48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (45 page)

She was obviously a woman who believed in being
direct.

“
Hello, Mrs Hammond,” she said, in an accent Dee placed
somewhere in central Africa.

“
I am Victoria Hokobu and if you do not help me I fear I will
be killed in the next seventy two hours.”

Chapter 1

Embassy of Marat, St James Square, London, Monday
9am.

Martin De Souza sat quietly in the reception area of the
Marati Embassy and wondered why this poverty stricken nation
enjoyed one of the most exclusive addresses for an Embassy anywhere
in London.

If he hadn’t been in the mining business he would probably not
even know where Marat was on the map of Africa. He suspected most
of the world’s population were in the same boat. Could most
Europeans point to a map of Africa and confidently point out Chad,
Gabon, Guinea, Togo, the Central African Republic or Marat? He
doubted it.

When Africa was ruled by the Europeans in the late nineteenth
century most of these little countries did not exist, had different
boundaries or different names. The area that comprises Marat and
the Democratic Republic of the Congo was once considered the
personal property of King Leopold II of Belgium. Even when wars
were being fought in the late 20th Century in central Africa,
nobody was fighting over the tiny mountainous land that was Marat.
Not until De Souza’s father and uncle discovered tanzanite in those
mountains in the 1990’s did anyone even seek political power. Until
then the country had been run as a State Administered Region of the
Congo, without its own formal government or elections, without an
army and without indigenous police.

The beautiful violet blue tanzanite that was mined in Marat
changed all of that. More expensive, and far rarer than diamonds,
suddenly fortunes were there to be made. De Souza Mining had
calculated that there were billions of dollars’ worth of tanzanite
in Marat.

Within a year the UN oversaw elections, and Benjamin Matista
was elected president. He then placed his closest advisers in the
roles of chief of police and head of the tiny Marat army. There
were rumours that Matista was a Somali and that he was not in fact
born and raised in Marat, as he claimed, but no-one questions the
President too harshly when he controls the army and the
police.

A portrait of the President in an impressive uniform adorned
the wall behind the reception desk. Also in the reception area was
a display of tanzanite, which looked real to De Souza, and if so,
the display would be worth over a million pounds if sold in Hatton
Gardens.

The De Souzas could not complain, however. They had made a
fortune from Marat with their exclusive mining rights.
Unfortunately, whilst the President and his government had more
money salted away than they could ever spend, they would tell the
people that once the army and police were paid for, along with the
improvements to the roads and infrastructure, there was no money
left for education and welfare. Unless, of course, the people of
Marat were agreeable to working even harder in the
mines.

Recent UN studies showed that the majority of Marat’s
population were educated, fed and cared for by international aid
and by humanitarian charities, an unacceptable situation for a
country with great mineral wealth, but there were bigger problems
in Africa that had to be managed first. The fight against poverty
was also hindered by the authorities who siphoned off the aid
money, and whose greed knew no bounds, whose consciences knew no
shame.

Martin De Souza felt grubby even dealing with these people,
who dined in London’s finest restaurants and lived in penthouse
apartments whilst their own ethnic groups or tribes starved and
lived in squalor. In the opinion of Martin De Souza, it was only
the fact that most of the country belonged to the same tribe as
their leaders that a descent into civil war was
unlikely.

“
Hello. So good to see you again.” A giant of a man strode
towards De Souza, extending his hand. He was over six feet tall,
heavily built and girded in an impressively tailored suit. His hair
was short; his teeth were as white as ivory and his skin was that
rich dark brown hue that looks almost purple in the right
light.

“
Jalou, how good to see you too,” De Souza managed to say
before his companion ushered him out of the door.

“
Come, let us take a walk. It is such a wonderful day,” Jalou
suggested. His African accent had a deep timbre that commanded
respect.

The man is out of his mind, De Souza thought, but didn’t say.
It’s well below freezing out there. Nonetheless, he braved the cold
wind and the icy streets to follow the big diplomat to a corner
coffee shop, where they both ordered and then sat down in easy
chairs either side of a low table.

The diplomat spoke first. “Martin, it is not good business to
come into the Embassy unannounced. The Ambassador and his brother
cannot be involved with our troubleshooting duties.”

The Ambassador’s brother was the President of
Marat.

“
I had no alternative, Jalou. The Hokobu woman has just landed
at Heathrow Airport.” The Afrikaaner pronounced Hokobu as
Huckooboo, just as the lady herself did.

“
This is not possible. You have made a mistake.”

“
No mistake. I saw her for myself. She arrived from Bangui on
a KLM flight, changing at Schiphol. My informant stood behind her
at passport control and assures me that she told the officer that
her return journey is booked for Friday evening. My opinion is that
she had someone drive her to the Central African Republic, so that
you would not know she had travelled.”

“
This is very bad news. She was supposedly under virtual house
arrest. She will now speak at the international conference on
Thursday morning and at the very least cast our government in a bad
light. At worst she will persuade the Americans and British send
their aid by way of food, medicines and clothing rather than in
cash. Then the foreign aid workers distributing the aid will spy on
us, and our income streams will be interrupted.”

“
That need not happen, Jalou. You have the Chameleon here in
London. You have used him before.”

“
Martin, we have just seventy two hours before she speaks.
Even that cold hearted killer will not be happy with such an
assignment.”

“
I think you underestimate the Chameleon, Jalou. Whilst we
have no real idea who he is, we do know that with very little
notice he killed the Israeli Minister of Culture when he was in
Paris visiting the Jewish Memorial Centre, and the minister was
being guarded by Mossad. Victoria Hokobu has no such protection;
there is just her husband to watch over her.”

Jalou Makabate thought about the potential problems Mrs.
Hokobu could cause and decided that investing in the Chameleon was
necessary, if a little expensive. The assassin demanded one million
dollars per successful hit, and always ensured that payment was
made. The Chameleon had let it be known to all prospective clients
that the reason the Israeli Minister had been eliminated, and
Mossad had been embarrassed, was not a political one. It was
because Mossad had refused to pay the balance of the fee for
assassinating a Hamas leader. Good marketing.

Whilst the Israeli cabinet made a huge fuss and complained to
the international community that it was an unconscionable act of
evil by Hamas, Mossad knew the reality, but they weren’t
saying.

***

Once he was alone, Makabate’s first phone call was to the
Marati Chief of Police, a fellow Somali, instructing him to pick up
and question Vincent Utembo, the Hokobu’s head of security,
immediately. Makabate understood very well that if he reported to
the Ambassador before he knew the woman’s plans and had a plan to
eliminate her, he would be punished for allowing her to make the
journey. He had no intention of being sent back to Marat, through
no fault of his own, where they would have him living in a hut
somewhere, supervising a mine.

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.

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