Chameleon - A City of London Thriller Read online

  Once he had made his wishes known to the security chief in Marat he pressed the speed dial headed UKFO. Across London, in Thames House, a rarely used mobile phone rang. “Diplomatic Support Services,” a male voice announced rather uncertainly.

  “Hello, this is your friend at St James’ Place.”

  ***

  Maureen Lassiter was a spinster of a certain age, but she had certain desires. A middle class woman of her standing had no right knowing how to affect, and control, men in the way she did. Although relatively plain, she stayed fit and slim and she had practised her lascivious craft since her days at University. Consequently, few men had been able to resist her temptations, and fewer still had been in any way disappointed when they submitted to her charms.

  Nonetheless, she had learned to be careful with her office based affairs. Even now the outer office door was locked and the sliding sign on the door had been moved from Director: ‘Available’ to, Director: ‘Unavailable’. For additional security, the inner door between her own outer office and the Director’s inner sanctum was also latched from the inside. With luck, their illicit coupling would go unnoticed, as long as she muted her cries of satisfaction. Fully comprehending that an affair with a superior officer was never wise and could occasionally be dangerous, she simply could not help herself. This was especially true when that lover was in a position to exploit his government calling for personal financial gain. There was no doubt that Maureen enjoyed the thrill, and the risk of being caught, but she also enjoyed the beautiful garden flat in Richmond that she could never afford on her government salary without help from a regular top up from an account in the Isle of Man.

  Maureen was on the tips of her toes leaning on the wide window ledge, biting her bottom lip as she looked out over the Thames four floors below. Her trim naked rear was facing in towards the office where her lover, who was sweating and breathing heavily, sought to satisfy her needs. She had satisfied his needs some fifteen minutes earlier.

  Just as she sighed, whimpered her approval and relaxed her awkward stance, a phone rang. It wasn’t the director’s desk phone or his government issued mobile, which she kept in the outer office. Rather it was an old mobile phone which rarely rang these days. Her sweating lover picked it up from the desk, and looked at it, holding it close to his face as he recovered his spectacles. Recognising the caller from the phone’s colour screen, he put his finger to his lips to silence his conquest as he struggled to lift up his trousers with his left hand. As casually as he could he answered the call.

  “Well, hello there, JM. We haven’t spoken for – oh, it must be over two years.” There was a mild rebuke in the tone, suggesting that the man who answered the phone felt he had been impolitely ignored.

  “The damn Hokobu woman is in the UK and you did not alert me.”

  “We have been keeping a check on her - free of charge, I might add - purely as a gesture of goodwill. But I cannot expect my Border Agency contacts to keep me informed of everyone of interest who lands in the UK,” the MI5 man lied.

  In fact, the man on the phone had no such contacts, and was not in a position to place Mrs Hokobu on any ‘persons of interest’ list. Nonetheless, there was no need for these foreign functionaries to know that; he would keep taking their money as long as they believed that they had a powerful ally in government circles.

  “It seems she landed at Heathrow today, and if she speaks at the Poverty and Slavery conference, all of our lifestyles will be affected.” The remark was pointed and was understood.

  “I understand, but how can I help my good friends, the Marati government?”

  “I would like to employ the Chameleon to ensure that the governance of Marat and the arrangements with our foreign aid donors remain as they are.”

  “You know that the Chameleon will want a million US dollars?”

  “Of course. We are willing to pay.”

  “Would I be correct in assuming that you want me to persuade the Foreign Office to maintain its position that the woman is nothing more than a Marxist rabble-rouser who wants to take Marat towards the Far East and nationalise British investments?”

  “Yes. I want to know that the UK government will not threaten our aid too robustly if there is a liberal outcry at her absence from the conference.”

  “I can arrange that. A report from MI5 with a ‘dodgy dossier’ on Mrs Hokobu will be prepared today. Shall we say the usual fee, payable to the usual company?” His tone had changed and he suddenly sounded excited.

  “Yes. One hundred thousand pounds will be paid to Britannic Investment Group in the Isle of Man later today.”

  “Thank you. You will receive an authenticated receipt, for tax purposes, for the sum paid, which will itemise a number of consultancy services.”

  Maureen’s sweaty lover paused before he continued, smiling at her as they shared a secret Jalou Makabate could never be a party to. Namely, that when the African diplomat had visited this very office four years ago, to garner support from the UK for the suppression of awkward Marati tribesmen, he had received nothing from the visit except the names and numbers of a few mercenary outfits in southern Africa.

  The plain fact was that, whilst UK companies had profitable mining interests in Marat, neither the Foreign Office nor the security services had any interest in the former Belgian colony. Introduced to MI5 by an informant by the name of De Souza, Makabate’s request to meet was accepted purely out of politeness. No-one had any intention of helping this posturing dictatorship, but Marat did have an unending supply of Tanzanite.

  Maureen smiled back, knowing that, as on all previous occasions, they would actually do nothing at all, but would receive a hundred thousand pounds simply because the Maratis thought that they were buying UK Government approval. When, she wondered, would these tin pot dictators learn that corrupt elected governments simply could not buy Western approval for money? Until these uneducated yokels woke up and smelled the coffee, there would always be underpaid civil servants who would take their cash.

  Makabate listened carefully as the instructions came across the ether from Thames House.

  “The code words for the Chameleon are; Peter Wright at the Foreign Office says hello.”

  ***

  With a few more touches of his iPhone screen the diplomat called an answering service in London, left a message and told the girl that he needed a call back from Chameleon Enterprises by noon.

  Chapter 2

  Fitness Forum, Spitalfields, London, Monday 10a.m.

  Just a five minute walk from Liverpool Street Station, in East London, lies Spitalfield Market. It has been the site of a busy market since 1638, when King Charles gave a licence for flesh, fowl and roots to be sold in what was then known as Spittle Fields. Three hundred and seventy two years later, and now located within the historical Horner Buildings, the area has become a paradise for shoppers who can buy anything from cheap trinkets to valuable works of art.

  The Chameleon could see much of the street activity below, through the first floor plate glass window in front of the treadmill. Despite the extreme distance and high speed showing on the treadmill video screen, the Chameleon was breathing easily, though coated in a sheen of perspiration.

  Just as the machine was slowing for a “warm down”, a vibration on the Chameleon’s left arm signalled that a text message had been received on the mobile phone hotline. Only very wealthy clients ever dialled that number.

  After a brief delay, the Chameleon wandered into the corridor and looked at the message.

  “Call JM from St James’s Square,” the cryptic message read.

  An attractive woman in her thirties came up the stairs, admired the Chameleon’s washboard stomach and nodded an appreciative silent greeting, which was returned.

  The Chameleon showered, dressed and left the gym, passing through the crowds on the street before swiping a card at the entrance of an impressive modern office block just a quarter of a mile away.

  Sitting at a desk in a glass wal
led office, the Chameleon affixed an electronic voice changer to the telephone handset before dialling the client’s number.

  “Jalou Makabate speaking.”

  “This is the Chameleon. Send encrypted details of the assignment to the usual email address and I will action your request.”

  “It must be done within seventy two hours. Will that be enough time?” Makabate asked.

  “It will have to be,” replied the electronic voice that sounded much like the artificial voice of Stephen Hawking. “Ensure that the down payment is paid to my account within twenty four hours.”

  “Good. This woman is a danger to all of the good citizens of Marat. She is determined to destroy the peace in our country and incite a civil war that will claim many innocent lives. Her followers have already formed a militia that has maimed and abused many in an attempt to scare them into following her communist ambitions for our free country.” Makabate paused. “Oh, and by the way, Peter Wright at the Foreign Office says hello.”

  “Yes, whatever you say,” the electronic voice responded.

  Makabate was familiar with these brusque conversations, and so was not surprised when the call ended abruptly without any further warning or good wishes.

  ***

  Relaxing back into the sumptuous leather chair befitting the founder and Managing Director of both Celebrato Greeting Cards Ltd. and its online presence at www.Celebrato.tv, the Chameleon pondered.

  ‘So, the boys at MI5 are still playing their childish games, code words indeed. Still, it seems that someone at Thames House wants this woman taken down, and for a million US dollars it’s a done deal, code words or no code words.’

  Smiling as the world passed by on Spitalfields Square, fifty feet below, the Celebrato MD thought, ‘It’s all very well spending your days designing and printing bespoke greeting cards and making money the hard way, but one does need a hobby.

  Chapter 3

  Vastrick Security, No 1 Poultry, London, Monday 10am.

  Dee and Geordie had listened carefully to Victoria Hokobu and her husband, and had taken meticulous notes.

  Victoria Hokobu began by explaining that she used her maiden name, even though she was happily married to the distinguished looking Samuel Etundi, who was sitting by her side. Both in their mid thirties, the pair made a handsome couple.

  Victoria and her husband were both from the M’baka ethnic group who traditionally spoke the NgBaka Ma’bo language. Hailing from what is now called the Central African Republic, their tribe settled in the mountainous landscape in the region that now forms Marat, in the late eighteenth century. In 1972 they were eventually recognised as a separate state by the United Nations, albeit they were still administered by their former parent state. Now, however, the nation state of Marat has a president and a burgeoning bureaucracy and lies sandwiched between the Central African Republic and Cameroon. Victoria explained, somewhat mournfully, that a tribal council had peacefully ruled Marat for two hundred years until Blue Violet Tanzanite was discovered in the mountains.

  Wary of the sudden interest in Marat in 1996, Jaafar Hokobu, Victoria’s father, opposed the creation of a republic but was overruled by the other tribal elders, who foresaw great riches coming into the new republic. But, by 2001, the majority of the people had come to realise that the new president and his followers were robbing them. These were evil men who claimed M’baka heritage but who could not speak the NgBaka Ma’bo dialect.

  Looking to Jaafar Hokobu to lead a popular uprising, the people began to withdraw their labour from the mines. Jaafar Hokobu was arrested, along with most of the other leaders of the uprising, who ‘confessed’ to their treason whilst in prison. Most were executed and white South African mercenaries were drafted into the tiny Marati army to help restore order and set the mines working again.

  According to Victoria, the people of Marat, who numbered less than the population of Brighton, were virtual slaves in their own land. By travelling secretly into the Central African Republic, she and her husband had been able to fly to the UK from a city called Bangui without being apprehended. From Bangui KLM operated regular flights to Europe.

  Their air fares were being paid by the organisers of a UN Conference to be held in central London, entitled; Ending Slavery, Ending Poverty. The conference was expected to present hard evidence of the corruption endemic in the continent of Africa, and to press for aid to be distributed fairly to those in most need by non-governmental organisations.

  By acting in this way, Victoria was to argue, the richer nations could avoid their generous aid lining the pockets of the rich government officials who stole from their own people.

  Victoria was intending to expose the Marati Government as thieves and show the world the real poverty being suffered by her people. She would say that the M’baka were a proud people who would not need aid if they could share in the national wealth created by the large Tanzanite deposits. It was the threat of this disclosure that she believed would lead her government to attempt to kill her before she addressed the conference in seventy two hours’ time.

  ***

  Geordie sat with Dee in her office, temporarily separating themselves from the potential client, and together they examined the three stones that were being offered to them in payment for their services. The accompanying documentation said that they were; BVve, internally flawless and excellent. In short, these were the best possible Blue Violet very exceptional stones, cut perfectly to the square/princess design. Each stone was just over 10 Carats in weight and so the three together would be worth around thirty thousand dollars. That worked out at around seven thousand pounds per day for this three-day assignment.

  Dee had already sent a message to Tom Vastrick, their President, who was holidaying in Vermont, asking for his opinion, but they both expected him to say; “Do what you think is right. You people are there, I’m not.”

  The two sat together in Dee’s office and discussed the main problem faced by Close Protection Operatives or Bodyguards in the UK, which is that they have only passive deterrents at their disposal. These are items such as body armour, and bullet resistant glass and bodywork on cars. The only other protection they can offer is to keep themselves between the client and assailant; not an attractive proposition if the assailant is armed with a sniper’s rifle and the bodyguard is armed with nothing more potent than pepper spray.

  In their favour was the fact that both Dee and Geordie had attended special courses at Quantico, taught by FBI trainers. Whilst they had not been in the same classes, they were in the USA at the same time, they had both attended similar lectures, and both had completed the same units over a six-month period.

  They had been taught a number of secret service techniques, including those used to protect the President of the United States. They had firearms training, and they spent two weeks on counter terrorist training. They spent an enjoyable and adrenaline filled week on defensive driving and pursuit driving. Finally, they had been taught the latest (and dirtiest) moves in hand-to-hand combat.

  But despite all of their undoubted skills, Dee now had three scars from bullet wounds, and Geordie had one scar from a knife blade in his leg and a further scar in his back from a wickedly sharp Shuriken throwing star.

  In many ways it was inevitable that those who were routinely required to face that kind of danger would illegally carry deterrent sprays, batons, knives and even tasers; anything to try to slow down a madman with an agenda.

  Dee made a decision. “Geordie, I think we have to help this lady. She’s probably overstating the risk, but between us we could carry out a detailed risk assessment and cover the obvious danger areas.”

  “I’ll go along with that, Dee. With any luck it’ll all pass without incident,” he said, his Geordie brogue coming to the fore.

  Of course, neither Geordie nor Dee could possibly have known about the Chameleon’s involvement, but it would have made no difference if they had; their task was to make it as difficult as possible for any assassin, no ma
tter how skilled, to get to Victoria Hokobu.

  Chapter 4

  Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Monday Noon.

  The Celebrato Greeting Cards headquarters were contained within a single floor of the grey framed office building on Spital Square. The outside walls consisted of floor to ceiling windows which had a green hue when viewed from the street.

  The offices were always busy, but the main business was conducted from a factory unit in Warrington, in the North West of England, halfway between Manchester and Liverpool. The unit was strategically placed with easy access to the M62 and the M6, but the best part of the deal was that the former Labour Government’s Business Minister had awarded Celebrato a grant which meant the rent and rates were subsidised for ten years, and that the printing and distribution plant was provided virtually free of charge.

  By ensuring the plant was efficiently organised, Celebrato cards could be produced and distributed by just thirty operatives working a three-shift rota.

  Celebrato had been bought for peanuts by its current Managing Director, the Chameleon, from the founder’s grandson, who had run the greeting card company into the ground, despite its profitable history of producing high quality cards which spanned fifty years or more. Since the takeover three years ago ‘Capitol Cards’ had closed its shops, gone online and changed its name.

  Business was booming. Costs and quality had been reduced but prices had remained stable. All of the major supermarket chains retailed the standard Celebrato cards, as did a major national newsagent chain. The bespoke cards, ordered online, were created in Warrington by a few minimum wage software jockeys, so that mums, dads and grannies around the country could receive personalised cards with their names or personal photographs on the front. The most expensive ones even allowed the buyer to record a short audio message.