Chameleon - A City of London Thriller Read online

  Chapter 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ***

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

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

  Chapter 12

  Tallgarth Manor, Stratfield Turgis, Hampshire. 1995

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ***

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

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

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

  ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ***

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