Boss?”

“It takes time, Scott, and interminable bloody patience. Fact is, as a first shot across our bows they will probably come back on Monday and say they have questioned the individual and the operative offered a reasonable explanation for the contact lens. They will also confirm that the operative was away on assignment when the killings happened and so could not have been responsible.”

“What if they’re lying, Boss?”

“Bloody hell, Scott! Were you born yesterday? Of course they’ll be lying. They won’t even bother speaking to the operative unless the Commissioner kicks up a fuss with the Home Secretary.”

Geordie’s face was red with rage and Dee placed her hand on his arm to placate him.

“Terry, are you saying that if this person turns out to be the killer she might not even be tried?”

“Dee, as we are now obviously on first name terms, I’m not letting another spook slip through the net. But don’t be surprised if the suspect turns up dead at her own flat, with a written confession next to an empty bottle of pills.”

“Either way,” Geordie added ominously. The others in the room looked in his direction. His jaw was set in determination.

Chapter 25

MI5 Headquarters, Thames House, London, Friday 5pm.

Barry Mitchinson was bemoaning his lot. He was sitting in a cubicle in the middle of the office, with no window in sight. An air conditioning and heating duct, placed to suit an entirely open plan office, was sited directly above his head, a head almost free of the encumbrance of hair thanks to male pattern baldness.

As a result, he was always too hot in the winter and too cold in the summer. He was actually sweating today, although that might be down to the toothache. Barry had lost a filling last week and his NHS dentist couldn’t see him until after the weekend.

The phone rang and he picked it up. He tried not to sound bored. “Internal Investigations.”

“Hello, Mr Mitchinson. The Director of Investigative Services is standing beside me. He would like to see you now. He has a fifteen minute window.”

“Well, actually, I was just going out of the door as you rang,” he lied, “otherwise I’ll miss my train.”

“Mmm,” the Director’s PA intoned with apparent disinterest. “I’ll tell him you are on your way, then, shall I?”

Barry was left with a dialling tone. He slammed the receiver down.

“Damn!” he spat out venomously.

***

Maureen Lassiter had been the Director’s PA during his entire professional career; wherever he went, she went. She knew more about him than his wife. In fact, his wife would sometimes ring the PA to ask her what she should buy him for Christmas.

As Barry Mitchinson entered the Director’s suite, Maureen stood up. Without acknowledging his presence, she led him into the Director’s office and wordlessly pointed him in the direction of a hard seat facing the Director. Maureen closed the door behind them and sat on a comfortable sofa under the famous painting of Wellington at Waterloo. She flipped open her pad and looked at the poorly attired Mitchinson, who was clearly on tenterhooks.

The Director continued to write and did not look up. Barry was already sweating from that damned air conditioning outlet and was aware that the un-ironed check shirt he was wearing was now showing large damp patches under the arms and on his back. Furthermore, his unfashionable glasses had steamed up and he didn’t have anything to polish them with. All this and it was literally freezing outside.

Suddenly realising that his sleeves were still rolled up, he began to unroll them.

“Don’t bother, Mitchinson. I don’t think your tribute to Haute Couture can be improved upon.” The Director looked across at Maureen Lassiter and she returned the expected smile. “So, I was just wondering whether you would like working in the post room.”

Barry looked puzzled at the Director’s comment.

“You see, Mitchinson, since I took over this chair you have been demoted – sorry, vertically reallocated, no less than three times.”

Maureen winced in the background. She knew what was coming. The Director continued.

“Now you are sitting in the middle of a football field sized office with no staff and the worst job in the building.”

“Yes, Director. I was meaning to ask about that.”

The stare from the Director told the functionary that now was not the time.

“Two years ago you had an office with a Thames view; you had a driver and one of our famous expense accounts. Now you are a nobody, in an office full of nobodies, snitching on his colleagues. Tell me, Barry, how does Eloise feel about that?”

Eloise Ter Haar was Barry’s allegedly loyal wife. This alleged loyal wife had reverted to her maiden name, ‘for business purposes, darling’, as soon as he had been demoted from Assistant Director. Eloise mixed in the same circles as the Director in her role as her father’s business partner. Ter Haar Architectural Design had clients across the globe and Eloise was forever gloating about her job and her successful career. Barry suspected that she had been intimate with her clients on many occasions to secure assignments. He was also quite certain that she had slept with the Director of Investigative Services, whom Barry and Eloise had known since college.

Barry did not answer the question, knowing that there was no way to win that verbal battle.

“Not satisfied with ruining your own career, it appears that you are doing your level best to ruin mine, too.” The malevolent look on the Director’s face caused a shiver to run down Barry’s spine.

“Tell me, Barry, what was the last thing we discussed in this office?”

Barry knew the answer very well, but neither his brain nor his mouth reacted to the question.

“Maureen. If you please,” the Director asked in the direction of his PA. “It seems that Barry here has suffered a memory lapse.”

The PA read from her pad. “Mr Mitchinson explained that an ex employee of the service had taken to assassinating public figures for money, under the guise of the Chameleon. The said employee was known as Douglas ‘Mac’ Mc Keown.”

“I see. Maureen, does your note record my response?” the Director asked in a clearly rehearsed dialogue.

“You asked Mr Mitchinson if he was certain that ‘Mac’ was the Chameleon.”

“And what was his answer, please, Maureen?”

“He said he was absolutely certain, he was one hundred per cent sure.”

“I see. Well, Barry. Are you still certain that Mac is the Chameleon and that he eliminated the Israeli foreign Minister?”

“Yes, Director. I am still certain.”

“Do you believe that he is also responsible for the death of the Hokobus, on my patch?”

“Absolutely, sir.” Barry felt he was on sure ground.

“Maureen, the file, please.” The PA handed a manila folder to the heavily perspiring Barry, who now feared the worst.

“Barry, is that a fingerprint request from the Met?”

“Yes.” Barry knew his tooth still ached but he couldn’t feel it. He just wanted to die.

“So, it seems the police have evidence that one of your former assassins killed the Hokobus, who were here as guests of the Foreign Office. Would have been nice of them to tell us, of course, but nonetheless, that person was not Doug Mc Keown, was it? It was Gil Davis, your former Wondergirl from special operations.”

Barry went white and felt sure that he would faint, but the Director continued regardless.

“Guess who was on Eurostar the day before the Israeli shooting, and who returned to St Pancras in the evening of the day of the shooting?”

The defeated Barry Mitchinson sighed what he feared would be the answer.

“Gil Davis?”

“So, Barry. Let me see if I can sum this up. Your Wondergirl from special ops is actually the Chameleon. Maureen, who, with all due respect to her, is a personal assistant with no special training, found this out with one phone call to HM Customs and the Border Police.

In the meantime, you, having used the full resources of the investigative branch, conclude that Mac is the Chameleon and you are so certain that you convince me to issue a notice on him.” The Director paused.

“And who exactly is being tasked with executing this innocent man, who as far as we know is enjoying a peaceful retirement growing spuds? Oh, that’s right. Gil Davis. The real Chameleon!”

The last three words were screamed in a tone that scared even Maureen Lassiter, and she had rehearsed it with the Director just moments before. Mitchinson’s whole body shook and tears welled in his eyes.

“Unless you want to spend the rest of your career in Iraq armed with a stick, poking at suspected IED’s, you will do two things. Firstly, you will stop the killing of Doug Mc Keown in its tracks and you will get him back here so that competent operatives can carry out a proper investigation. Second, you will ensure that Wondergirl is peacefully at rest by the time I write my next report for the Home Office next Friday. Could I be any clearer?”

“No, sir,” Barry replied, voice trembling.

“Now, get out of my office before I get the bomb squad recruiting officer in here to sign you up.”

Barry stood up and looked at the Director and his PA with their stony faces, and exited the office, convinced that he could feel his superior’s malevolent stare piercing his back.

In the men’s room Barry splashed his face with cold water, lamenting his situation. He had ordered an innocent man’s execution at the hands of the real assassin, and she was primed to carry out the execution this weekend.

What was worse, significantly worse, was the fact that the real Chameleon had ‘gone dark’ at noon and neither Barry nor Tim had any way of contacting their former Wondergirl to call off the assassination.

Barry might just as well put a contract out on himself; at least Gil Davis would make his exit from this miserable existence quick and relatively painless.

***

Gordon Traylor, Director of Special Investigative Services, had been hotly tipped to be the new head of MI5, thanks to his cooperation with the last government. He had done all of the hard work on the “sexing up” of the Iraqi Invasion Portfolio but John Scarlett had taken the flak, the praise and then Tony Blair’s promotion.

Rankling as it did with Traylor, he knew his time would come, but first he had to clean house. He would not take the blame for policies former government ministers sanctioned. Now here he was, caught in the middle of a civil war in Marat.

Two years ago Marat had been on the brink of civil war when strikes brought the mines to a standstill, but with his help the Marati Government were able to finance a mercenary brigade and suppress the uprising. In return, the British Government won a forty million pound order for mining machinery to be manufactured in a marginal midlands constituency, and Mrs Traylor now owned a Tanzanite necklace containing more carats than little Peter Rabbit could eat in a lifetime.

Doug Mc Keown had happily carried out Traylor’s bidding even after ‘Mac’ had left the service. Hell’s teeth, Traylor had even suggested the name. The Director had always known that he could trust ‘Mac’ to keep quiet about his former Director’s involvement whilst the pay checks rolled in, but Gillian Davis? There was a girl he would never trust.

With both versions of the Chameleon out of the way, Traylor’s links with a dozen or more unauthorised assassinations would be severed, and he could look forward to heading up the firm and enjoying a well-funded retirement. If only that idiot Mitchinson could ensure that the former Wondergirl was terminated, and soon.

Feeling much happier now that he had a plan, he lifted his BlackBerry and called a London number. Tonight he needed the kind of distraction that Mrs Traylor would never provide.

The phone trilled three times before a husky female voice answered. “Ter Haar Architects, Eloise speaking.”

Chapter 26

Cryostorage UK, Ariel Way, White City, London.

Saturday 10am.

Gil left Wood Lane tube station and found herself on Wood Lane itself, staring at the White City HQ of the BBC. Housed in unspectacular brick buildings behind security gates, the area was quite busy as staff readied themselves for a move to Salford in Manchester. The young assassin caught sight of equipment and files being loaded into vans ready for the long drive north.

Turning left, Gil passed under the old grey steel bridge that carried the local tube trains, only to be confronted by an unlikely modern office building with imposing black glazing set into a modern red brick tower. The building was only a few storeys high but it looked impressive in this low rise, formerly run down, area. Before she entered the smoke glass doors of Network House she turned to look at the postmodern architectural monstrosity on the other side of Ariel Way, which was the new Westfields Shopping Mall. Enclosed in light grey cladding, the huge building looked more industrial than commercial. Still, they had a memorable logo and no doubt the front entrance was impressive. Gil had no intention of finding out. An LED matrix mounted on one of the bleak grey walls flashed that the shopping centre car park had 3769 parking spaces available.

A number of media related companies were housed inside the Network building, including a couple of TV Production companies; not surprising, perhaps, given the proximity to BBC White City.

At the reception desk Gil introduced herself as Mrs Doug Mc Keown and was directed to the Isa Labella Café, which was situated in Network House on the ground floor, and where one Arthur Bellwood was waiting. He would have stood out in a crowd, as he was very tall and thin with the demeanour of an undertaker. His lank hair was unfashionably long and fell below his starched white collar. Arthur did not have to stand out in a crowd, as it happened, because he was the only person there.

Gil walked towards him and extended her hand. He wiped his hands with a napkin to remove any residue of egg yolk or HP sauce that might have migrated from his full English breakfast to his fingers.

“Mrs Mc Keown. It is a pleasure to meet you at last, though you are much younger than I expected, and these are less than convivial circumstances.”

“Thank you, Mr Bellwood. I am the second Mrs Mc Keown. A trophy wife, I fear, but one who loved Douglas dearly and who was stubborn enough to fight his first wife for his remains.”

“Indeed so, Mrs Mc Keown, and may I say that whilst you have all the necessary attributes of the said trophy wife, your obvious affection, intellect and endurance speaks of a much deeper relationship.”

Gil nodded mournfully, whilst casually wondering whether Arthur Bellwood spoke like this at home. Perhaps he did. Perhaps when he arrived home he would announce himself.

“I’m home, dear. Your respectful and devoted husband wishes to join you for a brief evening repast. How does that dutiful request combine, or otherwise, with your own plans?”

“Oh, do shut up, Arthur. Your dinner is in the oven. I’m off to the Gala bingo. It’s big prize night.”

Whilst she had been daydreaming, Arthur had continued speaking, but Gil decided that whatever he said would have been flattering but irrelevant. Her eyes turned to the aluminium case beside the table.

The case was about the size of a large carry on bag that one might use in an aircraft. It had a demountable handle and wheels. On the top of the case, in front of a sturdy looking carrying handle, was a transparent strip which encased diodes that glowed an attractive blue colour. As she watched the last diode turned red.

“As discussed, everything has been carefully stored since the unfortunate East European conflagration, and now,” he patted the case, “the remnants of a life well lived have been lovingly packed into this refrigerated carrier.”

“I see,” Gil responded, curiosity piqued. “How long do I have before Douglas defrosts?”

Bellwood looked at Gil as if she had uttered a vile expletive, but then he replied respectfully.

“The blue lights indicate a satisfactory internal temperature. There is a battery and a small condenser unit in the base. It is cold outside and so you probably have around six hours before you need to attach the case to the mains with the built in lead.” The dour man pointed to a mains lead built into the back of the case.

After a little more funereal banter, Gil asked a question that had been at the forefront of her mind for a while.

“Arthur – I may call you Arthur?” Bellwood’s lips moved from their fixed position, which denoted a frown, into a straight line. Gil took this to be Arthur Bellwood’s smile of assent.

“Why do you meet in this office building when we can see you premises out of the window?” Gil pointed to the end one of three single storey industrial units, which carried the name of Cryogenic Storage UK. The building was probably only twenty five metres away.

“Ah, your perceptiveness has indeed penetrated my little affectation for being overly sensitive. The fact is that I retain a small office here in Network House for meeting clients, as they often feel uncomfortable about being in the same building as a significant number of departed carbon based life forms of the same species.”

“Frozen dead bodies, you mean?” Gil said, cutting to the chase.

“Indeed so. Your talent for assembling a blunt précis has, once again, lanced my sentient sentimentality with the sharp point of factual observation.”

“Now he is taking the Mickey,” Gil thought, and Arthur’s lips quivered at the corners as if fighting to lift in the semblance of a smile, but all the while being hindered by the underuse of the necessary facial muscles.

***

Twenty four hours later, having checked the contents, Gil would leave the case with Damian Basford, the forensic pathologist routinely used by the service to examine the bodies of those who had died on assignments. She had already written a brief note, which read:

Dear Tim/Damian,

Here are Mac’s remains. Not many, I’m afraid. I used a little more DHX than I needed. Sorry. Attached is a certified DNA printout confirming the remains are Doug’s.

G.