Chameleon - A City of London Thriller (17 page)

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.”