 
CHAMELEON

A City of London Thriller

J Jackson Bentley

©Fidus Publishing 2013

All rights reserved.

Second Edition (Formatted for Tablets)

First published on Smashwords by Fidus Publishing in the United Kingdom 2011

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Acknowledgements & Authors Note

For authenticity, I have kept locations and places exactly where they appear in reality. Obviously, in any work of fiction, it is necessary to have fictional locations but, where this has been done, the fictional locations are situated in real places. If buildings or places are given a historic background then they exist and can be seen by walking around the city in which they are sited.

I have taken very few liberties with the transport arrangements mentioned in the book, and most journeys can be travelled as described.

I am grateful to the experts in gems, firearms, physical combat and security who freely and enthusiastically give their time to allow us authors to maintain authenticity.

I reserve my most grateful thanks for Sue W, my editor, who has proof read and improved all of my books since Macmillan published my first book in 1994. She also re-read the book and formatted the text for tablets in 2013.

Finally I acknowledge the assistance given by Fidus Books on taking the City of London Thrillers into electronic format for the Kindle.

If you have a comment, criticism or just want to email me about this specific book you can also email me at jjacksonbentley@london.com

J Jackson Bentley, London.

August 2013
Prologue

Vastrick Security, No 1, Poultry, London, Monday 10th January 9am.

Dee exited Bank tube station and was immediately assailed by the bitingly cold wind. Banked snow still lay on the edges of roads and pavements, after many weeks of severe winter weather, but it was now deep frozen and granite hard. The ground underfoot was slippery where the occasional light rain had speckled the ground with water droplets which turned to ice on contact. She could feel the crunch of ice and frost under her boots.

Luckily, Dee didn't have far to walk. The office block accommodating Vastrick Security was less than a hundred yards away, but even that distance was a challenge in this, the coldest January since records began. Almost everyone was wearing scarves across their faces, and those that weren't had frost forming on their cheeks where their expelled breath had frozen onto their skin before it could evaporate.

The sky was dark grey and heavy laden with clouds the colour of granite. The winter solstice had passed just a couple of weeks earlier, and there seemed very little difference between the level of daylight today and that of the shortest day. At nine in the morning it was just beginning to grow light, and yet it would be dark again by four. The grey clouds meant that the light levels would remain subdued all day, keeping the streetlights illuminated almost constantly. Grey skies, grey weather, grey world.

Dee looked both ways before crossing the street, and whichever way she looked it was as if Ansel Adams had taken a monochrome photograph of a city in winter. Most of the commuters looked as though they were wearing dark colours to match their dark moods. The occasional colourful outfit stood out like a beacon in this conservative area where neon was rare and the colours used for shop fronts were subdued.

Dee entered the office building through the rotating doors and felt the immediate heat of the door curtain scorch her head. In the summer the door curtain would blow a wall of cool air across the entrance to stop the heat penetrating into the working areas. Today it was a wall of radiant heat that could have cooked a chicken. She passed through the invisible wall of heat and into the lobby area, which felt several degrees cooler than it was designed to be. Glass atria may be great to look at, but they don't keep much heat in.

Dee took the lift to the Vastrick Security offices. She had officially become a Vice President of Vastrick on the first day of January this year - mainly, she suspected, because she had managed to get herself shot three times on her last big case.

When she stepped into the lobby she noticed that Andy was on reception duty. Andy was an investigator and so he was usually in the back office, but Dee guessed that the disruption to the roads and trains meant that some of their people would be working from home again. She was right; there were four backroom staff in the office, as well as one investigator and one close protection operative, other than Dee herself.

Geordie, the other close protection operative, had been stuck in London since yesterday due to the failure of the trains to run from Kings Cross up to Newcastle, where he lived, and from which region he took his nickname. Everyone had called him Geordie for so long it was rare for anyone to refer to him by his real name, Pete Lowden, but everyone in the business knew who Geordie was, and as he didn't mind, it really didn't matter too much.

Dee removed her coat, scarf, boots and other sundry outerwear. Replacing her boots with sensible flat shoes, she was dressed in grey trousers, red roll neck sweater and a black tailored jacket. If anyone had seen what she was wearing for underwear they would have found it amusing. She was wearing her new husband's thermals, and had to admit that they kept her warm. At five feet eight inches tall, she was approximately the same height as Josh, her husband, and so the full-length leg of the white thermal leggings tucked nicely underneath her socks.

The attractive young woman both missed and envied her new husband. He had been sitting by the pool at his five star hotel in Dubai enjoying Mediterranean style temperatures yesterday, when they spoke using the video service provided by Skype. He appeared to be enjoying himself far too much for her liking. But Josh wouldn't be back for another three weeks. He was assessing the value of the damage incurred when a small shopping mall on Sheikh Zayed Road had been severely damaged by fire. The insurers were insistent that Dyson Brecht send out a senior loss adjuster, and Josh's boss Toby had picked him. Dee would have gone along, too, if she hadn't recently taken three weeks' leave to go on honeymoon, and get shot.

Dee was just settling into her desk and booting up the computer when Geordie came into the room. He was over six feet tall, muscular without an ounce of fat on him, with close-cropped dark hair. He was quite striking in his way. He had the rugged good looks that most women found appealing. He was dressed in his usual Chinos and Vastrick Polo top. Yesterday someone had asked him how he managed in the cold weather with just a polo shirt and a padded jacket. He looked at them with his piercing blue eyes and joked that he had encountered worse weather than this in the summer in Newcastle, which he then assured the London staff was just inside the Arctic Circle. He had said it with a straight face, and found it amusing that some of them actually believed it.

"We have a walk in," he said, with an economy of words that was typical of him. Despite his appearance he was quite shy around women, something that made him even more attractive to a lot of the female clients.

"It might be a time waster who has no idea of our hourly rates, but bring them in to Conference room 1 and we'll give them fifteen minutes," Dee said. Geordie headed towards the reception area whilst she walked across the corridor into the conference room and switched on the lights.

Dee was still asking housekeeping to send someone up to take orders for drinks when the 'walk in' stepped through the doorway. The woman was around Dee's height, but her hair was stacked on top of her head and wrapped in a colourful scarf that contrasted well with the rest of her outfit. She was accompanied by a handsome middle-aged African man dressed in a business suit and tie; her husband, perhaps. Although she was heavily built - she was probably too big for a size twenty dress - she carried herself well. Her ebony skin shone with good health and the dark colouring of her eyes did nothing to conceal the intelligence that lay behind them. There was no hint of a smile, however, and Dee could see the tell tale signs of worry that had brought her to their offices.

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 De Souza hadn't been in the mining business he probably would not have had the slightest idea where Marat could be found on the map of Africa. He suspected that most of the world's population were in the same boat. Could most Europeans go to a map of Africa and confidently point out Chad, Gabon, Guinea, Togo, the Central African Republic or Marat? He doubted it.

When the Europeans ruled Africa in the late nineteenth century most of these little countries did not exist, they had different boundaries or different names. The area that now comprises Marat and the Democratic Republic of the Congo was once considered the personal property of King Leopold II of Belgium. Even when numerous tribal wars were being fought late in the 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 central African mountains in the 1990s did anyone even seek political control of the country. Until then Marat 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 which was now heavily mined in Marat changed all of that. More expensive and far rarer than diamonds, Tanzanite was found in significant quantities, and suddenly fortunes were there to be made. De Souza Mining had calculated that there must be billions of dollars' worth of Tanzanite in Marat.

Within a year the UN oversaw elections, and after an expensive and brutal campaign, Benjamin Matista was elected president. He then proceeded to place his closest advisers in the roles of chief of police and head of the tiny Marat army. There were persistent rumours that Matista was a Somali and that he was not in fact born and raised in Marat, as he had claimed in the election campaign, 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 located in the reception area was a secure 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 Garden, a sum that would release tens of thousands of Maratis from poverty.

The De Souzas were not in a position to 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 continually tell the people that once the army and police were funded, 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 would agree to work ever longer hours 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 the UN had bigger problems elsewhere in Africa that demanded their urgent attention. The elected authorities who siphoned off the aid money, and, whose greed knew no bounds, whose consciences knew no shame, also sought to hinder the international community's fight against Marati poverty.

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 made 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, his huge strong hand in the square of the mining executive's back.

"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 was well below freezing outside. 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," Jalou stated, shaking his head. "You have made a mistake. My contact in the British Security Services would have informed me."

"No mistake. I saw her for myself. She arrived from Bangui on a KLM flight, changing at Schiphol. My informant deliberately stood behind her at passport control and he overheard her say to the Border Agency Officer that her return journey was booked with KLM and that she leaves Friday evening. Luckily she is a loud woman, because my informant was obliged to eavesdrop from the yellow line five feet away from the passport desk. My opinion is that she had someone drive her across the border into the Central African Republic, so that you would not know she had travelled."

The news seemed to agitate the diplomat greatly.

"This is very bad news. She was supposedly under virtual house arrest. She will now speak at the international conference on Thursday morning and will, at the very least, cast our government in a bad light. At worst she will persuade the Americans and British to 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 opening the Jewish Memorial Centre, despite the fact that the Mossad was guarding the minister. Victoria Hokobu has no such protection; she has 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 and urgent, if a little expensive. The assassin usually demanded one million dollars per successful hit, and he always ensured that he was paid. The Chameleon's clients had been told that the reason the Israeli Minister had been assassinated, and the Mossad embarrassed, had not been political. It was simply because the Mossad had refused to pay the balance of the fee for assassinating a Hamas leader. Whilst the Israeli cabinet made a huge fuss and complained to the international community that it was an unconscionable act of evil by Hamas, the Mossad knew the reality, but they weren't saying. Good marketing for the Chameleon, and a certain way of ensuring that he did not suffer bad debts.

***

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

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 walled 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 matter 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.

As a result the Chameleon's initial investment had rocketed in value. The MD guessed that if Celebrato's customers knew that the takeover of Capitol Cards had been funded by the Chameleon's assassination of a troublesome Iranian, they would not be impressed.

***

The Chameleon's quick search of the Internet revealed the venue and timetable for the UN Conference Ending Slavery, Ending Poverty. It was to be held in the magnificent Westminster Hall, which had hosted the Pope during his state visit to the UK in September 2010. The Conference would run from Wednesday to Friday, with sessions from nine in the morning to five in the afternoon each day. The Chameleon noted that there were also numerous receptions, where attendees could wring their hands and concern themselves with the problems of the poor as they quaffed champagne and ate smoked salmon.

The section of the website dealing with the history of the medieval hall was interesting, however. Commenced in 1097 under William II, the son of William the Conqueror, it was completed two years later. It is said that the King had conceived the project to impress his new subjects with his power and the majesty of his authority. The hall must have impressed the twelfth century serfs, because it impressed a cynical assassin in the twenty first century.

When it was finished, the Hall was by far the largest hall in England at that time, and probably in Europe. Measuring seventy three metres by twenty, it boasted a floor area covering one thousand five hundred and seventy four square metres, with a length of almost four cricket pitches end-to-end. Remarkably, for the time, it needed no intermediate columns to support the beautifully ornate arched roof timbers. With stained glass windows all around, the largest and most impressive was the South Window, which is relatively new, the old window having been destroyed during the Blitz. The big arched window is inlaid with the coats of arms and monograms of famous parliamentarians, and lists the ones who gave their lives in two World Wars.

This type of large open and unrestricted floor area was usually good news for assassins, but there is such a thing as being too open. The Chameleon noted from photographs that when the hall was laid out for conferences the steps that take up the South End of the hall are used for the presentations. The stone steps effectively form a raised platform on three levels, which is ideal for allowing the speakers to be seen from the floor of the hall. But because the hall provided very little cover, and was not ideal for snipers, the Chameleon would only strike during the conference if all else failed.

The first of three encrypted messages arrived at the Chameleon's inbox, bighitter2000@freemailuk.com, and the recipient immediately began to make notes and plan the next seventy hours.

The conference program noted that the troublesome Victoria Hokobu was due to speak from the raised podium at ten o'clock on Thursday morning, and the client's view was that if she was still speaking fifteen minutes later it would be too late; the damage would have been done. The Chameleon doodled on a lined pad while thinking; the words read:

'Violets are blue,

Roses are red

Mrs. Hokobu

Will soon be dead'

Catchy, but probably not one of our bestsellers, the Chameleon thought.
Chapter 5

Vastrick Security, No 1 Poultry, London, Monday Noon.

Whilst the Chameleon was planning how to end Victoria Hokobu's life, Geordie and Dee were working just as hard to preserve it.

At the client's request, Dee had secured a Mercedes S Class Pullman Guard bulletproof saloon car with invisible armour, meaning that from the outside the car looks like any other production model. Nonetheless it has a larger engine, bullet resistant glass, a full armour plated pan protecting the underside of the car, further armour in the doors with the engine and radiator being protected against light arms fire by Kevlar shielding. The car also sported 'drive flat' tyres. Geordie was picking the car up from Exotic Cars of Longford Ltd, on Bath Road, near Heathrow Airport. They had been lucky to get the Mercedes at short notice, because such hire cars are very rare in London.

Dee was handling the accommodation. This was a little easier to arrange, because in London there are a number of expensive apartment buildings with extensive security arrangements and full time guards. A few even have permits allowing trained personnel to access handguns, which the police insist are kept in secure cabinets on the premises. Dee had rented an apartment from a regular supplier; the apartment was on the sixth floor of Parnell House on Oakley Street in Kensington. The secure car park could only be accessed through gates operated from the CCTV room.

Dee Hammond's task was to ensure that between now and Mrs Hokobu's presentation to the conference, she spent as much time as possible either in the bulletproof car or the secure apartment.

***

Over the years, clients had often baulked at the security arrangements made to keep them safe, arguing that they could hide away behind impenetrable walls on their own, and that the reason they hired Vastrick was so that they didn't have to be isolated. Victoria Hokobu had made the same point. She was making her first visit outside Africa with her husband, and she wanted to enjoy London.

Geordie was not too concerned about showing the couple around the sights of London. He decided that he would simply choose the destinations randomly, so that no-one following would know where he was heading next. The car was a silver S Class Mercedes, of which there were thousands in the City, and so it would be relatively anonymous. In any case, Geordie was well trained in anti-surveillance techniques and he could spot a tail and lose it in London with ease.

But that was a problem for tomorrow, because the African couple were yawning every few minutes, having not slept at all during their twelve-hour flight from Bangui. All they wanted now was to go to their apartment, have English fish and chips, and watch British television until they fell asleep. Geordie offered to stay overnight with them, as their second bedroom would be far larger and more luxurious than his budget hotel room, and he would be on expenses.

Consequently, by early afternoon Geordie was driving the Mercedes in the direction of Fryers Tuck In, a fish and chip takeaway on the Kings Road, less than half a mile from the apartment. Gentle snoring was coming from the back seat, where both of his passengers were out for the count and leaning against each other.

They would soon wake up when they smelled cod and chips three times with salt, vinegar and mushy peas, Geordie thought, smiling.
Chapter 6

Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Monday 4pm.

The Chameleon printed out the encrypted file that had been sent by email. One of the reasons the Maratis were good customers was that their background information was always thorough, no doubt obtained by bribery and torture. Another reason that they were good to work for was that their targets were usually evil, low profile, unguarded and accessible.

The final reason that the Chameleon accepted the assignment was that someone very senior at MI5 had initially referred the Maratis to the Chameleon with the old code words. This meant that, in the view of that individual at least, the assassinations were probably in the UK's national interest.

The notes in the extensive file explained that Victoria Hokobu had promised her head of security, Vincent Utembo, that she would seek protection when she landed in London. Vincent had told her that he would sleep more easily if she travelled in an armoured vehicle. She promised him she would follow his instructions. That was almost the last promise he received.

Utembo had received one final promise from the policemen who had shot him dead two hours ago. It was:

"Tell us all you know about the Hokobus' trip to London and we will spare the lives of your wife and children."

The photographs of the carnage in the humble stone built house were a testament to the emptiness of that promise.

The Chameleon could not know which security company the Hokobu woman would contact, but whoever she approached would need to hire in one of the half dozen bulletproof cars available for hire in the Home Counties. They would probably hire it today and keep it until after the Hokobus' flight back on Friday.

***

The Chameleon made the fifth and final call to determine who was hiring armoured cars at the last minute; this call was to Exotic Cars of Longford, one of the few companies listed as suppliers of Protective Cars for hire. This last call would ensure that all of London's specialist car hire companies had been contacted.

"Exotic Cars, Alexander speaking."

"Alexander, I hope that you can help me. This is Highgate Protection Services and we need to hire a bulletproof car as soon as possible."

"I'm sorry; I've just hired out the last armoured Mercedes."

"Damn! Was it the wine coloured S Class shown on your website?"

"No, it was the silver S Class on the next page. When do you need it? It is due back on Friday night, so if you need it for the weekend..." Alexander offered hopefully.

"That would be ideal; can I book it tomorrow when the boss gets back?"

"Sure, that would be fine."

"OK, until tomorrow. Oh, just one more thing; the car that you just hired out wasn't booked by our sister company Douglas Protection Services in the Isle of Man, by any chance?"

"No, I'm afraid not. A guy from Vastrick Security picked it up."

"OK. Thanks, Alexander, I'll call back tomorrow," the Chameleon lied, hanging up the phone.

This was by far the most likely candidate, and so a minute or two later the Vastrick website was showing on the Celebrato computer screen and the contact number listed was being dialled.

"Vastrick Security, Andy speaking."

"Hello there. I am calling from the UN Ending Slavery, Ending Poverty, organising committee. Could I speak to Victoria Hokobi please?"

If Katie, the usual receptionist, had answered the phone she would have blurted out that Mrs Hokobu was the correct pronunciation, and that she had just left, but Andy was a little wilier. He suspected someone was fishing for information.

"I'm afraid I don't know anyone of that name. Are you sure you wanted Vastrick Security?"

"Yes, quite sure. That's odd. When we parted at Heathrow this morning after flying in from Bangui she said she was coming to see you. I do hope that she is OK."

"Well, she doesn't have an appointment, but if she does call on us do you have a message for her?"

"Yes, I do. Could you please tell her that we will do a sound check at eight o'clock on Thursday morning before she speaks at ten?"

"I'm sure that Mrs Hokobu is fine, and if she should happen to turn up at our door, I will be sure to pass on the message."

The Chameleon smiled and put down the phone. It had seemed at first as though Vastrick was a dead end, but the young man on the phone confirmed the Chameleon's suspicions when he pronounced her name Huckooboo, whereas the Chameleon had deliberately, but mistakenly, referred to her as Mrs Hokobi.
Chapter 7

Vastrick Security, No 1, Poultry, London, Monday 5pm.

Andy tapped on Dee's office door and stepped inside. Dee motioned for him to take a seat whilst she finished typing a sentence on her computer. Andy watched her; she was a little shorter than his five feet ten inch frame, perhaps by a couple of inches. She was athletically built but she had the curves of a real woman. Her face was framed by flowing auburn hair that settled on her shoulders. Her hair shone with good health, or with good conditioner, or both. Dee wore little make up in the office but her facial beauty was defined by her finely sculpted cheekbones and her pretty nose. It was hard to believe that she was so tough.

"Well, Andy," Dee smiled, and he felt a mellow warmth pass through him. "She's a married woman now," ran through his mind in an unspoken mantra, as he concentrated on the matter in hand.

"I took a call, allegedly from the UN Conference organisers, who were confirming a sound check for Mrs Hokobu on Thursday morning. I told them that we were unaware of anyone of that name but said that if she contacted us we would pass on the message."

"Well done. It could have been a fishing exercise," Dee mused.

"It was. I rang the organisers but they told me they don't have sound checks for individual speakers."

"The press trying for an exclusive, do you think? Or perhaps something more sinister?"

"I don't believe it was the press, but I've listened to the tapes again. The caller referred to the client as Mrs Hokobi, but later in the conversation I'm afraid I called her Mrs Hokobu. They must know she is our client now."

He waited for a blast from his new Vice President, but she sat quietly, thinking. Her well manicured hands sported short nails, with the lightest of pink nail polish. They were steepled, showing her expensive engagement ring and her gold wedding ring carved with Celtic symbols.

"OK. We don't know how they tracked her to us, and I doubt that she told anyone she was coming here, given that she said that she had never heard of us until she saw our illuminated posters at Heathrow. On the positive side, they know she is being protected. On the negative side, they could sit in the lobby downstairs until she shows up and try something there.

Andy, you'd better warn our security men at the front door to keep their eyes open for any unusual activity and I'll call Geordie and tell him not to come to the office. We'll work from their apartment."

"OK, Dee. And, sorry," Andy said as Dee smiled again.

"Don't you worry, we all make mistakes. Mine usually end up with me being shot."

They both laughed and then set about making their calls.
Chapter 8

Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Monday 6pm.

The silver bulletproof Mercedes on the www.ExoticCarsLongford.com website sported the number plate X14 ECL. Presumably ECL was intended to represent Exotic Cars of Longford, the Chameleon thought.

So, what was known so far? Hokobu has hired Vastrick Security, less than a mile away from Spitalfields, close to Bank Station. Vastrick have hired the silver bulletproof Mercedes with the registration number X14 ECL.

How does that help? The Chameleon had only been in the killer for hire business for three short years, but one can learn a great deal in three years.

It didn't feel like three years. In fact, the Chameleon's dismissal from the service still rankled. It hardly seemed fair that one day you are asked to dispose of some foreign troublemaker, no questions asked; the next the Western Governments all get politically correct and you are surplus to requirements. What did they honestly expect their trained killers to do next? Work in an office, perhaps, or a factory? Drive a bus?

Any job was going to be an anti climax after the adrenaline-fuelled assignments these government agents had fulfilled in the past. The Chameleon was no different. Admittedly, operating a successful company was challenging and the original goal had been to raise enough cash from killing to buy a legitimate firm and then retire from the assassination business. The trouble was, that wasn't enough. It was impossible to duplicate the adrenaline rush, the fear, the power of control over life and death, the satisfaction of watching the aftermath of a project, police looking for a killer whilst walking right past you without giving you a second glance.

Looking more like a greetings card executive than a notorious assassin had its advantages.

The Chameleon dialled a familiar number.

"Hello, David. How's life in TfL's Congestion Charges Department?"

"No, not you again! Why can't you leave me alone? I'm going to lose my job if I keep helping you."

David sighed; working in the Transport for London Congestion Charge Office was stressful enough without any aggravation from his mystery caller. David issued PCN's - Penalty Charge Notices - and he had a target for the week. He had to ensure that any motorists who avoided the charge paid up, one way or another. If he spent time helping the Chameleon he would fall behind, and he would be spoken to yet again. Worse still, if his superiors ever found him using the system for personal reasons he would be sacked on the spot.

All this for fifteen quid an hour, he thought. He used to be a steel fixer until the slump. He made more in a day during the construction boom than he did in a week here. The Chameleon issued a gentle reminder.

"David, I am the holder of the secrets. I have never let you down and I don't expect you to let me down. No-one forced you to take part in the movie with that poor woman."

"I was high. Someone had spiked my drink and I didn't know it was going to be released on the Internet. There were four other men there. Why pick on me?"

"David, the other four are also helpful to me, but I must say that to perform as you did when drunk was deeply impressive. Anyway, we're wasting time. You have targets to meet. The vehicle you are looking for is a silver Mercedes saloon with the registration number X14 ECL."

"What do you want me to do?" The man sighed with resignation.

"I want to know where it is all day tomorrow."

"OK, but I'm not on until ten in the morning, and I finish at six. Also, you need to remember that I can only track it when it goes past a camera with plate recognition."

"That will serve my needs. Thanks Dave, it's always a pleasure."

The Chameleon terminated the call and wondered whether tomorrow could be the day. The excitement was already rising. It had been a while since the Israeli hit. It hadn't been a difficult job, as the Mossad had been misdirected by a public threat from Hamas, which they had dealt with, and so they hadn't thought that the minister was at any risk in the private closed meeting later in the day. The Chameleon clearly remembered the looks on their faces; the panic; happy days.

"One day I think I'll write an autobiography and give away all of my trade secrets," the Chameleon thought with a satisfied smile, "and I'll start with the Parisian job."
Chapter 9

Hôtel D' Israel, Rue De Rivoli, Paris, France. 3 months ago.

Laurent Gascoigne was not a typical Mossad agent. His parents had immigrated to Israel when he was a child, making him eligible for military service. Laurent had intended to pursue a career in architecture until he found his real home in the army. When his service was completed he was approached by 'The Insitution', short for Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, the Israeli national intelligence agency. In English it is better known by its Hebrew name, Mossad.

He was attractive to the Mossad because he was French born and held a French passport. He also spoke fluent French with a Normandy accent. The Mossad had around fifty permanent agents across Western Europe, and a native with total loyalty to the mother country was a prize of great value.

So it was that Laurent found himself walking up Rue Geoffroi L'Asnier towards his hotel. He had just been to the Mémorial de la Shoah to do his final reconnaissance. The Israeli Minister for Culture would arrive early in the morning at Charles De Gaulle Airport and would travel directly to the Museum. In the memorial gardens he would speak about French-Jewish relations and a joint heritage. He would also refer to the Holocaust and salute the many brave resistance fighters who harboured Jews who would otherwise have been slaughtered.

On this occasion Laurent was working with Shin Bet agents. These men were members of the Internal Israel Security agency (ISA), Sherut haBitachon haKlali, known in Israel by the acronym Shabak. Elsewhere in the world they were colloquially referred to as Shin Bet, the old name for the security agency.

Shin Bet was tasked with keeping the Minister safe, and so a team of five agents were staying with Laurent on the Rue De Rivoli, less than five hundred metres from the Shoah centre.

Laurent was tense; a more accurate term would be nervous. The Shin Bet believed that the threat was minimal and that the Gendarmerie and Shin Bet together could eliminate any threat. Laurent was not so sure. There had already been a threat, called in from a phone in a service station on the A1 road. The threat was validated by the agreed code word, and the bomb had been found concealed under a motorway bridge, just yards from where the motorcade would have passed. A remote trigger wired to a mobile telephone would have detonated the explosives. In short, the explosives could have been detonated from anywhere; there was no need for Hamas to have anyone within sight of the explosives to set them off as the Israeli motorcade passed, given that the visit would be televised live from the arrival to the departure four hours later.

The reason for Laurent's nervousness was that Shin Bet and the Israel based Mossad personnel were already celebrating. The rumour was that an assassin known as 'le caméléon' would try to humiliate the Mossad during the visit as a reprisal for not being paid for the earlier assassination of a Hamas leader.

The official 'internal - eyes only' explanation was that Islamic Fundamentalists did not want the assassin killing innocent French people along with the Minister, as they were already under pressure in France. They had therefore undermined his plan and called in a warning using the recognised codes.

It made sense, but Laurent didn't believe a word of it. He figured that if he was planning to take out the Minister, he too might plant a bomb as a diversion. No one was listening to him, however, and so security was down to nine men: himself, five Shin Bet advance agents, and three more Shin Bet agents in the car with the Minister.

***

The five Shin Bet operatives had chosen a table in a booth out of sight of the door and of the bar. They took the additional precaution of concealing their illicit spirits in glasses of coke. The 'no alcohol' rule had been well and truly broken since the uptight Mossad man left to do another useless walk around.

"Hello, gentlemen. You can't hide from me." The men looked appreciatively at the pretty French girl in a black skirt and white blouse, carrying the tray of drinks. Her badge read Mari-Hostess.

"We are offering you complimentary drinks as it now six o'clock. Would anyone like one?"

In a few seconds the tray was empty and the shot glasses were drained.

One of the Shin Bet men saw the Mossad man heading towards the bar.

"Mari, please take these glasses away with you. We cannot be seen with them. We have a tattle tale in our midst."

Mari looked puzzled, but she smiled anyway and went on her way. As soon as she rounded the corner she set the tray down on an empty table and removed her badge. Two minutes later, having recovered her coat from the back of a chair, she was stepping out onto Rue De Rivoli. As she walked towards the Louvre she took out her mobile phone and pressed redial.

"Hello." The voice at the other end was English.

"It is done; all five took the drinks and consumed them."

"Thank you, Justine. You have been as efficient as usual. I will send you a little bonus this time," the Chameleon promised, whilst silently thanking some supreme being for the ready availability of Botox in Paris.

***

Laurent had been called from his bed at five in the morning. All five of the Shin Bet men were ill. They had blurred or double vision and partial paralysis. They wanted to vomit but their gag reflex wasn't working. The doctor had diagnosed botulism, and an ambulance was coming to take the men to hospital.

They had all eaten together at an exclusive Thai Restaurant on Rue de Rivoli the previous evening, and they were blaming the food. Once again Laurent's alarm bells were ringing. There were now only three Israeli security personnel to protect the Minister.

It was too late to call off the visit, and in any event the Duty Controller back in Tel Aviv told Laurent that he was panicking for no reason. He was reminded that the French, who had assigned undercover armed Gendarmes, were providing the real protection. The Israeli security officers were mainly there as a visual deterrent.

***

Rue Geoffroy L'Asnier is a cobbled street the width of a single car. The paving on both sides is lined with black steel bollards to protect pedestrians, as the pavements are, in places, little more than two feet in width. In short, Laurent thought, this is a terrorist's wet dream. If you were looking for a good place to ambush someone, this would be the first place you would choose. Laurent had been nervous before; now he was scared.

The Minister was due in a few minutes, and the Palestinian protestors were out in force, carrying banners that read: Two State Solution, Free the Palestinians, Stop Building in the West Bank. They were pre printed in both French and English, and mounted on boards that were affixed to long handles.

In security circles, operatives on protective duties normally like to have a line of sight cleared before they will enter a road or street, but that was impossible here. The banners completely obscured the sight lines.

Nonetheless, the plan was working so far. The uniformed Gendarmes had cleared the top of the street to allow free access to the limousine. The Minister would get out of the car and walk less than fifteen metres to the relative safety of the gardens, which were ringed with machine gun toting French police. Once the Minister had finished, the Gendarmes would move the protestors onto Allez De Justes, behind the limousine, to allow it to freely exit the bottom of the one-way street.

Laurent's main concern remained the few metres between the car and the garden. He had to concede that everything looked secure, but this was where the Shin Bet men would have been stationed, if they hadn't been in hospital.

Laurent looked around as the limousine turned into the narrow road. The only building overlooking the arrival and departure was an academy of some kind, but luckily the windows were barred and opaque. The ancient building had two half glazed green doors that in normal circumstances would open outwards, but which were today barred and padlocked to prevent access or egress to the arrival point. The glazing was opaque Georgian wired glass which was protected by vertical steel bars at six-inch intervals.

Outside each green door was a worn stone step around five feet wide, and three French students sat on each step. Even though they were probably aged no more than sixteen or so, they had been frisked.

The car pulled up, and Laurent took up his position. His duty was to open the car door when it was safe to do so and let out bodyguard number one. Bodyguard number two would exit from the far side of the car.

In a few seconds both doors were open and the two bodyguards were looking around to assess any threats. They made the decision that the greater threat was the demonstration rather than the seated students, and so they placed themselves between the protestors and the Minister as he exited the car.

Two missiles flew over the police line, but Laurent and the bodyguards deflected them with their hands. One balloon was filled with flour, the other with ketchup. Laurent got the ketchup, and as he parried it away it burst open and covered him.

Eager to get the minister into safety, the bodyguards shielded him from the crowd by walking to the side of him, one slightly in front, one slightly behind. This allowed the minister to walk with some dignity towards his smiling host, who had his arms outstretched in welcome. The Minister moved towards his host, but never reached him.

The Rabbi on the welcoming committee was the first one to notice something odd. The three students on the stone step were looking up to where the glazed panel in the door had simply disappeared, leaving an opening. It had been removed silently. Before he could shout a warning, a black machine pistol poked through the orifice and fired off a controlled burst of six rounds. Every one hit the sprightly eighty two year old Minister.

Suddenly there was mayhem. The police did not know where the shots had come from, and by default surrounded the crowd of protesters. Laurent and the Rabbi pointed to the door, where three students were now cowering and crying, but they could not make themselves heard. Laurent withdrew his sidearm and ran to the door.

One of the Gendarmes from the garden rushed out to see the minister bleeding to death on the ground, and the Rabbi shouting in Yiddish and pointing to the door. The Gendarme saw a man running away holding a gun, and had to make a split second decision. He fired.

***

The Chameleon was delighted that the plan had worked so well. Of course, it had meant the sacrifice of a perfectly good backpack bomb to give the Israelis' intelligence community a false sense of security. The bombers' code words were easy to repeat; the Chameleon had used them before when working for the Mossad.

Justine had done well. Just a couple of drops of Botox, or Botulinium Toxin, was enough to cause considerable distress but not death.

The French Police had kindly obliged by barring the doors to the academy, meaning that no one could give chase. The Chameleon had been in the Academy all night, first hiding and then stripping away the glazing beads and putty holding in the glass from the inside. The rest had been easy; the glass was replaced, being held in only by blu tack. From the outside it looked the same, but it could be removed in two seconds. Finally a pinhole viewer inserted into a hole drilled in the door allowed the Chameleon to see exactly when the Minister was in range.

Perfect. The Chameleon relaxed into the first class seat on the Eurostar, and ordered dinner.

***

The Duty Controller at the Mossad HQ in Tel Aviv sat with his head in his hands. He had just presided over the death of an Israeli Minister he had been charged with protecting, by an assailant who had managed somehow to get clean away without being seen by anyone.

One of his best agents had been cut down by friendly fire, and was probably already dead when he slid down the wall he had been thrown against by the impact of the French Gendarme's 9mm parabellums. Pictures of him would find their way onto the front pages of newspapers around the world because, in the rush to evacuate the dying Minister, no one had stopped the paparazzi. Ari looked at the photos of the whole crime scene that were being offered for sale on the Internet, but he couldn't take his eyes off the handsome young French Israeli sitting against the wall. Laurent still had his gun in his hand; blood had poured from his mouth after two of the rounds had destroyed his lungs, the whole picture becoming even more bizarre when one took into consideration the fact that he was also covered in tomato ketchup.

Even worse for Israel was the likelihood that, beside the picture of Laurent on the front pages, would be the picture of the pregnant Palestinian woman lying dead on the pavement on Rue Geoffroy L'Asnier, dead eyes staring, having been run down by the panicking Israeli Limousine driver.

The phone rang and an electronically enhanced voice spoke.

"Perhaps now you will pay your debts. Usual account, by the end of the week, or I work my way through the Cabinet." The phone line was disconnected.

Ari knew the Chameleon would have to be paid, despite what he had done. The government must never know that this was all about a dishonoured debt. If they ever found out, the Mossad would be closed down within a week.

Anyway, it wasn't Ari's problem any more. He had been fired ten minutes before the call came in.
Chapter 10

Hokobu Apartment, Parnell House, Oakley St, Kensington, London, Tuesday 8:30am.

The morning was grey and miserable but the frost wasn't as cruel as it had been on previous mornings. Deep cloud cover seemed to have kept the temperatures to just below freezing. Dee turned onto Oakley Street. She had travelled on the tube from Greenwich, where she shared an apartment with her new husband Josh Hammond. Her coat collar was turned up, ineffectively, against the wind and her breath was expelled in clouds of water vapour through the scarf she held in front of her face.

Parnell House was a six-storey brick building, as anonymous as it was faceless. Probably built in the 1950s, it offered a view of an expanse of brickwork, windows and a flat roof to those passers-by who deemed it worthy of examination. The building had no aesthetic value that Dee could determine, but she knew that it was about to be listed as the minimalist architect that designed it was now popular again after years in the wilderness, thanks to a scathing critique of his work by an outspoken royal. In the centre of the long low building was an opening with apartments built above it. The opening was about six metres wide and four metres high. A metal grating which was actually an electronically operated gate filled the space. To the left hand side was a turnstile, which was operated by an electronic key fob or by the guard behind the glass window.

This level of security ensured that the only way into Parnell House was past the guard on duty. Dee stepped up to the turnstile and the guard pressed a button which initiated a buzzer, indicating that Dee could push on the turnstile and enter the security office.

Once inside she explained who she was and showed her driving licence, which was retained, and in return she was given a security card hanging from a lanyard, which was labelled VISITOR. The guards were all ex military types with abundant muscle and menace, all with short haircuts and no stubble. Their blazers and ties were identical. They were as anonymous as the building they were guarding. Five minutes after leaving the place, any description you gave of the guard that assisted you would probably fit every guard on the roster.

A capable but silent guard accompanied Dee right to the door of the Hokobus' apartment and waited until she entered, before returning to his post downstairs. In the elevator, recently refurbished to its 1950s grandeur (which wasn't in fact very grand at all), Dee had asked why the security was so much more visible than the last time they had used the facility. The guard mentioned that the premises were almost permanently on Condition Black Alert due to the sensitivity of the security services to the presence of one of the occupants. The guard would not say who it was, but Dee knew anyway, as did anyone who read the newspapers.

The sixth floor apartment housed the Hokobus, but the fourth floor was home to one of the Crown Princes of the United Arab Emirates whilst he studied in London. His Highness Crown Prince Arbaaz bin Al Salfah was studying Economics and Politics at Post Graduate level at the LSE and he appeared to be a clean-living, dedicated Muslim, which was not always the case with crown princes from the Middle East.

Geordie stood in the kitchen preparing breakfast. The aroma of bacon was irresistible and the sound of it crackling on the grill made Dee feel hungry, even though she had already had a breakfast of bran flakes and orange juice.

"Mussi, you must make some breakfast for your lady boss, she is too thin," Victoria joked. "In Marat she would be the last girl to be picked in a marriage festival."

Geordie simply smiled and shook his head. Dee sidled up to him and looked to see what other goodies were cooking. It was to be a traditional English breakfast with bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and baked beans.

"Why does she call you Mussi?"

"Don't ask. It's a longer story than you'll have the patience for listening to."

***

Breakfast was enormous fun. Samuel and Victoria knew a host of amusing anecdotes about life in Marat. They regaled Dee and Geordie with tales of their village hermit, who won second prize in the local lottery and was presented with a fridge as his prize. He lavished much attention on the gleaming new appliance, ensuring that it was always full; the handbook said it was more efficient when it was full. Unfortunately, the old man did not realise that in order for it to work properly it needed to be plugged into a source of electricity, which didn't matter anyway as his traditional Rondel home had no access to such modern marvels.

Their village itself was modern and well equipped, thanks to aid provided by the US, Canada and the UK under the UN programme. Victoria was ashamed that they needed aid when the country produced so much wealth, only for it to be stolen by the mining companies and the authorities.

Before the conversation became too sombre, Dee jumped in to lighten the mood.

"So, why do you call Geordie here 'my little Mussi'?"

Victoria told them the story.

"In our folklore a village in the central bush was being terrorised by a big lion who would come into the village and take food and people away. The menfolk were scared of the giant beast, the womenfolk stopped singing and the children no longer laughed and played.

Then a little white boy came to the village selling sticks, and he promised that if the villagers bought all of their sticks from him he would get rid of the lion. The villagers made the promise and little Mussi had the lion chase him into the forest, to the biggest tree in the jungle. It was so big that it took an hour to walk right around it. The foolish lion began chasing Mussi round and round the tree, but soon the wise Mussi was sitting high in the branches. The foolish lion ran around the tree chasing Mussi all day and all night and all the next day, whilst Mussi slept in the branches.

The next morning when Mussi came down from the tree the lion was exhausted. It had worn its legs away with all of the running and it was all skin and bone. Mussi killed the lion easily with his spear, and returned to the village wearing the lion's magnificent mane around his shoulders. The menfolk became brave again, the women sang happy songs about Mussi and the children laughed.

So, you see, he is my little Mussi, he has come to save me from the lions who would terrorise me into silence, and who would like to stop me singing."

Dee did not know what to say and so she said nothing. Victoria Hokobu carried on eating, mopping up the last of the egg yolk with her fried bread.

***

The next hour was spent discussing security arrangements with Geordie, which had been devised in response to the risk assessment carried out in the office on Monday.

Content that the Hokobus were as safe with Geordie, or little Mussi, as with anyone, Dee waved them off in their armoured Mercedes and set off for the tube station on foot. The temperature had risen dramatically by perhaps a degree or so, and now it was only as cold as the outer reaches of Antarctica.
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 Chameleon 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 what 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.

He was disgusted by what she had been subjected to, and reflected that if she hadn't killed Les he would most certainly have done so himself, but Nick would have taken his time over it. Les would have suffered; he would have made quite sure of that. There was, however, one more thing he could do to protect his niece.

Nick had taken Gillian home, and on the journey he explained what he was going to do. She just smiled at him and hugged him.

"I love you, Uncle Nick," she said, kissing him on the cheek. Nick blushed, knowing that anything he had to do to protect his niece would be worth it.

***

The next morning Nick stood by as the scene of crimes officer declared that it looked like a suicide, and that it had probably happened yesterday afternoon when Nick was at the races.

The man in charge seemed to be Sergeant Grahame, who was everyone's idea of the avuncular country policeman. In Nick's favour, Les Vaughan had been responsible for about half of the Sergeant's workload since he was a kid.

"It looks like he had a few drinks. He stinks of whisky, and this empty bottle has his prints all over it. Then he evidently sat against this tree, placed the both barrels under his chin and blew his brains out with his shotgun. There is GSR all over his hands - sorry, gun shot residue. Using both barrels means he has pretty much ruled out the need for a post mortem, because there isn't much left of him to examine."

Nick had no regrets about using Les's own shotgun to obscure the real cause of Vaughan's death, but he did wonder what impact the shooting of another human being would have on his sweet natured niece.

Two weeks later, after a cursory and largely unsympathetic investigation, the eventual official conclusion was that Les had committed suicide. To the despair of his parents, his wife refused to attend the funeral.
Chapter 13

Tallgarth Manor, Stratfield Turgis, Hampshire. 2003

Gil, as she was now known to her colleagues had returned to the family home, not to see her parents but to see Uncle Nick. He was still only middle aged, almost fifty, but cancer had eaten away at his insides for years and, being a tough countryman, he had never considered seeing a doctor, until it was too late.

Incurable and inoperable was the prognosis that had brought Gil running to the only man she had ever really cared for in her short life. Two years ago Nick had written his will, stating his desire to pass all of his worldly belongings to his niece on his demise, and a family row had ensued.

Gillian had been told in no uncertain terms that whilst she was their daughter the family estate must pass to a male heir, her cousin Raymond Madison. She asked whether this was because she was adopted. Her parents answered yes with their eyes while saying no with their words. Nick had been disgusted when he was told that his share of the Davis estate was held in a trust that could only be divested if all trustees agreed. Gillian's father, Harold, was the other trustee.

Nick had hit back by using his trust funds to send Gillian to the best university possible to study combined sciences, when her parents wanted her to attend Reading University and study land management. Since then, relations between all concerned had been cordial but strained.

Gil wandered through the woods towards the lodge and entered into the clearing that the locals called 'the pasture', largely because deer could often be found grazing here. As she broke through the ash, elm and oak trees into the clearing she saw Nick kneeling beside a distressed roe deer fawn, which was lying on the ground.

Gil walked slowly and quietly towards the scene so as not to alarm the fawn, and saw that Nick was massaging its belly and pushing occasionally. The poor fawn was sweating and trembling, its eyes wide in fear and pain. Nick continued his work patiently and unerringly, not even acknowledging his niece's presence, and then miraculously the fawn bleated, shuddered and tried to get to its feet. Uncle Nick steadied the fawn as it first stood and then began to walk uncertainly, but before long the little deer regained full mobility and darted off.

"What was that all about, Nick?" Gil asked as she hugged her ailing uncle and kissed him gently on each cheek. Nick pointed at a brightly coloured plant that had leaves the shape of dock leaves and a stunning red clover like flower. It was probably a weed but it was pretty.

"Redweed," Nick answered knowledgeably. "It was probably named after the plant of the same name in HG Wells' book War of the Worlds, except that this redweed is very real and very toxic."

Nick pulled the weed and handed it to Gil.

"It's OK to touch, but if it's ingested it can be fatal. Years ago my dad catalogued the redweed and sent a sample to Kew Gardens, who hadn't seen it before. They concluded it was probably a hybrid, local to the area. It seems it has medicinal qualities similar to the poppy, which can produce morphine, opium and cocaine. Kew Gardens gave it a Latin name; Stylophorum Belgae, which is a combination of Stylophorum, the genus of the tree poppy, and Belgae, the Roman name for this area of Roman Britain."

"So how did you save the fawn, if the weed is so deadly?"

"Come on, Gillian, you're the chemist. You tell me."

"OK, my guess would be that the active ingredients are deadly when distilled or taken in large enough doses, but the symptoms are transitory if taken in small doses."

Nick smiled. He loved this girl. He was glad that she wouldn't be tied to this dying estate; she had a greater calling, in his opinion.

Nick explained that the symptoms of redweed included partial or total paralysis. First the local area is paralysed, usually the mouth and nose due to the high concentration of exposed pores in both, then the paralysis moves down the body as the poison passes into the gut. Fortunately it is usually ingested in small quantities because of the bitter taste, and so the paralysis is usually temporary. Unfortunately, one of the first areas hit is respiration and so the victim has to force air into their body by using the diaphragm, because the automatic breathing mechanisms are frozen or numbed.

"By forcing the fawn to inhale and exhale air by pressing on its diaphragm, I was able to keep it alive until the paralysis wore off," he concluded.

Gillian helped him to his feet, and with her hands on his cheeks she kissed him. There were tears in her eyes, knowing what was to come.

"Nick, you are brilliant. You are utterly wasted here. You could have done anything you wanted. I love you so much." His niece linked his arm as they walked back to the lodge; Nick was smiling and blushing at the compliment.

***

It was dusk already and the two of them had enjoyed a ploughman's salad for dinner, uncle and niece sitting in companionable silence. They walked over to the sofa and sat down. Nick was tall and muscular; he had never really carried much fat as he was exercising all day. His dark hair was greying and thinning but his eyes were bright. There were few outward signs of his critical illness. Gillian had been told by the consultant that Nick could have treatment that would prolong his life by as much as six months, but that he was refusing all medical advice on the topic. Instead he had chosen to have palliative care only, in his home, via a Macmillan Nurse.

Gillian asked her favourite question of Nick, knowing that he would never tire of giving her the answer.

"Nick, tell me how I came to be the future Lady of the Tallgarth Manor?"

Nick embarked on the story that had been familiar to his niece since her infancy.

"Andrea Bailey was the brightest and prettiest woman ever to adorn this manor house. She was employed as estate manager, following a spell at Windsor Great Park and after obtaining her degree at Reading University. She lit the place up and she made it pay for the first time since my grandfather's time. Harold was useless and Bernice was even more useless; she could spend money and boss people around, but she had no idea what she was doing. Andrea changed everything. She lived in this lodge at the time, and I had a bedroom in the main house.

All was well when Denton Miles III turned up to understudy Andrea before returning to Virginia to manage his family's estate, about twenty times the size of this one. I adored Andrea, but we became so close as colleagues that any romantic allusions were just that, allusions. Denton was a great kid, likeable, intelligent, funny and so caring. Despite the age gap of about ten years, I guess Andrea just fell for him. He stayed the summer and headed back to the USA when he was told that his mother was ailing. They both knew that returning with a fiancée ten years his senior would not play well with his parents, and so they said goodbye and parted as friends.

Andrea didn't realise she was pregnant until weeks later, when the sickness started and didn't stop. She was determined to go ahead with the birth and she asked me if I would be a surrogate father to her child. I would have done anything for her, if I'm being honest.

Investigations into the continued sickness led unfortunately to a diagnosis of cancer, ironic now considering my present situation, but she refused chemo because it would have probably terminated you."

Nick reached across and took Gillian's hands in his.

"She died when you were just four months old. She never achieved her dream of celebrating your first birthday. Harold and Bernice didn't have children of their own, and the option of having a child without the inconvenience of sex, pregnancy and delivery appealed to them. I'm not entirely sure Harold knows what to do with a woman in bed, anyway."

Gillian and Nick both sniggered, but she caught a flash of pain cross his face.

"Are you OK?" she asked, her voice laden with concern. Nick nodded, and reached over to pick up a bottle of morphine laced brandy. He took a generous swig and waited for the pain to subside.

Gillian looked at the prescription label and sighed.

"You do know that this is suicide juice, don't you? They give it to terminal patients, instructing them to take a tablespoonful every six hours, at the same time warning them that three spoonfuls at once will lead to unconsciousness and death."

"I know, Gillian. But I don't have long, and as a gamekeeper I wouldn't let an animal suffer like this. I want you to let me go."

"Why me?"

"Because you're the only one who loves me enough to miss me."

***

Nick died two days later. After a few days the family gathered for the reading of the will. Despite her parents' best efforts, Gillian inherited over a hundred thousand pounds in cash, along with another one hundred thousand pounds from Nick's life insurance policy.

Her parents, aggrieved that their suggestion that she donate half of the money to the upkeep of the estate was ignored, made her pay for the funeral. The funeral was lavish and sentimental. No-one in the Hampshire area had a bad thing to say about Nick, and Gillian was surprised to hear from a number of women whose husbands had not beaten them again after Nick had 'had a quiet chat' with them.

A man who could easily have been a clone of Nick, except for his close cropped hair, took Gillian to one side and introduced himself.

"James Mellanby. I served with Nick in the Army, special services section. Your uncle wanted me to have a word with you about your future."

Nick's old army friend knew all that there was to know about Gillian, and so his next invitation was not unexpected.

"Gillian, we have your health records, your psych report from University, we know about your academic achievement in science, and I had one of my colleagues watch you compete in the shooting world championships last year. We would like you to come to London and speak to a recruitment officer for the Special Intelligence Services."

So it began. Gillian Davis trained hard and qualified as a spook, a spy or an intelligence operative whilst completing her Masters Degree and Doctorate. Her speciality was 'authorised assassination'; the Americans termed it 'wet work' or 'termination with extreme prejudice'.

The British Intelligence Services were more circumspect, using ironic terms such as; 'Retirement', a seemingly natural death using no weapons, 'Redundancy' where the assassination was intended to send a message that one of the world's security organisations were involved, and finally, "Permanent re-assignment" where the assassination left clues implicating another person or agency.

Gillian took to the work with relish, and found herself working in internationally diverse teams, but her most regular partner was the best sniper in the business, Douglas Mc Keown, who insisted his surname was to be pronounced as Mc Ewan. All of which was irrelevant, because he was always called Mac or Scotty.
Chapter 14

Barbican Tower, City of London. 2008

Gillian had been with the Agency for almost five years when she received her latest assignment.

Perry Jensen was about to be permanently re-assigned, but he didn't know it. He probably believed that at thirty two he was too young to 'move on'. If that was the case he should have been more honest, or more careful.

Jensen had been a hacker as a teenager, a geek as a student and a playboy as an adult. His lifestyle was funded by his company, which in large part was reliant on Jensen's encryption software. Who better than a hacker to protect your secrets?

Perry had worked for most major companies, at one time or another, providing encryption software, at very high prices too. If greed and pride had not overcome common sense he would have lived until a ripe old age. Unfortunately he had provided bespoke encryption software to a company he knew only as Thames Consulting Partnership, but which was actually a front for MI5. Even then he would have been fine if he had then left them alone with his complex encryption software, because they believed it was world class, but sadly he could not resist the old temptations.

One evening, when he was bored and sitting in front of his computer, he decided to see what Thames Consulting did for a living. Opening up a back door he had created in the software, he went in and looked around. He saw nothing of interest and he moved on quickly to another site, but his presence had been noted. Even at this point he may have been merely spoken to by his client and warned, had he not arrogantly accessed the highest level file in the system, which contained codes allowing nuclear submarines to 'go dark' and change their rules of engagement to include initiating a launch.

Of course, Gillian did not know any of this, and so her task was simple. Kill him, leave false clues, mislead the police and ensure the crime is never solved.

***

Gillian entered the tower through the bin store at ground floor level. The bins or refuse skips were large plastic containers with wheels, which allowed the refuse collectors to move them into position for the truck to lift them. Gillian walked behind the empty containers and came to a metal door; it was locked and protected by a key code. Gillian typed in the key code, which was hardly a secret as every refuse truck in the city had a list of the key codes for each tower block.

She was now inside the refuse bay where the skips in use were placed. There were two skips, one green and one blue, each one situated under a galvanised metal chute. As she picked the simple lock leading to the emergency staircase a black bag came hurtling down the chute, crashing into the almost empty green skip.

She left the door closed but unlocked. The emergency stairs were bare concrete and at ground floor they smelled of refuse and rotting food, courtesy of the bin store. Gillian ran up the stairs to the third floor and removed her jumpsuit and cap, letting her hair fall loosely around her face. She took a quick look in the compact mirror and touched up her make-up. She left the jumpsuit and the cap in the emergency stairwell, which was rarely used, and placed her makeup back into her shoulder bag.

Happy that she was looking her best, she stepped into the corridor and knocked on the door to apartment 314. A slightly overweight man answered the door; he was in his thirties with thinning blonde hair. His eyes dropped immediately to the ample cleavage his visitor displayed, and then eventually his eyes rose and met hers. Gillian smiled, and in her best Sloane Ranger voice said, "Hi, I'm Mandy. I'm staying with the oldies down the corridor and they said you were a computer genius. Can you help me?"

Jensen stepped aside and invited the beautiful woman inside, closing the door behind her. As she walked in, appraising the apartment and its show home appearance, Jensen was rubbing his hands with anticipation and checking out her butt.

"Do you have a problem with your laptop, is that it? I can see that your software is in good order," he quipped, looking again at her chest.

Gillian smiled sweetly and then threw out her hand so swiftly it was a blur. Her fingers were curled into her palm and the heel of her hand hit Jensen in the centre of his forehead.

His head rocked backwards and then rebounded forwards. He was unconscious and concussed by the time he hit the floor. The simple martial arts technique that Gillian had utilised was intended to shake the brain around in the skull so that it collided front and back, shutting down to protect itself.

Gillian took a pair of yellow Marigold plastic gloves out of her bag and slipped them on. If her mother could see what her daughter got up to in her marigolds she would have a fit. In the kitchen she found what she needed - a large pair of scissors - in an unused knife block. Taking the scissors firmly in her right hand, she plunged them deep into Jensen's chest, puncturing his heart. His body jerked, expelled some air and collapsed flat on the floor again.

Now Gillian had time for some fun.

She found a banana in the fruit bowl and snapped off half of it, eating the piece in her hand, and the remaining half she left on the TV table. Moving to the cupboards, she removed a wine glass and two whisky tumblers. She put a splash of whisky from the spirits shelf in one glass and a healthy serving of sherry in the other. She then took two different lipsticks from her make-up bag and smeared Boots No.7 Red Crystal on the rim of one glass, and then she smeared L'Oreal Purple Pearl on the rim of the other. Finally, she filled the wine glass with a rich red Bordeaux before throwing it in the face of the dead man and dropping the glass beside him.

This was fun, she thought. A brilliant idea occurred to her. She removed one of his shoes and took it with her.

She laughed as she wondered what the scene of crime officers would make of the mystery of the missing shoe.

***

When Gil, as she was known by her colleagues, reported in for work the next day she was asked to report directly to Human Resources, where she was informed that her services as 'Intelligence Analyst' were no longer required. Nonetheless, as long as she maintained her silence, as required by her contract, her positive vetting agreement and the Official Secrets Act, she would receive a modest pension until she was sixty years old and in receipt of her full old age pension.

Still stunned by the morning's events, she had lunch with Doug Mc Keown, who explained that the Labour government had decided that they wanted to pursue a more ethical approach to security and so the new Director, a Labour government appointee, had directed that all of those involved in the disposal side of the business would have to go.

"However, Gil," Doug added in a conspiratorial whisper, "our services are still needed all around the world, and as you are the second best in the business, I would like you to join me as my partner. The pay is much better."

"How much better?" Gil asked.

"The Chameleon charges one million US dollars per hit, and as no one knows who the Chameleon is, we can share the workload." He held his right hand out and Gillian shook it.

As Doug had predicted, the partnership was a great success until May 2009 when an unstable supply of detonators exploded a briefcase full of Semtex prematurely, leaving only fragments of Doug left to bury. So now, once again, the Chameleon was a sole practitioner.
Chapter 15

The Hokobu Apartment, London, Wednesday 7am. 2011.

Geordie awoke to the aroma of bacon grilling and coffee brewing. Victoria Hokobu was obviously up early and in the mood for food. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and yawned widely before sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed.

The young man lay flat on his back on the floor and went through his gruelling daily regime of stomach crunches before swinging, lifting and bending his body into a comfortable fluidity. A splash of water on his bristled face and a ruffle of his close cropped hair and he was ready to head towards the tempting breakfast aromas.

The cook was actually Samuel Etundi. Geordie had marvelled at how easily Samuel accepted being introduced as Mr Hokobu, even though that was his wife's maiden name. His mind slipped back to his days as a young administrator where a male colleague was continually teased because his wife, a GP, signed their Christmas cards from Dr and Phillip Peterson. Nonetheless, Samuel was a good cook and the breakfast was as good as any fry up Geordie had experienced in the North East, where fry-ups were almost an art form.

Geordie was amazed that he felt such affection for this couple, having known these two central Africans for so short a time. The fact was that they had immediately accepted him as one of the family, and Victoria called him her 'little Mussi' which he pretended to dislike. They treated him like a brother and at night when they kneeled down to pray they included him. Geordie hadn't prayed since school and so he was very embarrassed, especially when they kneeled down in a little circle and held hands as they took turns praying.

The North Easterner had felt a lump in his throat as the two visitors spoke to God as if he was standing there, as if he was a close friend of theirs. They told God all about their day, the new friends they had met and they asked him to keep Geordie safe and well. When they had both finished, they looked at him and he realised that he was expected to pray, too. Geordie did not specifically believe that there was no God, he had just not been acquainted with him for so long that he wondered whether he was still there, or if he ever had been. Geordie followed the formula they had used in his first spoken prayer in twenty years. Introduce yourself to Heavenly Father, calling him respectfully by that name, thank him for all of the good things in your life, ask him for what you need and close the prayer by invoking Jesus Christ, Amen.

It was the most uplifted he had felt for a long time. He had thought about his wife, his children and how much he loved them. He offered grateful thanks for his parents and suddenly he found himself appreciating life much more than he had done an hour before. He had slept the sleep of the righteous.

This morning, Geordie gathered up the items they needed for the day and talked over their security routine one more time. The danger, he pointed out, was at its zenith whilst they were on foot between the car and the London Eye. With that warning they headed out, the Hokobus looking forward to seeing London from the skies on a beautiful cold, clear day.
Chapter 16

The London Eye, Southbank, London, Wednesday 10am.

The Chameleon had spent the evening refining and reducing a batch of Redweed to a clear concentrated gel. Given her past experience, she knew that the degree to which she diluted the gel with liquid propellants would also determine its potency. On her first attempts as a student she had killed a lab rabbit with it whilst experimenting, but since then her detailed records had ensured that the solution was mixed and delivered in the proper proportions.

When she was satisfied that the mixture was disabling, but not fatal, she dispensed the clear liquid into a small perfume bottle with a vaporiser top so that it could be dispensed as a spray.

Now, as she sat and waited outside the London Eye, she hoped that she had guessed correctly and that this morning the Hokobus would take advantage of the beautiful clear skies to overlook a glistening but freezing cold London skyline from one of the London Eye's capsules.

Gil had decided that she needed to travel by car today and so she hired a 'Smart Car Fortwo' from Quick Cars at Waterloo. The Chameleon had taken a risk carrying a rifle through the streets of London yesterday and she wasn't about to risk carrying another firearm today. The chances of being stopped and searched in terrorist threatened London were too great. Assassins operating in London had to be more inventive.

Dressed in black tights, sensible shoes, black skirt and white blouse with a black chequered scarf, she could easily be mistaken for a policewoman. The look would be complete when she attached a large blue Police Community Support Officer logo to the back of her padded winter jacket and a Metropolitan Police badge onto the front. The jacket and the logos were perfect copies of the real thing, as was the policewoman's hat she carried in her bag. The Chameleon had purchased the uniform, a variety of badges, warrant cards, fake radios and police equipment from the night security man at a London television studio costume department. Just in time, too, because now that The Bill had come to an end the Metropolitan Police were securing all of the cast uniforms to prevent their auction to the public. The last thing they needed was to have individuals passing themselves off as police officers.

Gil would attach the necessary Metropolitan Police idents with Velcro later; she did not want to be caught posing as a police officer and so she would limit her time in the public eye whilst in full uniform.

Parking the car in the Shell Centre close to the London Eye, the only parking anywhere near to the attraction, Gil paid the fee and attached the ticket to her car windscreen. She had parked in one of the small bays reserved for city cars where two such cars could use one normal space. It also meant that she would be at ground level in the multi-storey car park underneath the great tower block, and away from the security cameras.

Leaving her disguise and equipment in the car for the moment, she repeatedly walked a short circular route that would allow her to see the Hokobus, should they board the London Eye.

***

Boredom and the seeping cold were fast becoming her enemy when at last the Chameleon noticed the customised silver Mercedes turn into the Shell Centre car park. The driver chatted to the attendant as if they were friends, and the driver handed the man a twenty-pound note surreptitiously. It appeared that the bribe worked, because the silver Mercedes drove straight into a large parking space reserved by a brass plate for Mr Jochen Friede, who presumably wasn't expected in today.

As the occupants alighted from the car the driver, a well built and powerful looking man in an unaccountably lightweight jacket, looked around, seeing everything. He was clearly a professional. That might make her job a little harder, but that was why she charged a million dollars per hit, although she had reluctantly agreed a discounted rate for two assassinations in one day.

Gil completed her final circuit of the area, by which time she had observed the Hokobus taking their place in one of the London Eye's capsules. She set her watch on the thirty minute timer and headed back to her car.

Unless there is a technical problem, the London Eye will usually rotate at the speed of a running tortoise, taking thirty minutes to complete a rotation. This ensures that passengers can mount and disembark without the wheel having to come to a complete stop.

***

Geordie was regretting his bravado of earlier in the day when he had decided on the lighter weight jacket. He was spending as much time keeping warm as watching the clients; not that they were in any danger on the Eye.

They had almost completed the revolution, which meant that in a few minutes they would be back in the Mercedes, heater blazing in an effort to reproduce the tropical temperatures the Hokobus favoured.

As a distraction he let his gaze wander to a pretty Community Support Officer whose hair was bunched up under her hat. The brown-eyed officer was quite stunning and almost make-up free, or at least it appeared so.

As she approached he stood up from the bench.

"Excuse me sir, could you look at this photo and read the description and tell me if you have seen this young girl today?" The policewoman handed him a sheet of A4 paper containing a photograph and a description of a young girl aged around thirteen.

When Geordie looked up to confirm that he had not seen her, the policewoman had a handkerchief pressed to her nose and mouth and a perfume spray pointing at his face. A fine mist was sprayed into his mouth and nostrils; he breathed it in, puzzled at first as to what was going on. Was he suspected of something? Was this pepper spray?

Then it hit him. His mouth was dry, he had no saliva, he couldn't swallow and he couldn't breathe. He panicked and started to flap around before his limbs were paralysed too. The policewoman took hold of him gently and sat him on the bench, and then she made him lie flat.

"This is temporary. It only lasts ten minutes or so. I am going to push in your diaphragm. Concentrate on breathing from there. Your thorax is paralysed but you can still breathe."

Geordie was desperate for breath but as soon as the woman expelled air using his diaphragm he could breathe again, though with difficulty. He lay on the bench, paralysed by fear as much as by the drug, as the policewoman stroked his cheek and smiled, her deep brown eyes belying her intent.

"You're doing fine. You'll be fully recovered before you know it."

Geordie saw the Hokobus in the distance, hurrying toward them and looking concerned as the policewoman called for the urgent attendance of paramedics, using her non-working radio.

***

Gil had watched as the bodyguard began to ready himself for departure and she had picked that moment to approach him with her most radiant smile. He went down as predicted, and luckily the mixture had been about right. He would start to regain use of his internal organs in around ten minutes, and his motor functions and speech would be fully restored around five minutes after that.

She had to work fast. She approached the Hokobus, who looked very worried at the sight of their temporarily disabled bodyguard.

"Mr and Mrs Hokobu?"

"My husband is actually Samuel Etundi, but yes, that is us," Victoria replied, her worried eyes flicking quickly from the policewoman to the bodyguard beyond.

"Your bodyguard here fears that he has been poisoned in an attempt on your lives," Gil explained, and Victoria's eyes and attention refocused on her quickly as she continued speaking in her best calming, authoritative voice. "He asked me to get you to the safety of your armoured car as soon as possible. Does that sound right to you?"

"Yes. We have such a car." Etundi spoke this time, looking around in the hope of spotting it.

"OK, let's go. The paramedics and my colleagues are seconds away. They will be here at any moment to take care of him, but I need to get you to safety."

Reluctantly they followed the Chameleon as she held up the keys she had taken from the bodyguard's pocket.

"Please be well, little Mussi," Victoria said affectionately as she kissed the paralysed man on the forehead.

Geordie was desperately trying to speak, to warn them, but his body would not respond. Tears of frustration formed in his eyes.

***

Gil pressed the remote control and the doors opened.

"Quickly, please. Every moment you are in the open you are in danger."

The Hokobus sat in the rear seat and held one another as they heaped praise on the policewoman who had acted so swiftly in their defence. Gil smiled, and for a moment felt regret that someone wanted this happy couple dead. However, Gil knew from her own experiences that even the most evil dictators could be pleasant when they wanted to be. She had a job to do, and she always took pride in her work. The Hokobus were going to die.

"I just need to make some notes," the Chameleon said as she locked the doors of the car. She reached into an inside pocket, as if for a notebook, but when she turned back to face them she had her nose and mouth covered.

The spray did its work for the second time that day, and Gil escaped the car and waited for the spray to disperse. Keeping her face pointed away from the security cameras, she extracted a hypodermic needle from her pocket.

The Hokobus were not just paralysed; they were also confused because they could see that the hypodermic syringe was empty. Gil carefully tapped the side of Samuel Etundi's neck and found his carotid artery. She carefully inserted the needle and injected air into the artery that carried blood directly to the brain.

The Chameleon repeated the procedure with Victoria Hokobu, whose face had hardened with resolve. Good for you, Gil thought; you have chosen not to die in fear, but sadly your death is inevitable.

Before the paralysis caused by the redweed solution wore off, the two Africans were dead from the predicted pulmonary embolisms. The Chameleon had used this methodology many times before when a stroke or heart attack needed to be induced. The air bubble she injected into each victim would be trapped in an artery in the brain or elsewhere, where it would cause a blockage and an embolism. Injecting into the main carotid artery is usually most effective, as it tends to shut off the oxygen supply to the brain very quickly.

Less than ten minutes had passed since she had sprayed the bodyguard. Gil reset her watch and wiped her mind of all regret as she walked the few yards back to her hire car.
Chapter 17

The London Eye, Southbank, London, Wednesday 11am.

Geordie was sitting in the back of the ambulance when Dee arrived at the scene. There were sightseers, policemen, yellow tape and news reporters everywhere. The policeman protecting the cordon would not let Dee past the tape without permission from a detective and, whilst he was radioing for that permission, Dee saw Detective Sergeant Scott and waved.

Last year DS Scott had been involved in the case where Dee had been shot and, whilst they were not particularly close friends, they did get along well. DS Scott came to the tape and lifted it for Dee to enter. He was not smiling, but he nodded briefly by way of greeting. He touched her arm gently.

"Dee, it's good to see you again, but I wish it hadn't been in such unhappy circumstances. Geordie tells me that you were both becoming close to the victims."

Dee nodded. "Paul, they were such lovely people. I don't normally get attached to clients but with these two you just couldn't help yourself." She recognised that she needed to control her emotions.

"Come on, I'll take you to your man, but I have to warn you that for a tough Geordie and former soldier, he is pretty upset." Scott led Dee to the ambulance, where she could see Geordie sitting on a bed with an oxygen mask over his face. He looked pale and totally forlorn. DS Scott invited Dee to come and find him when she was finished talking to her partner, and he walked away towards the parking lot.

The scene was somewhat surreal; just a couple of hours ago she had been laughing and joking with Geordie and the Hokobus and now two were dead and the other didn't look as though he wanted to go on living.

Dee climbed into the ambulance alongside Geordie and the paramedic. The paramedic carried out some checks, ensured the monitors were working and spoke to Dee.

"His blood oxygenation levels are really low, not dangerous but it wouldn't take much of a drop to cause a problem. So, please make him keep the mask on as much as possible." With that he picked up a clipboard and stepped outside to write up his notes.

Dee took Geordie's hand in both of hers and stroked it. For the first time since she had known him he looked vulnerable, mortal even. Geordie was a man's man; he was athletic, strong, loved sport and had an inner compunction that drove him to protect the weak. As she looked at the strong, rather hirsute, hand in hers, she thought of his wife and children and how much they would have lost if the assassin had taken him as well.

"It was my fault, Dee." Geordie used his other hand to pull down the oxygen mask that was secured to his face by two white elastic straps. "All I had to do was to keep them safe for another twenty four hours." He fell silent and his eyes glazed over as he receded into his shell, lost in his thoughts of self-recrimination.

"Look, Pete, you can never keep a client one hundred per cent safe unless you lock them up somewhere and never let them out. Armies of armed protectors surrounded the Pope, Reagan, the Kennedys and Martin Luther King and they still got shot. We do all we can and I'm sure that the Hokobus, wherever they are now, will know that."

Geordie, otherwise known as Pete Lowden to the world, looked at Dee and spoke from the heart.

"Dee, I don't want to sound cruel but these people had a mission, a purpose; they could have saved thousands of Africans from poverty and starvation, whereas most of our clients are self important nobodies who are only afraid for themselves."

"Pete, I've been thinking about how we can pay a tribute to them and get their work done in their absence. I'll talk to you about it later. Now, get some rest and get that oxygen level back up." The young woman gently placed the mask back on her colleague's face before kissing him on the forehead.

***

"Miss Conrad. Oh, sorry, I mean Mrs Hammond. I didn't think we'd ever meet again, at least not in our professional capacities." Detective Chief Inspector Coombes and Dee had endured an uncomfortable start to their relationship when he arrested her in connection with a murder enquiry where she had initially been a suspect. Since then, however, they had established a good working relationship that was based on mutual respect.

"Terry, I just don't know what to say. We're devastated. We were protecting this couple."

"Dee, if it helps at all you had no chance. This was a contract hit by one of the best. If this attempt had failed there would have been another and so on until we reached this point." He paused and looked at Dee. "I know that Geordie feels bad about this, but the best thing we can all do is find the killer. The reason that is particularly important is because, in my view, when we find the killer we'll find someone who has a number of other murders to their name."

The DCI and the Vastrick Vice President walked over to the car where the bodies were still being examined in place. The Scene of Crimes Officer walked over to them. The SOCO was in his early forties, short but slightly underweight. His hair had receded long ago and was wispy and red where the colour still remained amongst the grey.

"DCI Coombes. Oh, and who is this beautiful lady? She's a definite improvement on Scott."

"This is Dee Hammond, Warren. She isn't on the force. She heads up Vastrick Security."

"Well, my dear," the SOCO continued, "you are privileged indeed. Terry here normally wouldn't let a civilian near the crime scene. But then, you are Dee Conrad. We almost met once before. I was the SOCO at the Tottenham Press shootout, although you were obviously injured at the time so I'm not surprised that you don't remember me. I'm pleased to meet you properly at last and to see that you appear to be totally recovered."

Dee shook Warren's hand and explained why she was there. The older man shook his head mournfully as if wondering to himself why people had to hurt one another, especially the caring ones who could do so much good.

His report was succinct but full of surprises.

"The couple were disabled by a gas or gaseous liquid that contained either a strong muscle relaxant or a paralytic. We won't know the exact details until we have the tox screen done. Then, like some kind of spy movie, they are not shot, stabbed or strangled but are injected with air, directly into the carotid artery, here." The examiner pointed to his own carotid artery. "This is a very tricky procedure and it's not guaranteed to work at all, let alone kill. Often it will cause brain damage or result in a recoverable stroke or coronary. Here it killed, and quite quickly too.

My guess is that the relaxant they were given first would have prevented them from suffering. Embolisms are extraordinarily painful, usually.

Finally, I would suggest that this is a professional job. Beyond that I would say that this type of execution is usually the province of governmental assassins, or black ops as they like to call it in the States."

He promised that an interim report would be ready by that evening, with a full report within seven days.

Coombes and Dee wandered across to DS Scott, who had been busy interviewing eyewitnesses. When they arrived at his side he had a puzzled look on his face.

"I think we have a problem, Guv," he said uncertainly. "Every witness saw the same thing. A policewoman approached Pete Lowden. He collapsed and she ushered the victim couple away."

"A policewoman?" Coombes replied quizzically.

"That's what they all say, Guv."
Chapter 18

Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Wednesday Noon.

The offices were bustling when Gil returned to the office, properly attired and bearing no resemblance to the policewoman of that morning's events. She had been ready to leave her apartment when she remembered that she had left her brown contact lenses in and so she quickly removed the left lens, restoring her steely blue-grey eye. When she came to the right eye she noticed it was missing. It must have fallen out sometime during the morning. One brown eye and one blue eye would have been hard to explain at the office. Worse was the possibility that she had left behind a clue to her identity.

Not being identified was clearly a key objective when one was working as an assassin, and so when she was working on assignments the Chameleon liked to wear uniforms, because witnesses could rarely see past the uniform to notice any identifiable features on the wearer. Then, just to be certain, if you could hide your hair and change your eye colour, the chances of the witnesses providing a worthwhile identification were almost nil.

Gil sat down at her desk, but before she had time to worry about missing contact lenses her assistant came into her office.

"Miss Davis, I have been trying to call you all morning. The accountant has been on the phone and he wants you to call him immediately."

"Thank you, Sheila, I'll do that now before I get drawn into other things." The assistant left her office and Gil dialled a familiar number.

"Duncan, this is Gil. I believe you called me and left a message."

"Gil. Yes, I did. Great news, I think. Anyway the Clayton Card Chain has upped the offer for Celebrato. They have almost no online service and we have no shops. They see a tremendous synergy."

The Celebrato MD sighed. During the last year, Clayton Card Chain had made an offer for her business almost every month.

"Then they are wrong, Duncan," she answered. "You know as well as I do that if we had our own card shops the major retailers would be reluctant to stock our cards, and that's where we make most of our turnover. I agree that the high margin sales would increase if we sold through an extra one hundred and thirty card shops, but ultimately we would lose turnover. They must know that."

"Gil, maybe they do and maybe they don't. Perhaps they have a strategy to overcome the risk of reduced turnover and maybe they don't. What I do know is that they now think that we are worth fourteen and a half million pounds."

Gillian tried not to react. Her share of the company would net her well over ten million pounds in a scenario such as that, a five fold return on her investment over the past two years.

"OK, Duncan, tell them I am ready to talk, but that I want an exit plan for the end of the year. I'm done with working for other people."

The Chameleon sat back in her comfortable leather chair and breathed out heavily, relaxing every muscle. She was on the verge of a fourteen million pound deal and she still had the Chameleon money in the bank in Grand Cayman, amounting to over eleven million dollars, with a million more due today.

Gillian Davis was a rich woman, thanks to both the original Chameleon and her own business acumen. She thought back to Mac, the original Chameleon, and how he had not lived to enjoy the fruits of his labours. He had earned just less than half of the US Dollar account, but on his demise the joint account became hers alone.

Out of nothing more than sentimentality, Gil had spent almost a year searching for Mac's relatives so that she could pass on the frozen remains of her partner for burial and dispense his share of the money, but she found only two living relatives, a wife and daughter who both refused to bury his remains. They were so awful when she spoke to them that she wanted to terminate both of them. Whilst she restrained herself, she could not bring herself to pass on his money to women who vilified him so completely.

Gil missed Mac, otherwise known as Douglas Mc Keown, because he had been both her partner and her confidante. The age difference also meant that he treated her like a daughter and never made any romantic advances. He was almost a replacement for Uncle Nick; almost, but not quite.

Mac had an intense dislike of working with governments who had to use mercenaries to win or maintain control of their own countries, but as an assassin it was inevitable that he would eventually be hired by one. As a result, Mac had been in the Ukraine with an assignment to detonate a bomb at a political rally and kill the trouble-making opposition leader. Perhaps Mac should have followed his first two rules; don't work for zealots and don't work with amateurs.

Working under the scrutiny of CCTV and observation by his government employers who recorded the whole process on DVD, Mac had been careful and cautious in his preparations; he had handled the explosives and detonators by the book. His methodology was foolproof except for one thing; an idiot Irishman whom the client assured Mac was an explosives expert. Whilst they were packing the perfectly safe and malleable Semtex into two briefcases, the Irishman inadvertently detonated his Semtex. The explosion simultaneously detonated Mac's otherwise stable Semtex just inches away. The two men were almost vaporised. The building was destroyed and the DVD picture vanished into a universe of white noise. Eventually Mac's belongings were sent to the Chameleon's London drop box, with a note of regret and an explanation that no further payment was due. Thankfully, Mac's employers were religious extremists who believed that they were under an obligation to ensure that as many body parts as possible were properly interned. As a result the drop box contained the DVD and a receipt for Mac's remains, which had been sent to Cryostorage UK, in London. Gil knew that sooner or later she would have to recover the remains and have them interred, but somehow it never seemed to be the right time.

Later Gil would reflect on why Mac had come into the forefront of her mind at the exact moment that someone else was looking for him urgently, an ex colleague whose search for the Chameleon would bring him to her door.
Chapter 19

Vastrick Security, No 1 Poultry, London, Wednesday 4pm.

Geordie, recently released from the accident and emergency unit at Guys and St Thomas' Hospital near London Bridge, was looking at Dee's plan and smiling for the first time since the deaths of the Hokobus.

"This is brilliant! It is a real tribute to Victoria. How did you manage to arrange it so quickly?"

"I spoke to Angela, explained the circumstances and she insisted on helping. I didn't even have to ask. She adores you, apparently. What is it with you and these older women?" Dee paused. "Anyway, grateful as she was for your protection in 2009, she said that it was the cause that obliged her to become involved."

"Aye, she insisted on calling me Bonnie Lad because she heard that Geordies use the expression. No-one had called me Bonnie Lad since me Granddad died."

They went over the plan again in detail so that Angela's hard work would not be in vain.

***

The telephone rang at the Celebrato Cards reception. The receptionist answered the phone, avidly following her usual script.

"Ms Davis, please. Tell her that Peter Wright from the Foreign Office is calling." His name was not Peter Wright, nor was he from the foreign office; that was an in joke based on the fact that an ex employee called Peter Wright had almost ended MI5's secret existence by publishing his notorious book 'Spycatcher'. The caller expected Gil to recognise the long unused code for an urgent meeting.

He was eventually put through to a voice he recognised, even after all of this time.

"Gil, it's Tim McKinnon. We need to meet urgently."

"Well, hello to you, too, Tim. It's been a long time. You never write, you never call...."

"Sorry, Gil. How have you been? Are you married yet? Kids?"

"I expect you already know the answer to those questions and many more. Do you still keep files on ex employees' lives after the service?"

"Astute as ever, I see. I know most of what you have been up to, yes. As for me, I married Celeste, after the world's longest engagement, and now we have two kids. But we can catch up on all of that when we meet."

"Why are you so convinced I will agree to a meeting at all?"

"It will be a 'coded' meeting, Gil. The top bosses think it's that important."

Gil considered the prospect of a 'coded' meeting so long after she left the service. A coded meeting was a formal meeting held under the Code for Operatives as determined by the Official Secrets Act. Such meetings were held rarely, and so the subject matter was going to be serious.

"OK Tim, where and when do we meet?"

"The Tunnel, as usual. Ten in the morning, tomorrow."

"You spies are all the same. Why not McDonald's for a change? Why an abandoned tube station? It's all a bit cold war, isn't it?"

"We still have a facility down there. You will find your way in quite easily. There is only a standard three lever lock to beat. It should take you all of ten seconds, unless you're rusty."

"I'll be there, Tim, but I have a company to run. I can't afford to do anything more than talk for free."

"Don't worry, I have a budget."
Chapter 20

Westminster Hall, London: Thursday 9:55am.

The hall was laid out much as it had been for the visit of Pope Benedict XVI a few months earlier. The seating was laid out on the lower level floor in theatre style. The first few rows had comfortably upholstered seats and were reserved for invited guests. The rank and file of attendees sat on barely padded chairs which appeared to have been in use since the Second World War.

This was the third day of the conference but by far the most important. Today the discussion was on foreign aid and how to ensure it reached the needy and helped the UN to defeat slavery and poverty. In today's gathering were over forty ambassadors, the UK Foreign Secretary and the former UN Secretary General Kofi Annan. The Secretary of State for the US was joining the current UN Secretary General, Ban Ki Moon, in the UN Building to participate by video link. Both looked sprightly, considering it was five o'clock in the morning where they were sitting.

The first talk was scheduled to last twenty minutes, and it was to be a plea for fairness in the distribution of aid by Victoria Hokobu, daughter of the late, but still revered, African statesman Jaafar Hokobu.

As the crowd settled the UK Foreign Secretary rose and walked to the podium. A man of medium stature who had been in the public eye since he had vocally supported Margaret Thatcher on TV as a teenager, he was now shaven headed in an attempt to conceal the fact that he was prematurely balding. In the familiar nasal tone that reflected his upbringing in a middle class home in North Yorkshire, he opened the ceremony by inviting Bishop Kuma Matwami of Nigeria to offer an invocation and prayer for the poor and afflicted.

There followed a minute or two of business, explaining to the delegates where the fire exits, restrooms and most importantly, the refreshments were situated. The Marati Ambassador and brother of the president, His Excellency Solomon Matista, sat expectantly beside his aide Jalou Makabate.

Solomon Matista was as ruthless as his brother, but today, in just a few moments, a woman he had only heard of in Marati folklore was due to speak to the audience. Of course, he had been assured that she was now dead, and so he had offered himself as reserve speaker in case she could not make the conference. He sat ready with his notes, preparing to give a twenty minute presentation saluting the fine work of Victoria Hokobu in bringing to his brother's attention the abuses of state and foreign aid. This practice, he would assure the audience, had now been ended thanks to the great efforts of President Matista.

The UN official completed his announcements with the introduction of Victoria Hokobu, the African Human Rights Campaigner from Marat. The audience followed the official and applauded when the introduction was made.

The Marati delegation smiled at the prospect of the confusion that would reign when it was clear that their key speaker was not present.

From behind a screen at the side of the stage strode a large African woman dressed in brightly coloured clothes and smiling widely. The Marati ambassador's jaw dropped open as, in the familiar sing song dialect of the tribes of central Africa, she began to speak.

"Good Morning Mr General Secretary, Secretary of State and Mr Foreign Secretary. I am Victoria Hokobu and I am here to talk to you about how your generous aid is failing to lift central Africans out of slavery and poverty."

***

The murderous look on the face of the Ambassador sent Jalou Makabate scurrying out of the great hall, fumbling with his cell phone as he exited into the freezing cold morning air. The big African shivered as he dialled the number for the Chameleon's answering service. As soon as the girl picked up at the other end he yelled into the phone.

"This is JM of St James's square. I need a return call to this number immediately. There is an emergency." Then he remembered the agreed code. "The patient needs further treatment."

He stood outside, exhaling clouds of warm carbon dioxide into the chilled air. He could feel the cold in his bones already, but he dared not return until he had an explanation.

After an interminable and uncomfortable wait, that was in real time only eleven minutes, his phone vibrated. He answered immediately. The voice he heard was not as distorted as it usually was.

"JM, your call is unnecessary; the patient did not survive the operation."

"Is that so? Then how do you explain that the patient is standing in the hall behind me, ending my career, and quite possibly, my life? I paid you a million dollars, for heaven's sake!"

The Chameleon paused for a moment and spoke into the distortion device.

"JM, your money was well spent. I can assure you that the patient and her husband are in the company of angels. Call me again when you know the full story."

The line went dead and Jalou entered the building to find his way to the great hall blocked by a uniformed figure.

"Sorry, sir, we cannot allow re-entry during a speech. But don't worry; she is only scheduled to speak for another five minutes." The security guard smiled but made it clear that there would be no exceptions.

Makabate picked up his phone again and speed dialled a mobile phone number he knew would be answered quickly. The phone rang twice before it was answered.

"Makabate, what the hell do you think you're doing? This number is for emergencies only!" The voice was very English, and the enunciation was very definitely developed at a public school.

"This is an emergency! The Hokobu woman is speaking to the conference now. This is a disaster for all of us, and it is your fault because you allowed her into your country."

"I told you before, I can't keep operatives at every port of entry, it would draw attention to our arrangement." The Englishman paused and shuffled some papers whilst he drummed up a convincing lie. "Jalou, I have a scrolling message running across the bottom of my laptop screen, highlighted in yellow. It that tells me that Mrs Hokobu and her husband are dead and that the police are investigating. She simply cannot be speaking in that hall. It's impossible. Now, tell the Ambassador that I will do all that I can to ensure that the British Establishment gather around to discredit this insane woman, and we can all get back to profiting from the Tanzanite mining."

Jalou Makabate was not appeased. He ended the call, then sat down heavily on a stone bench and waited whilst his life, and possibly Marat itself, was brought down by the indestructible Victoria Hokobu.

***

Behind the podium hung a huge screen onto which was projected a map showing exactly where Marat was situated. It was followed by a series of slides showing the undeniable beauty of the central African veldt and the more rugged rocky landscape rising from it. The pictures showed lush pastureland, bony looking cattle and healthy looking goats. There were views of flowing rivers edged with reeds and overhanging branches. Finally there were shots of the wildlife lying lazily in the sun, looking inquisitively at the cameraman.

"My dear friends from around the world, this is my country, the country where fifteen generations of my family were born and where they lived. Invaders have come and gone over centuries; the last was King Leopold of Belgium, but seldom did their influence reach as far as Marat. I doubt that my ancestors would even have known who their ruler was, had it not been for the Christian missionaries who accompanied the soldiers and who strayed further than they were told was wise.

As a result many people in our peaceful communities, numbering around two hundred and thirty five thousand souls in total, a few less than live in Brighton and Hove on the English south coast not far from here, converted to Christianity.

With the landscape you see before you, with the rivers for water and the pastureland for grazing, it was possible for us to live, eat and celebrate our good fortune without desecrating the landscape or forcing away the wildlife.

Until independence Marat never asked for, nor was it offered, any aid from the central government or from the international community. We led simple lives and we were even able to trade goat meat and wheat to the other tribes in the Congo region who lived in less friendly environments.

Then a mining company named De Souza discovered Tanzanite in our mountains, and our lives changed."

Photographs of the mountains were replaced with pictures of beautifully cut tanzanite stones in hues of blue and violet. Mrs Hokobu continued, and in a soft, soulful voice reflected to the silent audience, "Oh, how could something so beautiful bring with it such ugliness?"

There appeared on the screen mines, roads, shantytowns and crude mud huts built to house miners. Broken down vehicles and mining equipment had been left rusting by the side of the road, as newer versions were brought in to increase production.

"Old Mr De Souza promised to make us all rich, and perhaps at the beginning he meant what he said. The men left the villages and the farms and went to work in the mines for money. They worked hard and were paid well, but the farms were left to the women, who despite their hard work could not produce enough food to feed Marat. Soon all of our money was going to buy essential foods from elsewhere, food that we could easily have grown for ourselves. We were no longer self-sufficient.

Then came independence and a new government, and hope was restored. They would rein in the mining company and ensure that we could once again have a mixed economy, where mining and agriculture worked together to provide our prosperity."

The whole time she was speaking, this robust and healthy vision of African womanhood held her audience entranced as photographs were projected one after another on to the large screen behind her, to illustrate her words and accentuate her mood.

"Since independence the Maratis have become virtual slaves to the mine owners. When the miners complain about safety, working conditions or poor pay, their demonstrations are put down by the government forces supplemented with mercenaries, all of whom are well fed, clothed and armed. They have the latest military equipment and they drive the best European cars, whilst the miners and the farmers live in poverty."

Pictures showing barren farms and tired miners were projected behind the speaker. They were followed by pictures of robust, healthy police officers and soldiers smiling at the camera in their smart uniforms and proudly showcasing their shining vehicles.

"Then we had a visit from the UN. Mr Kofi Annan, you are a beloved figure in Marat," Victoria said, looking directly at the elderly statesman in the audience.

"Your help and aid has been generous and continuous. However, the UN officials sent to assist the poor, the enslaved and the sick have gradually been restricted to the capital. Their travel permits have been revoked, in an attempt to prevent them distributing the aid fairly and to monitor how it is spent.

If you choose not to believe me, then please do the maths yourself. We are a nation of two hundred and thirty five thousand souls and the government in 2007, the last year for which figures are available, received one hundred and thirty five million dollars in aid. Now you can see that represents almost six hundred dollars per year per person. Usually our miners and their families survive on less than five hundred dollars a year.

Add to that the generous aid provided by charities and we should be a country with a healthy and well-fed population, but we are not.

The United States and Great Britain built us twelve schools to assist in the African literacy programme; four still operate, but the others are now regional government offices, mining company offices and even a private dwelling.

We had a hospital built by the European Union. For the first two years Europeans staffed it whilst we had our people trained. As soon as the Europeans left, the funds to pay for staff were redirected and the trained staff were not paid. Some remain as volunteers, but many left for jobs abroad."

Pictures of forlorn schools and a hospital were projected.

"You may have seen the photographs of Nation Day in Marat recently, where dancers and performers entertained the President and lauded his accomplishments. Please look at this photograph." She paused.

A colourful photo of dancers in native dress filled the screen. More followed, all showing happy smiling faces and healthy bodies.

"Not one of the people in the pictures you have seen is Marati. They are wearing the tribal dress of the Congo. They were employed to take part in these celebrations.

So, you ask, is this big African lady mad? Is she a liar? Does she seek to deceive you in order to ask for more aid?

Please feel free to make your own decisions about my motives but, having done so, please act on your feelings. Do not line the pockets of greedy mining companies and Mercedes-driving ministers with luxury villas in the south of France.

My plea to the UN, and to all of you within the sound of my voice, is this; you ensure that the corruption is ended and that the current aid gets to the people and I will guarantee you that in three years we will be offering aid to others, not asking for aid for ourselves."

She paused as the audience began to clap. The applause began at the back of the hall and quickly spread to the dignitaries at the front. The Marati ambassador stood and walked out, as did the Zimbabwean ambassador. Victoria let them go in silence before she continued.

"Africans throughout the continent are ambitious. They have glorious aspirations. They want to be seen as equals to the developed world. We do not want to be third world or second world; we want to be first world, as many of you know. With our peoples, our lands, our hard work, we can survive on our own but only if you stop our leaders from abusing their power, stealing our money and smothering our hope."

Victoria paused whilst the applause died down, and then removed her headscarf to reveal a close cropped hairstyle.

"Ladies and gentlemen." Suddenly the voice, the accent and the intonation was very English. "I notice that the Marati delegation has left us. I wonder why? I am not Victoria Hokobu. I am, however, her sister at arms. I admire Victoria and her relentless efforts on behalf of her people tremendously, but it is with deep sadness and regret that I announce her assassination yesterday."

There was an audible intake of breath as the shocked audience came to the realisation that their speaker was dead. A picture of the Hokobus, smiling and happy in front of the London Eye, faded to a picture of them lying dead in the back of the Mercedes.

"I have presented Victoria's speech exactly as she prepared it. I believe that we have all honoured her memory by listening to her words today. I further believe that if we genuinely want to honour her memory we will say that today was the day when we started to change the way we give aid. Today was the day we started to end slavery. Today was the day we restored hope to the poor."

Angela Barry left the podium to return to her acting role in the Lion King, and the audience were left looking at a picture of the Hokobus enjoying the interior of Westminster Abbey. The caption read:

"Victoria Hokobu, Stateswoman; 1975 to 2011.
Chapter 21

The Strand, London, Thursday 9:30am.

Gillian Davis walked briskly past the entrance to the old tube station. Passers by rarely noticed the red brick-coloured tile facade, the locked security gate or the signs boldly proclaiming 'Piccadilly Rly' and 'Strand Station'. Hardly surprising, perhaps, as the station had been closed since 1994, after a somewhat inglorious history.

Built in the Victorian era, the station was home to a branch line which had the advantage of giving access to three different underground lines. The area around the station was thriving when the work began, but even before the station was completed, retailers, commercial offices and home owners moved further away from Aldwych and into the up and coming commercial areas of the City and the West End.

Initially two double platforms were built, but one was abandoned and bricked up after just a few years' use, in 1917. As a result, the work on the remaining passenger tunnels and the final lift shaft were never completed.

The Strand Station also lost its name when the more popular station at nearby Charing Cross was opened and was initially named the Strand Station, leaving the old Strand Station to be renamed as The Aldwych Station.

By the Second World War the station was little used, and so it was closed as a functioning station to permit its dual use as an air raid shelter and a secure underground storage facility for works of art from the National Gallery, including the Elgin Marbles. The platform which had been sealed in 1917 served as an impenetrable vault for the duration of hostilities, before being resealed in 1946.

The Aldwych platforms at the station stumbled on after the war and managed to remain in use for another forty eight years, thanks largely to the reopening of the theatres in the area. The Strand Station finally closed its doors to the public in 1994. The old station experienced a new lease of life in 2001, when terrorism became a real threat to Londoners. It was assumed, almost prophetically, that the most obvious threat to the city was an attack on the Tube system. Thus the Special Air Services, the Secret Intelligence Services and the Metropolitan Police secretly used the Strand Station, its platforms and tunnels, for anti-terrorist exercises and emergency training purposes.

By 2006 MI5 had adopted The Strand Station as its own. Their operatives created offices by partitioning platform areas and they continued to manage the facility for the other users. This cooperation continued until 2008, when the police and MOD moved their offices and security drills to another unused Tube station in a less busy area in North London. By the time Gil returned to the Strand Station, it had stood silent and empty for two years and was gathering dust.

Gil knew, from passing the station entrance on the way to the City, that it was embedded into the buildings which now house Kings College London, and that it was protected by nothing more than a painted plywood hoarding and a security shutter. Nonetheless, whilst Gil could have been inside within a minute, the Strand was always busy and, even on a freezing morning like this, inquisitive students were hurrying past on their way to class.

Gil walked past the station entrance without slowing, and turned right into Surrey Street. She walked down the deserted, steeply banked street until she arrived at a loading bay. Two large shutter doors faced her, labelled 'Exit' and 'Entrance'. Faced in the same shiny red coloured tile as the station front, this had once been the side entrance to the Strand Underground Station.

To the extreme left of the tiling stood a single white door which looked as though it had not been maintained for years. The sign on the door bore the simple message, "Keep Clear, Fire Exit".

Despite its dilapidated appearance, Gil knew that the door was steel reinforced and regularly used, mostly at night. Ensuring that she was alone, Gil approached the door, setting down her briefcase as she withdrew her key. The lock was a simple one, old but sturdy. This would have to be opened the old fashioned way; her electronic lock pick would not be strong enough to turn the old tumblers.

Gil chalked the large uncut key and inserted it into the lock and turned it until she felt resistance. She then withdrew the key and looked at the marks made in the chalk by the levers. She quickly selected the master key that most closely matched the lever marks and inserted it, and then, with a small amount of jiggling supported by brute force, she turned the key and the levers clicked over. The door was now unlocked. She stepped inside and pulled the door closed but she did not lock it. A good operative always maintains access to a quick exit route.

Almost immediately inside the passageway she found the ornate public entrance, secured by a trellis shutter and a modern Yale type lock. This time her electronic lock pick would be fine.

Gil pulled what looked like a torch from her pocket and slid a switch on the tubular body of the object forward two positions. Three titanium prongs sprang out of the end, all so closely grouped that they were almost touching. The young woman carefully pushed the three prongs into the lock until they each hit resistance. She then slid the button back one notch, and there was a whirring sound as the prongs moved back and forth into position. The red diode on the handle turned green, and the end of the electronic pick rotated like an electric screwdriver, unlocking the shutter.

***

Gil had deliberately arrived early so that she could scout the area. Her MI5 trainers had impressed upon her that accessing premises through locked doors and securing the area were among the basic tenets of 'spy craft'. As Gil had never considered herself a spy, she preferred the term 'tradecraft'.

The ornate ticket office and entrance was in pristine condition; the famous Leslie Green design was familiar from her childhood, as it was the same colour scheme used on most old tube stations. The back offices were cluttered, but somehow managed to convey the impression that the staff had just left for lunch. The age and style of the abandoned desks and equipment gave the room the appearance of a scene from an old black and white movie.

Oddly enough, the reason the whole station was in such good condition was that film and TV companies often used abandoned Tube stations such as this one for period dramas, and for blockbuster movies such as the James Bond and Narnia series of movies, amongst others.

Gil wandered through the station, relying on the dim glow emanating from the emergency lighting. There were two interconnecting lifts at ground level that formerly provided the main route to the platforms. These lifts, however, were going nowhere. When the station was closed to the public, steel beams were inserted under each lift, holding them forever in place. The lifts were labelled with the plate of the Otis Elevator Company, and were the original lifts as installed in the 1890s. Beside the lifts was a concealed shaft, circular on plan and lined with concrete blocks. This shaft had been prepared for the third lift, which had never been installed. The third lift shaft was deeper than the others; it sank seventy feet to give access to the abandoned platform that had been closed in 1917, and which was resealed after use in the Second World War. The lift shaft now offered the only access to those two long forgotten platforms.

Gil moved the wood plank cover aside, and was not surprised to see a rope suspended from a steel joist which spanned the three-metre opening, and running down to the platform level. This was nothing to do with the operation of the underground station; it was a 'drop cable'. In training exercises, when operatives needed to descend in a hurry, they could attach a standard climber's cable brake, which gripped the rope and released it when a hand-sized trigger was squeezed. The hand operated brake allowed the operative to descend at his or her own speed, like abseiling. Alternatively, one could do a free abseil, without equipment, but one needed good gloves and boots, not to mention nerves of steel.

Satisfied that she was alone, Gil sat in the refurbished lift car on the wooden bench and waited. As she waited she contemplated the technology that had been available to the Otis Elevators over a hundred years ago and marvelled that lifts today were only cosmetically different from their forebears.

As a child visiting London, Gil had once asked the lift attendant at Covent Garden Tube station why there was a door in the side of the lift. He explained that the lifts were not square but were shaped as a handed matching pair. In the event that one lift got stuck, the other lift could be lowered alongside, the doors opened and the passengers could easily be transferred into the working lift.

An ingenious idea, but not used in modern lifts. Why? Would we rather have people sitting for hours in stuffy lifts, waiting for an engineer or fireman to rescue them? Progress, she thought wryly. Have we really made any?

Her 'Chameleon' cell phone interrupted her thoughts. She was reluctant to answer it at that moment, but she switched on the electronic voice distortion and spoke to her answering service.

Concerned that the steel around her not only disrupted the cell phone signal but that it also reduced the effectiveness of the voice disrupter, she called her erstwhile African employer.

Jalou Makabate sounded panicked. He had just seen Victoria Hokobu at the conference and had immediately assumed that the Chameleon had failed to kill her. Gil was not alarmed. She had ensured the happy couple were at eternal rest before departing their Mercedes. Someone had obviously found a clone to replace the majestic Mrs Hokobu.

When Gil was handed the assignment she had seen the flaw in Makabate's plan immediately, but it had not been her place to mention it. She had been instructed to kill the husband, too, in case he simply substituted for his dead wife at the conference, but what if they'd had yet another substitute waiting in the wings?

She told Makabate to calm down, and explained that if he bothered making even arbitrary enquiries he would discover for himself that the Chameleon had indeed completed the assignment and the Hokobus were dead. At that she hung up, hearing a noise on the spiral staircase.

***

"Gillian! Wow! You don't look a day older!" Tim McKinnon said with all honesty, as he looked his old colleague up and down.

Tim did look a day older; many days older. He had always been an athletic five feet eight inches, but he had now developed a paunch and was carrying a good twenty pounds of excess weight. His skin looked sallow and tight, lines showing at the eyes. He still had radiant blue eyes, but now they were perched beneath a receding hairline of dark hair, cut in the military style.

"How did you get in without coming in through the doors?" Gillian asked.

"Old trade secret," he smiled. "If you go down the line about twenty yards there's an emergency exit that comes up at the Aldwych. It's quite safe. The line has a safety bar fixed across the tracks, which prevents the line being made live in error. Every couple of years or so they go live and bring a train in here to test some new development. They were here last year, trialling the video projection system for advertising.

You've probably seen the door at the Aldwych. It looks like an emergency exit from the offices above, but in fact it was installed during the war for the bigwigs to be able to move about without being seen by the hoi polloi in the air raid shelter."

"And to protect the nation's art treasures, too, I suspect," Gil replied.

"Hey, you remember all of that stuff! Great. Those old tunnels are bricked up now, and there's no access to the parallel platform any longer."

The MI5 man sat down beside Gillian and his face began to reflect the seriousness of his message.

"Gillian, the Chameleon has got to go." Gillian was stunned, but she would not allow her face to show it.

"Who?" she enquired, perhaps a little too innocently.

"Come on, Gillian, you know better than anyone. Mac is the Chameleon. He must have told you. You two were always as thick as thieves."

"I did suspect, but I could never be sure," Gillian responded, probing for more information.

"Well, you can be sure. In 2007 the US Government wanted to take out Suleman Grenadiere, the Somali warlord and pirate. They knew he was travelling back to his encampment to trade hostages on a tanker being held offshore, with a well-known oil company.

The road to the encampment was known to be hazardous and narrow. It was easy to defend and there was very little cover. So the US sent in a unit of Army Rangers to watch the road from tree cover on the opposite hill. When Grenadiere's truck started up the incline they would act as spotters for a F1/11 plane to be launched from the Nimitz aircraft carrier, which would blow the road and the truck to smithereens.

Anyway, the truck came into view and was approaching a hazardous tight bend when the Army Ranger Unit Leader took the coordinates. However, before he could call the coordinates in three quick shots were fired.

The spotter for the Rangers reported that the three nearside tyres exploded. These were the tyres closest to the drop, and the vehicle tilted dangerously but looked as though it might stop safely. Unfortunately for Suleman and his boys, the tyres were blown out on a tight bend and the driver could not manoeuvre the old truck around the bend with only half of his tyres. He lost control of the vehicle.

To cut a long story short, the truck, Suleman and his pirates plunged four hundred feet into the abyss. Not only would they all be dead, there would probably be very little of them left to find, and so the Rangers decided to call it a day.

They were about to leave when, twenty yards away from their position, the foliage lifted up and a man appeared from nowhere. He waved at them, smiled and disappeared into the forest. They must have passed within inches of him on their way to their position without seeing him. The Rangers spotter caught a few good stills of the sniper with the video camera mounted on his scope. It was Mac.

Not only was the shot almost impossible, but Mac had timed the three shots and the ensuing blowout with a precision that seems impossible to simple folk like me."

When Tim paused in admiration, Gil interjected.

"How does that prove he was the Chameleon?"

"Under pressure from Congress, the Oil Company 'fessed up' to the US authorities, admitting that they had paid the standard one million dollars to the Chameleon for a job well done."

Tim could not have known that he was telling Gil a humorous story she had heard many times, but Gil's overriding feeling was one of relief. Relief that the service did not know that she was yet another embodiment of the Chameleon.

"OK Tim, I think we can both accept that Mac is the Chameleon, but what has he done that was so wrong he needs to be retired?"

"In a sentence, Paris and the Israeli Culture Minister."

"That was Mac?" Gil asked, feigning shock. "I heard that was Hamas or some other group."

"No, it was Mac. He was making a point over an unpaid bill. He even called them afterwards and demanded the money they owed. He got it." Tim smirked. He obviously liked the idea of Mossad being humiliated, as MI5, MI6 and the police often had to clean up after illegal Mossad operations in the UK in his day.

"That's harsh!" Gil commented in what she hoped was the right tone, which was intended to be disapproving but admiring.

"I appreciate that this may be difficult for you, emotionally, but Mac has to go and we have to satisfy the Israelis and the FO that he is dead."

This was the agent's first mention of the Foreign Office, and Gil picked up on it immediately.

"Why is the FO interested in the death of an Israeli Minister in Paris?" she asked, looking puzzled.

"Gil, this is still Official Secrets Act, Classification 1 information, and as a signatory you are still bound by it, OK?"

"Of course," she replied, as though it was obvious and expected.

"Well, yesterday the Chameleon topped a visiting dignitary from Marat, along with her husband, and she was unofficially the FO's guest. She was meant to be speaking at a conference this morning on overcoming poverty and slavery in Marat. Mac put an end to that."

"I've never even heard of Marat. Is it in Asia?" she asked without apparent guile.

"No, I think it's the furthest African country from a coastline. I don't know where I dug that up from; maybe a briefing somewhere. Anyway, it was created fairly recently after all the fighting in and around Central Africa and the Congo.

It seems that Mac took the Marati government's money and snuffed out the resistance."

"Doesn't sound like Mac, does it? He usually takes out bad guys," Gil said contemplatively.

"I guess not. I suspect they didn't tell the Chameleon the whole story."

No, they certainly did not, she thought to herself.

***

They chatted about old times for another ten minutes, and then Tim came around to the real purpose of the meeting.

"Gillian, as hard as this will be for you, we want you to deal with Mac. You have his trust and you are the only one who came close to beating him in our training exercises. This order comes all the way from the top. Mac has to go, and go soon."

"I'll do it, Tim, don't sweat it."

There was clear relief on the agent's face as she continued.

"Mac is a professional. He must know his time is coming. Better he goes out quickly and painlessly at the hands of a friend than suffer because of a botched job by an inept Israeli contractor. He deserves better than that."

"I agree," Tim said solemnly. "Gil, look, I trust you, but the people above me want proof of death."

"I understand, Tim. I'll be sure to provide evidence that he's dead."

Once the paltry fee of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds was agreed, the meeting ended and they both got out of the lift that was going nowhere and left by separate exits.
Chapter 22

Vastrick Security, No 1 Poultry, London, Friday 9am.

Less than twenty-four hours had passed since the world heard from Victoria Hokobu, from beyond the grave, but the news gave testament to the fact that we all now live in a global village. It was being reported that by sunset yesterday, the Marati government had ordered a curfew in an attempt to quell the uprising that began in the villages and which had quickly spread to the mines. The twenty-four hour news channels were giving blanket coverage to the uprising in Marat, which was two hours ahead of GMT.

CNN reported that the South African mercenaries, hired by the government to keep the mines fully operational, had initially been brutal in their efforts to keep the miners working. Television coverage showed that when they were attacked by overwhelming numbers of painted tribesmen, carrying machetes and fearsome primitive weapons, the mercenaries decided that they were not being paid enough to die. The unflappable correspondent on the screen explained that the scenes which followed could not be broadcast because, in their unruly retreat, many mercenaries died, and the miners' retribution was neither swift nor painless. Many of the routed guards had expected to be repaid in kind for their inhumanity and brutality towards the naturally friendly Marati workers, and they were not disappointed.

The pictures changed to an eye in the sky camera mounted on a helicopter. The unsteady picture showed the Police Station which reportedly housed the State Security Services team that had murdered Vincent Utembo. It was besieged. The BBC News 24 reporter had been in touch with the trapped law officers, and reported that inside the building the men were terrified. In desperation they had called for help from headquarters in the capital, but none was forthcoming. After a brief standoff, the local police threw the state security men responsible for Utembo's death out of the secure compound, where the gathered crowd fell upon them in a matter of seconds.

***

Inside the police station the screams of the State Security Team permeated the building, and some of the younger policemen broke down and cried, suspecting that they too would be killed. Luckily Sergeant Vambati, the senior officer, was a true Marati. He also had an old and wise head. In a few minutes he and all of his men exited the building, stripped of their uniforms and carrying their entire arsenal of weapons and the keys for their police vehicles.

"We are brothers; we join your fight for freedom. Here, take these weapons and let us use these weapons and vehicles to depose the Somali intruder who says he is our President," Vambati cried as he ran warrior-like towards the baying crowd.

The crowd surged forward and seized the weapons and vehicles, some taking revenge on policemen who had abused them, but no one died, and afterwards the policemen wisely stood with their fellow Maratis as they moved on to rage against the symbols and offices of government.

***

Back in the Vastrick offices there were mixed emotions; sadness at the unnecessary loss of life, mixed with jubilation that Victoria achieved in death what she had been unable to achieve in life.

The pictures of the Hokobus, which had been leaked to the press, and the police appeals for help in solving their murders, had created a wave of sympathy that politicians around the globe felt that they could not ignore. One after another, world leaders climbed to podia and expressed revulsion at the mistreatment of aid and the appalling murder of the Hokobus.

The local news showed crowds of protestors outside the Marati Embassy, which appeared almost deserted. In the spacious lobby two security guards held firm, but both were English and both were paid little more than minimum wage, and so their commitment to the cause was waning quickly.

The display of Tanzanite which had so prominently illuminated the lobby had gone, and only an empty glass case remained. The valuable stones were now in the Ambassador's briefcase as he headed to Nice on a British Airways flight, before being driven to his Villa on the water at Cite Lacustre, Port Grimaud near St. Tropez. A heated argument with his brother, the Marati President, ended with the announcement of his early retirement. His brother was enraged at the perceived betrayal, and distraught that the Ambassador refused to continue to fight for the survival of the government in diplomatic circles.

Jalou Makabate sat alone in his apartment. His wife and children were on their way to Mogadishu to stay with her parents. Before she left, his wife accused him and his government cronies of ruining her perfect life in London. She had made it clear that she had no expectation of him joining them, before she cleared out their joint accounts without his knowledge. Jalou would also have been on a plane out of the country, had it not been for a visit from the Metropolitan Police, who wanted to interview him as a material witness, or suspect, in the murder of the Hokobus.

How could this nightmare version of Hades have rained down on him in such a short time? Had not the Maratis bought and paid for the loyalty of the British Government to their rule? Just a year ago the former British Labour Prime Minister had shaken hands warmly with the Marati Ambassador as they signed a contract for yet more mining equipment, plant which would be built in the Midlands. Jalou's own contact in the British security services had actively assisted in the suppression of the Marati miners' strikes by canvassing his superiors and promising that full democratic elections would be held in 2012 in return for help now. As was only to be expected, his political and security contacts were no longer available, now that he had no Tanzanite to bargain with.

He rested his head in his large hands and considered his options. The last option was a return to Marat, the landlocked, mountainous hellhole he had helped to govern. Somalia was almost as unpleasant an option. He needed a quiet and beautiful place to spend the rest of his days and his fortune, kindly provided by the hard work of the Marati miners. He settled on Madagascar as a bolthole, but he needed to keep the Metropolitan Police happy. He had been informed by the Foreign Office that his diplomatic immunity had been suspended because, without an appointed Marati ambassador in residence in the UK, there was no one to claim immunity on his behalf. Perhaps he could extract one last favour from his man at MI5.

***

Geordie switched off the TV and walked over to Dee's desk, taking a seat opposite her. The fact that the government of Marat had ordered the murder of the Hokobus, and that now they were in fear for their own lives, was not punishment enough for him, the man who had happily taken responsibility for their safety. The bodyguard made it clear that he wanted the actual killer brought to justice.

"Dee, this is all very well but I think we owe it to the Hokobus to at least try to find their killer." The frustration in his voice and the agitation in his body movements barely concealed his anger and self-loathing.

Dee leaned back in her chair and smiled at her colleague and friend.

"I agree. Believe me, I'm just as keen for that to happen as you are. We'll see what we can do to assist the police. I'll clear it with the boss, but when he sees how much we're going to get for the Tanzanite, I don't think he'll be disappointed."

"How do you mean?" Geordie asked, looking straight into her eyes.

"Well, according to the broker the Hokobus recommended, the price for Tanzanite has grown by fifteen per cent in just twenty four hours, thanks to the closure of the mines. Our stones are now worth around thirty five thousand pounds."

Geordie simply stared at Dee. The fact that the gems had increased in value because a beautiful woman and her husband had been killed was anathema to him.

"And, by the way," Dee added kindly, "you shouldn't blame yourself for their deaths. I know they wouldn't want you to."

It would be a long time before the unhappy bodyguard could accept that simple truth.
Chapter 23

Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Friday 9am.

The Chameleon had not stayed alive and free for so long without being able to see the writing on the wall. Last night, as she soaked in her hot tub, Gil had pondered her meeting with MI5. She had the water very hot, in the Japanese style, so that it was almost painful to climb into. As the jets forced water onto her aching shoulders, she relaxed.

She would give Tim what he wanted; evidence that Mac (or the Chameleon) was dead. That part was easy. Unfortunately it appeared that the special operations unit were cleaning house and she was the last untidy remnant in their otherwise orderly home.

Gil remembered being surprised when she had been made redundant; there were no threats, no suggestion of termination, of trimming loose ends. It was just goodbye, have a nice life; they even arranged a leaving party. Nonetheless, she had always assumed that at some point policies would change, governments would be voted out and new incumbents would sweep in expressing moral outrage at the unauthorised termination of foreign nationals who had become embarrassing, or whose continued existence was inconvenient to the UK or her allies.

Now, out of nowhere, a liberal politician with very libertarian views was responsible for overseeing the security services and in due course she would find out about 'special operations' and would blow her perfectly coiffed top.

Gil knew that she was expendable as soon as Mac was declared officially dead. She reckoned she had a week.

Her plans made and her body boiled she stepped out of the tub bright red where the water had touched her skin.

"The Japanese are right," she thought as a feeling of calm and wellbeing swept over her naked body. "Being in hot water does concentrate the mind."

***

Sitting at her desk, Gil followed the chaos in Marat with interest. Luckily they had paid her before their accounts had been frozen. There were rumours that one of the old South African statesmen was heading to Marat to convince the President to stand down and to announce free elections.

The phone on her desk rang with long single tones. It was an internal call. She pressed the speaker button and addressed the receptionist.

"Yes, Jenny, what is it?"

"Mr Donald Roper is here for your nine thirty appointment."

"All right, thank you. Bring him in and organise some refreshments. He has walked all the way across Spitalfileds to get here; that's a good four hundred yards."

Jenny sniggered as her boss's words reached her over the headphones. The receptionist removed her headset and ushered the rotund lawyer into Gil's office.

Don Roper was no taller than five feet and his body shape could best be described as spherical. Nonetheless he was sharp and efficient and he had been advising Gillian since she was a teenager.

After the formalities had been dealt with, Don Roper took a wad of papers from his briefcase and laid them on the table.

"Gilly, I have to say this is the worst idea you have ever had. Are you absolutely certain you want to proceed?"

"Absolutely, Don. We've had a good offer for the company, valuing it at almost fourteen million pounds. I only ever invested three million, and most of that was recovered from the ever generous Gordon Brown and Peter Mandelson."

"I have to warn you that if you proceed there can be no turning back. Your interest in Celebrato ends tomorrow once the money is transferred, as will your job as MD."

"It's OK, Don. The staff are the happiest I have ever seen them and I don't really run the company day to day anyway."

The next thirty minutes were spent with Don passing papers to Gil, explaining what each meant in layman's terms, Gil nodding and signing without hesitation. By the time the meeting had ended, the Chameleon's tenure in her day job at Celebrato Greeting Cards was coming to an end.

***

Two hours later Gillian Davis, known as Gil to her friends and as the Chameleon to no-one, sat in front of a video camera, surrounded by her head office staff and watched by the Celebrato Production staff by a live link to Warrington.

With a level of emotion that surprised even her, she explained how together they had all helped turn a failing company into a success. She openly admitted that her relative youth and inexperience had meant that she had relied on everyone to work together to make the company work.

There were tears in many eyes, including her own, as she explained the terms of the sale and why she had felt it necessary to stand down at this particular moment. Gil then wished them luck and thanked them for a loyalty that meant there had not been a single resignation on her watch.

Andrew Glenn was due to reply for the staff and to pay tribute to their retiring Chief Executive when he was put off his stride by the reaction from the Warrington site. Two or three workers began to sing 'for she's a jolly good fellow' and by the time they got to the end of the first line everyone at Warrington and in London had joined in.

Tears were streaming freely down Gil's cheeks in a way that she had never known before; she had to put her flat hand to her chest to control her imminent sobbing. What was she doing? She had allowed these people to get to her. Get a grip, she told herself firmly; it's a business. Gil was just regaining control of her emotions as the strains of the song died away, and then a young man in a Celebrato polo shirt appeared on the large screen in London. In a strong Lancashire accent he spoke across the ether directly to Gil.

"A year ago I was unemployed and I didn't really care. My girlfriend had no respect for me, even though she never said so. I was drinking my time away, doing nowt, and then the CEO of a card company comes into the Job Centre and talks to us about improving ourselves and offering us the chance with a new job." He paused.

"Miss Davis, me Mum, Dad and girlfriend are well pleased with me these days, and I think I have you to thank for that." He finished, and there were shouts of 'Hear! Hear!' before the camera pulled back to reveal a human-sized Celebrato Greeting Card signed by everyone. The dedication read: "We love you and will always remember you."

Suddenly everything Gil had achieved or done paled into insignificance against this heartfelt and emotional tribute. She felt like the Grinch when he discovered that his heart had grown two sizes. The Chameleon fizzled away and Gillian Davis stood in her place, one hundred percent soppy woman, one hundred percent disappointed not to have realised before this moment where she had been most appreciated.
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.
Chapter 27

Vastrick Security, Nr 1 Poultry, London. Monday 17th January 8:45am

The weather had improved dramatically over the weekend and the daytime high was predicted to be as high as ten degrees Celsius, or 50 degrees Fahrenheit, almost tropical compared to the weather a week earlier.

Dee was sitting at her desk awaiting the arrival of Sergeant Scott, who had telephoned to say he would call in on his way to work. Geordie was back in Newcastle, thanks to the East Coast line being open again between Kings Cross and Edinburgh Waverley. It was better for him to be away from the constant reminders of the Hokobus. Many of the staff had been avoiding Conference Room 1, where the Hokobus belongings were being stored now that the police had finished with the apartment. It had been cleared by a furious property agent, who complained that he was losing rental income by the day.

As Dee stared out of the window, her laptop chimed a familiar buzzing tone; she had an incoming Skype call. A thumbnail picture of her husband Josh appeared above a green lozenge shaped screen button that read 'accept call with video'. She steered the mouse over the button and clicked, opening the video page. The image from her own webcam appeared first. It was Monday morning and she already looked washed out and tired. She quickly pushed her long auburn hair into shape and smiled. An arrow that had been chasing its own tail around the screen cleared, and a large video pane opened. A tanned and relaxed Josh Hammond appeared in the window.

Dee had known Josh for only a few months, but she felt like they had been together for years. They say that love prospers in adversity, and for this particular couple it had proven to be true. Dee had been assigned to protect Josh from a serious death threat just a few months ago, and had managed to get shot on two separate occasions whilst fulfilling her obligations. They married in haste but had no intention of repenting at leisure; the truth of the matter was that they were still smitten with one another.

Josh grinned at her. Unconventionally handsome with short dark hair, and clean-shaven, his white cotton shirt was open at the collar, as it usually was when he was calling from Dubai.

"Hi, Dee. I just wanted you to know that we've settled the claim and I'm looking for a flight back, but the schedules have been thrown off by the snow at your end and dust storms here."

"So, what does that mean, lover boy? When will I have a man in my bed again?"

"Well, if you insist on waiting for me to be that man, I guess Thursday or Friday. The flights out are always packed on Thursday, but Friday should be easier, given that it's the first day of the weekend."

They had both learned to come to terms with the weekend in the Middle East being Friday and Saturday. Nonetheless, Josh continually confused Dee when he called from the office on a Sunday proclaiming it to be Monday, obviously confused because he was so familiar with the working week starting on Monday.

"Josh, I have Sergeant Scott arriving shortly...."

"Give him my regards and tell him I'll bring him back a stick of Dubai rock," Josh interrupted, unaware that the short time lapse meant that his wife was still speaking. She managed a smile, which faded quickly.

"I will, but I want you to know that this has been an appalling few days. I need you home. I love you."

"Everybody loves me, but you get first shout. I love you too. I promise I'll send someone else out here next time. But Dee..."

"Yes?"

"The Hokobus couldn't have had better friends or more dedicated protectors than you and Geordie, and I think they would be praising you for starting the process that has ended Benjamin Matista's presidency."

"What?" This was a surprise to Dee.

"Yes. I forget we're four hours ahead of you. I just heard on CNN that President Matista was arrested by Congolese troops at the border. He was dressed as a woman and was hiding in the back of a truck. The trucks in the convoy were laden with Tanzanite, works of art, furniture and millions of dollars in various currencies.

They think he emptied the National Bank vaults before attempting to leave the country.

Hold on." Josh turned his head towards a TV set and his face took on a gentle blue hue.

"Yes, there we are. He's been taken back to Katamimba to face trial. It seems that he's likely to be enjoying the cuisine of the Katamimba Prison for a while to come."

Dee punched the air.

"With any luck they'll hang the arrogant, thieving bastard."

"Whoa there! Who has taken over my wife, and where did Dee go? You didn't even get this angry when you were shot, twice, last year."

"There was a difference." She smiled, a warmer and less forced affair than before.

"Oh yes, and what was that?" Josh asked already suspecting the answer.

"Morphine," his wife replied breathlessly.

"I think I proposed to you when you were under the influence of morphine."

"That would explain a lot," Dee joked.

There was a tap on the door and Dee beckoned in Sergeant Scott.

***

After a brief and humour laced chat between Scott and Josh, the various parties said their goodbyes and ended the call. The Detective Sergeant sat down and opened his backpack, retrieving a file.

"OK, Paul, just give me the bad news."

"How do you know it's bad news?"

"An old police edict - good news on the phone, bad news in person."

"Am I that predictable or what? Anyhow, the DCI was spot on when he said that MI5 would protect the name of their officer. I have an email from the Director who says that they are currently recalling the suspect from a distant assignment, and that they will debrief the operative in the next day or two. If the operative can possibly have been involved they will consider handing her to us for questioning, with the proviso their internal counsel is also present."

"Great. So, she did it, and they're going to make sure that she disappears one way or another." Dee threw her pencil onto the desk to display her disgust.

"Dee, I think we both know DCI Coombes is cuter than that. He has an alternative plan."

Dee looked at the DS and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"Go on, DS Scott. Do tell."

"Well, last year we all helped MI5 out on an operation in Cyprus. You, of course, still bear the scars of the bullet wound. The MI5 man who was responsible for letting things spiral out of control that day was Norrie Boyle, ex job."

"I know him well," Dee nodded. "We shared a hospital room. We both had bullet holes in us, as you so sensitively reminded me. I haven't heard from him since he went down for surgery, except to say that I know he fully recovered."

"Actually he didn't fully recover. There was some internal organ damage and he is now desk bound at Thames House. DCI Coombes reckoned Boyle owed you a favour and had a brief chat with him. I'm expecting to bump into Norrie Boyle at the Wig and Pen at around noon today. Would you be interested in a spot of lunch, by any chance?"

"That's a lawyers' bar, isn't it? Just opposite the Royal Courts. I thought it was members only?"

"Don't worry. The smoke filled gentleman's bar you remember is a nice Thai Restaurant now."

***

Gil was trying to come to terms with her life as a woman of leisure. That morning she had awoken to an alarm clock that had not sounded for the first time in years. New owners and managers would be swarming around Celebrato Cards and organising things their own way.

By Saturday at noon she had her money, and the company she had built passed to the new owners at midnight last night. She had already cancelled her gym membership, as the Spitalfield gym was miles out of her way now and the lease on her furnished flat ran out at the end of the month.

Gil had few personal possessions, and today they were going into storage indefinitely whilst she set out on a journey she should have completed many years ago.
Chapter 28

Wig and Pen, 229/230 The Strand, London. Monday 12:05pm

As Dee and DS Paul Scott approached the Wig and Pen it looked just the same as it always had, somewhat quaint and ancient. The place was steeped in history and, being across the road from the Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand, it had survived since the seventeenth century as a favourite drinking house for judges, barristers and solicitors. Anecdotes about the place abounded in legal circles, and rumour had it that clerks had often been dispatched from chambers to rescue a tipsy barrister from the Wig and Pen to remind him he was due in court in an hour.

The ancient premises were reputed to be the only building on the Strand to have survived the Great Fire of London. Built in 1625, number 230 was the home of the Gatekeeper of Temple Bar who, it is said, unwittingly began the catering tradition at this site by offering "a penn'orth of meat and bread" to the crowds who used to gather at the Temple Gate. Even now, the Outer Temple Building is just a few metres away along the Strand in the direction of Trafalgar Square.

The last time Dee had been in the disreputable old pub it had a roaring fire and the snug feel of an old inn. It was the sort of place where you wouldn't have been surprised if someone came and sat down opposite you wearing a frock coat and nodded a greeting with a head covered by a powdered wig.

Today, whilst some character had been retained, the Thai Square Restaurant which now occupied the old building was bright, fresh and modern; everything that the old Wig and Pen was not.

The pair sat down and ordered from the menu. The food looked good, the service was attentive and, for London, the prices were very reasonable. Whilst Dee waited for her Dim Sum and sparkling water to arrive she kept her eye on the door.

A waiter appeared with her drink and her starter. He also brought out a Tiger Beer and a Chicken Satay for her lunch companion. As they were finishing their appetisers the door opened and in walked Norris Boyle, the ex policeman who had taken a bullet last year whilst trying to save Dee. He looked thinner and there was a pained look on his face. After an apparently nonchalant perusal of the clientele, he wandered over to their table.

Dee stood and hugged the MI5 man, showing the kind of camaraderie that can only be cemented by being shot by the same gun. Boyle was taken aback by the show of affection, but nonetheless returned the hug heartily.

"Miss Conrad, you look great. The last time we met neither of us were at our best." He smiled and then grimaced.

"Sorry. The bullet I took caused some intestinal damage and the cold weather seems to set it off. They reckon it'll heal eventually. I bloody well hope so. I'm getting rather tired of bland food and Complan."

Dee moved across the bench seat and Boyle slipped in beside her. He nodded to the waiter and silently mouthed 'the usual' before leaning over the table and taking DS Scott's last stick of Satay Chicken. Dipping it into the peanut sauce, he added unnecessarily, "You don't mind, do you Paul? It's one of the few things I can eat these days." DS Scott clearly did mind, but he smiled anyway. His ex colleague had earned a lot of brownie points with the DS when he was on the job.

***

Dee was eagerly tucking into a dish listed as 'weeping tiger', sirloin beef with a rich North Eastern Thai sauce on steamed rice, when Norrie interrupted his attack on the Lamb with black pepper on noodles, to speak in hushed tones.

"I don't like murderers getting off scot free, so I'm going to give you a leg up on your investigation." He scooped a forkful of lamb and noodles into his mouth and chewed slowly, clearly savouring the taste. Downing a good mouthful of the house red, he continued.

"Shouldn't really, you know. Red wine is one of the worst things for my stomach. Anyway, let me tell you a story." The MI5 man finished the last mouthful of food, set down his cutlery and placed his elbows on the table. He leaned in and spoke quietly, conspiratorially even.

"MI5 and MI6 are widely misunderstood, mainly because of the films and TV series that show spies in a very adventurous light. Not so in reality. Over ninety per cent of our people are desk bound, here or abroad. They gather information, analyse it and decide if there is any threat to us, or to our allies.

I wouldn't say this to anyone else but it's all a bit of a sham, really. The mystique and the fiction surrounding Five and Six help us to maintain our budgets and give the impression that our spooks have their hand on the tiller. We keep our jobs by persuading the country that we are all safe as long as the security services are keeping the terrorists at bay. I have no idea why the public believe it. We couldn't even control the IRA during the 1970s, and there were only a handful of them just across the Irish Sea.

Truth is, we usually find out about terror threats and terrorist acts on CNN or Sky News, same as you. We had four guys, full time, running contacts in Eastern Europe, shelling out bribes to get the specifications of the Ukrainian Hand Held Rocket launchers sought after by Al Qaeda. They came up with nothing. Last August, an edition of Jane's Defence Weekly published the full specs, capability and weaknesses. We now have an annual subscription that gives us all fifty two copies a year for a hundred and ninety six quid.

Don't get me wrong. Five do a good job, but we have a handful of analysts. Jane's alone have a hundred and thirty correspondents around the world. CNN, Fox, Sky and BBC News have thousands. If we're being realistic, who is likely to get the news first?"

Dee couldn't work out whether she felt any more or less safe after hearing Boyle's rant.

"For your information. Miss AD 34792, does not exist. Neither the initial nor the number relate to any individual in our employment, past or present."

Both Dee and Scott looked puzzled. Either Boyle was lying, or, the MI5 email was nonsense.

"AD is code for 'avoid disclosure' and 34792 is the finance code for funds spent under the 'special operations' budget. The Special Operation Group was disbanded when the Labour Government realised they would not be getting back in.

The partial fingerprint you found probably belongs to Gillian Davis, formerly Special Operations, UK and Europe. She was predominantly a field operative and her file is marked 'HVA-S/O'. Before you ask, it stands for High Value Asset – Strategic Control/ Offensive."

"Are we talking a Licence to kill? Did she have a 00 rating?" DS Scott joked. Boyle wasn't amused.

"Paul, Dee – I'm being serious here. In essence, High Value Assets are used to carry out assignments that save British or Allied lives. They may take out the charismatic head of a terrorist organisation, hoping that it can't function without his military or religious leadership. If they're right, then numerous squaddies' lives can be saved because close engagement with that group never becomes necessary.

Your suspect, Gillian Davis, was strategically controlled whilst in the service; that means that someone handled her, someone from very high up in the command structure. That someone must have had the power to order her to act offensively on behalf of the UK government. Then, once ordered, she was free to kill or maim personnel and destroy enemy assets or reputations at her discretion.

She could not, however, decide her own targets. An HVA-S/O who picked their own target or ignored orders would be severely disciplined and may well not make it home."

There had been a lot to take in. Dee had promised herself a dessert, but now didn't feel in the mood.

"How sure are we that the print belongs to this Gillian Davis?" she asked.

"Well, the partial print alone will convict no-one; it has fewer points of comparison than we need to convince a judge. But add that to the fact that your man was taken down by a very professional female with a rare chemical or venom of some kind - typical spook behaviour, by the way - and you have Gillian Davis."

"Has she used this method of killing before?" DS Scott wondered out loud.

"Possibly. The opposition don't usually send us post mortem results. But a quick look at her profile might help."

Boyle reached into his inside pocket and withdrew a sheet of A4 paper, folded into three. He unfolded it to reveal the black and white picture of a pretty fair-haired girl and lines of closely printed text.

Dee and Paul Scott read the sheet together, each holding one side of the paper.

"Hell's teeth, you're good, Boyle. You need to get back to the Met. We need guys like you. She has a BSc. in Chemistry, with honours, no less, and a Masters in Forensic Chemistry! So, we let a pretty young chemist loose on the world's bad guys. Man, the glass ceiling is well and truly shattered. It's equal opportunities for all at MI5."

"It does look damning," Dee contributed. "But what will you do if the police pick her up and her bosses start looking for the leak?"

"Don't sweat it, Dee. Her former boss - let's just call him Barry - heads up internal investigations and he couldn't find a leak in his own underpants. He fell from grace just before they shut down the special operations team. It seems that he authorised the destabilisation of that guy," - he pointed to a picture on the front page of the Times - "when he was running for his party's nomination." The picture portrayed an imposing African American man shaking hands with the Chinese Prime Minister, whilst standing at the White House Podium in front of the Stars and Stripes.

Dee and DS Scott uttered the same expletive in unison.

***

It was late in the evening when DS Scott finally returned Dee's call, which he had promised he would as they left the restaurant.

"Dee, the address we have on file for Davis is useless. The local constabulary say that it's a former gamekeeper's lodge in the grounds of a big house near Basingstoke in Hampshire. There are dozens of people called Gillian Davis around the country, and Facebook lists forty-six in London alone, none of whom look like our girl. I'm sure we'll find her, but it may take some time."

"OK, Paul. Let's just hope we find her before MI5 do, otherwise she'll never see the witness box. The likelihood is that she will find herself in a box of the terminally enclosed kind."

"You're probably right about that. We'll work as fast as we can, but if your computer genius - what's his name?"

"Simon?"

"Yeah, that's him. Simon. If Simon can work his database magic while we're doing the legwork it would really help."

"OK, Paul. He's on the case as of now!"

***

Simon left Dee's office with his instructions. There would be hundreds of women named Gillian Davis around the country, but it was likely that he would find only one with her qualifications and skills, and only one with her stunning good looks.

He sat down at his console and ordered in pizza. He would work through the night, grabbing what sleep he could in one of the office sleeping pods at the end of the corridor.

Simon looked like a geek, but a smartly dressed geek. Vastrick had standards that applied to all, even the oddball IT types. Simon had a degree and several other qualifications that suggested he could make any computer sing and dance or recite a soliloquy of one's choosing. That description was not too far from the truth. The young analyst typed in the name Gillian Davis, and ran his first combined high-level search which interrogated the White Pages, the Electoral Rolls and the Registers of Births and Marriages. His enquiry returned over two hundred premium results. These were women of all ages who matched the input data exactly.

Simon clicked on the left hand bar of the results page and typed in Gillian Davis' age, then ticked the box +/- 5 years. The results were instant, and the list narrowed to twenty-three premium results.

He was just five minutes into his 'overnight' search when he clicked on 'show only results with photos'.

There were only five results, but he was quite certain that the person he was looking for was showing at number one. Just to make sure, he clicked on the hyperlink. It was her; there was no doubt in his mind. Gillian Davis MD of Celebrato Cards was shown receiving the Young Business Leader of the Year award at the London Chambers of Commerce dinner in 2008, and the photograph captured the same alluring face he had seen on the black and white print which Norrie Boyle had supplied.

In another twenty minutes the young analyst had found another six photos of the suspect, including one of her being awarded a Prize for Chemistry, along with an old press article from the Times, explaining that the British Olympic Committee had ruled the young Gillian Davis out of the National Rifle Team due to a recurrent shoulder injury.

Simon hoped that Dee had not left for home. He had taken less than thirty minutes to do what Dee had thought would take a day. In forensic computing you got lucky occasionally, finding the right data at first pass rather than at the hundred and first pass. It was a bit of a fluke, really, but Simon wouldn't be telling his boss that.
Chapter 29

The Aldwych, London. Tuesday 9:40am

Tim used his usual method of accessing the disused tube station, entering via the Aldwych before descending down a narrow, and seriously claustrophobic, steel staircase. At the bottom of the stairs lay a small passageway, around two metres in length, leading to an old wooden door. The staircase and passageway were only just wide enough to accommodate a well-built individual; anyone seriously overweight would be likely to become stuck.

The old wooden door had a modern lock to which Tim had a key. He opened the door and, before stepping down onto the track, he looked to make sure that the safety bar was in place. Without that bar the third and fourth rail would be live. Unlike other railway systems, the London Underground has four rails. The first and second are in the lines or tracks which carry the trains. The third rail is next to and above the rail, and carries a direct positive current of four hundred and twenty volts. The fourth rail is laid between the tracks and carries the returning current of negative two hundred and ten volts DC. Together these lines give six hundred and thirty volts of traction. The third rail is a real risk to anyone walking in the tunnel if it is live, and most engineers walk down the tracks to avoid it, even when they know it isn't energised.

To add to the risk, this old section of the Piccadilly Line had a cast iron lining, rather than the concrete lining of later tunnels. Naturally, electricity will pass into and along cast iron, given the chance. Because a continuing charge in the cast iron lining is dangerous and because it would lead to corrosion, the third rail is placed sufficiently far away from the lining to prevent any chance of the walls becoming live.

Tim had no need to worry about all of this because the safety bar was in place, cutting off the electricity to this section of the tunnel. He wouldn't have been tempted to use this route if that had not been the case; one minor slip on the track bed and he might easily make contact with the third rail, which carries more kick than the electric chair used for executions in the USA.

The agent walked toward the lights which illuminated the most recently abandoned platform, sporting the traditional underground plaque of a red ring split in two by a horizontal blue line bearing the single word ALDWYCH. The lighting here was not particularly bright, as the platform was lit for emergency use only, but it was enough to allow him to see what he was doing. As he climbed onto the platform he looked around. It was like entering a time capsule. Although this platform had closed to the public in 1994, it had been earmarked for closure for so long that it had not been considered for a full refurbishment since the commencement of the Second World War, which was good news for various filmmakers who had used it on occasion when they required the backdrop of an old wartime tube station for their latest drama.

Tim climbed half a dozen wide tiled steps leading to a tiled circular tunnel that served as a corridor to the lower lift lobby. He walked a few yards along the shadowy corridor until he could see the two unused lift shafts, their gates welded closed, and the spiral staircase leading up to the entrance lobby. To his left he observed a dark passageway, which ran in a left hand curve for a hundred meters before literally hitting a brick wall. Beyond that brick wall lay the original parallel platform which had opened in 1895 and closed just a few years later in 1917 due to lack of patronage. The platform, which bore the station name of STRAND on its underground sign, had been reopened briefly during World War Two to provide safe shelter for the City's artworks and its people, but as Tim passed the entrance to the dark chamber he calculated that it had been resealed for over sixty five years. Since 1946 there had been only one access point to the abandoned Strand Station platform, and that was via the cover of the unused lift shaft in the ground level lobby. The tactical support teams who used the station platform, abandoned in 1994, for anti terrorist training would often compete to see who could rappel to the 1917 platform and climb back to ground level quickest. MI5 and the SAS won the unofficial competition, with the occasional policeman or emergency responder coming a close second. Back in 2002 Tim had managed the seventy-foot descent and climb in just over five minutes, way behind the record. He shivered as he recalled the fetid, damp odour of the platform, the cloying darkness, and the instant claustrophobia of knowing all exits were sealed. It would make for an eerie and uninviting tomb.

Before ascending the spiral staircase, Tim braced himself, then took out his military issue Browning Hi Power pistol and double-checked that it was ready for use. He would be sorry to see the old girl go. In a month or so the familiar Browning Hi Powers were due to be replaced with modern Glocks. Satisfied that he was ready for the task ahead, both mentally and physically, he began the long climb to ground level.

***

Gil knew that this would be her last meeting with Tim. She was certain that her association with the service was coming to an end, and that meant only one thing; Tim was coming to serve a 'D notice'. Of course, there was still a remote possibility that they would pay her fee and bid her a fond farewell, but if that was their intention, why the meet? Why bring cash to an abandoned tube station? In the past she had been paid discreetly through nominee accounts. The amounts transferred to her would usually be listed as 'commission' from companies with names such as Thames House Consulting, Riverview Personnel and Special Projects International Inc.

Gil didn't like it; the Chameleon was usually the hunter, not the hunted. She knew very well that if a 'D notice' had been issued, then her former employers would not stop looking for her until either she was found, or until they were sure she was dead, hence her extreme precautions. In her heart she knew that the Chameleon had to retire, but only from work, not from life.

The cold winter air was freezing Gil's bones, even though she was huddled under a thick coat and was wearing lined leather gloves. Nevertheless, she stood where she could see Aldwych House and the innocuous door that allowed entry to the deserted underground station. A full thirty minutes before the meeting was due to begin, Tim arrived, looked around and unlocked the door before covertly looking around once more. He was certainly not carrying a quarter of a million pounds in cash, but he was carrying a gun. Although it was concealed beneath his winter coat, he made the novice's mistake of patting it through his coat to be sure it was still there.

Twenty body-numbing minutes later a workman came out of the same door. He was carrying his tool bag and he hugged his high visibility coat around him as a meagre defence against the cold north wind. Once he had disappeared from sight, Gil made her way to the side entrance of the Strand Underground Station.

***

Tim looked at his watch for the twentieth time in five minutes. Gil was due any time now. He was ready. It wasn't warm in the abandoned lobby, but at least it was sheltered from the biting wind. The agent felt for his Browning one more time. He had loaded it with armour piercing rounds – which were highly illegal – because he felt sure that Gil would be wary enough to be wearing a Kevlar vest.

Gil stood within feet of Tim, yet he had no idea she was there. She was an assassin, and he was a desk jockey. She realised that she could have taken him out there and then, but what would be the point? They would only send someone better next time.

Tim sensed more than heard Gil's approach, and turned to face her. She was smiling brightly as she approached him, anticipating another big payday, thought Tim. Gil wandered over to the unused lift shaft that had been left uncovered.

"You need to cover that opening, Tim. Someone could kill themselves falling down there. It must be at least seventy feet down, straight onto concrete."

"Yes, I know," Tim, replied. "The wooden cover had disappeared when I got here. I'll tell the works department."

Standing in front of the lift shaft, Gil spoke.

"You don't look like a man carrying a quarter of a million pounds in cash."

"No," he agreed. "I have five bearer bonds, though, each with a face value of fifty thousand pounds. They're probably already worth more than that, given the financial situation."

Tim loosened his coat and withdrew five sheets of rolled parchment paper, which he handed to Gil. Gil opened the rolled sheets and saw the forged bonds. When she looked up, Tim was pointing his gun at her chest.

"No, Tim! Please!" she yelled as he pulled the trigger three times. Tim was no marksman, but the three rounds shredded the bearer bonds as they passed through and pounded into Gil's torso. For a brief second she looked shocked, and then she toppled backwards and fell down the shaft.

The MI5 man was pleased that Gil had fallen into the deep shaft. He hadn't wanted to look into those familiar, pretty, dead eyes as he tipped her body over the edge and into oblivion and a sealed tomb.

Tim was about to fasten his coat and leave when he noticed tension on the rope hanging into the lift shaft. He ran over and looked down into complete darkness, but when he held the rope he knew that somehow, in her death throes, Gil had grabbed onto life. Taking his Browning, he placed the barrel close to the rope and fired. The rope was partially severed. Tim fired again and the hanging part of the rope slackened and fell into the void. As it fell he heard a scream echoing up the shaft, coming to an abrupt end as his victim hit the concrete in the darkness below.

***

The telephone rang in an office cubicle across London. The occupant of the cubicle was no longer senior enough to warrant an office or a Thames river view.

"Internal Investigations," the slightly scruffy man announced as he answered the phone.

"Barry, this is Tim. I can confirm that both Chameleons have now departed the Earth."

"Are you certain the Chameleon is dead?"

"Well, I shot her three times in the chest at close range with armour piercing rounds, and she fell seventy feet onto concrete. She is in a dark and damp morgue of a tube station which has been sealed for over sixty five years."

"All right, point noted. Get yourself back here and report."

Tim slipped the Nokia into his pocket and started to leave. Rather than climb yet more stairs, he decided to take his chance with the side entrance. He couldn't use the front because entrance security grill was accessible only from outside and, unfortunately for Tim, Gil had closed the side entrance grillage and had locked it with a heavy duty padlock. The key was probably seventy feet down the lift shaft in the dead woman's coat pocket. Tim didn't have any lock picking tools with him. In any case, he couldn't pick a lock to save his life.

"Damn those stairs!" he complained out loud.

The darkness and the vague fluttering shadows that formed on the walls surrounding the spiral staircase had never bothered Tim before, but now, somehow, they seemed spooky. Perhaps it was the fact that he was separated from a fresh dead body by only a single wall of bricks. He breathed a sigh of relief when he alighted onto the Aldwych platform with its welcoming bare lighting.

Tim jumped onto the track and walked towards the exit door. Something felt different down here, but he didn't know what it was that was bothering him. Tim got to the old wooden door and then he realised. He looked back and saw with alarm that the safety bar had been removed. The lines were live. Six hundred volts of electricity were passing within an inch or two of his leg. Thank goodness his natural caution had kept him clear of the third rail as he walked along the tunnel. He had no doubt who was responsible.

"You nearly had me there, Gil, you mad bitch," he laughed out loud, his voice reverberating down the tunnel.

Being careful to keep a safe distance from the live cable, Tim reached for the exit door. He depressed the handle and withdrew the latch carefully, anticipating further skulduggery, but it worked as it always did. Thanking his lucky stars once more, he opened the door.

***

The M84 stun grenade is a non-lethal weapon, usually. It emits a deafening blast and a blinding flash that disorients and deafens temporarily. Don, a man of many talents, had accepted the Chameleon's commission to remove the safety bar and attach a stun grenade to the door. The grenade was tubular and around five inches long. Don carefully removed the safety pin, which had a circular ring pull, and armed the 'flash bang'. He duct taped the grenade to the inside of the door, having looped the second and final ring pull, this one triangular, over the door handle.

Don admired his handiwork, set the delay on the 'flash bang' to one second and ascended the stairs. He exited the door onto the Aldwych and looked around to see if anyone had seen him. Nobody was paying any attention, except for a pretty young woman huddled up against the cold, who seemed more concerned about keeping warm than any workman going about his duties. Don wrapped his coat around himself and headed for the tube and a warm journey back to Hackney.

***

Tim opened the door leading to the staircase and all hell broke loose around him. There was a flash of bright light that seemed to sear his eyes, and he realised that he had been left temporarily blinded. At the same moment there was a deafening bang which came close to perforating his eardrums and which disrupted his balance. Completely disoriented, he instinctively recoiled from the booby-trapped door and stepped into the live third rail.

Within a second or two the disorientation was replaced by excruciating pain as he felt over four hundred volts coursing through his body. Intuitively he knew he had just seconds to live unless he could get off the line. He leaned forward for support and unthinkingly rested his right hand on the cast iron tunnel wall.

The current from the third rail passed through Tim and into the cast iron. He became a conductor and a resistor at the same time. Mercifully, he died before his insides fried and his clothes caught fire. A few minutes later, nothing remained of him except for a charred husk, along with the smell of burning and the vague aroma of roast pork.

***

Gil's plans had not included passing out. She had allowed Tim to shoot her in the torso. If the useless desk jockey had dared to try a headshot she would have dived for the shaft before he got a round off. The nasty piece of work must have been using some kind of heavy duty ammunition. She had guessed he would; amateurs always go for overkill. As a result, Tim's three rounds had penetrated her clothing and the Kevlar bulletproof vest, but had stopped at the shaped ceramic body protection underneath.

Once she had been shot she had made every effort to rappel as far down the rope as possible before Tim could cut the rope. It was much better to fall forty feet than sixty. Luckily he had been slow to react, and she had been less than thirty feet from the bottom of the shaft when she started to free fall.

As usual after a heavy fall, Gil used her tradecraft and training. She lay extremely still while she examined her body with her right hand.

"Good. No compound fractures, anyway."

She then checked her limbs one at a time, moving each one slowly until she was happy there were no broken bones. Finally she proceeded to test for muscle or ligament damage by flexing every muscle group in order from her feet to her neck. She ached all over, but the only real pain she felt was where the ceramic body shield was pressing into her flesh. Twenty minutes had passed since the shooting, according to her indiglo watch. If all had gone according to plan, Tim would have met his own fate by now.

Gil shouted 'lights', and immediately two voice controlled lights were illuminated. They were rated at five hundred watts each and they cast their light widely. Obviously the areas closest to the lights were the most brightly lit, but even the far ends of the platforms were visible, albeit barely.

Slowly Gil rolled off the debris of her landing pad and set her feet on the ground. She removed her coat, her Kevlar vest and the ceramic shield. All were ruined, and when she saw the slugs trapped between the two layers of protection she could see why.

Only two parts of her plan had been outside of her control; would Tim go for a headshot at such close distance, even though he had always been a useless shot? And, would he then report her demise before he himself passed on? Clearly Tim had played safe and placed three armour-piercing shots in her chest. As useless as the grouping of the shots might be, any one of them would have been fatal. In any event, he would have tipped her injured body into the lift shaft and let gravity finish his job. Gil could only hope that he would report in as soon as the job was done. She relied on her understanding of the psychology of agents who rarely ventured into fieldwork. They tended to become rather excited and the excess adrenaline pumped them up until they had to tell someone about their success. Tim was just such an animal, and so she was confident that Thames House now believed she was dead.

Gil's gaze swept around the old platform; some agents had found it a little scary but she had always found it interesting. When the platform had been stripped and sealed after the Second World War, they had uncovered original Victorian ironwork and even some old advertising that must have predated 1917. If there had been enough time, Gil would have unscrewed the painted tin advertisement board, which, although very faded, showed a lady in Edwardian dress carrying a parasol and recommending Swann & Edgar's Department Store at Piccadilly Circus. In an odd coincidence, the department store was damaged by the last ever Zeppelin raid over London in 1917, the same year these platforms were last used for tube travel. But the Chameleon simply did not have time for nostalgia. She had work to do if she was to escape from the UK and build a new life for herself elsewhere.

It had taken time to prepare the old platform for her purposes, but her hard work appeared to have been rewarded. As soon as the meeting had been planned she had known what to expect, and set about surviving the attempted assassination. First of all she loosened the brickwork that sealed off the old platform by placing a detonator into a mortar joint and triggering it remotely. Detonators of the type Gil used have a small explosive charge of their own called a primary charge. This is enough to set off a more stable explosive material like Semtex 10, but in many cases the detonator charge alone is enough to do a small job, and it removes the need to procure hard-to-get plastic explosive material such as Semtex or DHX.

As she had calculated, the brickwork had loosened enough in the centre of the wall for Gil to knock it through with a two-kilogram brick hammer. She expected the air to be fetid and un-breathable, but the lift shaft obviously provided enough ventilation because the air inside was slightly stale but not overly unpleasant. Gil didn't worry about filling the hole she had created, as no one had been down this tunnel for decades, probably because the ancient sign at the entrance bluntly stated that the tunnel was a 'Dead End'.

The Chameleon had known that if she was to survive she would need some supplies, and so she arranged for one of her greeting card delivery drivers to deliver twenty flat packed cardboard boxes to the side entrance of the tube station. If he was puzzled by this instruction he didn't say anything. He didn't even look particularly puzzled when his Managing Director appeared at the side door of an abandoned tube station covered in dust to take possession of them. Gil collected the lights and the other items herself, and delivered them under the cover of darkness in the early hours of the morning.

By the time she had finished Gil had filled the base of the lift shaft with three layers of large, empty cardboard boxes rising to above her head height. Three inches of latex foam covered the boxes, and the same material had been taped to the concrete wall surrounding the landing base. A first aid kit, also enclosed in foam, was wedged against the wall.

The lights, and the boat batteries which provided their power, had been carefully lowered down the shaft where earlier the foam and the cardboard boxes had been allowed to free fall to the bottom. Satisfied with her precautions, Gil retired to the Waldorf Astoria where her luxurious bathroom and bed were calling her. She managed five good hours of sleep in her executive room before she had to dress, don her armour and wait for Don to remove the safety bar.

When Tim had shot her she looked genuinely pained, because it hurt a good deal more than she had expected. Nonetheless, if she wanted the performance to be convincing she had to follow up with a seventy foot fall to her apparent death. Falling seventy feet, even onto her landing pad, was likely to be injurious, if not fatal; stuntmen had died falling shorter distances. So, as soon as she tumbled into the lift shaft, she grabbed hold of the recently replaced rope with her lined leather gloves, the stopping forces almost pulling her shoulders out of the sockets. She then slid and rappelled down the rope as fast as she could into the beckoning blackness. Gil was less than thirty feet from the platform when the rope gave way and she fell. Quickly she folded her arms across her chest and crossed her legs whilst lying as flat as possible. She had screamed, and not just for effect, when she hit the bottom. As planned, the foam absorbed the initial impact and then the boxes collapsed under the weight and momentum of a falling body. Despite the relative softness of the landing, Gil was shaken badly and had passed out with a mild concussion. Given the alternatives, it had been an acceptable outcome.

***

Having concealed her debris and equipment in the old platform office, Gil brushed herself down and smiled as she made one addition to the old platform which was now back in the state it had been for decades.

Moving through the formerly sealed tunnel, Gil climbed through the hole that Don would reseal shortly, at the same time he replaced the safety bar on the rails and the lift shaft cover that Gil had rolled into the loading bay.

Rather than exiting through the side door, the Chameleon left via the tunnel, wary of the live rail. She passed what she believed to be the remains of Tim, who looked as though he had been thrown onto a bonfire, and opened the door leading to the secret Aldwych staircase. Picking up the remaining pieces of the 'flash bang' grenade, she threw them down the tunnel onto the unused track and closed the door behind her.

Ten minutes later she was in her hotel room, discarding her bullet holed clothing and dropping onto the bed, planning her future in the comfort of the pale grey hotel room. In five more minutes she was asleep, dreaming of her upcoming expedition and what she might find.

Chapter 30

Vastrick Security, Nr 1 Poultry, London. Tuesday 11am.

Simon yawned, opening his mouth so wide that his jaw clicked, and for a moment he thought it had locked. He massaged the sides of his face just below his ears with his fingers until the muscles relaxed. As he had predicted, he had been up all night, spending only three hours in the tiny bedroom at the end of the corridor. In an hour or two he would make the journey home and crash out until tomorrow morning, but for the moment he still had work to do.

The young forensic analyst leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses; he rubbed at the bridge of his nose where his glasses had left small red marks. He just needed a moment. The tiredness was becoming a hindrance. He had been so tired overnight he had begun to hallucinate.

He had a dream that he was sitting at his computer as lines of text zoomed up past his eyes so quickly they were a blur. When he woke up he was indeed at his keyboard, and his sleeping hand had been resting on the down arrow, scrolling through pages of research at increasing speed.

He was sure that coffee would help, but it wasn't an option. Simon's blood stream was probably already more caffeinated than was wise and so he sipped a glass of chilled water and refreshed his face with a handy wipe. The printer in the background hummed as each page of his report printed. He had gathered, ordered and summarised over eighty pages of text relating to the life history of Gillian Davis.

Simon knew he was a bit of a geek. He also knew that, despite his best efforts, he tended to look like a geek, too. He was almost six feet tall, with short fair hair that refused to accept a parting. His skin was fair and prone to sunburn and freckles. Skinny to the point of malnutrition, he did not wear clothes; he hung them on his shoulders and let gravity take care of the rest. Even the smallest waisted trousers would be cinched at his midriff with a belt. Women like Gillian Davis rarely paid him any heed, until their computers failed; and then their wide bovine eyes pleaded for his help. The printer stopped churning out paper, and Simon reached over and gathered the printed sheets of A4 which almost filled the tray.

Skimming through the summary before he clipped the pages into a folder, he read:

Gillian Davis was born to a single Mother by the name of Andrea Jane Bailey, father unknown, appearing on her birth certificate. When just a few months old her mother died and she was adopted by her Mother's employers, the Davis's. At the time of the adoption the Social Workers attempted to contact Gillian's potential father, Denton Miles III, but were unsuccessful.

Gillian had grown to maturity on the Tallgarth Manor Estate at Stratfield Turgis, near Basingstoke in Hampshire. She had enjoyed a healthy adolescence but had been admitted to hospital as a young teenager when an overzealous doctor treating a suspected case of strep throat reported to social workers that the infection was actually gonococcal pharyngitis. The doctor was concerned because the main cause of this type of infection was oral sex and Gillian was so young. During an uncomfortable investigation male family members were both suspected and quizzed, but eventually the girl admitted to her case worker that she had been assaulted by a local man who had later taken his own life.

Simon's quick search of the Newbury Weekly News archive revealed that Leslie Barnett Vaughan, aged 35 years, took his own life in the same year in the woods surrounding Tallgarth Manor. He was not well liked or respected and his own wife and children did not attend his funeral.

"Harsh," Simon thought to himself. He continued reading.

An exceptional student at some very expensive, but very ordinary, minor public schools, Gillian Davis excelled at shooting, archery and orienteering. Gillian was Junior National Rifle Shooting Champion - Field, twice, and Junior National Rifle Shooting Champion – Target, three times. Called up to the National team on six occasions, she missed what would have been the highlight of her amateur career when she missed the Commonwealth Games with a dislocated shoulder.

With the award of a First Class Honours Degree in Combined Sciences, she was able to go on to achieve a Masters in Biological Chemistry.

Because Simon hadn't immediately known what Biological Chemistry was, and because being a geek makes one thorough, he included a footnote for his readers;

1Biological Chemistry combines studies in Organic Chemistry with Biochemistry and Molecular Biology. These are combined with fundamental Chemistry and Biology and may also contain elements of Analytical Chemistry, Medicinal Chemistry, Ecology and Developmental Biology.

Gillian Davis was reading for a Doctorate when she was recruited by the MOD as an intelligence analyst (more likely as a special operations field officer/ sniper).

After a distinguished period of service she was pensioned off, and completed her Doctorate before using an inheritance to buy a failing greetings card company [Celebrato] and turning it into a commercial success.

NB: Whilst Ms Davis clearly was in receipt of an inheritance, probate records at Winchester indicate that she was the heir to Nicholas Barnaby Davis and not the heir of Harold Graham Davis, the owner of Tallgarth Manor. It was assumed that upon the sale of Tallgarth Manor to an international computer company, Gillian was gifted a proportion of the £7m sale price by her cousin. No records exist to verify this transaction but Ms Davis did invest £2.5m cash into Celebrato Greeting Cards shortly thereafter.

As recently as yesterday morning, the Clayton Card Chain announced the purchase of Celebrato Greeting Cards, and its assets, by a mix of shares and cash.

Satisfied with his work Simon sat down and bound the document before walking along the corridor to speak to Dee Hammond, his gorgeous – but married – boss.

***

The mobile phone on the desk vibrated and then rang with a tinny rendition of "Stars and Stripes Forever" that the composer, John Philip Sousa, would not have appreciated.

"Dee Hammond," the phone's owner announced to the caller from the Vastrick head office in the USA.

"Dee, this is George Templeton, Vice President of Operations in New York."

"Hi, George. I haven't seen those wobbly jowls of yours for an age. How are you doing?" Dee enjoyed bursting the bubble of the American contingent at Vastrick whose grand titles were beloved of their clients but anathema to Tom Vastrick, the American owner and President.

"Oh, I'm good. I'd be back in the field if it wasn't for this damn arthritis, you know."

"There'd be no holding you back, George. I tell you, if I wasn't already married...." Dee teased the sixty three year old executive mercilessly. She knew very well that if George was ever let out on fieldwork it would be bladder control that let him down, not arthritis.

"Dee, I need you to meet Flight AAM 46 from Los Angeles when it lands at Heathrow. It's due to arrive at sixteen hundred hours UK time. It's an Air America A380 and Katie Norman is on board." He paused before emphasising the word, "alone." The American sounded vaguely panicked.

"OK George, I'll do it. Why is she alone, though? We have a base to base contract with personal protection and close residential protection." Dee was genuinely puzzled, and for good reason. Katie should never have been on an aeroplane alone. It was a blatant breach of procedure.

In plain English, Vastrick had a contract to protect Katie at all times, with personal protection – a bodyguard, base to base cover – a protection team during travel, and, close residential protection – an agent eats, drinks, sleeps and attends University, parties and any other event with the client.

Normally such protection would be seen as overkill or tawdry fee generation, but when the client is very young, very vulnerable or under threat, it was occasionally necessary. This client met all of those criteria.

Katie Norman was one of Vastrick's youngest clients. She was still only twenty years old, but her film career had taken off when she was only twelve years old and she landed the role of Clara Campbell, a schoolgirl who attends a mystical school for spiritually gifted children. The books were a publishing sensation, and it was always accepted that the subsequent films would be box office hits if they were directed and produced with care and with respect for the author's characters and plots.

In the films Katie played Clara, a psychic who helped the hero, schoolboy Matthew Tibbett, release their friend, Jamie Faraday, a ghostly schoolboy from being imprisoned in the Netherworld. The three friends, now all mortal again, then battled the evil Spectre through six books and six blockbuster films, the last of which was due to premiere in London on Friday.

Luckily, Dee had protected Katie on a part time basis between the ages of twelve and fourteen, when she was handed over to another female operative called Janna, when Dee had to go to the USA for extended CPT (Close Protection Training).

Janna had looked after Katie until the young actress left school at seventeen and headed off to University in the USA. Since then, the Vastrick UK team had seen little if anything of the elfin face super starlet, except in the celebrity columns of the newspapers.

George sounded weary as he explained that Millie Pederson had been waiting to accompany Katie onto the plane to Heathrow when her appendix burst and she was rushed to hospital. The panicked crew held the distraught Katie in the VIP lounge until loading was complete, and then accompanied her to a private bedroom on the A380 airliner. At the personal request of Tom Vastrick, the First Class Purser ensured that a flight attendant was sitting outside the private room for the whole flight.

As far as anyone knew, Katie was upset but safe in her tiny suite forty two thousand feet over the Atlantic.

"OK, George. I'll take care of it. But she probably won't even remember me."

"Dee, you're not that easy to forget," George replied, his voice gentler, more relaxed.

***

Katie paced restlessly around her small suite. The interior had been designed by the renowned yacht designer, Jaques De Valle, and he had used the sparse room wisely. The room was furnished with two leather seats and a double bed. A thirty two inch flat screen LED TV had also been squeezed in. With IPod connections, a mini fridge and a choice of over one hundred and eighty films and TV programmes, this was how flying was meant to be done.

The aeroplane had been on the ground for almost thirty minutes and the young starlet was still not being allowed to disembark. She picked up her mobile phone and dialled the hospital but, despite her best endeavours, they would tell her nothing about Millie because she was not family. Frustrated, she threw herself on the bed and considered her itinerary. In less than three days she had to attend two parties, a fashion clothing launch, a book reading and the Premiere of Clara Campbell; Revenge of the Spectre.

She heard a polite tap on the door and, with the enthusiasm of a claustrophobic inmate about to be released from prison, she leapt up and opened the door.

***

Dee was frustrated by the delays she was encountering at Heathrow's Royal Suite. She was seated in Suite 1, on a luxurious sofa which had hosted the delicate derrieres of the Pope and Boris Johnson, amongst others, just a year before. She scanned the luxuriously appointed suite and took in the bright Hockney painting and the folding screen commissioned from Lord Linley. A moment later Melita Avery, known colloquially as 'Melita the Greeter' strode over to Dee, who rose from the overstuffed sofa with some difficulty.

"Dee! How nice to see you again. Are you back on protection duty? I'd heard that you'd crashed through the glass ceiling to head up Vastrick in the UK."

"Nice to see you, too," Dee responded. "Are you still in the Territorials?"

"I am indeed. I'm a major now, but obviously my occasional trips to trouble spots are less dangerous than yours. I heard you got shot."

"Twice," Dee replied with a grimace. "When Josh gets back, let's have a run out to Jamie Oliver's place for dinner. You can still get a table there, I guess?"

"If he ever wants his luggage back, I can." They both laughed before Melita placed her hand on the small of Dee's back and guided her out of the door and towards the limousine that would take them to the Airbus.

***

Dee tapped on the cabin door a little apprehensively. When she had last known Katie Norman she had been a quiet fourteen year old who thought of Dee as the big sister she never had. But now, at twenty, what would she be like? Would years of stardom have turned her into a diva, perhaps? Dee would have to be careful.

The door opened and a scowling young face appeared, appraising the visitor for a moment. Suddenly, in an amazing transformation, the twelve year old pixie face was back. Gone were the long, wavy chestnut tresses of yesterday. They had been replaced with a sophisticated short cut which emphasised her fine bone structure. The smile that split the face was as wide as it was genuine. The girl threw herself at her new bodyguard.

"Dee! This is fantastic. I've missed you. Wow, I never thought I'd see you again." The last few words were spoken directly into Dee's right ear as the two girls hugged. They unlatched, and Katie stepped back and took hold of Dee's two hands. As she squeezed she felt something on the left hand. Her eyes widened with excitement as she lifted Dee's left hand for a closer look.

"Oh, Dee! You haven't!" The young actress admired the rings at close range, rubbing her thumb over the diamond engagement ring. "The boys will be destroyed when they find out." Katie was referring to her co-stars in the films, both of whom had developed a serious crush on the protection operative when they were young teenagers.

"You exaggerate, I'm sure," Dee answered, smiling. "I don't think they'll even remember who I am."

Katie laughed. "Oh, they will, you can be sure of that. Boys always remember their first lust."

Dee shook her head in mock annoyance in an attempt to stop the conversation where it was, though unsuccessfully.

"There isn't a boy alive who wouldn't fall in love with a beautiful older woman who could throw the stage manager to the floor without spilling her coffee."

"Katie Norman! Stop this now. You were a wicked fourteen year-old and it seems college in the States hasn't improved your manners."

"Come on, Dee. Surely you must have noticed? If you as much as winked at either Tom or Danny they got all hot and sweaty and...." She held her left hand out in a fist and flicked up her forefinger until it was perpendicular. "Ping!"

The young girl accompanied the gesture with the sound more than the word.

Dee looked shocked, and she could feel herself beginning to blush.

"It seems that I've been assigned to look after you just in time. You are a wicked little madam who needs a bit of discipline. Come on, we have to go."

Katie laughed out loud and, despite not wanting to do the same, Dee followed suit. They laughed the tension from their bodies. They sat side by side on the bed. Dee looked at her young client and squeezed her hand.

"What took you to LA? I thought you were studying in New York?"

"Breast reduction," Katie blurted out as quick as a flash, as though such a procedure was the most normal thing in the world. Dee couldn't help laughing again because, until she was fourteen, Katie was forever measuring her bust, looking for that extra millimetre that would tell her that her breasts were still developing, but they never had. Even today she was, at best, a B cup.

"Joking, obviously," she said as she looked down at her chest. "Actually, I was working. I was launching the Fair Trade fashion show and opening the Fair Trade clothing emporium. I knew that Millie felt unwell and I just carried on. I feel pretty bad about that. I keep called the hospital but they just say she's as well as can be expected, whatever that means."

Dee was a little surprised at the concern this famous young woman felt for Millie Pederson, a polite but tough security operative from the Bronx.

"Well, you have no need to worry because Millie had an operation and they caught the post trauma infection early in the process. She'll be on an antibiotic drip until you get back, and the prognosis is that she will fully recover. She was lucky that she wasn't actually on the plane when her appendix burst, or she could have contracted peritonitis, which can be fatal."

Katie looked solemn, and her eyes glazed with tears. Dee placed her right arm around her shoulder and squeezed gently.

"Come on, don't worry. Millie is tough. I remember hearing that once she left a New York Deli, only to be confronted by six self styled ninjas. Then, armed with just a loaf of French bread, four carrots and a tub of Tofu, she fought them all off."

"Is that true?" Katie asked, her face brightening.

"Not a word, but it made you smile. We both know she's a tough cookie." Dee paused, and it was the younger woman's turn to shake her head with disapproval.

"Come on, Clara Campbell," Dee said, referencing the actress's alter ego. "We have an appointment with the Pope's couch!" Her protégé looked puzzled, but picked up her bag and followed anyway.
Chapter 31

Doncaster Railway Station, East Coast Line. Tuesday 5pm.

Gil was halfway between London and Newcastle when a text came through on her mobile phone, informing her that her premium seat on the aircraft had been confirmed. Upon her arrival at Newcastle Central Station, a limousine would be waiting to whisk her away to the Britannia Hotel at Newcastle Airport.

Agents, and particularly former agents like Gil who were trying to remain anonymous, loved train travel. It was possible to travel anywhere in the UK, and no one asked for your name as long as you paid for your tickets in cash. These arrangements made it doubly difficult for anyone to track your movements. As cautious as ever, when Gil arrived at the Airport's basic three star hotel, she would be staying in a room booked under the name of Jean Lansbury, the Celebrato Cards North East Regional Representative. By the time the invoice was queried by Celebrato HQ, Gil would be long gone.

Gil was content that the precautions she had taken at the Strand would convince MI5 that she was dead, but only for the time being. Whether it took twenty four hours, a week or a month, they would eventually find out that she had survived Tim's amateur assassination attempt and they would be back on her tail. She had no qualms about that; she just had to make sure that when they started looking for her the trail would be stone cold.

Gil set down her fork, having demolished the decadent dessert she had ordered as a well deserved treat. The sticky toffee pudding with caramelised sugar strings and sauce anglais lay heavy on her stomach as she looked out over the Yorkshire countryside, whilst the 6090 bhp electric train whizzed along at over one hundred miles per hour. The carriages attached to the 225 engines that pulled and pushed her northwards along electrified tracks to Newcastle had, coincidentally, been recently refitted at Doncaster, according to the metal plate on the floor by the door. The pleasantly appointed rolling stock had, rather ostentatiously, taken the name of the Mallard Coaches, to reflect the past glories of the railway and more specifically to honour the fast steam trains which had once travelled the historic east coast line between London and Edinburgh.

As she was still around ninety minutes away from her final stop, Gil leaned back in her reclined seat and snoozed.

***

Barry Mitchinson had made the first mistake of taking some of his wife's beta blockers to calm himself down, but he had made the second mistake of washing them down with copious amounts of Old Time Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey. The pills and the whiskey didn't mix well, and Barry had been experiencing mild hallucinatory side effects, as well as feeling an exaggerated sense of anxiety. He told himself he was a professional and that he needed to carry on. He had an operative missing.

He looked at his watch. Almost eight hours had passed since Tim had reported that he was on his way back to the office, having disposed of the Chameleon. Barry rarely left the office on business matters, but this was a search that he would have to conduct himself; if the Director caught even the faintest sniff of a Level Three operative being lost on assignment in the UK, Barry's career would be over.

"Evening, Mr Mitchinson." The formal greeting came from a well built man of indeterminate age who lacked a single hair anywhere on his head or face. His shiny bald pate shone under the streetlight.

"Right, then. Let's get this gate open and get out of this wind."

Trevor fiddled with the lock for a minute before declaring, "Someone has changed the padlock. I can't get in. We'll have to go down the side entrance if you don't mind, sir."

Barry shivered as he pushed his hands deep into his old Crombie overcoat. The woollen scarf around his neck was offering some protection from the cold, but his face was almost numb. They reached the side entrance.

"Bloody hell! The lock's been changed here as well. You know, I bet those idiots in maintenance have put the wrong padlocks on the station doors. I wouldn't mind betting that if we went to Temple we'd find the Strand padlocks on the wrong gates." The man paused as he placed the keys back in his pockets. "I hope you don't mind tight spaces," he said, leading him back the way they had come.

Barry huddled into his coat and followed Trevor to the Aldwych and the old fire exit door.

"Hoo-bloody-ray!" the Transport for London operative hooted loudly as the door opened. The two men entered and began to descend the narrow stairway to the platform level. A faint but rather unpleasant aroma met them on the breeze.

"What's that smell?" Barry asked, turning his nose up.

"Buggered if I know," the old underground worker responded. "It smells like yesterday's barbeque."

Trevor Deacon took a long hard look at the door leading to the rail line. Signs of recent burning were all too obvious. Kids, he thought to himself.

***

Barry didn't like fieldwork at the best of times, and if his career had not been at risk he would never have entered this pit of a staircase. He was panicking in a way he had never done before, and only his pride prevented him from screaming out, demanding to be freed from this claustrophobic hell.

Trevor took his time opening the door and the pungent, rancid smell reached their noses even more strongly, but not before the charred remains of Tim came into sight.

"My God, is that Tim? Is he dead?" Barry spluttered uselessly.

"Hang on, I'll check for a pulse." The older man leaned closer to the body that looked more like a charcoal sculpture than a human body.

"You're joking surely?" Barry exclaimed.

"Of course I am, you prat!" All respect had disappeared from his voice. Norman leaned forward, being careful not to touch anything. "Did your man wear a Rolex?"

"Yes, an Oyster, I believe. Why?"

"Well, good news there, then." There was a pause. "It's still working."

***

Twenty minutes later the tunnel was filled with bodies, all alive except for Tim, whose metal service tags had survived the incineration. There were representatives from the Transport Police, Transport for London, the Health and Safety Executive and an MI5 duty officer.

Barry had tried fruitlessly to rein things in, to keep the lid on this, but Trevor Deacon was having none of it. This was his problem, even if the dead man was some fried spook who had evidently been wandering around where he shouldn't have been.

The HSE man was clearly in charge, and the police were following his instructions. He wandered over to Barry, who was sitting on the edge of the platform, his legs dangling over the rail.

"Here's the thing, Mr Mitchinson. Your boy has undoubtedly been cooked by several hundred volts, but the line is not presently live." The tall thin HSE inspector took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Using his spectacles to point in the direction of the rails at the entrance of the tunnel, he continued.

"The bar - the one you see there - well, that bar prevents anyone from making the line live inadvertently. So, given that it's in place now, the only possibility is that someone replaced it after your man died. No current can have passed though the line with that bar in place."

"What does that mean, exactly?" Barry asked, fearful of the answer.

"It means that this may no longer be an HSE matter. It may be a police matter. I think your friend there was murdered."
Chapter 32

MI5 Headquarters, Thames House, London. Wednesday, 11am.

Barry Mitchinson had been in the office since seven in the morning and he was flagging already. The beta blockers weren't helping his panic attacks, and the more of them he took, the edgier he seemed to become. Reaching into the bottom of his movable pedestal drawers, he lifted out a new bottle of No.7 Sour Mash Whiskey all the way from Lynchburg, Tennessee. He splashed a generous serving into a disposable plastic cup from the water cooler, and stashed the bottle again.

Looking at his monitor, he watched with disgust as rodents crawled over the face of a prostrate body, eating their fill.

***

It had been almost midnight when he had managed to usher out the last of the police, the HSE and other sundry interfering busybodies from the Strand station platform. Left alone, he ascended the spiral staircase to the ground level lobby and lifted the old wooden cover from the abandoned lift shaft. There was nothing to see. It was pitch dark in the shaft, and the expected smell was thankfully absent.

If Gil Davis really was down there, as Tim had claimed, she would have been dead for no more than a few hours; the odours of decomposition would, no doubt, follow later. There was a rattle as the padlock on the shutters was cut off and the cage shutters rolled aside.

Two men from Technical Services entered the lobby and closed the shutter behind them. The first nodded to Barry and the second spoke.

"We have the equipment. Do you mind if we measure up first?" he asked more politely than was necessary, given Barry's precarious position in the service as of tonight.

"Do as you wish. Let's just get on with it."

The two technicians measured the opening and marked the dimensions down in a yellow covered flip over pad, much like a policeman's notebook. They spoke between themselves.

"It's a standard diameter, so a cast Iron cover will do. We'll have a ring around the top, and the manhole cover in the middle will be hinged to allow access. Might as well put some hydraulics on it to make it easy to lift."

The older man addressed Barry, who was staring blankly into space. "Does that sound OK, Guv?"

"Whatever it takes to seal it off, I don't really care. Can we get the camera down there now?"

Slightly annoyed at the perceived lack of appreciation for their attending a dusty old tube station in the middle of the night, the older technician produced what looked like an oversized metal attaché case. The body of the case was black but the reinforced edges were brushed aluminium. Setting the case down and unclasping the two metal restraints, the Technician opened the case to reveal what looked like a professional photographer's camera case but with a five and a half inch colour monitor built into the lid.

The case was split into two longitudinal compartments; the camera and cable were closest to the lid and the transformers and lens adapters closest to the front of the case.

"Seth, we need the battery and the extra cable out of the box, please," the technician noted.

The younger man, Seth, quickly extracted the cable and what looked like a car battery from the pull along trolley they had brought in with them, and within a few short minutes the camera was sliding down the seventy-feet-deep shaft.

Once the camera hit the bottom, Victor, the older technician, switched on the camera. After a few seconds of fuzzy lines and then pixilation, the picture steadied.

"OK, Seth. Up about a foot."

The young man lifted the camera cable as requested. "Right, Guv, I'm putting on the active light. This only illuminates the immediate area, especially in the pitch darkness, OK?"

Barry nodded, too tired and demoralised to speak. He just knew that there would be no body down there and that Gil Davis was already out of the country.

"Bugger me!" Victor flinched as he said it, and looked at Barry, who was transfixed at the awful scene.

***

Sitting back in his chair, Barry swigged the last of the whiskey and crumpled the cup before discarding it in a recycling bin. Throwing a stick of Trebor gum into his mouth to mask the smell of the alcohol, he watched the final moments of the DVD the technicians had recorded last night.

There in extreme wide angle was a body; it was broadly in profile but it was definitely a body. The body had a coat, a scarf and gloves, as one would expect on a cold day. The hair was long and fair, loosely styled as a woman would wear it. The camera zoomed into the face but there was little to see. One at a time rats would crawl up onto the exposed skin, bury their sharp incisors into the flesh, tear off a strip and run away to enjoy their meal.

Obviously no one could say that this was definitely Gil Davis, but the corpse had her build and was wearing her style of dress. The hair colour was a rough match, given the poor video quality, and who else was going to be down there? It looked very much as if Tim had done his job and then got himself killed on the way out. Never mind. He hadn't been much use, anyway.

Barry was contemplating one more drink to calm his agitation when the phone rang. It was the Director himself; no PA this time.

"My office. Now!" he demanded, his voice betraying barely concealed anger.

Barry took the DVD and his written report, and hurried towards the elevator.

***

The holiday flight had left on time from a very quiet Newcastle Airport. The charter flight, operated by a well known holiday company, was code-sharing the route with another household name from the travel industry. Holidaymakers from two of Europe's largest tour operators mingled in the concourse, dressed in a variety of tee shirts, denims and football shirts. They were all dressed for sunnier climes, as the temperature outside the glass atrium was only fractionally above zero.

Gil had no problems checking in using the Gold Class desk. There was no-one ahead of her and she was ushered through quickly. Her seat was on the aisle and was the equivalent of a business class seat on a scheduled airline. The seat was pale tan leather with ample legroom and a good one hundred and thirty five degree recline. Her TV screen was around ten inches across and boasted an enviable range of movies, games and TV on demand. The one fly in the ointment was her immediate neighbour, John from Sunderland.

"You aren't from Sunderland, are you, bonnie lass? I can tell. I can always spot a Mackem girl."

Gil smiled in pretended comprehension. She had barely understood a word of the man's statement, concealed as it was behind an unfathomable accent. John was well into his life story when the plane took off. He was just getting to the 'exciting part' where he joined the National Coal Board as a welder, whilst playing trumpet in a dance band, when the plane left the ground and John was silenced. He went several shades of grey before his sallow complexion settled on white. His knuckles were bloodless as he gripped the seat with an intensity that suggested he would never let it go.

The man was in his sixties and seemed gentle enough. Gil placed her left hand on his right hand and gave it a gentle squeeze in an effort to comfort him. He looked at her, his lips set in a straight line. She smiled back and told him that he could relax; there was nothing to worry about.

Taking advantage of the sudden silence, she clamped her Bose noise reduction headphones around her head and over her ears, where she would keep them for the duration of the flight.

Whilst the sunshine beckoned and the beaches on offer on this package holiday appeared clean and white, Gil knew that she would not be sampling them. Their island destination was simply a staging point for the remainder of her journey, but she did have forty eight hours to play with before her next flight, and so she thought she might just top up her tan.

She smiled to herself, wondering what the reaction of the holiday rep would be when one of their guests missed the welcome brunch, disappeared from the hotel and failed to make the return flight next week.

***

The door to the director's outer office was closed, but the slider confirmed that the director was 'available'. Barry tapped on the door and opened it. Immediately in front of him to the left sat Maureen Lassiter. Directly ahead of him was the open door which led to the Director's inner sanctum, overlooking the river.

Barry looked at Maureen, tight lipped. She flicked her eyes to the left, indicating that the director was waiting and there was no time for small talk, or even so much as a cursory greeting. The bespectacled underling stepped forward and into the boss's office with all of the trepidation of Daniel entering the lion's den, except that Daniel had known that God would save him. Barry had no such high hopes for deity stepping in on his behalf.

"Ah, Mitchinson. I was just wondering how things were going on your stated objective of eliminating the Chameleon, AKA Gill Davis." The Director had a curious look on his face, and Barry was immediately wary.

"Good news, sir. She is dead and permanently entombed on the old Strand Tube Station platform. We are sealing the lift shaft tomorrow with a permanent cover and a manhole access." Barry lifted up the DVD and offered to slide it into the Director's laptop. The director waved his arm in what Barry took to be permission to proceed.

Inside a minute, the DVD whirred into action and the line camera pictures were showing on the screen. Barry had hoped to shock the Director, but instead he witnessed a morbid fascination on his boss's face. The Director pressed the mouse button to halt the DVD, which he ejected and dropped into the waste bin beside him with a cruel smile playing across his lips.

He leaned on his desk, his forearms resting on the walnut veneer, his hands clasped with fingers interlocking. He was mere inches away from Barry Mitchinson's face when his own contorted into what appeared to be rage.

"Barry, I am not certain whether you are deliberately misleading me or whether you truly are cretinously stupid. I don't know who or what that video purports to show, but whatever it is I can assure you that it is not Gillian Davis."

Barry was beyond crestfallen; he was paralysed with despair. He was unable to summon the power of speech.

"Let me explain in terms that a simpleton like you can understand. Gillian Davis obviously killed Tim McKinnon, whose death luckily can be portrayed as an accident, but then I suppose Wondergirl planned it that way. She then foresaw that you would check she was dead, and so placed something, or someone, on that platform for you to find. If only she was working for me instead of the team of incompetents I currently have at my disposal.

She seems to have completely outfoxed MI5 and the establishment, not least your good self. Worse still for me, and that means for you too, I have to explain what the hell we are doing killing our own people, on our own turf, when they threatened no one except a bunch of bad guys we would rather see dead!" He was yelling by the time the last sentence came to an end.

"That isn't strictly true, sir." Barry tried to restore his credibility, knowing that his boss was beyond listening. "She murdered the Israeli Foreign Minister. They are a friendly country and he wasn't someone we would like to see dead. He was the minister of culture, for God's sake."

The Director tapped a key on his keyboard and a prepared page flicked up onto the screen. It was headed 'Yakir Bluwstein: Supplementary Research – Analytical Profile'.

"Let me read you something that you would know if you weren't a moron of the first order.

Yakir Bluwstein was still a teenager when he killed his first British Serviceman. The man was unarmed and lying in his sickbed when the boy sneaked into the hospital and shot the man in the head, leaving the symbol of the Stern Gang on the body. Sergeant William Docherty, or Billy to his friends, had served bravely in the desert for the allies in the Second World War and was awaiting demobilisation just as soon as he recovered enough to travel home. Ironically, Billy had been instrumental in the release of inmates from the death camps and had been welcomed as a hero by Jews in Europe and England."

"Shit," Barry thought as the Director read on, "this is going to get worse."

"Minister Bluwstein was a member of the Stern Gang, known as Levi to the Zionists. He planned and helped execute the driving of a truck load of explosives into a British Police Station. Four were killed, and this is where it gets personal."

The director looked up to ensure he had Barry's undivided attention. "My uncle Ben, a Jew himself, incidentally, lost a leg and the sight in one eye in that attack. That raid was both wicked and pointless because only weeks later Israel became independent, and the Stern Gang had known very well what was going to happen. So did the minister repent, or change his odious ways? I think not. Bluwstein was the Minister of Defence when the Israeli Air force bombed unprotected Lebanese civilian targets with phosphorous armaments during the last Labour government. He went on TV and denied the use of phosphorous bombs, and declared that an internal Israeli enquiry had cleared Israel of wrongdoing. We shared our proof that they had indeed used phosphorous bombs, but nothing was done. The Americans vetoed a war crime tribunal. As a sop to international outrage, he was demoted to Minister of Culture."

The Director turned away from the screen and looked at the defeated man sitting opposite before continuing.

"So, Mr Mitchinson, which part of Yakir Bluwstein's glorious history would make your average Englishman feel sorrowful at his passing? As much as I despise your little Wondergirl, she did the world a favour that day."

Barry knew there wasn't an answer that would keep him in a job, and so he looked down at his scuffed shoes.

"So, Mitchinson, when you appear in her cross hairs - as you undoubtedly will, as you tried to kill her - tell her my late Uncle Dan sends his regards."

A terrible silence engulfed the room and Barry heard Maureen Lassiter quietly close the door between her office and the Directors office. There was obviously only so much blood letting a sensitive woman could take in a day.

"I'll seal the ports and airports as soon as I get back to my desk. We will apprehend her, soon enough." Barry tried to regain some of the momentum.

"You know, you really do disgust me, you odious little man. Men have died this week because of your incompetence, and you are still protecting your own worthless hide.

Gillian Davis flew out of the UK under her own name on a charter flight this morning. She is in the air as we speak, heading to the sun."

"Well, I'll have her picked up as soon as she arrives. We have operatives in most cities and we can rely on the local authorities everywhere else. She can't escape." Barry sounded more confident now, but the director laughed.

"Does your stupidity know no bounds? Let me see, this woman has outsmarted you every step of the way and made you and the firm look incompetent. The only reason I knew she was flying out this morning was that she bought a book on her credit card at Newcastle Airport."

Barry looked puzzled. "But she must know any transactions would be flagged."

"Of course she did! The title of the book was 'Getting Away to Cuba, a traveller's guide'. She is mocking us; she knows very well that the one country in the civilised world that will not cooperate with us at all is Cuba. Once she lands there, we lose her forever. We will never know where she is. She could stay and enjoy endless Mojitos in Hemingway's favourite bar, or she could fly to any communist enclave in the world. At least we can sell off her company and bang another few million into the treasury's coffers. Contact Lena at SOCA and get her to make an application to the Assets Agency under the Proceeds of Crime Act 2002."

Barry hardly dared speak. His heart was racing and he could feel an anxiety attack coming on as he answered.

"She doesn't own any assets in the UK any more, apart from a few hundred pounds in her current account. The remaining assets of the business were sold to the employees for one pound under a legal covenant last week. Later the same day the employees transferred their assets in the company to another greeting card company for an undisclosed amount.

SOCA says that the deal is watertight without clear evidence that criminal funds purchased, or were invested in, the company, and we have no such evidence. It seems that she paid around three million for the business when she acquired it and took around three million when she left. SOCA say that the courts would accept the argument that the illegal assets , if any, were paid into the company and paid out by the company in equal amounts, and so no money laundering has taken place and no illegal assets remain in the company. In short, their lawyers say that we have no case, even if we could prove Gillian Davis had accrued her three million investment money illegally. None of that is relevant anyway; we simply have no idea where her money is now."

The director flung back the stressless office recliner he used as a desk chair, which was clearly not working to reduce his stress, and leaned over Barry Mitchinson, hatred burning in his eyes.

"I'd say Cuba has a good chance of being the new home of Davis's fortune, wouldn't you? Idiot!"

Sorry, sir," Barry responded meekly. This seemed to send the Director into an uncontrollable rage.

"Sorry? You spineless piece of garbage! Are you just going to sit around for the rest of your life and let people defecate on you from a great height? You were a Director here, for heaven's sake. You had a Thames view, and when they told you the special operations division was going you meekly sat back and let the DG demote you. Have you no pride?

Do you know that the powers that be had a bet on how low you could be demoted before pride kicked in and you raised a fuss? But you never did, and so they all lost their bets. I won because I said you'd stay even if I sent you to work in the cafeteria. They had a good laugh at that. You are a joke. Now, get out of my office. I need to call your wife and tell her I need a good blow job tonight. She'll come running, as she always does - as she always has. Then, whilst she is mopping up, she'll make some joke about you not being able to get it up. Poor Eloise; she deserves a good shagging and I'll make damn sure she gets one."

***

Something in Barry Mitchinson snapped; the stress, the drugs and the drink combined to produce a white heat of rage such as he had never before experienced. He toyed with the idea of telling the Director that he knew all about his wife and her many conquests, and how he used his wife to extract useful information from the Director in their post coital banter.

Barry wanted to tell him that for years he had been banging the Director's own secretary, the delicious Maureen, often over the Director's own desk and in his precious thousand pound 'stressless' chair.

He wanted to humiliate the man by telling him that between them he and Maureen had amassed almost a million pounds from foreign governments, who believed it was the Director they had in their pockets when they had never even spoken to him. But he did none of these things; he reacted as he had never done before. He reacted physically.

The first blow was a head butt that spread the Director's nose over his face, blood trickling down the crevices made by his jowls. The second blow was a firm punch to the solar plexus, which doubled the Director over towards Barry's third blow, an uppercut that sent the older man back into his chair, unconscious.

***

Mitchinson was still shaking when Maureen came into the room.

"My word, Barry, I heard what he said, but this! This will get you sent down."

Barry was suddenly back in control. He looked at Maureen, and with the hand that seconds before had inflicted a terrible violence on his boss, he gently stroked her cheek.

"It's still early, and there aren't many people around. We need to act quickly. Bring me your keyboard and mouse."

Maureen looked confused, but she did as her lover asked and returned with a standard keyboard and mouse.

Barry plugged both appliances into the Director's laptop and opened Microsoft Word. Typing carefully on Maureen's keyboard, he wrote a note on the Directors machine.

To Security Service Director General; Dame Monica Stewart - Smith.

Dear Monica,

I realise this will come as a shock but I cannot go on, I have made mistakes, too many to mention, but they have taken their toll. I was never there for my children and my wife is well aware of my continuing infidelity. I have betrayed my college friend Barry Mitchinson by conducting a long term affair with his wife and my former girlfriend Eloise, and on this issue I simply cannot find it in me to be ashamed.

Where I do feel ashamed is in my illegal dealings with foreign agencies who have asked for, and have been granted favours and access they were not entitled to receive.

I have betrayed you, my wife, MI5 and my country.

Having removed the people who knew about my indiscretions, I believed I was safe, though I do regret that Doug and Tim had to die to keep my secret safe. Unfortunately one more person knows all about my secret arrangements, and she has avoided my attempts at assassination and has flown to Cuba. I have no doubt she will reveal all as soon as she lands.

I am, at heart, something of a coward in these matters and I cannot take the shame and opprobrium that awaits me and so this will be my last missive. Please ensure that my wife receives all of the benefits to which she is entitled. She has been faithful, true and blameless in all of this.

I hope that this final selfish action can, in some way protect the agency and the country from embarrassment.

Ian.

Barry did not bother to print the note, rather he saved it to the 'documents' folder and left it displaying on the screen. He unplugged the keyboard and mouse and handed them back to Maureen. She took them back to her desk and re-attached them to her own machine.

With both office doors secured, as they had been during their passionate lovemaking in the past, Barry spoke as he wiped the blood from the desk with a screen wipe.

"This is how it happened. You heard a loud noise and so you tapped on the door to see if the Director needed assistance, only to discover he was beyond help. You then noticed the message on his screen. And this is the most important part, you will say that it is not possible that anyone passed you, either in or out, between his closing the door and his suicide. Do you understand?"

Maureen nodded blankly. Barry held her shoulders gently. Looking into her tear-filled eyes, he continued.

"Responding to his earlier call to me to join him for coffee, I arrived to find you sobbing uncontrollably on the sofa. OK?"

"Yes. But what are you going to do?"

"You'll see. When it's done I'll leave and return in a few minutes. Are you with me on this?" Maureen nodded again. "Now is the time for us to move on and spend some of that money we've salted away, to spend more time together."

Realising the nature of the proposal, Maureen buried her face in his shoulders. Barry held her at arm's length and said, nodding in the direction of their dead boss, "Save your tears for him. He will need someone to mourn his sorry life."

***

As with all other buildings in the UK, smoking was not allowed inside Thames House, and so smokers were expected to congregate outside in a designated area. The trouble with that arrangement, of course, was that it smelled awful and cigarette debris overflowed the bin and contaminated the whole area. It was a foul place, and it was meant to be that way. Perry Jameson was cleverer than the bosses, though; or so he thought.

Perry worked on ground minus 1, the floor which enjoyed the benefit of a patio overlooking the Thames. At the rear of the building floor G -1 was a floor lower than street level at the front of the building. The night had been long, and Perry would be off duty soon and back to his warm bed in Camden, hopefully with a warm body beside him. His current girlfriend was a nurse, and she worked nights, too.

He sat glancing out at the patio beyond his window. He wanted a smoke, badly, and that was his secret place. When Perry had first moved to this office, he was warned, somewhat pointedly, that the outside patio had been designated as an 'inside area' for the purposes of the smoking ban. The duty officer was familiar with such bureaucratic doublespeak. The powers that be had even alarmed the door to prevent random access to the patio, which was used for cocktail parties in the summer. The alarm could only be disarmed by the entry of a six figure code into the keypad by the door.

As duty building security officer (level two), Perry was not entitled to the security code required to exit the fire door without setting off the alarm. That was a privilege restricted to the Section Security Manager (the SSM) and the Chief of Building Security (CoBS). Fortunately, the SSM had a memory like a sieve, and so wrote the keypad code on a piece of paper taped to the pencil drawer in his desk. Perry had memorised it long ago.

As soon as her shift ended, Suzy, the overnight relief administrator, packed her bag and said goodbye. Perry would be alone for an hour, waiting for the SSM to turn in and take Perry's report, which would be brief and uneventful as usual, and so he keyed in 3-6-3-2-8-9 and disabled the exit door alarm.

Perry was drawing in a deep lungful of the calming smoke when he heard a noise. He looked up to see an old style computer monitor heading straight towards him. Darting back inside, he watched the monitor explode into a million pieces on the concrete patio. Still theoretically in charge of the building, he stepped outside to see which idiot had thrown the monitor out of the window. As he looked up he could see clearly that the fifth window up was shattered. That would be one of the Directorate offices, he thought. But his thoughts were interrupted by the figure of a man flying through the air in his direction, arms and legs flailing, with his face fixed in a rictus of fear. Diving to his left, the young security guard only just managed to avoid the falling body, but he did not escape the awful squelching sound of the body hitting concrete. He looked on in horror as the body twitched for a few seconds, before finally lying still.

Following procedure, Perry called an internal number, not the police, as it was obviously way too late for an ambulance. The Chief of Building Security was at his desk and Perry explained the situation. The Chief hurried down the stairs from his office, his mind already turning to how they could keep this quiet and how they could restrict the Metropolitan Police to a minimum involvement.

***

The Director had started to come around when the old and unused computer monitor crashed through the toughened glass window at the third attempt, the first two attempts merely cracking the large pane without penetrating it.

Barry lifted the man roughly to his feet. The Director caught sight of Maureen sitting on the sofa, a frightened expression on her face.

"For God's sake, Maureen! Call Security! He's lost his mind!"

Barry turned the Director to face the window and the older man realised what his fate entailed.

"Sorry, sir," Barry intoned ironically, "Maureen doesn't take orders from you any more, if indeed she ever did."

Barry laughed as he hauled the weakened director towards the opening. "Strange how things turn out, isn't it, Gordo? You're going to be flying out head first over the same windowsill where I shagged your PA last week."

Mustering all of his remaining strength, the Director pushed himself away from the broken glass, but two severe punches to the kidneys subdued him and he folded again, only to fully recover his wits as he fell from the window and caught sight of the concrete patio, five floors below, racing towards him.
Chapter 33

Stratfield Turgis Village, Nr Basingstoke, Hampshire. Wednesday, 11 am.

It was a week since the Hokobus had met their fate and Pete Lowden still thought about them every hour of every day. In an effort to shake off his despondency, Dee had despatched him to follow up on Simon's research into Gillian Davis' origins.

Thus it was that on a rare foray to this unfamiliar part of the country Geordie unexpectedly came across a fellow North Easterner. He shouldn't have been surprised. After all, his heart felt rendition of the local folk song, 'Wherever you go you're bound to find a Geordie' at the Black Horse on Friday nights had become a regular performance. Now, sitting in front of a real fire in a comfortable lounge, he was helping an attractive middle aged woman recall her childhood by sharing stories about how Newcastle had changed over the years since she had left.

Geordie's magic with middle aged women had worked again, and he had been warmly welcomed in by Angela Hult, widow of local poacher Les Vaughan. Simon had suggested that Geordie should start here, as it was rumoured that Les Vaughan had abused Gil Davis before taking his own life. Simon suspected that there was some truth in the rumour, given that his wife so despised her husband that she would not even attend his funeral.

After the reminiscences and some strong builder's tea, the two new friends spoke quietly and intimately about her past.

Angela Hult was born on Tyneside and had entertained dreams of being a vet, but her schoolwork was not of a standard that enabled her to enrol at university. So, at the age of seventeen she started work as a veterinary assistant in Northumberland, where she worked with horses. It seemed that she had found her calling in life, because soon she was working in Bishop Auckland with a famous racehorse trainer, who marvelled at her ability to get sick and injured horses back to their best so quickly. Initially the horse racing vets dismissed her talent, suggesting that her early successes were flukes, but as she performed her miracles more consistently her reputation grew.

At nineteen she found herself living in stable lads' accommodation near Newbury and on a drunken night out she met the handsome, but disturbed, Les Vaughan. Despite all the warnings, she married the man because she was smitten and he treated her so well. Sadly it didn't last. He was lazy, relying entirely on her income, he was unfaithful often on their marital bed when she was working, and he was brutal.

At twenty one she had seen enough, and was planning to move back to the North East when Les beat her very badly before taking her money and going out on a drunken binge. A local man named Nick Davis, known to help battered wives, called around when he heard about her injuries. When she refused to face the disparaging looks of the doctors and nurses at Newbury General Hospital yet again, he tended her wounds. Nick was gentle and understanding; he was a little older but quite attractive. Angela fell a little bit in love with the brother of the local squire, and uncle to Gillian Davis.

When she had been administered to, and comforted by, Uncle Nick, he left to seek out Les Vaughan. He apparently found him because Angela had a call the next morning from a casualty nurse asking her to visit Les in hospital. She didn't go. His mother went instead.

Geordie was intrigued at this glimpse into country life. This was the closest he had come to an everyday tale of country folk since his mother made him listen to the Archers' omnibus edition on Sunday mornings as she roasted the beef when he was a child.

"Angela, there was a rumour of a bit of a scandal about the time Gillian was born; it seems that Mr Davis wasn't her real dad. Did you know that?"

"Oh yes, Pete, this is a village. Everyone knows everything, there are no secrets here. It was before my time but it was village folklore long before Nick spilled the beans during one of our long talks. There were a lot of those. They were intended to let Les know I was protected, and it worked.

Nick told me that he had his eye on the new estate manager at Tallgarth House; she was a 'pretty little thing', he would always say, but I think he was head over heels in love with her without ever telling her. Her name was Andrea Jane Bailey and she was one of the first women to graduate in Estate Management at Reading University. Nick explained to me that they spent all of their spare time together, but he just couldn't find the words to tell her how he felt, and then Denton Miles turned up for an internship. Suddenly Andrea was spending every waking hour with Miles, and some non waking hours, too, I suppose."

Angela giggled. It was the sound of a young woman's giggle. It was light and it was infectious. Geordie smiled.

"Anyway, he left, she was pregnant with Gillian and then she fell ill. She died very quickly after the birth, if I recall the story correctly."

"Did you know Gillian as a child?"

"Of course. Like most girls she loved horses, and she trailed around with me, for days sometimes, but that was before she discovered shooting. We were right proud of her when she started winning medals." Geordie laughed at Angela's accent which suddenly morphed into a mix of Geordie dialect and West Country brogue. Angela giggled again.

"I'll be saying this is my one and that's your one next, won't I? I've been here too long," she joked.

"What happened to Denton Miles, do you know?"

Angela gazed into the fire and paused before answering.

"The story goes that he returned to the States to run his family farm in Virginia."

"Would Gillian have known who her real father was?"

"Absolutely, yes. Nick told her as soon as she was old enough to understand. She would talk to me about taking one of the horses and trekking to Virginia; she was six or seven at the time and didn't understand where the USA was."

"Angela, don't answer this if you don't want to, I won't be offended." He paused as she turned to look at him; sadness cloaked her wet eyes.

"Pete, its all in the past now. I had one rotten husband who I loved madly and then a wonderful husband who loved me madly, if only the two burning passions of my life had coincided in one man. Both are dead now; one shot, and one the victim of an unexpected heart attack. It's just me now. Maybe it's best that way."

"You're still young. You're an attractive woman."

Angela smiled at the compliment and pre empted the question.

"Les didn't kill himself, you know," she blurted out. Pete showed his surprise.

"Nah. He was way too selfish for that. I remember the day, though. He had been setting traps on the estate and he came home grinning all over his face, and, standing right over me, he rubbed his groin where his trousers were damp and said two words, 'Young meat'. I tell you, Pete, I nearly killed him myself. Not for my benefit, but I couldn't bear to see another life ruined.

A little while later he went out to clear his traps and he never came back. I called Nick to ask if he knew what was going on. Let's face it, his niece was fourteen, pretty as a picture and the only young teenager in the village. Nick told me that Les had assaulted Gillian and had committed suicide out of remorse. With more than a little help from Nick, I suspect. That little girl was the light of Nick's life. Anyway, suicide or no suicide, Les Vaughan didn't deserve to live and so there was no sorrow in the village at his passing, just relief."

Tears flowed down her cheeks and her shoulder shook as she continued speaking through sobs.

"I loved him you know, and yet I still wonder how anyone could love a bastard like that. I couldn't bring myself to go to his funeral because, for all that he did, and was, I still loved him and I didn't want to be seen to shed a tear for him in public." She broke down, and Pete pulled her into his shoulder with his arm around hers.

***

Pete had calmed Angela. It had taken fifteen minutes but she was now back to her ebullient self. Even her Geordie accent was making a comeback.

"Here, it's a long way back to London. Take a couple of these." As Geordie watched, Angela rolled a mini quiche and a corned beef pasty into a sheet of greaseproof paper.

"I made them myself. Don't know why, really, I rarely eat them. Pete?"

She paused and handed him his packed lunch, looking up at him.

"None of this is going to hurt Gillian, is it? I mean, I know you are a close security operative, it says so on your card, but she isn't in trouble, is she?"

Pete thought about the answer and lied to Angela for the first time.

"No, we're helping her meet up with her father. They've been separated for too long."

Angela's expression changed from one of concern to one of peace. She lifted her hands to either side of Pete's face and drew his face down to hers. Standing on the tips of her toes, she kissed him softly but fully on the mouth."

The tough bodyguard blushed.

"It's not often I get kissed by a handsome man these days," Angela murmured.

"I didn't recall kissing anyone; I thought I was the one being kissed," he replied rather ungallantly, but with a smile on his face.

"Well, when you live in a village called Stratfield Turgis, you take your fun where you find it," she said in defence of her actions.

Geordie gave Angela a last hug and then set off to find the Chameleon, and he thought he knew a good place to start.
Chapter 34

Security Service Director General's Office, Thames House, London. Wednesday, Noon.

Barry had been in this office only twice before and in both cases he had left the office with a demotion. This time he was on sure ground. He had solid evidence that his employer's representative had not only bullied and discriminated against him in the workplace - cause enough for unfair dismissal - but it was about to become common knowledge that the Director had been sleeping with Barry's wife. The service would want to sweep that tawdry mess under the rug.

Monica Stewart-Smith could now legitimately claim the title Dame of the British Empire. The award had been made just a year before for services to Her Majesty's Government. She had spent her career in the security services and had been a surprise appointment when the last incumbent, a Labour government toady, lost the coalition's confidence after wholly misreading the public appetite for increased security and reduced freedom.

'Ballbuster', as the DG had been known since the 1980s, had shattered the glass ceiling long before anyone had known there was such a thing. Unlike the 'boys' club' that ran MI5 in the 1970s, Monica had known that the fourth and fifth man would eventually have to be exposed, and so she planned her career accordingly. Well placed memos and reports naming them were sent and ignored, but once the two men were exposed her memos mysteriously came to light and she appeared to Margaret Thatcher, the current PM, to be a prophet whose predictions were both accurate and troubling.

The PM was keen to promote a woman to high office in the security service but the Home Secretary was having none of it, until Peter Wright blew the lid off the security services' culture of secrecy. Faced with overwhelming pressure, the Home Secretary gave in and Monica Stewart-Smith became the agency's first female director. Sidelined during the Labour years, she bided her time and at the ripe old age of sixty two she replaced the DG, who had unfathomably been promoted after the Iraq 'sexing up' affair.

In another era, 'Ballbuster' would have been out in the field terrorising Eastern Bloc spies, but today hers was the task of ensuring that MI5 survived as a separate entity, despite a recent government report suggesting that all of the security services could be merged to save millions of pounds every year. She knew that bad publicity would give her enemies the ammunition they needed to close down an organisation which many in high places believed had become too powerful.

The DG's office was fussy and feminine. Pictures of small children graced the wide expanse of desktop, and gifts from foreign counterparts were tastefully displayed. An Apple Mac Desktop with a TV sized screen stood at one corner. White and sleek, its workings were all enclosed in the monitor screen and so it needed no base unit. A matching wireless mouse and keyboard completed the IT picture.

There's no way in the world that set up is in compliance with IT policy, Barry thought uselessly.

"OK, Mr Mitchinson." The voice would have been unexpectedly light and attractive to anyone who had not heard it before. It did not match expectations. "We have a problem."

The Director General stared at Barry and continued without referring to notes. "Chief Inspector Brabham from the Metropolitan Police has informed me that Gordon's death looks to have been a suicide. He wrote a note on his computer using a keyboard which contained only his prints. No one went in or out of his office during the critical period. The man clearly felt that the 'Chameleon' would try to repay his attempted assassination of her by exposing him to the press and anyone else who would listen. He was also having regular sex with your wife and other unsuitable women. God only knows what he let slip in post coital pillow talk.

Now, most other occupants of this seat would simply buy you off with a promotion and apologise for one of our own destroying your marriage. But not me."

Barry wasn't merely shocked; he was stunned by the way events were unfolding.

"Mr Mitchinson, I am minded to let you go. You could talk to the press, but I would ask you to remember your obligations under the official secrets act. You could claim unfair dismissal, but we both know that you won't do that. You have far too many skeletons in your own cupboard." The woman removed her half moon spectacles and glared at Barry.

"So, please, don't tempt me to go public with what I know." She lifted the glasses and placed them back on her nose, halfway down so that she could look over them.

"Here is my one and only offer to you. You are suspended on full pay whilst the investigation into this suicide examines the Director's relationship with your wife. You ensure you let your wife know you forgive her and that you wish to make a go of life as a married couple. Whether you want to or not is irrelevant to me. Now is not the time for a messy divorce citing a suicidal MI5 Director.

Finally, you find Gillian Davis and ensure that, through incentives, debriefing, rendition, or whatever it takes, she does not feel the need to unburden herself to the media. If she does, I guarantee you that you will lose your job, your wife, your home and everything you hold dear. You created the monster, you deal with the monster.

Report back to me in four weeks with your assignment fulfilled and you will find yourself in a plum appointment anywhere in the world you wish, as long as it is somewhere where you can't do any harm. Perhaps Maureen Lassiter would be able to accompany you."

With that single sentence Barry realised that, whilst the police might see a suicide, Monica Stewart – Smith suspected a murder. Luckily, the victim had been something of an embarrassment, and so the Director General was prepared to sacrifice justice for the continuation of her beloved MI5.

"I was wondering if I might take early retirement, actually, given the intolerable embarrassment I would inevitably face if I returned to work after the suspension." Barry knew he was pushing his luck.

"Barry - may I call you Barry? From what I know of you, I believe you to be the kind of deceitful, incompetent low life we needed so badly in the cold war but whom we now need no more. Nonetheless, you complete your assignment and I guarantee that you will receive a pension that would make a banker blush."

Barry smiled and Dame Monica looked down at a document on her desk.

"Now, get out of my office," she snarled.
Chapter 35

Number 1, London Bridge, London. Wednesday, Noon.

It had been a busy morning and Dee was exhausted by her efforts to keep up with the young movie star, who seemed to have a Victorian work ethic. People may criticise these young stars and say that they are spoiled, or that they have an easy life, but Dee knew that Katie Norman worked hard, and as a result she spent her days racing from meeting to meeting.

"I simply cannot be in London for four days without visiting JJ," she had announced after a dress fitting in the Savoy Hotel, where she had dropped her bags after the long flight, showered, tried on a borrowed dress for that evening and stuffed her face with croissants slathered with orange marmalade.

The driver pulled up at the rear entrance of Number 1, London Bridge. The London Dungeon was located opposite, and Katie looked at the waxwork experience with longing, before deciding she just did not have time to visit one of her favourite tourist venues. It wasn't so much the exhibition that she remembered as much as the fact that it had been the last time they had enjoyed a day out as a family before her parents' divorce. Her dad was now her part time adviser, whilst retaining his job as a University Lecturer, and her mum was busy with her new French husband and family. She didn't really see enough of either of them or her adorable baby sister, Cosette. But that couldn't concern her now.

The office building loomed over them as they entered at basement level and took the long escalator to ground level. As they stepped up the moving staircase people looked, glanced away and then looked again, just to confirm this was indeed Katie Norman, better known as Clara Campbell from the blockbuster film series.

A few seconds later Dee stood with Katie as a security man signed the two women in. He explained that he would have to announce them and obtain permission for their unscheduled visit. Katie smiled sweetly and said that she wanted it to be a surprise, and if he would let them in she would pose for a picture with him. A moment later the man was around the visitors' side of the desk and Dee was taking a photo of Katie and her new friend on his mobile phone.

"Thank you so much, you have been very sweet," Katie crooned as she pecked the man on the cheek. He almost melted back into his chair.

"Seventh floor, Upstream Tower," the guard managed to say as he regained his composure. The two companions took the elevator in the Upstream Tower and left the dark marbled lobby behind.

***

JJ, as he was known to Katie, or more correctly J Jackson Bentley, was absorbed in his writing when they arrived at the door to his office. His gaze never lifted from the computer monitor. But he sensed a presence at the open door.

"What is it, Lucy?" he asked, assuming it was his PA at the door.

"I was wondering if you could invent another character for me. She'd have to be a bit older now, of course."

His face lit up at the sound of Katie's voice, and he stood up to collect her in his open arms as she raced across the office. Dee smiled and looked through the large picture window situated right behind the famous author. From that vantage point she could see the north bank of the Thames, St Paul's, the Gherkin and the rest of the city. Off to the side Dee could see Tower Bridge and the Tower of London. It was an office view to die for, and one which was probably only affordable to a best-selling author.

Dee and Katie sat on the comfortable leather sofa in the office whilst JJ ordered some drinks and sat on a chair opposite them. He stretched forward and offered his hand to Dee.

"Hello. My young friends call me JJ but my real name is Jeff. And you are?"

"I'm Dee Hammond."

"Mrs Dee Hammond," Katie noted pointedly before looking at him with a fake scowl. "He's a wicked ladies man, you need to watch him."

"I'm taking care of Katie's close protection for her stay in London."

"Mmmm," the author hummed. "Perhaps you'd better give me a card. I may need some close protection myself soon when I announce that this current book is the last Clara Campbell novel. Actually, you are so pretty you could double as my escort for the evening signings as well."

"You see, less than a minute and he's at it already," Katie interrupted, sighing.

JJ smiled and explained that he was happily married and that he generally eschewed the limelight. He was a genial, slightly overweight man, in his mid forties, Dee guessed, but his humour was infectious and soon all three were laughing. It didn't take long for Dee to see that Katie saw JJ as her mentor. He had known her since she was a nervous twelve year old, when he would make her laugh with his silly stories and his rants about everything from stalking fans to ingratiating politicians.

All too soon for Katie her mobile rang and Dee looked at her watch. They had to go; another appointment loomed large on the horizon. As they left, Katie kissed the author goodbye and set off towards the lift. Dee shook JJ's hand and was about to leave when the jollity slipped from his manner and he spoke quietly but earnestly.

"Dee, I love that girl like a daughter. Please take care of her. There are some real crazies out there, and last year Rod Donkin made a lunge for her at the Fashion Awards, and although the police brushed it off as a drunken lark it looked to me as if his intentions were menacing."

"Rod Donkin, from Big Brother?"

"Yes, that's the one. Alleged minor celebrity and stalker of famous young girls. If you need confirmation of the risk he poses, ask that country singer about his daughter's encounter with Donkin, and she was only fifteen at the time."

"OK, thanks for the heads up. I'll be especially vigilant, and if I get her back to the States safely do I get a signed book?" Dee asked lifting the mood. JJ smiled and bid her a fond goodbye whilst offering his help, should she ever find that she needed an overweight, balding author with horn rimmed glasses.

Chapter 36

The Frank Sinatra Suite, The Savoy, London. Wednesday, 5pm.

The remnants of their room service meal stood under giant chromium domes on a hotel trolley waiting to be collected, so when the door bell rang Dee presumed it was room service coming to collect the food from the pricey art deco suite.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"It is Dominic, Ma'am. I have your guest Ms Li Li Sung with me."

Dee checked the small TV monitor in the concealed recess by the door, and when she was satisfied that the visitors were as announced, she opened the door.

Dominic held open the door as Li Li Sung entered the suite followed by a bell hop who wheeled in a trolley with four dress hangers suspended from a brass rail. The dustcovers protecting and concealing the dresses bore the distinctive oriental logo of Li Li Sung Design.

The small mixed-race designer headed straight for Dee Hammond, seemingly ignoring the famous starlet whose room this was, hugging her warmly. There was obviously no air kissing in this relationship.

"Dee, my darling woman, you look so well, and you haven't put on a single pound. That will help." Li Li Sung turned to Katie Norman and presumptuously addressed her.

"Katie Norman, I know that you already have a dress. Personally you are wasted on Jacamo's design; he has no sense for the burgeoning woman. He is such a good friend but he needs more to work with you in the area of décolletage." The designer pulled up the shoulders of Katie's blouse and tilted her head. She then placed the palms of her hands on the sides of the starlet's chest and pushed in gently. Katie blushed.

"Katie Norman, I will make your next dress. You need a woman's touch, more shoulder, less cleavage, something that flatters your girlish figure. As for the breasts, don't worry. I will make them as tantalising and edible as fresh pomegranates. I myself am not belaboured by mammalian excess and so I know how to exaggerate their impressiveness."

Katie Norman and Dee both laughed out loud as a blushing Dominic and the bell hop made a hurried exit from the suite, wheeling away the remnants of the Gordon Ramsay creation that had been served up by the chefs at the Savoy Grill on the ground floor.

Li Li looked puzzled at their obvious discomfiture but turned her attention to the dresses hanging on the rail. Dee spoke for the first time since the designer entered the room.

"Katie, as you will have guessed this is Li Li Sung; she is my Chinese-Korean dress designing friend."

"I do not know why I continue to be your friend. I designed your wedding dress and now these evening dresses, and not a penny do I see. You are a cheap woman."

Katie laughed again before Dee explained that Li Li charged more for a dress than the close protection operative earned in a month, but they shared a very rich friend who considered herself forever in Dee's debt. As she unzipped the second dust cover, Li Li spoke again, this time in Katie's direction.

"I have fun at her expense, of course, I do like dressing ordinary working women and it is a challenge to hide her big gun in one of my form fitting creations."

Katie looked at Dee, who shook her head and grimaced as if to confirm that she never carried a gun, let alone concealed any kind of weapon in the second skin that Li Li Sung called a dress.

***

Over the next hour the three women joked and laughed as Dee tried on all four dresses, promenaded around the suite, posed in front of Frank Sinatra memorabilia and had digital photographs taken of each episode.

Eventually, as they all sat in front of Li Li's laptop, Dee decided on the full length black evening dress in chiffon with satin panels breaking out from the split. As usual the built up straps and the under bust detailing were woven with gold thread embroidered into the shapes of Chinese symbols. The dress was archetypal Li Li Sung; understated, elegant and reasonably modest.

After a few small adjustments, the dress was fitted and the result was spectacular. Dee stared at the other two women in the room as they looked at her in awe.

"What?" she asked, wholly unaware of the impact she would have on the press when she walked up the red carpet with Katie.

"Do you think they will even notice I'm there?" Katie asked Li Li, who shook her head.

"They will be too busy saying, look there is a plain Englishwoman made beautiful by that fabulous Li Li Sung design."

All three laughed as the Las Vegas themed clock on the wall, between a picture of Frank Sinatra with Marilyn Monroe and one of him with Ronald Reagan, showed that Dee and Katie had one hour to get ready before the limo showed up. Li Li hugged both girls and left the suite, moaning that all she had to look forward to was a takeaway meal and Emmerdale on the TV. Dee doubted that Li Li had ever allowed either into her tastefully decorated apartment.

Upon Li Li's departure, two make up girls spent a few awestruck minutes admiring the suite before applying little or no obvious make-up to either face, with the exception of the dramatic eye make-up which highlighted two pairs of the prettiest eyes in London that night. The hair stylist had one final tweak at each client and then Dee and Katie were ready to face the paparazzi.
Chapter 37

Terminal 2, Jose Marti Airport, Boyeros. Cuba. Wednesday Afternoon.

The Aero Puerto Internacional, Havana, was named after Jose Marti, the poet and political activist who is still regarded as a Cuban hero despite being killed fighting the Spanish in Cuba in 1895. Gillian liked to pick up a little local knowledge; it helped her to understand the culture of the people she would be relying upon and it kept taxi drivers on their toes.

It had already been a long day. Whilst it was still early afternoon in Havana, it was early evening back in the UK. The charter terminal was relatively modern, having been opened in 1988, and the architecture was a little bland. The design produced a profusion of white surfaces with occasional red detailing, red being the colour of revolution, she imagined. The architectural style was modernist but it still appeared dated. Gil suspected that it was probably some architect's 1980s vision of what buildings would look like in the next century. If so, they were wrong.

The charter flight from Newcastle had passed quickly, even though Gillian seldom slept on aeroplanes, even in the premium seating. She had passed the time sipping cold drinks and watching three movies, all the time waiting for the flight to be over so that she could get to her hotel and relax.

As she stood in the passport line she noticed a handsome man wearing an olive coloured uniform scanning the recent arrivals. He caught her eye and she instantly knew he was looking for her. He walked purposely towards her.

Extending his hand, he introduced himself.

"Miss Gillian Davis, I am Alejandro Rebelda. I am pleased to tell you that you have special clearance. Please follow me."

Gillian took his hand and smiled warmly. There was nothing to be gained by objecting to her special treatment.

"If we don't see you again, pet, we'll send in the SAS," John, her aeroplane companion joked, to a good deal of Geordie laughter. Senor Rebelda smiled, taking the jest in good humour.

"Please, all of you enjoy your stay; you will find Cuban hospitality the warmest in the world." He paused and then played to his immediate audience.

"Ho'way the lads and up the Toon!" he shouted, in a Hispanic version of a Geordie accent, to a rowdy chorus of applause.

"I studied for my Business Degree at Northumbria University," he confided in a whisper to Gillian. "But don't tell anyone. I am supposed to be a revolutionary."

He laughed at his own joke and Gillian joined in.

***

"So, Miss Gillian Davis, you have pulled someone's whiskers in Whitehall."

Alejandro was around thirty years old and quite attractive. He was typically Hispanic in appearance, and his olive complexion was flawless except for a shadow of designer stubble. His long dark hair had a natural shine that made it appear almost blue. His brown eyes looked more amused than intense, and Gillian knew that his intention was to get her to relax, but she would remain vigilant, as ever.

"I have a fax, supposedly from the British Home Office, not the police, and so I must imagine that it is from MI5 or MI6. They cover their tracks badly." He lifted a sheet of paper with Gillian's photo reproduced very poorly in the top corner.

"It reads; 'Please apprehend and deport to the UK at your earliest convenience the suspect named above. She is required for questioning.' Well, I am thinking to myself, what questioning could be more important than a holiday in Cuba? Surely they can wait two weeks?"

Gillian smiled.

"Alejandro - may I call you Alejandro, Senor Rebelda?" He nodded his approval. "I am sure that you know, or will find out, that I was once employed by the British Home Office, and that they are not happy about their ex employees enjoying the revolutionary sun. But I assure you that I have no intention of causing you or your country any harm."

"I never doubted it for a moment." Alejandro Rebelda turned to his computer screen. "Look, there is no record of Gillian Davis arriving in Cuba. How strange. I had better report this to the British Home Office. It is a mystery, yes?"

Gillian smiled and nodded.

"I appreciate your help. Now, I fully understand that these administrative activities are expensive and so if there is any way I can reduce the burden on the Cuban tax payer...."

Rebelda held up the palm of his hand in the internationally recognised signal for 'stop'.

"Please, Miss Gillian, offending your British Home Office and having them thank me through gritted teeth, is more than payment enough for my day's work. Please, go and enjoy the sun."

They both stood up as Gillian held out her hand. This time Alejandro kissed it. "You are a beautiful woman. Surely there must be Cuban blood coursing through your veins."

Gillian laughed and Rebelda smiled in return.

"Remember, we have never met." With that the Cuban sat down at his utilitarian grey laminated desk and Gillian exited the small goldfish bowl of an office.
Chapter 38

The Odeon, Leicester Square, London. Wednesday, 8pm.

The ridiculously extended limousine cruised to a halt at the end of the red carpet, and Dee and Katie waited patiently until security had cleared the space between the red velvet security ropes. Seconds later the doors were opened and cameras flashed continually, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girls' legs, or more, but they would be out of luck because Katie and Dee were wearing full length gowns and were modestly holding the split seams together until they were in a standing position.

Katie stood for a moment, slowly turning to look in all directions so that everyone could snap a picture of her serene, youthful smile. The photographers were always keen to take photographs of her male co stars and the adult cast members, but they all knew that the newspapers would want to lead with pictures of Katie and her even younger co-star, Amanda Jane Beery.

Dee walked just behind the young starlet as she chatted to fans, signed autographs and posed for pictures. Dee was not carrying a bag, as close protection personnel needed their hands to be free, and so she happily waved at the cheering fans who wondered who this gorgeous auburn haired beauty might be. Slowly the two women made their way up the red carpet. They had another ninety seconds to themselves and then one of the shaven headed security guards would usher them into the lobby for more poses in front of the sponsors' boards, as the next celebrity limo pulled up to the red carpet exactly on cue.

Given the careful organisation that pandered to the fans and the Press, the red carpet should have been Katie's alone. So, when a young man in a tuxedo emerged from the neon lit cinema portico that proclaimed the owners were fanatical about film, Dee and the security men watched him closely.

***

Rod Donkin, Big Brother winner and celebrity wannabe, strode purposefully towards Katie Norman, who had her back to him. Beside him was a man Dee recognised from the television. He was a tall well built man with muscles to die for and flowing blond hair. His name was Andy Woods and, despite the dinner suit, he was instantly recognisable as his cage fighting alter ego, the Ghost. More importantly, he appeared to be acting as Rod Donkin's bodyguard.

Wary of Donkin's intentions, Dee made her way towards Katie to cut off his approach, only to find that Andy Woods had stepped into her path. If the sun had been up it would have been like standing in the shadow of a mountain. The man was huge. Dee needed to make a decision; diplomacy or action.

Rod Donkin nodded to a press photographer standing against the ropes and in a clearly choreographed move he took Katie by the shoulders, turned her around to face him and proclaimed loudly:

"At last, the world gets to see Clara kissed off screen."

Dee stepped forward and Woods blocked her way, grinning. Diplomacy wouldn't save Katie from embarrassment now, and so she acted. Relying on her special forces training, she threw her left fist directly at Andy Woods' jaw. At first he chuckled as this young woman telegraphed her swing so obviously allowing him to raise his huge crossed forearms to block the punch. The amused look disappeared as he suddenly realised his error. Her watch was on her left wrist; why would she lead with her left if she was right handed?

"Shit!" he exhaled loudly as he caught sight of a second blow on the edge of his peripheral vision. Now it was Dee who was smiling. The giant cage fighter tried to tense his stomach muscles, but he was just too late. Dee's right fist crashed into his solar plexus, finding the sweet spot just below his rib cage. It was as if she had measured him to find exactly where to land the perfect blow. The breath flew out of him, and he gasped as a sharp pain shot through his body and he instinctively bent forward, using his crossed arms to protect himself from further blows.

Dee knew that as a cage fighter he would be accustomed to working through the pain barrier to fight back, and so before Woods had even begun to adopt a more aggressive posture she grabbed the hair at the back of his head, where the shorter hairs meet the neckline, and pulled hard, forcing his head forward. The cage fighter yelled as the hairs on his neck were pulled taut or pulled out. Once she had the momentum, Dee pushed his head down hard and fast to meet her upcoming knee. There was an audible crack as Woods, still gasping for breath, bounced his forehead off Dee's knee. Dee let go of the man, who by now would have worked out why security men had shaven heads, and he fell to his knees. To his credit, and Dee's astonishment, he did not pass out or fall flat to the floor; rather he went down on his hands and knees and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Most men would have been concussed or unconscious or both by now, and whilst he was out of the action for the time being, he was still in the game. If he had offered any further resistance Dee would have aimed a firm kick into his unprotected genitalia to finish him off, but he presented no active threat at the moment

Dee noticed that the crowd had fallen silent, and that the security guards had deliberately turned towards the crowd to prevent the fans from passing the rope barrier, and to save themselves from seeing what happened next.

A purposeful Rod Donkin had, single mindedly, ignored the violent action going on behind him and had now tipped the slight frame of Katie Norman backwards and off balance in some kind of mock Hollywood embrace. Holding her up with his left arm, he used his right hand to stop hers from fending him off as he leaned in for a full kiss on the lips.

***

Katie Norman was surprised to be spun around by the shoulders. At first she thought Dee had spotted some danger, but then she saw the reptilian grin of Rod Donkin. Katie knew what was coming next and, already off balance, she tried to fend off her attacker with her free left hand but Donkin had anticipated the move and grabbed her wrist. Resigned to being kissed by this oaf, she thought to herself, stick your tongue in my mouth and I'll bite it off. She closed her eyes and grimaced, waiting for the repulsive kiss. But it never came. There was a squeal from Donkin and she was freed from his grasp.

***

Dee saw Donkin's head go in for the kiss but she was quicker than he was. Her hand flew out and grabbed his left ear, twisting it violently. That was all it took to elicit a girlish squeal from the creep and to have him entirely under her control. She used her left arm to hold Katie until she was safely restored to a standing position and, still twisting Donkin's ear, she smiled sweetly to Katie and the crowd.

"Take your time, Katie, this odious little pervert and I are going for a walk," Dee said more loudly than was necessary. The immediate crowd laughed and cheered.

Dee twisted Donkin's ear further, making him yell and bend almost double. In this position she marched him forward so that all of the crowd and the photographers could see him. Camera flashes lit up the night as Donkin walked forward, bent double, into their viewfinders.

"Are you taking you monkey for a walk, Missus?" one wag in the crowd yelled to lots of good natured laughter. Then one person started making chimpanzee noises and in no time at all the whole crowd had joined in. Walking along bent double, with a woman holding his ear as if he was a naughty chimp, Rob Donkin's humiliation was almost complete. Tears streamed down his face as his career as a 'Z list' celebrity came to a close.

Dee approached the Police Constable at the end of the red carpet and handed over Donkin, who was trying to hide his tear stained face whilst rubbing his ear.

"Officer, please take this man into custody. He has just committed an assault."

The young constable looked uncertain.

"Leave it to me, Hopkinson, I'll deal with it." A female Inspector took Donkin by the arm and led him towards a police van. Donkin initially resisted and stood his ground.

"Do you really want to do this, sir?" the police Inspector asked, the threat apparent in her visage and in her tone. Donkin's shoulders slumped in defeat and he was handcuffed.

Tomorrow morning Katie would have to compete for the front page photo with a shot of Donkin being led along like a domestic pet, and with the grainy shot of his tear stained face as he was being helped into the white police van.

***

Dee was walking back to the cinema entrance when she spotted the photographer Donkin had nodded to. She beckoned him over and whispered in his ear.

"I saw the nod. You sell one photograph of that low life with my client and I'll track you down and break your arm. Then if you complain I'll come back a week later and break the other one. Do you understand? Smile and nod."

The man's face had paled but he smiled wanly and nodded.

As Dee rejoined Katie under the cinema canopy she caught sight of Andy Woods, who was recovering in a chair hurriedly brought out from the lobby. She noted that he was now, rather pointedly, sitting on the wrong side of the velvet ropes.
Chapter 39

Terminal 2, Jose Marti Airport, Boyeros. Cuba.

Wednesday afternoon.

Gillian Davis joined the rest of the holidaymakers picking up their luggage from carousel number 4, still unsettled by her encounter with the Cuban authorities. She knew that if she wanted to stay out of sight of MI5 she would need more than the cooperation of a minor Cuban functionary, handsome as he was. Gil was convinced that by now MI5 would have an operative in the arrivals hall of the airport, ready to follow her. She planned to make his job easy.

After a fifteen minute wait, Gil's pink designer suitcase, adorned with the Chanel logo, slid down a metal chute and on to the sectional rubber conveyor that displayed the luggage as it travelled in a large oval. Gillian picked up her case and set it down on the terrazzo floor before elevating the pulling handle. She slipped her carry on bag over the handle and pulled both bags towards the green Nada de declarer - or, nothing to declare - exit.

Having passed through the customs hall and now traversing the arrivals hall, Gillian scanned the crowds of greeters holding up signs seeking named customers for various hotels and car hire companies. To her extreme left she spotted the MI5 watcher. He was dressed in chinos and a Hawaiian styled silk shirt. His Ray Ban sunglasses were perched on his head amid a sea of wavy medium length salt and pepper hair. He had a folded copy of the local newspaper, oddly entitled the 'Granma', with the red banner title facing towards her. The reason the observer drew her attention was that he occasionally looked down at the paper before again scanning the crowd of new arrivals. Each time he looked around his hand relaxed a little and the newspaper was lowered enough for Gillian to note that the newspaper was concealing a sheet of paper to which the observer's attention regularly returned. Gillian was quite certain that the paper contained her photograph and her description.

The man appeared increasingly anxious as he failed to spot his quarry, and so Gil removed her wide brimmed hat and shook loose her long fair hair to give him a better view. She smiled to herself as he spotted her immediately and compared her to the photo in his hand.

Job done, Gil walked off in the direction of her tour group and boarded the bus which would drop her and a rowdy crowd of Geordies and Mackems at the Hotel Nacional.

***

Jared Stevens dropped the newspaper into the trash and followed the tourists out onto the concourse, where he watched as their luggage was loaded onto a bus which had a crudely printed sheet of A4 paper blu-tacked to the windscreen. The writing on the paper read "Nacional".

Jared waited until the target had entered the bus and the door had closed with a loud hiss of air before he extracted his mobile phone. Carefully scrolling down the Cubacell Nokia 8 phone's screen, he selected 'Moriarty' and pressed the speed dial. The phone was answered almost immediately at the other end.

"Holmes, has the bird landed?" Moriarty asked.

"Yes indeed. She is winging her way to you as we speak," Stevens responded, replying to his codename.

"Excellent," Moriarty replied. "I'll be waiting."

***

Thom Passerell, alias Moriarty, was the senior half of the two man team that MI5 had assigned to watch Gillian Davis. Neither operative was supposed to be active in Cuba. Usually, they operated entirely separately from the MI5 man in the Embassy, Laurence Hinds, who was allegedly the commercial attaché, a title which fooled no-one, especially the Cubans.

The middle aged Jared Stevens and Thom Passerell constituted a covert unit who were essentially the eyes and ears of Whitehall in the Revolutionary Republic. Both held down real jobs in Havana, and both were part timers. Nonetheless, they were well trained and had been considered to be highly skilled operatives at one time. But, completely against regulations, and the QA policy drafted at Thames House in 2002 that demanded refresher training every two years, neither man had been back to the UK for skills training for over five years. As a result they had become lazy, and their skills were perhaps less well honed than they might have been.

Stevens would take up the surveillance later in the day, but for now he had to return to his office at Cubapetrolio, sometimes known as Cupet, where he needed to finalise a proposal for a new semi submersible oil platform for presentation to the Cupet board the next morning.

***

The elderly bus disgorged the tourists at the Nacional and the concierge staff swarmed over the luggage, hoping that the owners of the individual suitcases would present them with a generous tip when they delivered them to their rooms. Gil waited her turn in line and duly checked in, after touching up her make up using a small compact. She had spotted Thom Passarell as soon as she had walked into the hotel lobby. She obviously did not know his name, but she knew his type.

As Gillian stepped up to check in, Passarell moved over to the counter a few feet away and perused some leaflets offering boat trips and bus tours of the locale.

"Ah, Senora Davis, it is so good to welcome you to Habana," the small grinning receptionist gushed as he looked at Gillian's passport. "You are in room 431 which is on the fourth floor. I am sure you will like the room." Then, after preening his thin, immaculately neat moustache, he pointed to the bank of elevators.

"The lifts are to your left. Is there anything else I can you with?"

Gillian spoke loudly enough for Thom Passerell to hear.

"Yes. I'm booked in for a pampering session this afternoon, I believe?"

The man tapped a few keys on his computer, while his eyes quickly scanned the information on the screen. He smiled at her, and spoke.

"Yes Senora, that is at 4pm for two hours. I also note that you are booked on the city tour tomorrow. That tour is due to leave at eight in the morning. Do you wish an alarm call?"

"Yes please. Tell me, what time does the tour return in the evening?"

The receptionist picked up an itinerary and read off the details.

"After visiting National Shrine of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre, you have a boat tour followed by lunch. The afternoon is spent touring the region by bus, culminating in a delicious dinner at the famous Club Paradiso, where you will be watching and dancing salsa until 11pm, when the bus leaves for your hotel." He paused whilst he thought. "You should be back at the hotel around midnight tomorrow."

"Thank you," Gillian replied gracefully. "I have a full week of events planned. I want to make the most of my week in Havana." The receptionist bowed and Gillian walked across the lobby to be reacquainted with her luggage, which was in the safe hands of a smartly uniformed young man whose name badge read 'Jesus'.

***

Across the Atlantic a phone rang in Thames House. Maureen Lassiter answered it without giving her name.

"This is Moriarty. Our little bird has settled. This afternoon I will visit her room and by this evening we will have audio in the bedroom and bathroom. There will also be limited motion sensor video from the alarm clock. I'll send you the IP address of the server so that you can watch and listen in real time on the website."

"Good. When do you plan to extract her?" Maureen asked.

"We will have a subcontracted team waiting in her room when she returns tomorrow night. They will lift her and she will be on the company transport back to London by the early hours of the morning."

"That is acceptable. Call me when she has boarded." At that Maureen replaced the receiver, then lifted it again to dial Barry Mitchinson.

***

Mrs. Docherty went to a good deal of trouble naming her baby boy. After much considered thought she and her husband eventually alighted on a name that was stylish and cool without sounding odd. She called him Vaughan. When her baby boy started school, the much considered name was abandoned and he was thereafter called 'Doc'. Now approaching twenty nine years of age, he was a geeky computer genius who eschewed people and the outside world for the world of multi core chipsets, motherboards, flat screen monitors and superfast graphic sets. Doc could build, or disassemble, anything electronic.

Without formal qualifications, he rebuilt computers that people had discarded and sold them second hand. He had a ready market, because his reconditioned gaming machines were faster than any production model. Unfortunately, like many isolated young men running virtual worlds from his bedroom, he descended into the murky world of computer hacking. After successful efforts to shut down some of the USA's top law enforcement websites, he tried to close down the SOCA website. Unfortunately for Doc and his friends, the UK's Serious Organised Crime Agency had an ex hacker geek of their own, 'The Repeller'. Sitting in an almost empty office on a Sunday night and playing war games, 'The Repeller' saw an unexpected spike in data requests which were multiplying geometrically by the minute, and quickly realised that his baby was under attack. 'The Repeller' quickly took the website offline and repelled the attack by sending back a barrage of data from an array of computers that Doc and his friends simply could not match. The quickly escalating data requests were now swamping their originator's machines and closing them down, whilst stripping their hard drives. Before Doc managed to shut down his system, 'The Repeller' had a full copy of his system registry, along with a list of his IP addresses and his contacts list.

Less than an hour later, whilst Doc was trying to revive his useless computers, the front door came in and his mum screamed as men streamed in to her neatly maintained bungalow. Doc was in trouble.

Since then Doc had been on the side of the angels, or at least of the authorities, and it was here that he found the resources that allowed him to show his capability. Ten years later he had seven 'apps' on the top hundred Apple iPhone Apps list, and it was widely believed that Apple had incorporated one of his rejected 'apps' into the architecture of the new iPhone 4.

Doc was the UK Security Services go-to guy for anything Apple, be it iPad, iPod or iPhone. Such was his expertise that within days of the release of a new iPad, Doc would be selling his own souped up version at many times the price. Disassembled, improved and reassembled, the iPad VOX looked and behaved like an ordinary iPad, but it also did so much more.

Gillian owned an iPad Vox, iPod Vox and iPhoneVox. They had been extraordinarily useful to her as the Chameleon, and now they were going to be pressed into service to help her escape the clutches of MI5.

Gil Davis had returned to room 431 after her sojourn in the spa and by the pool, and was now sitting on the bed with her iPad VOX. Laying it to one side for a moment, she donned her headphones and walked around the room, holding her iPod Vox and shaking her head in time with some unheard music. She casually danced her way through the en-suite room, tunelessly singing Abba's Dancing Queen as she went. The iPod was not playing music at all, although there were some three thousand tunes on its hard drive. Rather, the iPod was listening and sending out a series of beeps that would have been perceptible only to dolphins or whales.

After a minute or two Gil unplugged the headphones and laid the iPod on the bed close to the iPad. They synchronised immediately, and the iPad screen came to life, showing a series of white dashes, lighting and dimming as they raced around the perimeter of an unseen circle. In a few seconds a floor plan appeared, showing two bright green dots along with a single red dot.

One green dot was in the bathroom, in the vicinity of the wash hand basin. The other was in the vicinity of a large oil painting on the wall. The red dot was beside the bed. Gil clicked an icon labelled 3D View and a skeletal 3D picture of her room appeared on the screen.

The new screen showed the red dot, a video source, on the bedside table, probably hidden in the clock. The first green dot, an audio only source, was right behind the painting, and the second green dot was indeed on the wall behind the pedestal wash hand basin.

Content that she now knew that she was being spied upon, she decided that listening was acceptable but watching, well, that was just plain rude. Gil sniffed a couple of times and left the bed to pick up a cube shaped box of tissues. Returning to her iPad and the bed, she sat down and blew her nose loudly before placing the tissue box, without looking, on the bedside table. The box had landed, as she planned, right in front of the camera clock, obscuring its view entirely. She tried not to smile as she imagined her watcher swearing and blaspheming at his or her appalling bad luck.

A little while later Gil retired to the bathroom for a few minutes, singing as she went, to offer a few crumbs of comfort to the surveillance team who were no doubt listening in. As soon as she had prepared herself for bed she returned to the bedroom, lay down and fluffed the pillow. Twenty minutes later, Jared Stevens was sitting at a monitor in a nearby room, listening to gentle snoring and keeping his eye on the picture from the hallway security camera that pointed straight at the door of room 431.
Chapter 40

The Frank Sinatra Suite, The Savoy, London.

Thursday, 2am.

Katie Norman was wearing fluffy pink pyjamas with red hearts of all sizes displayed in a random but repeating pattern. The pyjamas were still too big for her petite frame, even though they were the smallest adult size. Her make-up was gone and her hair was brushed out. Her young skin radiated good health and her moisturiser gave her a slight glow. She looked about twelve years old again as she reclined on the sofa, holding a Las Vegas themed cushion across her stomach as she cradled a large mug of hot chocolate.

Dee had secured the room and was ready for bed also. She wasn't generally a night bird, preferring to get to sleep before eleven at night, as a general rule, so that she could arise early. Dee dropped her weary frame into an oversized armchair facing the young Katie. Wearing short pyjamas under a Savoy branded robe, she curled her legs up under her. The robe opened around her knees, revealing the beginnings of a dark purple bruise where the cage fighter's forehead had connected with Dee's leg.

Katie noticed the bruise and mentioned it. Dee touched it tenderly. It was already beginning to hurt, but she had rubbed in witch hazel to reduce the discomfort and to speed up the healing process. Later she would take some Boiron Arnica Montana capsules to minimise the overnight swelling and bruising. In the close protection business it was always wise to be aware of homeopathic remedies for minor injuries, or you would spend your life consuming painkillers and destroying your stomach lining.

"Is that the leg you were shot in?" Katie asked in as tactful a way as she could manage late in the day.

Dee slid the robe over to show a scar on her thigh.

"This is where I was shot last year," she said, stretching the skin to show the full effect of the injury, which had healed exceptionally well.

"The second bullet wound is now virtually invisible, because the gun was pointed upwards when it fired and it passed through my under arm." Dee unconsciously touched the spot with her left hand as Katie spoke.

"In the movie I made with that ex-wrestler last year, I was a rich heiress being guarded by an ex marine, and he was shot in the leg early on in the film, but he managed to strap it up and struggle through the rest of the day, and the next day he barely had a limp. I guess that was artistic license."

Dee smiled. "Yes. Although the man that shot me in the leg deliberately tried to avoid the bone and the arteries, it was still a week before I could stand up without fainting and a month before I could limp about. At least when you're shot in the arm you can stay mobile."

Katie stood up and set her mug down on the table before moving over to Dee's chair and squeezing in beside her. The young woman curled her left arm around Dee's waist and rested her head on the older woman's shoulder.

"Thank you," Katie murmured in a tiny voice. "It's not that I wouldn't have survived a kiss from that slimy toad, but it would have been humiliating and I would have had nightmares about it for weeks. In this business everyone thinks they own a part of you. The fans love Clara and they think that she and I are their best friends. It's scary how possessive they can be sometimes."

Dee smiled as she placed a comforting arm around Katie's shoulder. She was an only child, and had often envied her friends who had younger sisters, whose hair they would style and tweak as if they were a live doll.

The two of them had a busy schedule for Thursday, today and Friday, culminating in a late Friday flight back to the USA, but luckily the first assignment for Thursday was at eleven in the morning.

They sat on the chair in silence for a while until Dee noticed Katie's shallow, rhythmic breathing. Recognising the younger woman was falling asleep, she roused her gently, and they both retired to their beds, hoping for a good rest before the next day's turmoil started afresh.
Chapter 41

Room 431, Hotel Nacional, Havana. Cuba. Thursday 7am.

From its privileged location on top of a promontory overlooking Havana's coastline and seawall drive, the Nacional was perfectly placed. Room 431 commanded a magnificent view of the sea and the bustling Vedado section of Havana. With its elegance and timeless splendour, the Nacional had played host to hundreds of celebrities from the world of arts, science and politics since the 1930s, according to the brochure, and Gil could see why. Its location in the busiest part of town, its one hundred year heritage and its closeness to Old Havana, about a twenty minute walk along the Malecon, made it an ideal holiday spot. It was a pity she would not be taking full advantage of her stay.

Gil had been up early and had been busy. Once she was dressed and ready to go, she tidied the bed and replaced the tissue box on the table top beneath the TV. The hidden camera would have immediately sprung into action, being activated by sensing any motion, and the watchers would now be enjoying full audio and video coverage of Gil's tidying up.

***

Holmes and Moriarty had switched duties at 6am, and so Thom Passerell would be keeping his eye on the Chameleon until later tonight, when she would be snatched and rendered back to the UK. The plan was that Jared and Thom would follow her into the room, where she would be apprehended by three subcontractors from a local security company. As well trained as she was, Gillian Davis would not be able to meaningfully resist, rather she would be met with overwhelming force and a very potent chemical cosh.

Thom looked at the screen showing the hotel room. The box covering the hidden camera had been removed in a bout of tidying up by the target, who was now fussing around and making herself ready for her long (and last) tourist day in Cuba.

The camera had the equivalent of a wide angle lens and so almost the entire room could be seen. Against the wall he could see a designer suitcase on a stand constructed so that it folded flat in the wardrobe when not in use. The lid of the suitcase was open and clothing and toiletries spilled out. A hot air brush was left cooling on the opposite bedside table, beside a can of hair spray and a can of Sure deodorant.

Gil Davis came into view. She was dressed in a long floaty summery dress that hung from her shoulders and brushed the floor. Her fair hair was flowing across her shoulders and down her back. A large floppy sun hat completed the ensemble. Gil looked in a mirror as she set the hat correctly on her head, and Thom noticed that she was very heavily made up, but did not wonder why. He supposed it was just something women always did.

Satisfied with her appearance, the target turned on her heels and flounced out of the room. Passerell watched her enter the lift on the hotel security camera screen, and he waited patiently until he caught sight of her in the lobby. Security camera number five in the lobby showed Gillian enter the restaurant for breakfast. The MI5 man shut down the monitors, let himself out of the room and walked along the corridor to room 431. He slid the housekeeping room card into the slot, and when the light turned green he entered the Chameleon's room.

The bathroom was a mess. Towels were strewn carelessly in the bath and on the floor. Moisturiser and toothpaste lay by the wash basin with their lids off. This was one untidy lady. Moving to the bedroom, he saw that underwear was draped over the back of a chair, whilst all of the occupant's clothing, books and beauty paraphernalia had been left loosely packed in the suitcase. On the desk was an itinerary for Gilllian's stay: Today the tour, tomorrow a rest day, Saturday a boat trip and Sunday a 4x4 trip into the country's interior. At least the lady was organised in one aspect of her life. How she had survived in the service with such an untidy mind bemused Thom, or would have done had he given it any thought.

If Thom had been as alert as he should have been, he might have given some thought to the possibility that, as a trained agent herself, she had allowed him to see just what she wanted him to see. As it was, he left the room happy that all was well, in order to follow his quarry once she left the breakfast room.

***

Gil sat with two girls from Newcastle whom she recognised from the plane the day before. They amused and entertained her with their exploits of the previous evening, where they had cruised the local bars looking for olive skinned young men who would succumb to their obvious blonde charms. They had been particularly successful and, as a result, had just parted company with three such lotharios who had stayed the night, still hung over if the girls were to be believed, when they came down for breakfast.

"I hope this National Shrine is interesting," Tanya said, moving on to the day's outing. "If it isn't I'm going to stay on the bus and have a sleep." She paused and winked at Gil. "Cos I didn't get much sleep last night, pet." Both Geordie girls laughed, and Gillian frowned in mock disgust.

The bus ride to the National Shrine of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre was short and uneventful. From the outside the Basilica, a minor Basilica in the parlance of the Catholic Church, is not especially impressive. It is a whitewashed building with three maroon coloured domes. The two smaller domes sit either side of the larger one, which tops the central tower. It is inside the basilica where the greater attraction lies for tourists. Once through the door and out of the glare of the bright Cuban sun, the interior comes alive with detail and history. The stained glass is bright and colourful, redolent of the art deco age from which it originates. The Basilica, built in 1926, also houses the famous brightly coloured original statue of the Lady of Charity. In this statue the Lady is depicted as a Rubenesque woman with well rounded proportions, dark skin and rosy cheeks. The National Shrine was, to the Catholic Church, no more than a sanctuary until 1977, when the Pope granted it the status of a Basilica.

When the old bus rattled to a halt outside the building, the tour party all disembarked and stood together as a Cuban Tourist guide with a blue pennant on a long stick approached. The blue pennant was emblazoned with a yellow logo and the name CubaTurista. After a brief shouted introduction, informing the group that the bus would return for them in two hours, the loud Cuban woman led them inside the Basilica.

***

Thom Passerell had secured an ancient Havana taxi, a 1958 Chevrolet Impala; it was a blue saloon version with masses of shining chrome, a deep 'v' symbol on the bonnet and a stretched Chevrolet badge nestling in the V. The seats were well worn leather which was so smooth and hard that if you didn't hold on around corners you slid from one side of the car to the other.

With no conviction that the old car would complete the journey, he asked the driver to follow the old tourist bus that was carrying his quarry to the National Shrine.

Although it was only just after eight in the morning, it was already hot and sultry. Thom knew, from spending years in Cuba, that the elderly taxi would have no air conditioning. Nonetheless, this taxi did at least have glass in all of its windows, albeit two windows were stuck halfway down, never to move again, allowing warm air to blow in. At least he had a draught.

Forty five minutes later Thom paid the driver and listened as the tour guide explained that the tour bus would return around eleven o'clock. He watched as the tour group went inside, and noted that Gillian Davis was on the edge of the group. He reverted to Cafe Cubana, on the other side of a busy road, which was awash with street furniture advertising Havana Coffee. Carefully selecting a pavement table with a view over the entrance to the Basilica, he ordered a Cafe Americana and waited.

***

Once inside the Basilica, which is no more than a name for a minor cathedral in which a Bishop might reside, the tourists began snapping away at the colourful interior. The fact that the National Shrine was here at all, let alone be open to the public, was more to do with Castro's fear of the population than his fear of God. The Catholics had ruled Cuba with a firm hand before the revolution, the people heeding their church more than their secular leaders, and the revolutionaries were deeply suspicious of the church and its influence. The visit of Pope John Paul II a few years earlier had led to the Sisters of Mercy being allowed back into Cuba in greater numbers to care for the Basilica, but even now the male clergy were few in number and were subject to constant surveillance.

It was the Sisters of Mercy who interested Gillian, and so she wandered down the aisle, past the altar and to an ornately carved heavy wooden door. The door itself and the walls around depicted the story of how the Virgin Mary, or Lady of Charity, had protected the three Juans as they journeyed to the Bay of Nipe in treacherous waters to collect salt. A nun was polishing the brass work beside the door.

"May I help you, my child?" the nun asked in Irish accented English.

"I'm looking for Sister Angelica. I have an appointment. My name is Margaret Rose and I am from England," Gillian replied.

"You have fallen far for a convent girl, Margaret Rose."

"I am always ready to be saved, Sister," Gillian replied as expected.

The nun used a heavy brass key to open the carved door.

"Sister Angelica is studying in her cell; it is the last door on the right."

Gillian went inside and the door closed behind her, the brass lock clicking loudly into place and the sound reverberating around the stone walls and stone flagged floor of the dormitory section of the Basilica. The passageway was brightly lit as the expensive stained glass in the public areas had given way to heavy clear leaded glass in the sparsely decorated private areas. A marble statue of Jesus, who looked distinctly Cuban, wearing a pained expression and a crown of thorns, was the only statuary in the long hall. Gillian tried to walk quietly, but there could be no silent approached in this stone clad echo chamber.

She tapped on the end door and opened it. Sitting in a high chair, peering into a giant illustrated text, was Sister Angelica. The Sister was wearing the traditional holy habit, or tunic. Made of black serge, it had the usual two sets of sleeves, the outer sleeves being rolled back for working. Over the habit she wore a white coif which covered her neck and head. The outfit was topped off with the traditional black veil which hung around the shoulders.

Sister Angelica removed a pair of half moon glasses and smiled. Her face radiated genuine warmth.

"Sister Margaret Rose, it is good to see you again. It has been a long time." The middle aged nun referred to Gillian by her alias. "It is almost six years since you last spent time within these hallowed walls. I can only hope that it is not as long since you entered the confessional." With that the nun came around the elevated desk and hugged Gillian Davis, then kissed both of her cheeks in a brief blessing.
Chapter 42

National Shrine, El Cobre. Cuba. Six Years Ago, May 2005.

The rainy season was almost upon Cuba and the temperature had fallen to around 76 degrees Fahrenheit, whilst the humidity remained high at around eight five percent.

Sister Margaret Rose was uncomfortable in her habit. It was just too warm for the full formal dress of a Catholic nun, but rules were rules. Sister Margaret kept her eyes on the thin stream of visitors entering and exiting the shrine, offering historical asides and anecdotes as the situation demanded. A popular and young nun, she was also very pretty, and many young men had suddenly started taking church attendance seriously in the week or so since she had arrived, fresh faced, from England.

About half of the visitors were locals who crossed themselves and lit candles. The others were foreign tourists who took photos and ticked another Basilica off their bucket list.

Margaret Rose smiled at the latest arrival, whose olive skin might have suggested to a casual onlooker that he was Hispanic and, although Margaret Rose knew differently, she still addressed him in Latin American Spanish.

"Bienvenido al hermano de basilica".

"I do not speak the language, Sister," the handsome stranger stammered, seemingly a little embarrassed.

"In that case, welcome to the Basilica, brother," she intoned in a more familiar English.

The man seemed more comfortable as Sister Margaret ushered him inside and began to explain the history of the shrine. She repeated the story of the three Juans who were in peril on the sea when the statue of the Virgin Mary had appeared in the water and saved them miraculously.

"It is a great story of faith," the man responded in an accent that bore traces of North Africa, perhaps Tunisia. "I myself am a fallen Muslim, but Allah remains my God."

"I am sure that we can all learn much from one another. We all have a share of the truth. Perhaps you would like time alone to consider your status before God. I am sure Allah will hear your heartfelt cries from a Catholic Basilica as easily as he can hear them from a Mosque."

"Indeed, God is Great, Allahu Akbar." The casually dressed man nodded to Sister Margaret Rose and as she parted she offered:

"If there is anything I can help you with, please let me know."

Once she was out of hearing distance, Sister Margaret Rose raised her hand to her face and adjusted her glasses.

"Sister Angelica, he is here! He is currently in the Nave and I suspect he will be working his way to the Apse. I will position myself in the North Transept and deal with any visitors in that area."

***

Jamal Saeed Al Munawar was on the list of the FBI's top twenty terrorists. Born in Algeria, Jamal's family fled to Tunisia when the French sought his father on terrorism charges. There they lived in near poverty in a camp where radical elements from Europe and the Middle East came for weapons training, and for a better understanding of their religion and the Jihad.

Jamal himself was not interested in either Islam or the Jihad, to his father's evident distress. He spoke English with an American twang and wore Arsenal football shirts whenever he was given the chance. Jamal wanted to live the American Dream and eventually his father allowed a rich, but radical, sponsor to pay for his son's higher education in the USA.

Jamal was a good scholar. He was personable and well liked by all of his peers. His friends were drawn from all races and religions, and he was happy. In his sophomore year he was called back home, because his father was dying. Reluctantly he left his new life, temporarily, and flew back to see his father, who was now living in Afghanistan. After a long and circuitous route home he was taken to a desert compound, where his family were caring for his ailing father.

The compound was filled with earnest young men carrying automatic weapons and guarding heavy armaments in a stone built store. The men were suspicious of Jamal, who spoke with an American accent and wore western clothes. Then, early one morning, Jamal was awoken from his uncomfortable stone bed by a huge explosion. As he exited the primitive dwelling the family called home, he saw the storage shed ablaze, the occasional shell igniting and firing into the sky. Joining the other men in dousing the flames, he did not notice the stealthy approach of foot soldiers.

In an instant, numerous black clad figures appeared froa m all directions, silhouetted against the burning sky, fire spitting from their gun barrels. Boys who had been fighting the fire raced for their guns but were cut down before they could raise them in anger. Realising all was lost, the Taliban recruits dropped to their knees and either cried for their mothers or prayed to Allah, dependent upon their faithfulness. One by one the rebels fell and the troops started to clear the buildings. Under the cover of darkness, Jamal managed to get back to his family, who were huddled around their father.

Jamal heard the soldiers approaching and wisely knelt down with his hands behind his head. Still wearing chinos and a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, he looked the archetypal preppie that he was.

"Don't shoot, I am an American!" he yelled as three young marines came in through the door. The first held up his hand to stop his men firing whilst he considered the situation. Jamal was sure he could save his mother, his teenage sister Dalal and his eight year old sister Adara.

Disgusted at his son's obsequious behaviour in the face of infidels, Jamal's father sat up from his death bed and, wielding an ornamental curved sword, a saif, flailed at the lead soldier screaming "Alahu Akbar".

Gunfire erupted in the small enclosure and in seconds the old man, his wife and all three children were riddled with bullets. When the Taliban returned to the compound, only Jamal and two others were alive, and then only barely.

Jamal's rich sponsor sent the boy to Saudi for treatment, and when he returned ready to take up arms he was trained and sent back to the USA to study.

For the summer of 2001 Jamal was appointed as an unpaid intern for Galliard-Delaney, the contractors responsible for maintaining the fire protection services in the World Trade Centre, where he made it his business to copy and distribute every drawing, sketch and specification he could find on the twin structures to his sponsor back in the Middle East.

Since 2001 Jamal had been constantly on the move, but he was often caught on camera in locations where individuals had been assassinated to order.

***

Sister Margaret Rose was entertaining the visitors with the story of Pueblo the Catholic donkey when she noticed Jamal crossing the Apse and heading to the door leading to the nuns' accommodations. She knew that she had to act. She quickly delivered the humorous punch line to the story and excused herself, her right hand slipping deep into her left sleeve as she moved to the door just feet behind Jamal.

***

Jamal had a pretty good idea where the traitor Hasan Yasin would be hiding. The Fatwah for the blasphemous author had been issued in Iran almost a year ago, and Jamal knew that the successful assassin would reap rich spiritual and monetary rewards. His leaders knew where Jamal was and what he was doing, and he carried their blessings with him.

From Muslim to Catholic: One Easy Step had been a New York Times and worldwide bestseller. Tracing one man's conversion, the book belittled Islam and its Prophet, alleging that Islam was not a religion of love. Worse still was the author's use of humour when referring to some of Islam's most sacred texts. Hasan Yasin could not be allowed to profit from his blasphemy, and Jamal would ensure that he did not.

Jamal stood outside the library and took out his Sig Sauer P250 handgun. The polymer handgrip felt comfortable in his hand. He fired one shot into the door lock and then reached forward to push open the door. In the library he saw Yasin cowering behind a nun. Sister Angelica looked calm and serene and ready to die for her sanctuary seeker.

***

Sister Margaret Rose hated handguns. She was an expert in their use but they were notoriously inaccurate, prone to jamming and were just tools. Rifles, however, were a different matter entirely. They weren't tools, they were works of art. When asked whether she could place a round in a victim's heart from five hundred yards she didn't say yes, she asked which ventricle. That was a real gun. Nonetheless, she could not use a rifle this time. It had to be a handgun, and so she slipped the safety off her Austrian made Glock 19. Over the last five days, since its arrival in the diplomatic pouch, she had assembled, disassembled and cleaned the gun no fewer than seven times. She couldn't afford any failures on this assignment, hence the choice of the old school but reliable Glock.

She had already kicked off her flat shoes and was now following Jamal in bare feet and in silence. Despite the warmth in the air, the stone flags beneath her feet were cold to the touch. She liked the feeling. As she rounded the curve in the dormitory block she heard a shot and then a shout. As he came into her view, Sister Margaret Rose saw Jamal pointing his handgun into the library and ordering a nun to step aside or die.

Sister Margaret Rose did some shouting of her own.

"Drop the gun, Jamal, or I WILL fire."

They were less than twenty feet apart when Jamal turned his head to see what was happening in the corridor. He almost smiled at the comical nature of the scene before him. He saw a barefoot nun holding out what appeared to be an old Glock pistol in target shooting stance. The nun was standing in profile to him with her right hand, her gun hand, extended and her left hand on her hip for stability. Her head was turned at ninety degrees and she was looking down the barrel of her gun.

She looked to all intents and purposes like a dedicated amateur, but he could not be sure. Why was she not adopting the double handed grip, so beloved of police movies? Why wasn't she crouching to make herself a smaller target? These thoughts took barely a fraction of a second to process as he instinctively spun in the nun's direction, the Sig Sauer P250 gripped tightly in his right hand and cupped in his left hand. As he completed the turn his finger found the trigger.

***

Sister Margaret Rose's view on life was quite different from those of her counterparts in the service. True, there was a time for a two handed grip and for a crouch, but anyone issuing a warning in such circumstances would require the protection of body armour because, no matter how low a person could crouch, the chest makes a big target.

Despite the 'blow back' or recoil from her own weapon, she was quite happy standing upright, offering a slimmer target, knowing that any opponent would have to go for her head if he wanted a kill shot and that was a near impossibility whilst turning ninety degrees, aiming and firing in one smooth movement.

The Sister was not surprised that, despite being faced by a nun with a gun, Jamal reacted instantly, and so she waited for him to turn. In a second he was facing her and squeezing the trigger, but he was too late. She had anticipated her shot and had aimed at the point where his chest would be when he had fully positioned himself. Another advantage of the target shooting stance, she thought.

Jamal fell back under the impact of the shot to his chest, his trigger finger tensing and sending a round high and wide into the stonework a metre in front of the nun and way above her head.

As he fell backwards a second carefully placed round found exactly the same spot, but now that spot was occupied by Jamal's lower jaw, and the nine millimetre round entered just between the jawbone and the chin, passing through his tongue and the roof of his mouth before destroying his ear canal and exiting through his skull just above his ear. By sheer good fortune, the 9mm parabellum grazed his brain without inflicting a fatal blow.

Jamal fell to the floor, his gun skittering loudly across the well scrubbed stone floor. Sister Margaret Rose walked slowly towards him, keeping her gun trained on him the whole time. The would be assassin was lying on his back, eyes open, fear of dying written on his face. His body went into a series of massive spasms which lifted his body from the ground. Brain damage, the Sister thought to herself.

"Sister Margaret Rose, that is enough. There will be no cold blooded killing in God's house."

If she was being honest, the nun with the gun would probably have put one more slug into his head if she had not been interrupted, more out of mercy than out of any need to protect herself. Instead she stepped over the dying man and retrieved his gun. Sister Angelica was already kneeling over the failing terrorist, holding his hand and speaking calmly as she promised him that he would soon see his God and he would be released from his mortal anguish.

Sister Margaret Rose watched in stunned amazement as Sister Angelica placed he hand gently on Jamal's forehead and whispered;

"Your mother and sisters are waiting for you." On hearing the words, Jamal stopped shaking, his body relaxed and the fear that had shown in his eyes disappeared. His brown eyes widened, softened and teared up. Five minutes later he was pronounced dead by the paramedics.

***

Jamal's body was taken to the USA on a covert flight, along with the hysterical author Hasan Yasin. In Washington DC a grateful FBI Director rang Thames House to thank his MI5 counterpart for seconding a British operative to the Cuban arena and for running an operation that would have been logistically impossible for an American agency to carry out alone.

For her part, Sister Angelica would not say how she knew that Jamal had sisters who had passed on before him. All she would say was that, when God wanted you to know something that would bring comfort to a suffering soul, he would allow his servants to be his mouthpiece.

Later that day Sister Margaret Rose passed through the airport in full regalia, purportedly heading to Rome via Panama, but actually diverting to Heathrow to land in the UK as Gillian Davis.
Chapter 43

National Shrine, El Cobre. Cuba. Present Day, Thursday 9am.

When Gillian looked into the bathroom mirror she saw exactly what she had wanted her watchers to see. A pretty woman with long fair hair who had been overly enthusiastic when applying her make up. Her long dress covered her entire body and legs. Not even her feet were visible. In short she looked like a WAG or soap star on holiday.

With a deft move of her left hand she removed the wig, revealing a dark short bob hairstyle, one so beloved by women of the cloth. The difference it made to her appearance still shocked Gillian, even though she'd had eighteen hours to get used to her new look.

The day before in, the women's spa at the hotel, the Cuban hairdresser had pleaded with her new client not to have her magnificent long mane of fair hair butchered, but Gil was insistent. The hairdresser muttered to herself in Spanish as she cut the hair short and coloured it with a French semi permanent crème which the chart described as being Noir: Nombre Une, or almost black. Two hours later the Hairdresser threw up her hands in despair and called Gil a "Mujer Loco", or crazy woman, when Gil admired her new cut and then proceeded to take a long fair haired wig from her bag and place it over her new style, making herself look exactly the same as she had when she had walked in.

The Chameleon lived up to her nom de plume and minutes later she was clad from head to foot in black, with her face scrubbed clean of make-up. Gil did not need make-up to be pretty, but she looked very different from the heavily made up woman who had walked into the bathroom.

"They only ever see the uniform," she said to her reflection.

Sister Margaret Rose, as she had now become, was dressed in a traditional habit with a pristine white coif covering her neck and head. She wore a plain silver ring on her left hand that denoted she was a Bride of Christ, and a large silver Crucifix hung from her neck on a black cord and rested on the pristine starched white coif. The outfit was completed by a black woven woollen belt which had her Rosary hanging from it and a pair of unfashionable spectacles glazed with plain glass. Once she had crammed her few belongings into the traditional, top opening, hand held black bag, the image would be complete. The passport and picture were now almost eight years old, but the hairstyle was identical and the picture was clearly a freshly scrubbed younger version of the Sister Margaret Rose who would fly to Nassau in the Bahamas very soon.

***

"Sister Angelica, I am so grateful for your help. I appreciate that seeing a worldly woman like myself wearing these sacred robes must be hard for you to bear," Sister Margaret Rose pondered.

"Nonsense, my child, we will do whatever it takes to further the Holy Mother's work under this godless communist regime. And in that regard I must thank you for your generous donation. I assure you, even without it I would have assisted you without any hesitation in return for your brave efforts on behalf of this order in 2005."

Gillian Davis knew that her six figure donation would keep the nuns of El Cobre in funds for a year or more. Three more nuns of varying sizes and shapes gathered in the corridor as Sister Angelica hugged Sister Margaret Rose, blessed her and bid her a safe journey. The shortest and oldest nun, Sister Therese, took the bag and exited the dormitory with the three taller nuns.

***

Thom Passarell was already fed up of coffee, and the tourists had only been gone forty five minutes. He looked up to see four nuns exiting the building. It was a somewhat amusing sight; three were tall and had their hands concealed in their capacious sleeves, their arms in a cradling position. They were giggling. The last nun was about four feet six inches tall and she scurried behind the others with a stern look on her aged face that spoke volumes about her disapproval of her younger sisters' public behaviour.

Light relief over, Passarell ordered another coffee and resumed his observation of the Basilica's sole public entrance.

***

Inside the Basilica, Sister Angelica examined her handiwork and smiled at her finished product.

"I feel a little vulnerable dressed like this, Sister Angelica," the novice nun admitted, temporarily concealing her Novice's calf length work habit under Gillian Davis's flowing summer dress, and replacing her veil with a flowing wig of fair hair.

Sister Angelica looked at the heavily made up face of the young woman and worried that she looked a little too much like a dancer at the Copa Cubana, but that was how her predecessor had arrived. Handing the novice a pair of Gillian Davis's oversized sunglasses, she gave final instructions.

"Your veil is in the handbag. When you get to the Ducal Hotel restaurant, eat the set lunch and sit in the back, well away from the window. When the bus arrives to take the tourists to their next destination, go into the hotel restrooms, discard the dress, wig, hat and sunglasses, scrub your face and replace your veil. Wearing the habit under the dress will be warm, but it is the only way."

The older nun paused for thought. "After you have done that, walk straight to the front desk and ask the concierge to order you a taxi. I want you back here in three hours."

The novice was excited and nervous in equal measures as she passed an hour waiting for the bus.

***

When the tourist bus arrived, Thom Passarell looked over to ensure that his quarry was in the throng. He need not have worried; the sun hat, the glasses and the flowing summer dress stood out from the scantily dressed crowd who clambered aboard the bus, which then headed for the old city and lunch. Thom paid his bill. He was in no hurry. He knew exactly where the bus was headed.

***

At 10:30am Sister Margaret Rose presented her passport and boarding card to the uniformed customs official. He glanced at it with little interest before making a joke.

"The Bahamas, Sister? Perhaps you will be getting a nice tan." He laughed at his own joke as the nun glared at him, only her face and hands visible. In a broad Irish accent the nun rebuked him, using the name on his badge.

"Christos, how would your mother feel if she knew how you treated the servants of the Saviour whose name you bear?"

The man visibly blanched, then offered a subdued apology as he quickly stamped her exit visa into her passport.

Gillian Davis smiled as she headed to gate 107 and her seventy minute flight to Nassau in the Bahamas. If everything worked out according to plan it would be almost 2pm when her followers realised that they had lost her, by which time she would be on a casino cruise ship bound for Fort Lauderdale.

***

Thom Passarell was annoyed with himself when he lost contact with his quarry. For almost an hour he searched high and low in the hotel, but she was nowhere to be seen. Passarell knew that she had not climbed aboard the bus, which had waited an extra ten minutes for her to show.

Nonetheless, he wasn't worried. Some time later that night she would return to her hotel room and to her belongings, and when she did his team would be waiting.
Chapter 44

Nassau Cruise Terminal, Festival Place, Nassau Thursday 1pm

The seventy minute flight from Havana to Nassau had proven uneventful. The fifty seat turboprop aircraft, which was owned and run by Bahamasair, was comfortable enough and the aircraft appeared to be relatively new. The De Havilland Dash 8, painted in a yellow and aqua branding, had landed exactly on time at the Lynden Pindling International Airport.

Passing through the capacious airport building was swift and efficient. Less than thirty minutes after touching down, Gil had exited the hangar sized terminal building and was waiting at the courtesy car stand, where a jolly Caribbean man in a bright yellow and green shirt was awaiting her arrival.

"We will have you on your cruise liner within the hour, Sister," he smilingly promised, not questioning why a nun should be considering a cruise, let alone a casino cruise.

The Chevy sedan almost floated along John F Kennedy Drive on its way to the cruise terminal before turning onto Coral Harbour Road. The sun was shining, the skies were a pristine and cloudless blue and there was little or no traffic to contend with. Gillian began to relax.

Eventually the car pulled into a side road and a multicoloured building constructed of timber, in the old Colonial style, stood before them. The sign on the top said "Starbucks". They were everywhere. Gillian tipped the driver well and entered the modern cruise terminal. Her first port of call was the restroom.

Gillian removed the nun's habit and all of the associated accessories, to reveal a pair of shorts and a Hollister So-Cal Tee shirt underneath. From the nun's bag she extracted a foldaway Suzy Smith shoulder bag, which she proceeded to fill with her toiletries, a change of underwear and her make-up. At the bathroom counter she applied make-up to her face and gel to her hair, spiking it to make it a little more contemporary. Satisfied that she looked nothing like Sister Margaret Rose, but perhaps more like her bad sister, Gillian packed the black case with the nun's habit and paraphernalia. Slipping her old passport into the concealed pocket at the bottom of the bag, she retrieved the new passport she was about to use for the first time and slipped it into her pocket.

The DHL man behind the Terminal Cargo Counter was happy to despatch the nun's bag back to Cuba for his attractive new customer. He grinned widely, white teeth gleaming as he spoke.

"For you, Lady, I have a special rate, just forty eight dollars." Gillian paid in cash and checked the address on the DHL plastic sack that encompassed her escape disguise. Satisfied that it would reach Sister Angelica intact, she left the cool interior of the air conditioned terminal building and stepped into the sun to walk the few yards to the large cruise liner berthed at the jetty. As she walked along the paved walkway, she turned to look back at the bright orange and yellow building proudly displaying a sign which read "Festival Place" and wished that she could stay awhile. The Bahamas were such a friendly group of islands.

Gillian walked along the gangway and stepped up to a handsome young American man dressed in a white dress uniform with a naval cap and shorts. He announced himself by name and rank and wished Gillian a safe return to the United States. He scanned her passport but took little notice of its contents; she was, after all, an American passport holder returning to the States on a casino boat.

***

Unbeknown to her MI5 bosses, in 2007 Gillian had started a long and quite laborious process to obtain American Citizenship, a social security number and a US Passport. She had only received them after her third face to face interview at the US Embassy in London at the end of 2009. Given that her entitlement was based entirely on her paternity - she was born to a US citizen, who was her father - her shiny new passport gave her name as Gillian Miles. In due course Gillian Davis, Sister Margaret Rose and two other identities would become history, and she would be like everyone else - one name, one identity, one future.

Sitting at the bar sipping a Margarita, Gillian Miles looked across the casino floor beyond the slot machines and over towards the Blackjack table. Perhaps she would try her luck later. She rubbed her finger around the edge of the cocktail glass, displacing the salt, and sipped her drink. The orange flavoured liqueur slipped across her tongue with a slight acidic tang. That would be the lime. Then the Tequila hit. She would have to be careful. She didn't want her first entry to the States as a citizen to be on a stretcher. Gil had played many parts and had many skills, but she had realised at an early age that she reacted to alcohol very quickly and that if she wanted to be sharp she would just have to be abstemious. The last thing Gillian Miles wanted was not to be in control. That was her weakness, and also her nightmare.

Gillian took a quick glance at her watch as she felt the boat pull away from the jetty. It was 2pm. About now her watchers in Cuba would be wondering how they had lost her in a hotel with one main entrance. She smiled as she imagined the confused looks on their faces when they realised that she was never returning for her suitcase, her clothes and her hair straighteners.
Chapter 45

Green Earth Fashions, Church Place, London, Thursday 7pm

The fashion shoot was coming to an end. Katie was wearing the last of the summer range of dresses made from fair-trade cotton. So far she had worn a plethora of tee shirts, shorts, jeans, scarves, jackets and skirts. The mission statement of Green Earth Fashions was to produce high quality fashions from cotton and other sustainable materials secured from reputable sources. The entire supply chain was under the control of Maxi Jameson, former actress, singer and flower child.

Katie was much more astute than Dee had given her credit for. Katie had asked to see the certificates and audits that showed where the materials had come from and who had manufactured them. Once she was satisfied that the evidence was in order, she asked to see copies of the payslips for the Sri Lankan girls and women who had tailored the clothes. Noting that some of the girls were as young as twelve, she asked to see Maxi. There followed a long discussion which resulted in Maxi persuading Katie that the girls were still in education but that they had to help support their parents, and for many it was a choice between selling their sewing skills or their bodies.

It was only after this twice yearly audit that Katie donned the first of the outfits. She had now been sitting in front of the lights for almost five hours and when she was finished, at 8pm, she would be hosting a video web chat with Green Earth Fashion customers and fans of the Clara Campbell movies.

Dee had taken the opportunity of leaving Katie with the Green Earth security men for an hour, earlier in the day, when she had been able to meet up with Geordie.

***

It was hard to believe that just a week had passed since the assassination of the Hokobus, and Pete was still feeling the effects of his failure to protect them. He walked past St. James' Church on Piccadilly, glancing down St James' Place to see if there was any sign of Dee outside Green Earth's premises. There wasn't. It was unlikely anyway because, although the freezing conditions had passed for the time being, it was still wet and cold in the capital. As if to confirm his limited expectations of the weather, a steady drizzle started to fall. Pete walked briskly on past the stone entrance of the BAFTA offices and Princess Arcade to Ristorante Bagio, which combined a cafe and restaurant. As he opened the door, Franco stepped up to greet him and shake his hand vigorously.

"Mr Pete, so nice to see you again! You wanna use my upstairs office for stake out again?"

"No thanks, Franco, I just want a drink and maybe a bowl of pasta," Geordie replied as he removed his leather jacket.

"Ah, it is a pity; I made more money on the stake out than I took in the cafe that entire two weeks," Franco lamented as he departed to the kitchen.

Dee arrived exactly on time and sat with her colleague. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently. She hadn't seen him since he had been back to Newcastle after the shooting.

"Are you OK, Pete?" she asked, genuine concern in her voice.

"No, Dee, I'm not. Not really. It'll take a while yet. But I want to keep busy." Dee nodded in understanding. She had been obliged to rest up for almost two months after being shot twice in quick succession last year, and it nearly drove her insane. She rubbed both of her old bullet wounds unconsciously as they always ached more in cold, damp weather.

"It is the beautiful Miss Conrad!" Franco enthused as he lifted her right hand to kiss it. "I live in the hope that someday you will return my affection and return to Sicily with me as my wife."

Dee smiled as she replied.

"Firstly, it's Mrs Hammond now." Dee displayed her ring finger, and Franco looked crestfallen. "Second, Mrs Bagio might have something to say about that, and, thirdly, you don't come from Sicily, Frankie, you were born in Chislehurst." Her suitor replied in a whisper, dropping all pretence of an Italian accent.

"Congratulations, Mrs Hammond, but please keep your voice down. The tourists lap this stuff up."

***

In the hour that they spent together, Pete explained all that he had been able find out about Gillian Davis' childhood. He produced an article from the Financial Times that explained the generous nature of Ms Davis' sell off of Celebrato, and handed the press cutting and the file to Dee.

"Simon has done a lot of the work, and I've added the insights I gained in Hampshire. If you turn to the back page you'll see something interesting." Pete waited for Dee to turn the pages.

There, in the back of the manila folder, was a Google map showing the exact location of Denton Miles III's estate near Lynchburg, Virginia. It was accompanied by a satellite version of the same plan, and a photograph of the plantation house which occupied the site.

"Sooner or later she'll end up there, you know, Pete."

"Maybe sooner than you think." Pete pulled a post-it note from his wallet. "As of yesterday Gillian Davis has a search and arrest warrant out on her, issued under orders from MI5. According to your friend in MI5, they believe that she has fled the country. Oddly enough, they believe she flew out of Newcastle." Pete's Geordie accent suddenly seemed more pronounced.

"I'm flying to the US with Katie tomorrow. If Ms Davis shows up in Virginia, I'll make sure I'm there. I'll have to clear it with Tom Vastrick, but I don't foresee any problem with me spending a few days tracking down an assassin with a price on her head." Dee's focus altered and she stared into the distance, way beyond the dark wet pavements of Piccadilly. Geordie tried to regain her attention and succeeded in a dramatic fashion.

"Before you think about bringing her in, you might want to look at page eleven."

Dee turned to page eleven, where she saw a full colour headshot of a handsome American man with salt and pepper hair and George Clooney style weathered face. She looked down at the notation that identified him as Denton Miles III and gasped when she read the short bio Simon had prepared.

"I don't believe it!" she blurted, finishing the sentence with a string of unladylike expletives.

Chapter 46

Director of Operations Office, MI5, London, Thursday 7pm.

Maureen Lassiter wanted to go home. She was tired and emotionally drained and she was needy. She knew that Barry would be at her apartment and she needed some desperate, physical activity to take her mind off things. Barry wasn't the best lover in the world but she didn't have to encourage him to handle her roughly. As she got older her passions grew stronger and all embracing lovemaking made the years slip away. In the midst of her passion she felt like a girl again.

Her mobile phone rang with a tone that sounded like an old fashioned bell telephone ringing in the distance.

The news wasn't good. The two clowns in Cuba had managed to lose Gillian Davis and now they were relying on their back up plan; wait for her to return to the hotel and snatch her. They actually seemed confident that this was still overwhelmingly likely, and had gone as far as hiring an outside team for the snatch. Maureen wasn't so confident. Thom Passarel and Jared Stevens had been the victims of cutbacks. They were now only part time and they received little or no training. They were well out of touch.

Maureen listened to their timetable for the plane taking off from Cuba with Davis on board and the estimated landing time at Brize Norton Airfield, then she said her goodbyes and hung up.

Before placing her mobile in her bag she dialled her own phone. It was an odd feeling. She hadn't rung that number in the ten years she had been living there. What would be the point? Normally there would be no-one there. Maybe in the future when she and Barry were together...

"Maureen?" Barry sounded impatient and tetchy. Her message was not going to improve his temperament.

"Barry, I think she's gone. The part timers are convinced she has no idea they are watching her, but my guess is that she spotted them a mile off and they won't be seeing her again."

Barry swore loudly, frustration and anger getting the better of him.

"OK. She's travelling on her own passport so put her name on the Terror Watch List at every airport which takes direct flights from Cuba, and there aren't that many. Concentrate on the short haul flights, like Panama. She will arouse suspicion if she travels long haul without her luggage." He paused. "With any luck we'll get her overnight. Anyway, you may as well come home, I need you here."

Maureen Lassiter closed down her work station and set off for home. She decided that she would allow Barry to work out his frustrations on her if he wanted, as long as his pent up aggression had a carnal outlet.
Chapter 47

Green Earth Fashions, Church Place, London, Thursday 9pm

It was dark and cold outside by the time Dee and Katie exited Green Earth by the side door. The alleyway into which they alighted was narrow and poorly lit, but a warm and comfortable car was waiting for them just a few yards away.

Dee stepped out first and kept Katie behind her whilst she scanned the alleyway. There were no hysterical fans around. It was too wet and too cold. No-one was visible in the line of sight that Dee had established between the exit and the car.

She was just about to usher Katie into the alley when she noticed the barest wisp of water vapour dissipating into the darkness. She breathed out herself and noticed that her warm expelled breath formed a noticeable cloud. Someone was hiding and trying to conceal their exhalations. Dee turned and whispered to Katie, asking her to go back inside until Dee came back to collect her. Katie looked down the alley but saw nothing amiss, and a puzzled frown formed on her face. Nonetheless, she trusted Dee's instincts and did as she was asked.

***

Dee had wrapped up tight and warm. She was wearing a heavy coat and scarf over her jeans and polo neck sweater. She unbuttoned the coat and removed the scarf from her neck, keeping her leather gloves on. If there was an attacker in the alley she needed the freedom to move easily and use her martial art skills. Additionally she had no intention of giving any assailant the chance to throttle her with her own scarf.

She walked casually down the alley towards the recessed doorway where she had noticed the wisp of vapour and then, as a diversion, she called out to no-one.

"Katie, tuck in behind me. You never know what might happen."

She had barely finished the sentence when a figure leapt out in front of her. She could see it was a man, and he was holding something at chest level with both hands. Whatever it was it looked dangerous, and it was aimed at Dee's head.

"Bitch!" the man shouted. "I'll make you pay!" His angry voice was distorted beyond recognition.

Dee marvelled at the fact that almost all amateur assailants felt an urge to issue a warning before acting, whereas if they acted and yelled at the same time the victim would be caught unawares. Dee sensed, as much as saw, something coming towards her face and swivelled to avoid it, whilst launching a kick at the assailant's outstretched hands. A stream of cold liquid splashed onto her coat which absorbed the most of the noxious liquid, but a little sprayed over her ear. The smell of the liquid hit her senses and she was outraged. The strong chlorine smell told her that someone had been trying to blind her by squirting bleach into her eyes.

At the same instant she recognised the odour, her foot connected with her assailant's weapon and his wrists. He grunted as the force from Dee's kick cracked his left wrist and dislocated his outspread left thumb. Then he screamed.

***

The scream wasn't that of a man who had sustained minor injuries to his hands. He screamed as if he was dying. Dee flung off her bleach covered coat and wiped her stinging ear.

"Son of a bitch!" she muttered. "This is undiluted bleach." In a second she had both feet planted on the pavement and was ready to beat her opponent into the ground. Her training had kicked in instinctively, and she had adopted a closed, long and high stance. In other words, she was presenting a closed or limited view of her body. Her feet were wide apart with her weight resting equally on each foot, and, she was standing tall, ready to deflect any incoming blows or to launch an attack.

The man stumbled towards her, his arms crossed over his face, still screaming.

"I'm blinded!" he cried as he moved ever closer. Dee felt she had no alternative. It could be a bluff, and in any event he had started the fracas. She threw out a series of combination punches to his unprotected midriff and chest, hearing a satisfying gasp as his lungs deflated. She finished with a hard kick to the groin which would have flattened her attacker's testicles or sent them up as far as his throat.

***

The assailant lay on the ground, crying and sobbing that he was blind, by the time Katie came out into the alley with the security guards. Dee knelt beside the injured man with her scarf ready to act as temporary restraints.

"Bobby," she called, referring to one of the security men by name. "I need a torch and some bottles of water as soon as you can."

Dee dragged the man's arms away from his face but it was too dark to see who he was. He resisted.

"Stop rubbing the stuff into your eyes, you stupid sod," she shouted.

She pulled his arms behind his back and tied them together with her scarf, wrapping the ends around his ankles for good measure. Trussed up like a turkey, she was saving him from himself as much as restraining him.

The torch arrived, and Bobby pointed it into the man's face as Dee opened the water bottles and squirted the contents of each into her assailant's eyes. He yelled and screamed but he could not resist. Dee held his head up and, opening one eye at a time, she squirted water in, rinsing out the bleach. When she was happy that both eyes were thoroughly rinsed, she took her own handkerchief and one from Bobby. Folding them carefully, she placed one over each eye.

Katie came to Dee's side and saw the man's blistering red face for the first time. She shrieked his name in shocked surprise.

"Rob Donkin!"

***

By the time the paramedics had arrived and squirted a gooey salve into the young man's eyes, he was in shock. He wasn't moving but he was still groaning. The paramedic took a syringe, tapped it and injected Donkin's left arm. Donkin noticeably relaxed, and the paramedic removed his restraints, holding the scarf out for Dee to take. He looked at her coat.

"You're covered in it as well," he noted. "Do you need me to take a look?"

"No, it's only on my clothes. I'll be fine. Just get him to hospital before the stupid little sod loses his eyesight."

Back in Green Earth offices, Dee discarded all of her outer clothing and washed any signs of bleach from her skin. Katie came in with some Green Earth branded clothing and some Tea Tree balm, which she tenderly applied to the red patches on Dee's skin. Once Dee was fully dressed she examined the damage more closely. She had a couple of red patches on her ear and on her neck, and she could expect to lose some hair colour, but generally she was fine.

Dee looked over to thank Katie for her help and saw tears in the younger woman's eyes.

"I didn't see anyone in that alleyway, Dee; I would have walked right into that. I don't know how I would have coped if you had been hurt protecting me."

Katie then rushed into Dee's arms, pushing the older woman back against the countertop.

"That what you pay me for, Katie," Dee reminded her soothingly, as she hugged her young friend and kissed the top of her head.

***

An hour later in the hotel suite the two women were relaxing in their pyjamas and robes when they heard a brisk knock, followed by a muffled voice from the other side of the door.

"Dee, it's DC Knox. We met last year."

Dee checked the TV monitor that showed who was outside the door, just to be sure. She smiled as she saw Detective Constable Knox of the Metropolitan Police, whose round friendly countenance Dee recalled with warmth. She invited him in, and they spent a few minutes reminiscing in the hallway about the case in 2009 where they met.

Eventually the two old friends came into the lounge area and Dee introduced Katie Norman. Katie's hair was brushed out, her face was make-up free and natural, but the thirty year old DC was still besotted with the star. He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"I can't believe I'm meeting you face to face," he spluttered, losing any cool or 'street cred' he might have imagined he possessed.

"I'm always happy to meet one of Dee's former boyfriends," she teased. Knox flushed and spluttered again before Dee rebuked the young starlet with a single word. "Katie."

DC Knott composed himself and explained that Donkin had managed to get hold of some commercial strength bleach which contained around thirty to forty per cent concentrate, whereas domestic bleach contained only around five to fifteen per cent concentrate when compared to the whole volume of the container. It seemed the enraged publicity seeker had then poured the solution into a plastic water cannon designed for children's water fights in swimming pools. It became clear that Dee's kick must have sent the nozzle back in Donkin's direction, dousing him with a face full of bleach. To make matters worse, the plastic container had cracked as well, pouring the remaining contents all over the would-be assailant.

Donkin had well and truly been "hoist by his own petard", in the words of the Detective Constable, who continued; "You may have saved him from blindness with your quick action, Dee, but the medics say it's too early to tell. His eyes are badly burned."

Katie came over and sat beside Dee, holding her hand. Neither woman would have wished this on Rob Donkin, but they both knew that the idiot could have blinded them both had Dee not reacted as she did. They both concluded that there was little or no chance that, having filled their eyes with aggressive bleach, Donkin would have stayed around to rinse out their eyes with clean water. He was a coward at heart, and they rightly assumed he would have run away.

In the next forty five minutes DC Knox took down their statements, acknowledged that they were free to fly to the USA as planned, and then stood to leave, hugging Dee and telling her that he was delighted that her gunshot injuries from the previous year had healed so well.

"Don't I get a hug too?" Katie demanded.

DC Knox didn't wait for a second invitation, and Katie winked at Dee over his shoulder as Dee simply shook her head and smiled.
Chapter 48

Port Everglades, Fort Lauderdale, Florida, USA, Friday 8am.

The cruise had been fun, and Gil had even managed to grab a couple of hours' sleep, but in a few hours she had crossed that narrow channel of the Atlantic Ocean separating the Bahamas from the USA. The Port Everglades Cruise Terminal was a far cry from the terminal in Nassau; to begin with it was filled with cruise ships four times larger than her own. The brilliantly white ships bore different cruise line logos, the most prominent being Royal Caribbean, and were ultra modern in their design. Gil walked down the gangplank onto the concrete jetty a couple of hundred dollars lighter than when she embarked. She was no gambler. In a few moments she reached the terminal building and, for the first time ever, she was standing in the 'US Passports Only' queue.

"So, Miss Miles, you have a US passport and this is the first time you have used it?"

"Yes. I read on the Homeland Security website that US passport holders should present their US Passports on entry and exit." Gil had been expecting a mild inquisition, even though entering the US from the Bahamas through Fort Lauderdale was an extremely casual experience compared to entering the US via one of the major airports.

"Welcome to the USA, Miss Miles, and congratulations on achieving dual nationality. Enjoy your stay." The border control officer handed Gil back her new passport and smiled before summoning up the next passenger.

Gil was in sunny Florida. The sun was shining but the temperature was in the low sixties Fahrenheit as it was still early. The average daytime temperature in January and February was around low seventies. Amply warm enough after the severe winter she had survived in the UK.

She had a free weekend ahead of her before she travelled north to Virginia, and so she left the ferry terminal, crossed the road and stepped onto a free air conditioned coach, decorated to resemble a cruise liner. The decals down the side of the bus read "Disney Cruise Lines". Gil was joining numerous other cruise passengers and was heading to Walt Disney World. As soon as she sat down the video screen lit up, and Mickey and Minnie Mouse beckoned her to the "Happiest Place on Earth".

The coach doors closed with a hiss and the bus moved off to make the three and a half hour journey to The Grand Floridian Hotel in Orlando. Built on the lakeside overlooking Disney's Magic Kingdom, it was one of the most exclusive resort hotels in the USA. Gil relaxed into her reclining seat and smiled to herself. No-one had any idea where she was, she had millions in her Cayman Island account under the name of Talgarth Business Services Inc, and she was on her way to meet her hero, Donald Duck. Life didn't get any better than this.

***

It was almost 2pm in the UK when the call came through to Maureen Lassiter. Still sore from the night's exertions, she shuffled in her seat to find a comfortable position. She listened whilst her contact in the British Embassy confirmed that Gillian Davis had not returned to her hotel and was not expected to do so. After many threats, bribes and favours, the attaché had discovered that no-one matching her name or description had flown from Havana. That information was useless, as he freely admitted.

"She could be planning to stay in Cuba forever as far as we know, and we will probably never know if she has created a new identity here. She has so much money she may never surface," the attaché pointed out on the phone, which enjoyed better clarity than her internal line within Thames House.

"The odds are that she has left, or will leave soon under an assumed identity, possibly after changing her appearance. I fully expect the travel rep to be on the phone soon, reporting her missing. The Cubans are still uncomfortable about having Westerners circulating freely around Cuba without supervision," he added.

Maureen thanked him for his help, whilst biting her tongue to prevent her saying what she really thought about their amateurish surveillance efforts. Barry had already guessed that she had slipped away, giving the snatch team only the slimmest of chances of apprehending her in her hotel. He had been angry, frustrated and quite violent in their lovemaking, before holding Maureen in his arms and falling asleep. He didn't see her crying. She liked raw emotion and unremitting passion, but a lover could go too far and Barry had crossed Maureen's invisible line. But what could she do? She loved him. Things would be better when this episode was behind them and they were living somewhere serene as husband and wife.

***

The last few hours of Katie's time in London were spent in the offices of her agent, where her publicist and agent were filling her calendar with film premieres, fashion shows, awards ceremonies and chat shows around the world, without any consideration of how she would fit in her degree studies.

As Katie and her advisers argued in an adjoining office, Dee scanned the web, looking at the newspaper sites. Rob Donkin had made the front pages of the tabloids for the second day in a row, usurping riots in Greece and unhappiness amongst the populations of the Middle East.

The Daily Post led with the story of Donkin's injuries, sustained during his attack on Katie Norman. Not one paper had thought to mention that Katie was safely secured inside the building when the attack took place. They were all looking for the most shocking headline, and the fiction that the nation's favourite actress had been terrorised was much sexier than the truth. The Daily Post excoriated Rob Donkin, despising the shallowness of his section of society and decrying the cult of celebrity which enabled unbalanced people to become celebrities without doing anything. Dee noted that in the sidebar next to the article there was a string of photos, beside which were headlines exclaiming; film star photographed by the pool in LA in a bikini, Pop Star and winner of a TV talent show who has only one single to her name gets a new tattoo, and finally, sixty year old soap star who had a fling with toy boy has rampant cellulite.

Dee briefly wondered whether the newspaper editors were even vaguely aware of their blatant hypocrisy, and then decided that they probably were but that they simply didn't care, as long as their newspapers sold in large numbers.

***

The meeting with Katie's PA, Jordan Phelps, an Oxford graduate who was paid by the film company, spilled over into the journey to Heathrow Airport. As was usual with individuals who travelled through the VIP terminal, their luggage travelled separately. Dee had returned to her flat in Greenwich, which seemed so empty without her husband Josh around, to throw a few things into a suitcase. She could buy what she didn't have with her when she got to the US. She could do with some retail therapy and she was on expenses, after all.

As Katie and her young male counterpart settled her calendar, Dee rang Josh, who was still in Dubai. She had emailed him about the attack, and he was genuinely scared for her. She knew that he didn't like her 'hands on' role in personal security, even though that was how they had met, but he would never say so. Josh knew Dee well enough to know that she could usually take care of herself. In a supreme act of irony, the airlines had conspired to have Dee fly out from Heathrow only hours before Josh arrived back. They had been apart now for too long, but they would have to wait a little longer for their passionate reconciliation. They had been married for only a few months, and as far as they were both concerned the honeymoon period was still in full swing.

As Dee wrapped up the conversation, Katie crossed the limo and sat next to her, signalling that she wanted to speak to Josh. Dee handed her the phone.

"Josh Hammond, we speak at last. I'm so looking forward to meeting the man who stole Dee's heart." She was teasing again, but Josh was also accomplished at the art.

"Don't tell Dee, but I fell in love with you first. I think you were only fourteen at the time, though, and so I knew it couldn't work," he joked.

"Your husband is a flirt, Mrs Hammond," Katie said so that all could hear. "Am I going to get to meet you anytime soon, Josh?"

"Not if I have anything to do with it," Dee chimed in, making a grab for the phone.

"If you stay still long enough I may eventually track you down," Josh said finally as Katie let the phone go. The three of them were laughing.

***

As the Airbus A380 cruised over the Atlantic, Katie offered Dee the private cabin's bed. Dee declined the offer, taking the recliner in the sumptuous private bedroom instead. Katie climbed into the full sized bed and pulled the comforter up to her neck.

"Dee, when I get back to the university, are you going to look for that woman sniper?" Dee looked surprised that her ward should know about the Chameleon. "Sorry, I overheard you on the phone to Pete on Wednesday making the arrangements to meet up in New York," Katie admitted somewhat sheepishly. Dee did not answer immediately.

"To be entirely honest with you, Katie, I don't really know what I'm going to do. I do want to track the Hokobus' killer down, that much is true, but after that..." her sentence trailed off for a moment before she picked up the traces of the conversation again. "One part of me wants to understand why she killed such a lovely and harmless couple, while another part of me wants to see her with a syringe stuck in her own neck, realising she is about to die."

"That won't happen," Katie countered. "You will catch her and you'll hand her over to the police. You don't have it in you to be a vigilante."

Dee wondered whether that was really true. Sitting there on the plane pondering on it, she really did not know whether she could kill in revenge. A minute later she looked over at Katie, who had fallen asleep. Dee decided to get some rest, too, and pulled a blanket around her as she reclined her seat almost flat.
Chapter 49

Universal Studios, Orlando, Florida, USA, Saturday noon.

Gil had yet another new look. The hairdresser in the salon at the Grand Floridian had restored her natural hair colour and had cut her hair into a more contemporary style; he called it an urchin cut. Somehow Gil couldn't imagine an urchin spending over two hundred dollars on a cut and colour.

Handing the keys of her Ford Mustang hire car to the valet, she stepped onto an escalator and rode up to the covered walkway which led into Universal City Walk. Wearing designer jeans, brown leather cowboy boots and a pink Aeropostale tee shirt, all bought at the Florida Mall late last night, she joined the crowds heading towards the parks.

As she passed the AMC multiplex on her right, she noticed that the latest Clara Campbell movie was showing. She decided to give it a try before she left Orlando. She had always envied Clara's adolescent friendships, and crushes, having been a solitary teen when she was young herself.

A throng of happy and smiling tourists moved with purpose towards the newer of the two theme parks, the Islands of Adventure, home to Hogsmeade, Hogwarts and the Harry Potter ride. Gil was quite excited. She had never been to a theme park as a child, and had never had an excuse to go as an adult, and so she looked at the rollercoasters with awe and more than a little trepidation. Nonetheless, she would ride them all. Not to do so would be cowardice.

***

By 6pm the queue for the Harry Potter ride had dwindled to twenty minutes and so she joined it, jiggling a giant stuffed white tiger on her hip – a prize she won, rather unfairly, in a target shooting sideshow. Gil had been so consumed with the colours, smells and noise of the park that she had paid no attention to a young couple following her around the park. The girl had a white veil on her head that sported Minnie Mouse ears. The man was wearing a tee shirt printed to resemble a tuxedo. Newlyweds, the world and his wife would think, but they would be wrong. The man had his wife stand in front of the gates to Hogwarts, towered over by two large winged boars, and then he took a picture with an expensive looking Sony camera. The picture that showed up on the camera's screen, however, did not show the impressive gates, or his wife, but a pretty young woman with short hair carrying a white tiger.

The man fell into line a few places behind Gil, whilst his wife kissed him modestly on the lips and proclaimed loudly that she was going to Ollivander's to buy a wand.

***

The girl headed off to Ollivander's and joined the queue before reaching for her BlackBerry curve phone. She spoke quietly into the handset.

"This is Sherrie. The girl is here, we've been following her all afternoon. I'm sending you some pictures now." The girl took the phone from her ear and sent four photos, taken on the phone's built in 8 megapixel camera during the afternoon. The pictures weren't great quality, but the light was good and it would be obvious to anyone who knew Gil, and who saw the photos, just who the subject was.

"Keep her in sight, understand?" a male voice commanded from out of the ether.

"Yes, boss. You can rely on us." Sherrie pressed the red button to end the call and took up her vigil outside Filch's Emporium, the exit from the Harry Potter ride.
Chapter 50

Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island, USA, Saturday noon.

There was no doubting that Brown University was an Ivy League institution; it just reeked of power and status. Founded in 1764, it is the seventh oldest college in the US and home to young film stars Emma Watson and Katie Norman. The film studios liked the college because it was Brit friendly and off the beaten track. Vastrick liked it because it was easier to secure than a metropolitan university.

Katie, Pete and Dee sat on a cold bench under a tree devoid of its leaves. The wind was cold, but the weather was dry. They were waiting for Katie's new minder to arrive. Deanna Pope was usually the weekend and holiday relief for Katie's assigned minder, but the two knew each other well and Deanna was young enough to blend in and give Katie her privacy, whilst keeping her in sight.

"Will I see you before you go back to the UK?" Katie asked Dee and Pete.

"I guarantee it, pet," Pete replied, his Geordie accent seeming out of place on the lawn in front of this august establishment.

"Shouldn't that be 'Why aye man', Pete?" Katie asked in a strong Newcastle dialect. Pete grimaced and Dee smiled.

"Pete and I will take you to 'Rosie's Emporium' for a night out before we fly back. It's a Vastrick secret. Lots of Feds and ex Feds hang out there and the New England cuisine is to die for. Hinny." She added the last word to join in the teasing of her partner.

All too soon Deanna and Katie headed off towards the dorm block, and the two Vastrick personnel headed towards their Chrysler 300 hire car. They had a long journey ahead and a meeting with an old friend from Quantico.

***

They left Providence and joined Interstate 95, heading south towards New York. According to the satnav they had 444 miles to go before they reached Quantico in Virginia. They were going to be on the same road for almost nine hours.

They decided to share the driving in two hour spells, and so Pete, the big Geordie, curled up on the spacious back seat and was snoring loudly before Dee reached Cranston, just a few miles away. Dee listened to the radio as she drove, and despaired at the drivers who drove in their favoured lane regardless of their speed. It was going to be a long drive.

***

As she drove Dee cast her mind back four years to her time at Quantico. She had just arrived there to begin work when the hulk who was now snoring on the back seat ran up and introduced himself. They were both new Vastrick employees and both were there to attend a variety of courses from Hostage Negotiation to Defensive Driving.

Dee had expected a few hours to herself to acclimatise and get over her long journey when an instructor tapped on the dorm room door, opened it, threw in a tracksuit and said, "Cross country run, ten minutes, assembly point C."

Dressed in her light grey FBI branded track suit with her visitor's badge flapping, she set off beside Pete and an American called Steve Post. Steve was wearing a red ID band, whereas Dee and Pete had yellow bands on their wrists. The bands had been fitted when entering through the gate and, like hospital ID's, they had to be worn until the person left the premises. Yellow denoted a guest trainee, from a US police department, fire department or private company, red denoted FBI. It is little known, or understood, by those who visit Quantico and who train there, that the CIA send numerous operatives to the FBI site for training. The spooks all wear red FBI wristbands and declare themselves to be from the Arlington Field Office. There is no Arlington Field Office for the FBI; in fact, these CIA operatives all hail from Langley, Virginia.

By the time the three trainees collapsed back at the foot of the big Assembly Point C marker, after a run of ten miles, they were firm friends. It was a friendship born out of adversity and it had lasted until today.

Those few weeks had been amongst the hardest, and most enjoyable, of Dee's life. She learned a good deal about herself. She had not realised that she could take so much punishment and bounce back. She had accomplished more than she ever thought possible. When the Defensive Driving results came in she was in the top three of twenty one. Steve was one place ahead of her. In Hostage Negotiation, she was graded second to Steve. Soon she was determined to beat him at something and, by the time she left Quantico, she ran faster and shot more accurately than the top FBI candidate, Steve Post.

The intense competition came to a head on the last day when they were pitted against each other in unarmed combat, one to one fighting. The idea was the first person to lead by two clear falls, or drops, was the winner. Usually the scores were 5-3, or maybe 7-5. In extreme circumstances it could go to 11-9. The instructor stopped their combat session when they were both dead on their feet and Steve was up 23-22.

That night the entire group of graduates celebrated at Roman's Pub on Potomac Avenue, after grabbing a bite to eat at Domino's next door. Filled with pizza and beer, the night became rowdy and Steve and Dee took a cab back to the post, leaving Geordie to drink his American challengers under the table. When they arrived back at the post, Dee and Steve decided on one last drink in his dorm room. Before they finished they fell onto the bed in a passionate embrace, kissing each other hard, and pulling at each other's clothes until they both passed out almost fully dressed before they could do anything.

Dee awoke with first light. The moment had passed, and she retired to her dorm room without waking Steve. They parted company later that day, a strong bond between them but neither one regretting that they had not consummated their relationship.

***

When Dee started to see road signs indicating upcoming interchanges for New York, she looked at her watch. She had overrun her driving time. As soon as they came to a fuel stop, Dee pulled in and bought two coffees. They used the restrooms and got underway again, with Dee taking her turn on the back seat.

They had changed over twice more when Dee saw the beautiful Washington DC Mormon Temple on her right hand side, illuminated in the dusk. The elevated position and the wafer thin marble gave the temple a surreal effect. It was beautiful during the day but it was awe inspiring at night.

The two travellers booked in at a Marriott hotel just off the highway, and crashed out for a while, knowing that they had only another hour to drive before meeting up with Steve Post at Quantico.
Chapter 51

Vastrick Security Field Office, Quantico, Virginia, Sunday 9am.

The offices were almost deserted when Dee and Pete arrived at the Vastrick corporate offices in Quantico. The offices had a familiar feel; the corporate branding, the prints on the wall and the furnishing were all identical to the London office, but this one was fraction of the size.

The office had been established to support the Vastrick personnel who were training in, or were seconded to, Quantico and other local US law enforcement offices and agencies.

The guard on the front desk was smiling and convivial, he was a large African American who would not be out of place as a linebacker. He led them to the conference room where the only other member of staff on duty was setting up the room for their meeting.

"Hi. My name's Olly. I'll be taking care of you today. I'm an investigative assistant and I handle the IT based analysis in the Quantico office."

Dee introduced herself and Pete. A few years had passed since they had been in this office and Olly had not been around then. In fact, he looked as though he may have been in High School at the time.

***

Dee and Pete had helped themselves to the coffee, and selected one of the Krispy Kreme doughnuts which were sitting invitingly on plates, having been laid on specifically for the meeting. They were just finishing up and attempting to dust off the sugar powder that coated the table and their dark clothing when their guest arrived. Olly showed him in, and left when it was apparent that no introductions were necessary.

Steve Post shook Pete's hand and reminisced about the last time they had met. Dee noticed the FBI Academy ring on his right hand. Steve turned to Dee. She offered her hand and he walked past it to enclose her in a hug. She returned the hug, all feelings of discomfort forgotten.

"Christine sends her regards, but we should both be at church this morning and so she's covering for me."

"Sorry to mess up your weekend, Steve, but this was the only time we had," Dee apologised.

"Not at all," Steve smiled, "I would give up more than my weekend to meet up with my Brit friends."

Steve sat down and refused coffee, settling instead for sparkling water. Dee remembered seeing the Mormon Temple the night before and it stirred a long forgotten memory.

"I forgot, Steve. You joined the Mormon Church about five years ago. You don't drink tea or coffee, do you?"

"Not any more. Christine and I joined at the same time. I can tell you that giving up smoking, drinking and alcohol were tough, but giving up coffee was almost impossible. We nearly gave up. But now I only yearn for it when I catch the odour of freshly filtered coffee drifting through the office."

"So much for the hard bitten, hard drinking G Man image," Geordie joked. "Your lot are even invading my area. Your church is building a strong presence in Newcastle. There must be half a dozen Latter Day Saint chapels there now, all on main roads."

After a little more banter and Dee's short monologue about married life with Josh, they moved onto the business of the day.

***

Steve Post had been busy since Dee had called him and asked for his help in researching Gillian Davis, and he had compiled a short report which he handed to her. Dee sat close to Pete and they followed the printed word as Steve explained exactly what he had been able to discover.

"Denton Miles III is a tobacco farming heir. The family goes back almost two hundred years in the same area. The old farm is now mostly highways, developments and smaller farms. Tobacco growing there died out in the thirties when the depression took hold, and the first Denton Miles decided the family should produce food and provide jobs, in preference to simply making money. It was an enlightened attitude that was appreciated by three US administrations who subsequently gave the Miles family regular access to the White House.

Gillian Davis, otherwise known as Gillian Miles on her citizenship papers, is the admitted illegitimate offspring of Denton Miles III. It seems your rumour mill was right on the nail, Pete.

Denton Miles himself returned to the US, and two years later married the socialite and banking heiress Elizabeth Chase-Markham. They have no children. It may be that she is not capable of bearing children. Either that or the decision was to give kids a miss and concentrate on their careers.

For almost eleven years Denton ran the family business whilst hisy

dad ran unsuccessfully for the Senate. He almost made it, too. He was only a few votes away from success, and the backlash from the Clinton years seemed likely to propel him to victory, when he suddenly took ill and died.

The business is now a listed corporation and Denton's interest in it is managed under a blind trust, freeing him to be involved in politics himself. As you already know, he is now Senator Denton Miles III. What you maybe do not know is that he is a potential Republican Presidential nominee; the only one the party thinks can compete with Sarah Paling and my fellow Mormon, Mitt Romney.

Your girl has some powerful allies in the US. You'll have to tread carefully. Unless the evidence against her is rock solid you won't be getting an extradition warrant. You may not get one even if it's a slam dunk. We don't send American citizens away to face justice very easily."

"Surely, if Denton Miles is contemplating running for President he'll try to distance himself from any scandal," Dee postulated.

"True, but sticking by the errant daughter you didn't know you had, a few tears and a promise to get her straightened out stateside, may play well with the Republican vote and Virginia hasn't had a President for a long time. You might recall a couple from the past; George Washington and Thomas Jefferson"

Dee and Pete both frowned. They found Pete's analysis hard to accept, but they knew he was in a better position to opine on the matter than most.

***

The meeting ran on for almost three hours, a mixture of business and personal reminiscences taking the time. Eventually Steve asked, "Do you still want that special equipment you asked for? I have it in the car."

Dee nodded, and Pete said that he felt he had a duty to make Gillian Davis pay for what she had done to the Hokobus, regardless of her contacts in the States. Steve shrugged.

"OK. As I said before, you're borrowing twenty thousand dollars worth of kit, the optics alone account for almost five thousand dollars, but you can pick out a fruit fly on a tree branch half a mile away, depending on the weather conditions.

So, please remember, you break it, you pay for it. If it doesn't get returned to the field office there will be an investigation and I'll be in trouble."

Dee and Pete promised that they would be careful and that Steve would not be implicated in anything they did with the equipment. After sharing a joke with his two British friends, Steve Post rose and said goodbye, agreeing to meet to debrief them on Friday, but they were destined to meet again a little sooner than that.
Chapter 52

Walt Disney World, Florida, USA, Sunday 9am.

Gil's iPad, iPod and iPhone were all connected as she used all of their computing power and stored memory to carry out the research she knew was necessary if she wanted to remain safe. Already today she'd had Doc hack into two UK commercial databases and change data for her benefit, a task he had sniffed was below him. Sure enough, twenty minutes later he was reporting that the tasks had been completed and had offered no challenge whatsoever as neither company was using complex encryption software. He was slightly mollified when Gil promised to pay him the full fee anyway.

Sitting on her king sized hotel bed, Gil ticked the final item off her list. It was a story, a fiction but one that she would swear was fact, knowing that if she didn't she could find herself back in the UK waiting for a court hearing or, more likely, the inevitable attempt on her life. The story had been carefully woven around known facts. She had created a convincing story that took incriminating evidence and turned it around so that it portrayed her as an unwitting victim of powerful people and institutions.

The fact that MI5 would know immediately that her story was fabricated did not concern Gil; they would not share that knowledge with the police. She knew that MI5 would not be able to prove their assertions, and in any case they would not want the true version of the story aired in public. Given the choice between being humiliated but seeing Gillian serve life in prison, and saving themselves from humiliation but letting her go free, she fully expected them to choose the latter.

Gil had a patsy who could take the fall for her, and, much as she regretted using him, she had little choice if she wanted to stay free.

The edited story was saved on her hard drive and on a mini USB drive under the title "affidavit".

Gil took her rather bulky sunglasses and extracted from one of the arms a micro SD card. The glasses, commercially available from companies dealing in spyware and which were even available on Amazon, recorded HD video and high quality stills at the touch of a button on the side arm of the glasses.

Sliding the micro SD card into her specially adapted iPhone VOX, she used the screen to preview the video and the still photos she had taken. She isolated about twenty minutes of video and around thirty still pictures which she then downloaded onto her iPad VOX. The pictures and video transferred over rapidly and the preview screen flashed up. Opening each still picture with Photoshop Elements, she cropped them to isolate two figures, two figures who appeared far more times than they had a right to appear in a sample of this size.

The man was in his mid twenties, with short dark hair and prominent eyebrows. He had dark eyes and a strong nose. His mouth was large and his lips full. He was clean shaven, but a shadow of beard growth was still visible. The woman was probably in her twenties too, but she looked much younger. She was probably chosen on that basis. She was pretty and petite but she was much too handy with that camera when Gil was in the picture.

Gil examined the pictures as they were loading onto an FTP site that Doc had nominated. From their remote computers Gil and Doc could both load data onto the server and download it. Doc's task, computer genius that he was, would be to see if he could hack into any photo recognition databases and get a hit. Gil would dearly like to know who they were. Doc, on the other hand, saw the task as nothing more than a chance to beat the US law enforcement firewalls and give them yet another headache by leaving a destructive little 'worm' behind.

The Chameleon had survived far too long, in a competitive and deadly business, to fail to notice a mock bride and groom appearing at every turn in her peripheral vision. They would not be MI5, neither would they be likely to be CIA; even the FBI seemed unlikely. In any event, how would any of those agencies know where she was?

Gil had a sudden thought. It was obvious, really, and so she booted up a newspaper picture archive. The archive belonged to the Washington Picture Library. A password or a fee was due from anyone wanting to search the archive. Gil attached a dongle to her iPad via the USB port and rebooted the site. The dongle, provided by Doc, did its work, and soon the picture site security software was cooing over the dongle, revealing all of her secrets. Good old Doc, he knew what he was doing. The dongle, having taken what it wanted from its suitor, dumped the link and listed the last twenty passwords used to enter the site. Gil picked one at random and inserted the password into the box. The search engine appeared instantly.

Gil typed in the name Denton Miles and received a page full of pictures of her father. There were fifteen thumbnails to a page and there were at least twenty pages of them. After fifteen minutes of searching Gil found what she was looking for. On a photograph entitled 'campaign team celebrates' stood her father, looking statesmanlike and rather handsome, but there in the background was the blond girl without her Minnie Mouse Ear veil. Further, and to the left, pouring champagne for an elderly grey haired contributor, stood the fake groom.

Her father was keeping an eye on her. Good for him, she thought. By the time the Doc came back to her with the names Jessica Halvorssen and Bryan O'Keefe Gillian was no longer interested.
Chapter 53

The Miles Estate, Lynchburg, Virginia, USA, Monday 11am.

The security team were uncomfortable with the situation but they followed orders. They were to allow access to the house to one Gillian Miles, a former British assassin, and the senator was not only in residence but he was to greet her personally. The fact that she was his estranged daughter did nothing to alleviate their concerns. Luckily, sensing their nervousness, the pretty and smiling young woman volunteered herself for a pat down. She was not carrying a weapon.

Elizabeth Chase Miles opened the door on the front porch of the old plantation house before Gil had a chance to knock. The beautiful and glamorous senator's wife oozed good breeding. She was reported as being in her mid fifties but she looked a decade younger. Her smile was warm and generous. Gil wasn't sure how to greet the woman who had married her husband without knowing he had already fathered a child. She had no need to worry because, as she was puzzling over the correct etiquette, Liz Chase Miles threw good manners to the wind and stepped in to hug Gil as if she was a long lost friend. When the older woman withdrew from the hug, which was as tight as it was long lasting, she held Gil at arm's length and scanned her face.

"Gillian, you have no idea how long I have waited for this day. We have always wanted children of our own but the fact that even one of us could produce a beautiful young woman like you makes me quite emotional. Come in and meet your father."

The two women stepped into a hallway that spoke more of New England austerity than grandeur. Gil was surprised by its homeliness. The staircase was painted white, as was much of the clapboard on the walls. A dado rail ran around the plastered blue-painted walls, above the clapboard. With the portraits and other artwork, one could have imagined being in Cape Cod, or at least on the set of Murder She Wrote.

Hearing voices in the hallway, Senator Miles Denton III came out of his study to join the two women.

"Gillian, I couldn't believe it when you wrote to tell me I had a daughter. Since that day - what is it, three years ago? - I determined that I would do everything I could to persuade you to visit with us. And here you are."

The staid Senator from Virginia hugged the daughter he had never met and looked as though he may never let go. The three of them retired to a comfortable and airy sitting room, where the married couple sat holding hands as they talked.

"Senator, Elizabeth, I have dreamed about this meeting but never did I see it like this. At best I had hoped for a frosty politeness from you, Elizabeth, and perhaps a restrained wariness from you, Senator." Gil wanted to let them know that their welcome was unexpected and much appreciated.

""Gillian, we are all grown-ups here. Miles probably got up to all sorts of things before we met and, quite frankly, I daren't ask what they were. But he speaks about your mother with such tenderness that I can't help but feel that their relationship wasn't anything but right. After all, look what it brought us."

Miles Denton squeezed his wife's hand as she spoke, then added, "Look, I've kept a window open until three this afternoon, when I really must conference call with my fellow senator for Virginia, by the name of Rich. He is a democrat, but a nice democrat."

He smiled, and Gil's heart skipped. "That's my dad," she thought.

Over the next four hours they had lunch, talked about Gillian's mother and her upbringing in Hampshire, and walked in the garden, albeit briefly as it was still cold outside.

Elizabeth was keen to hear about Uncle Nick, who seemed to have been a surrogate father, whilst the Senator showed a good deal of interest in her career. He was aware of Celebrato Greeting Cards and her role in transforming the company, but he was most keenly interested in her role with MI5, much of which was covered by the official secrets act.

For the last hour Elizabeth left father and daughter alone to bond, and they talked in details about Gillian's skills and training. Gil even confided in him about her period in private enterprise with Doug McKeown, concluding with the death of the Hokobus and her escape from the UK after an attempt on her life. She related the story in a way that placed her in the best possible light, but even this revised version of recent history clearly disturbed her father.

"I wanted you to know the whole unvarnished truth," she explained, looking him in the eye. "If you don't want to continue with any form of relationship with me, I'll understand. It will still have been an honour to meet you."

There was a long period of silence, and Gil wondered whether she had overplayed her hand.

"Gillian, we – governments, that is – call on people to do things we would not do ourselves. We ask our soldiers to make sacrifices we would not make to keep our society safe. From time to time we may inadvertently hurt the good guys, but all of the time we hurt the people we send to do our dirty work.

For decades we have trained people in the deadly arts, we have supported truly wicked regimes and we have lived to regret it. I fear that the government who trained you and the society that wanted you to clean up their mess without wanting to hear about it, are equally responsible for the death of a couple like the Hokobus. We don't know any other way."

He paused, stood up and crossed the floor to sit beside Gil. "Whilst I am not without influence, I'm not sure how much I can protect you from the rigours of international law. I can guarantee you that you will be safe and treated fairly. I hope that you understand that."

Gillian nodded, and the two hugged again.

***

Over a quarter of a mile away, in the wooded hills surrounding the estate, Pete and Dee blew into their hands and tried to keep warm. The equipment was set up, and had been for hours, targeted on the front door of the house that currently accommodated Gillian Davis, The Chameleon.

They had watched a lithe young woman with short dark hair enter the house earlier, but had been unsure of their target until she turned around briefly as the door closed behind her. There had been no time to get a shot off. Now, however, if she exited through the front door she would be in their sights.

Pete looked through the spotting scope; Dee was already lined up on the front door.

"I hope she comes out soon. We're losing the light."

"We have night vision and infra red, I won't miss anything," Dee confirmed for the third time. Both of them were tired and irritable, and cold, so very cold.

***

"Holland and Mattingley will show you to the lodge in the rear. You can stay there as long as you like. Elizabeth wants you to join us for dinner, and then the two of you can spend the next few days together, getting to know each other while I go off to Washington and round up some help for you."

The Senator hugged her as he opened the front door for her. "Don't you worry, I'm sure I can fix things. That's what dads are for, after all."

Gillian walked out onto the stoop and into the winter sunshine. She thought she saw the flash of a lens or mirror in the distance, but decided that she was probably mistaken. Relieved and contented by her reception, she stepped down towards the two bodyguards who would accompany her to the lodge.

***

"Door is opening," Pete said as he looked through the spotting scope. "You'll need around three degrees of traverse and two degrees of elevation to keep her in your sights for around ten seconds."

The tripod was firmly affixed, giving Dee the best possible chance for a steady shot. As Dee picked up the movement at the door and focussed the cross hairs, Pete whispered, "It's her. It's up to you now."

Gillian Davis stepped into view, and Dee Hammond focussed until the Chameleon's torso filled the viewfinder. Satisfied that this was their target, she fired off three quick shots.
Chapter 54

State Route 837, Lynchburg, Virginia, USA, Monday 3:15pm.

Dee and Pete gathered the equipment and stowed it into two elongated cases which had been custom made for the purpose. Pete slung a lap top bag over his shoulder and Dee slipped the scoping sight in her inside Jacket pocket.

Carrying the equipment, they worked their way up the lightly forested hillside and when they reached the peak they descended as quickly as they could down the other side and back to their hire car. The Chrysler 300 was parked in a lay-by, or refuge, furnished with picnic tables, litter bins and a basic toilet block.

They had just reached the car, opening the trunk by remote control, when two cars came roaring towards them, lights flashing, sirens blaring. They were approaching from either direction on State Road 837. By now the wooded hill was between them and the Denton Estate, which was approached by a secondary road off SR837, known locally as Top Ridge Road.

Dee and Pete acted normally, as if they had no idea what the police might want. They also hoped that the cars would keep on going. They didn't. Just as they were placing the equipment in the boot of the car and closing the lid, a police cruiser pulled up behind their vehicle, soon followed by another marked car pulling up in front. They were hemmed in.

The two operatives glanced at each another and tried to look puzzled. In an instant there was a lot of activity and shouting, as state troopers with hats not dissimilar to those worn by Mounties disembarked from the vehicles and wielded their handguns.

"Stand against the car, facing in, hands flat on the roof, legs apart." The instructions were yelled and forceful. The two British operatives did as they were told, and two troopers dressed in blue grey shirts, dark grey tie and epaulettes moved towards them. The bright gold woven badges on their shoulders bore the Great Seal of the State of Virginia in a circle at the top and the words 'Virginia State Police' below.

Dee and Pete said nothing. Their training had drummed into them the dictum, 'if apprehended give them nothing, not even an accent, or they may start to reach premature conclusions about your guilt or innocence'. The two were frisked quickly and efficiently.

"OK. Sir. Hand me the keys slowly," the female trooper requested. She was a good head shorter than Pete. She was a good looking African American and she had a gun aimed right at him. Pete held out the keys, letting them dangle from his thumb and forefinger.

Leaving her colleague to cover the suspects, the female officer holstered her gun and pressed a button on the key fob. The Chrysler 300 trunk lid opened to reveal two cases, a laptop bag and spotting scope.

The female trooper opened the cases very carefully and took a deep breath in.

***

In the case in front of her were two tripods, each with a bracket designed to hold something circular in section. There was also a selection of blue cables and an eyepiece.

In the second case was a long lens. Over a metre long, it had a five inch lens at the front but no camera mount or lens at the back. The trooper looked puzzled and then worried.

The cause of her concern was a silver plate on the inside of the case, which shone brightly against the red velvet interior of the case. It read: 'Asset Number FBI/Q/S9/123109, Property of the FBI.'

"Ethan, you need to see this," the trooper said to her companion. The man stepped back slowly, keeping his eyes on the two suspects. Stealing a glance at the case, he issued an expletive.

"Hey, are you two FBI? Do you have any ID?"

Dee responded first in what she hoped sounded like a mid Atlantic accent.

"You need to call our contact at the FBI now, before this gets out of hand. My BlackBerry is in my pocket."

"OK, honey," the female trooper said calmly. "Just stay where you are while we sort this out."

She took the BlackBerry from Dee's jacket and asked her the number. Dee told her to scroll down to "Steve Post FBI" on the most recent calls list and press the green button. The trooper did as she was asked, and the phone rang out in one long tone at the other end. The trooper pressed the loudspeaker button and Pete and Dee heard the operator pick up.

"FBI Field Office, Charlotte speaking. How may I direct your call?"

The trooper looked at Dee, who spoke loudly. "Special Agent Steve Post, please," she answered.

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"This is Dee Hammond and I'm with Virginia State Trooper....."

"Marcia De Vere." The trooper completed the sentence. A few seconds later Steve Post came on the line.

"Is that Dee or Marcia?" he asked.

"Both of us," Dee replied.

"OK. What's going on, Marcia? You've extracted me from an important Homeland Security meeting."

"Sir, we had it reported that a couple of folks were spotted in the woods overlooking a Senator's house. The citizen was concerned about their intentions."

"OK. Dee, what were your intentions?" he asked.

"We were bird watching, Special Agent Post. We have some magnificent shots of a Boboling, an American Goldfinch and a Ruby Throated Humming Bird."

Pete had to stifle a laugh, and the two troopers looked terribly confused.

"OK, Dee, I trust you have evidence of your innocent intentions?" Steve queried, the smile audible in his voice.

"Yep. We have the shots on the laptop."

"OK. Trooper De Vere, I suggest that you confirm that this is true and then let my people go. They're very busy."

"Sir, I have to call this in."

"Of course you do. You need to call in and explain that you apprehended two innocent citizens bird watching, that you breached their constitutional rights and that you found incriminating pictures of Virginia's wild birds. Oh, and tell them they can confirm all of this by ringing my number."

Marcia De Vere looked at her partner, who was shaking his head vigorously. He didn't want to be the butt of every office joke until the end of the year.

"I don't think we need to hold these folks up any longer, sir."

"Thanks, Marcia, I can assure you that I will be having words with them on their return."

Marcia smiled as he hung up. Five minutes later, Pete was driving the car north on SR837.

"I could have done an American accent as well, you know," he insisted, and he proceeded to affect a Yankee drawl which merely accentuated his Geordie brogue.

"How y'all doing, hinny?" he said before laughing, as much from relief as from the humour of his remark.

"By the way," he continued, "if they'd looked at the hard drive of the laptop they would have seen the pictures of the Denton house and Gillian Davis."

"No, they wouldn't," Dee assured him. "Those pictures are on here." She held up an SD card. "They would have seen a variety of Virginian bird pictures lifted from Webshots.com."

"You are too bloody clever for your own good, Mrs Hammond," Pete commented wryly. They both laughed this time.

***

Back in the hotel room, Pete set up the equipment one more time to ensure it worked properly before they returned it. He set up the two tripods, one at the front and one behind, and then clamped the 1600mm lens on to them both, securing them with tension screws. He removed the lens cap and moved to the back of the lens. Instead of a lens mount, which would normally attach the lens to a camera, there were a series of computer ports. He slipped a blue data cable into the lens network port and connected the other end to the laptop.

Because the 1600mm lens was so difficult to manoeuvre, he sighted his target with the handheld spotting scope and used the readings to set the trajectory of the main lens. He then sat down at the computer and operated the cross hair focussing automatically from the trackball in the middle of the keyboard.

Once it was fully focussed, he fired off half a dozen shots. If she had ever seen them, the buxom blonde bar tender in the atrium bar would wonder how anyone had managed to get so close to her with a camera yet remain unseen. So close, in fact, that they could see down her cleavage to her lacy blue wonder bra.

Pete was still cropping the risqué image when Dee slapped him playfully on the back of the head.

"Put that away, you pervert. We have a meeting to go to."
Chapter 55

Courtyard Marriott Hotel, Lynchburg, Virginia,

Monday 24th January, 7pm.

Steve Post drove into the car park of the Courtyard Marriott at precisely seven in the evening. The drive through the Virginia countryside had been comfortable and traffic free. He swept his new Chevrolet Equinox into one of the marked parking spaces. Inevitably black, the vehicle had evidently caught the eye of the admiring parking attendant. The sleek crossover, something between a saloon and an SUV, was still a rare sight in Virginia, and its flowing lines suggested a European design influence.

The air was damp and cold, his breath visible in a cloud of vapour, and he was not wrapped up well. He scurried across to the lobby, where he encountered Pete chatting to the concierge.

Pete acknowledged him with a brief nod, and pointed into the bar as he continued his intense conversation with the concierge. Steve saw Dee sitting in a booth at a table by the window and joined her. Sliding along the bench opposite her, this was the first time they had been alone together on this trip, the first time since that fateful night in Quantico.

"You look contented," he said. Dee was puzzled by the comment, especially as he was aware of the problems she had encountered that day.

"You always looked tense before, even when you were relaxing. Josh must be good for you."

She didn't believe her contentment was visible, but she had to accept that married life was far more comfortable than she had imagined it would be.

They talked quietly about their respective spouses; the conversation was easy and relaxed. It seemed that they had both found their soul mates. The conversation turned to the case at hand, and Pete returned to the table brandishing several sheets of printing.

Dee ordered drinks. She had a house white wine, Pete had a Bud and Steve took a diet coke.

As they sipped their drinks they passed the papers around. Each one had a picture of a pretty young woman with short fair hair placed squarely in the middle. The clarity and resolution of the pictures, taken from around half a mile away, was superb.

"That's some great optics you have at your disposal, Steve," Dee said, envy in her voice, knowing that Vastrick were unlikely to spring for the ten thousand pounds it would cost to obtain such equipment, given that it would be used only occasionally.

"Obviously you are sure this is our girl?" Steve asked, knowing the answer. He too had seen pictures of Gillian Davis, longer hair, same features, collecting some kind of award in the UK. Dee and Pete nodded.

"These photos were emailed to Scotland Yard, to DCI Coombes and his Sergeant. They are keen to interview her, and not just because it means a taxpayer funded trip to the USA." Dee lifted the mood of both of her male companions with her smile.

"One thing is for sure. They can't expect the US to extradite her, not at present and not with her newly found contacts," Steve confirmed.

"Do we all think that she is exploiting her old man?" Pete theorised. "I mean, she could have sought him out before now. I was wondering whether she had always planned this trip, you know, as a contingency if the whole UK thing unravelled."

"I'm not so sure," Dee mused. "That would be pretty cold. And whilst I accept that you have to be cold to be a paid assassin, it has to be different in your personal life. You would go mad otherwise."

"Pete has a point, Dee. But it gives us a problem. You recall the training at Quantico, with Professor Norton? She might fit his definition of a sociopath. If she is a sociopath she will be able to manipulate those around her and convince everyone that she is just a simple girl who the government trained to kill people."

"Or that could be the truth; she could be a normal person whose training makes her act intuitively, particularly in terms of self preservation. It's scary that the UK and the US might have trained hundreds of people who will eventually return home with alleged sociopathic tendencies from Iraq and Afghanistan." Dee shuddered involuntarily.

They sat for a while, contemplating her words. Silence fell over the table like a heavy blanket.

"I'll take these pictures and put them with the Scotland Yard request for an interview, to the Special Agent in Charge, the SAIC. We will try to facilitate a formal interview, but even with our 'special relationship' it will be down to Gillian Davis and her advisers as to whether she agrees to be interviewed by Scotland Yard. We may have to ask the questions ourselves, based on a crib list from DCI Coombes."

Steve paused before continuing in a more cautionary tone. "The two of you have done some remarkable work. You have tracked down a murder suspect after she has successfully evaded the authorities, but we still face a great many hurdles."

Steve counted out the issues on the fingers of his left hand. "One, Gillian Davis was a covert operative for MI5. She worked on secondment to the CIA, the FBI and to other agencies. She is owed a lot of favours and has a lot of embarrassing stories she could tell in a court room.

Two, she is essentially one of us; that is, she is a product of the war against terror and a successful product who could argue that she has probably saved countless lives. There is likely to be considerable sympathy for her in the secret services on both sides of the pond.

Three, even when operating with her colleague as the Chameleon, they continued terminating bad guys under contract. Until they took out the Israeli Minister, they had an unblemished record, and in all honesty he had been a terrorist himself in his younger days. Mossad were understandably angry but our diplomatic section say that the Israeli population, now largely émigrés, hated the sight of the man and were glad to see him gone. In our own Delta Force there is admiration for the work the Chameleon did in taking out that Somali pirate leader. The Chameleon was right under their noses and they didn't see him until he wanted to be seen. The man is a legend.

Four, this lady has skills that the FBI, CIA, ATF and numerous other US agencies would kill for. She is one of the world's best snipers, yet she looks like a kindergarten teacher. She speaks with a clipped English accent that could place her in situations we could never get an American into, and she is unknown in the international arena. We could send her anywhere and she wouldn't attract any attention at all.

Five, and finally, I only have five fingers, she is connected. Her dad is a contender for the presidency. He is third generation politician. There won't be a politician in the US who doesn't owe Denton Miles III, his daddy or his grand-daddy a favour."

Pete and Dee looked depressed.

"So what we are saying is that the Hokobus will never get justice." Dee's voice was tight with anger.

Steve shrugged. "I hope they do get justice, Dee, but I don't want the two of you feeling that you failed that couple in any way if the machinery of government grinds the case against Davis to dust."
Chapter 56

Terminal 5, Heathrow Airport, London. Tuesday 8:30am.

The UK's newest international terminal was thronged with people eager to escape the frigid London weather. The fully glazed edifice would have been bathed with light if there had been any outside, but it was another cloudy and drizzly day. The magnificent curved roof, designed by the world renowned Richard Rogers and engineered by Arup, set the tone for the interior where curves and ellipses dominated the decor. A miserable DCI Coombes was not unduly impressed, however.

"I told the floor supervisor that we were with Scotland Yard and that we were on urgent business, but the best they could do was upgrade us to World Traveller Plus, a sort of premium economy," Coombes grunted. He hated the States, although he had never actually been there. Full of criminals and brash Americans, he thought glumly.

DS Scott, on the other hand, was excited. This was his first business trip outside the UK and he was determined to make the most of it.

***

Dean Harrison was an ex policeman himself, and so when he heard that the two detectives were in his airport he used his position, as head of security, to usher them quickly past security using the fast track lane.

A few minutes later the three men were sitting in the ultra modern, not so comfortable break out area, reserved for security staff. While they were waiting for the flight to be called, they spent their time reminiscing over a hearty breakfast. Scott had ordered yoghurt, fresh fruit and pain au chocolat, to accompany his orange juice, whilst DCI Coombes was making headway through a full English breakfast. He had cheered up considerably.

"So, you are hoping to interview a suspect in the USA. Lucky you. Furthest I ever got was Hemel Hempstead on the kidnapping and murder of young Gemma Drake. Nasty one, that was." The two men from the Yard nodded in acknowledgement, but would add nothing more about their assignment.

***

At the time the Detective's flight to Dulles was making its final approach, 11am in Virginia, Gil Davis was sitting down with some very important people. One of those people was Martin K Sherman. He was a justice of the Supreme Court and an old school friend of Denton Miles Jr, Gil's grandfather. A man with an imperious manner, white haired and distinguished in appearance, he spoke American with an accent that could have been nurtured at Eton. Despite his stern appearance and manner, he was putty in the hands of attractive young women, including his own grand-daughters who he spoiled mercilessly. As a result he was kindly and affectionate to the assassin who sat before him, baring her soul with tears welling in her eyes.

The second man felt a little uncomfortable. Not as closely linked to the family, he had been asked to repay and old debt by witnessing the meeting. His presence would be helpful as he was currently highly placed in the US Department of Justice.

Gil had explained everything, in her own words, and then had surprised them both by sharing a prepared 'suggested' affidavit. It was brief but comprehensive. What they did not know, and could only suspect, was that it was a carefully constructed framework of lies and half truths. Nonetheless, such was the skilful presentation that every negative fact that could have condemned Gillian Davis - Miles to a life sentence was explained away, leaving the inevitable impression that the one-time assassin was just another victim of the system.

James Lorimer was a prosecutor by nature and he believed none of it, but he was there solely to witness that the deposition, affidavit to the Brits, was a true representation of the witnesses' spoken statements. If James Lorimer had come across this case in his former role, rather than in his current position in the DoJ, he would have pursued this case, confident he could have got a life sentence. Luckily for him it was not a case in which the US had any jurisdiction.

Both men signed the form and the gathered threesome was joined by Elizabeth Chase Miles who, in the last twenty four hours, had become as close to Gil as a sister. Liz also saw herself as Gillian's protector.

The four sat amiably sharing a pot of English tea and discussing Denton Miles' potential candidacy. A successful run for the presidency would be an absolute

boon for all four people sipping Earl Grey from a pre civil war tea service.

***

Dee sat alone in her hotel room with her laptop wirelessly connected to the internet, her computer acting as camera and monitor for a Skype video call to her husband back in the UK. Seeing Josh looking relaxed and tanned in their apartment, Dee felt suddenly lonely. She hadn't held her husband for weeks and she missed him. She missed his touch, his after shave and his quick quips. He could drive her mad when they were together, but when they were apart she just yearned for one of his light hearted insults or an unfunny quip at her expense. She even missed going to watch the football on a Saturday afternoon at West Ham, who were performing no better than they had been last year and who looked doomed to relegation to the Championship.

"I miss you, Dee," Josh said as he wrapped up the call. "I might just jump on a plane and join you. I have a few days of annual leave due."

"That would be good, but we shouldn't waste it on my working days. Let's wait awhile."

"OK. But get some rest, you look weary. I'll speak to you again soon. I love you. Bye."

As soon as he had gone, tears escaped Dee's welled up eyes. After years of being strong and independent, she was crying over a man. 'Get a grip, girl', she told herself.

She picked up her mobile phone. She had two email messages. The first was from Katie Norman whose acerbic commentary on college life cheered Dee up no end. The second was from Steve Post. DCI Coombs and DS Scott were on their way to Virginia and Gillian Davis had, surprisingly, been keen to speak to them. Her counsel, Pat Gallagher, insisted on accompanying her and holding the interview in a neutral venue. The meeting would be held in the FBI field office in Richmond, Virginia, just a hundred miles along US Highway 60.

Pete and Dee would be allowed to attend, but they would only be permitted to watch from a side room. That would have to be enough. She wanted to see the look on Gillian Davis' face when she saw the evidence against her for the first time.
Chapter 57

FBI Field Office, Richmond, Virginia. Thursday 8:30am.

Just fifteen days after the deaths of the Hokobus, Pete was to witness Gillian Davis' questioning, and he was looking forward to seeing her squirm.

Whilst they could have had the meeting in the Lynchburg satellite office of the FBI, the impressive building that housed the Richmond field office offered far more facilities. The building had a red brick facade that saw two wings springing from a central atrium. The windows were mostly square and the architecture plain, with the exception of the glazing over the front entrance which had a panel of square glazed windows, topped with a semi circular arrangement of windows above, almost like something one might see in a cathedral. A mock arch, constructed of light.

The reception area provided a respite from the cold winds whipping across the car park, and Pete and Dee were grateful for the overheated lobby. Steve Post brought them both visitors' badges and then led them to a small conference room on the first floor, known as the second floor to their American hosts. From the window it was apparent that they were at the front of the building, in what would be the right hand wing when viewed from the front. They could see over the car park and to the road beyond.

Steve left the two alone with a tray of biscuits and some water in sturdy glass bottles, fastened with rubber ringed cork seals secured by a wire bound stopper; a little over the top, perhaps, for still water. A few moments later Steve returned, accompanied by DS Scott and DCI Coombes. Pete had never met the DCI, and so introductions were effected. Dee had not seen the DCI since her that fateful day at the London Eye, he enquired after her health. Dee appreciated his enquiry because she knew that he wasn't a "people person" in any sense, and they weren't friends even though they had worked closely together in the past.

The two policemen reviewed the evidence and explained their interview strategy to Pete, Dee and Steve. The evidence wasn't solid, but it placed Gillian Davis very firmly at the scene of the crime.

***

The room overlooking the interview suite was necessarily dark. The subdued lighting allowed them to view the proceedings through one way glass. The sound was broadcast to speakers inside their room from microphones on the interview table.

Inside the interview room the two detectives sat opposite the suspect and her counsel. They had been friendly and quite disarming when they were introduced. They assured her that their sole intention was to clear up a number of questions that had arisen during their investigation into the deaths of the Hokobus. Her counsel, the redoubtable and quite famous Pat Gallagher, didn't trust the Brits a jot. Why would he? They had stolen half of his beloved ancestral Ireland.

***

Gillian Davis wore a conservatively styled black jersey dress that covered her arms and fell to her knees. A patterned Pashmina hung around her shoulders, gathered at the front by a gold clasp at the nape of her neck. Her make-up was lightly applied and her jewellery was not ostentatious, despite her wealth. In the hour that she had been sitting in the room she had not spoken. Her counsel had answered every question on her behalf, but to his credit the answers were fulsome and helpful. Nonetheless, now was the time for the detectives to hit the former MI5 operative with their evidence.

"Ms Davis, we have evidence that places you at the scene of the crime at the relevant time. Would you like to comment?" Coombes growled.

"I don't recall my client denying that she was in the vicinity of London's third most visited attraction, along with hundreds of other people on that day or any other. Move on, please."

Coombes growled again. "You were identified by a witness, who attests that you sprayed a paralysing substance in his face and kidnapped the Hokobus whilst dressed in a police uniform. Thus being the last person to see them alive."

"Ah, I wondered when we would get to the mysterious policewoman. Before we address that statement, let me make one of my own. Surely the last person to see the Hokobus alive would be their killer, Inspector, and my client has never needed to deny that killing because she has never been accused of it. Should you deign to make such an accusation, I can assure you it will be denied, vigorously!"

The lawyer paused and looked at his notes.

"Now, about this policewoman. If the witness statements are correct, we seem to have a woman between five feet six inches and five feet ten inches. She was either blonde or possibly dark haired, it was difficult for the witness to be certain as she had her hat on. She had blue, green or brown eyes and a beauty spot above her lip, or not, as in the case of the artist's impression. Finally she was very trim. She may have worked out, or, she had wide hips and an average sized bust.

I have to concede, gentlemen, that my client does indeed fit that description." He grinned widely, and DCI Coombes seethed.

"Actually, we have a witness statement from the man she paralysed, who saw her close up and gave an accurate description which was then reproduced by a police artist. It is this description that makes your client a suspect in this matter."

"Oh yes. I remember that witness. As I recall, he gave his detailed description to...." He paused to look at a copy of a police notebook that had been disclosed to him as evidence. "Detective Sergeant Scott! Well, how fortuitous. I guess that would be you, Sergeant?" he asked, looking pointedly at DS Scott. Scott nodded.

"Well, you should remember your reply, in that case."

DS Scott flushed. How could he possibly know what was said at the scene? No-one would have written it down. He thought. The lawyer continued.

"If my sources are correct, you said that the description might fit half the women in London. Is that right, Sergeant?" The two policemen remained stoic, giving nothing away.

"You would be obliged to answer that in court, Sergeant, but if it helps, my investigator has a statement from the paramedic who attended the witness, if you would like to see it. In the meantime I assume that once again my client is prepared to concede that she could indeed fall into the classification of 'half the women in London'. Now, if we could perhaps move onto some real evidence I would be grateful."

The next few minutes were spent discussing CCTV footage of the parking garage that was inconclusive, the absence of physical evidence and a hire car that Gillian Davis had rented for the day and which was caught on camera in the general area, which the suspect did not deny. Coombes had played around enough; it was time for the killer blow to her defence.

"Ms Davis, this has all been very entertaining but there is one piece of evidence that is unequivocal and undeniable. We have a contact lens bearing your fingerprint and your DNA that you lost in the Hokobus car on the day of the murder. You were there, Ms Davis. You were in the car with the Hokobus. You sprayed them with your home made spray and then you killed them. I think that a jury will convict on that evidence alone."
Chapter 58

FBI Field Office, Richmond, Virginia. Thursday 10:30am.

Dee was surprised to see that neither the suspect, nor her counsel, were at all affected by the fingerprint or the DNA evidence, neither of which had been shared with them previously. Dee wanted to believe that Davis' facial control was magnificent and that inside she was terrified, but that did not gel. She looked calm and she was calm.

Steve Post had picked up on this, too, whilst Pete seemed unaware of the potential problem and so merely looked on in anticipation. The FBI man took his laptop out of hibernation mode and flicked on the CJIS search engine. With a few key strokes he obtained high level access to the recently completed CJIS database. Nestled in the West Virginia hills, not far away from the field office, the Criminal Justice Information Services building housed the world's largest criminal database.

***

Pat Monaghan could hardly suppress his supercilious smile as he answered the accusation.

"Detective Chief Inspector. My client does not deny that a cosmetic contact lens with her fingerprint and DNA profile may indeed have been found at the crime scene." He paused, giving the two policemen some hope that a limited admission would follow. "However, she does reserve the right to have our own experts carry out tests to confirm your allegation."

The two policemen acknowledged that this was a reasonable request, but repeated their accusation that she had now been placed fairly and squarely at the crime scene.

"That is not strictly true, is it, Chief Inspector?" The lawyer enjoyed the puzzlement showing on the faces opposite. "If the contact lens had been found in a house, or perhaps an office or something else immobile that might be true. But even then we would have to accept the possibility that the contact lens could have been placed there long before the crime took place.

With a vehicle involved, your assertion becomes even more questionable..."

Coombes could bear it no longer and boomed, "Are you telling me that your client is denying that she lost her contact lens in that car? Mobile or immobile, it makes no difference. That is where it was found!"

"That may well be true, Chief Inspector, and if you had been listening you would have heard me say that, subject to testing, my client does not necessarily deny that she lost her contact lens in the car.

Unfortunately, you have allowed a single piece of flimsy evidence to blind you to other suspects. You have found one piece of forensic evidence and have fabricated - and I'm sorry to have to say it – a sloppy case around it." The man reached down into his briefcase and extracted a few sheets of paper. DS Scott placed his hand on his superior's arm to calm him down; the lawyer was in real danger of being throttled by Coombes, whose veins were now bulging.

"As you failed to conduct proper and fulsome enquiries, I have taken up the cudgels, as I think you say, and have made enquiries myself.

The car in question is a hire car, available to anyone with a driving licence. It has been hired out regularly since it was delivered some seven months ago. The car hire firm are able to say, with some precision, that they have rented out that car fourteen times for varying periods. Obviously, at any one of these junctures my client could have lost her contact lens. However, in an effort to assist the police, and to defray any accusations that her silence may be the equivalent to guilt, my client asked her former company to search their database to see if she had ever travelled in the said car."

"Are you saying that she can't remember travelling in an armoured car? Come on!" Scott interjected impatiently. The lawyer looked at Scott with an equally impatient glare.

"No, son, my client is saying she does not know if she had travelled in this particular car. She has travelled in many protected vehicles. Now, if I may proceed without further interruption."

Dee and Steve were deeply unhappy. The interview was swinging in the suspect's favour, and they were concerned that worse was to come. The lawyer hadn't finished yet.

"Here we have a print out of the Celebrato accounts database. It shows that they hired a specialist vehicle from Exotic Cars of Longford for a business awards dinner. The tags – sorry, the licence plate - read X14 ECL, the very same car in which you found my client's contact lens. Now, my client says she was a little the worse for wear the night of the awards dinner, and so she cannot swear that she lost her contact lens that night, but it does seem likely." The lawyer pushed across the Celebrato Database record.

"Obviously as an attorney I am aware that a suspicious policeman might think that Celebrato have made this whole story up to allay suspicion, so I dug a little deeper." He handed over three more pieces of paper.

"Sheet 1 shows a photograph of my client, on the night of the awards dinner, the same night the car was hired. Sheet 2 shows the Exotic Cars of Longford Hire Record Database for the period, clearly showing the hire to Celebrato. Sheet 3 is a sworn deposition from the manager of Exotic Cars that this is a proper extract from the said database, and a statement saying that, whilst the cars are thoroughly cleaned after each hirer, he cannot swear that a single contact lens would be discovered."

DCI Coombes glared at DS Scott, whose mouth gaped open.

"Shit!" Pete shouted almost in Dee's ear. Steve Post was already typing rapidly and accessing the CJIS database. After a moment the screen cleared and a pop up window appeared. The words, 'This is Special Agent Connor Williams. May I help you?' appeared in the dialogue box. Steve typed rapidly. The dialogue box flickered and Connor typed, 'I will come back to you in a few minutes.'

Seeing the total disarray in the opposing ranks, Pat Monaghan suggested a short break, with the parties reconvening in an hour. He requested into the microphone the use of a quiet room, and some coffee and sandwiches. Gillian Davis and her counsel walked out of the interview room, to be met by the young FBI man who would lead them to their private room.
Chapter 59

FBI Field Office, Richmond, Virginia. Thursday 1pm.

Four glum faces sat around the table, ignoring the sandwiches that had been provided. Nobody had an appetite for them any more. DCI Coombes and DS Scott were not speaking and Pete was shaking his head slowly. He looked defeated. The thought passing through all of their minds was, 'How could we have missed that?'

Dee, however, was not as downhearted as the rest of the team. She had spoken to Steve Post before they broke for lunch, and he had suggested pursuing a sequence of enquiries that had crossed her mind, too. They were still sitting in silence when Steve Post returned with a sheaf of papers in his hand.

"OK, listen up, everyone. It's already 6pm in London and so not everything is buttoned down yet but here is what Dee and I think has happened. Steve sat at the head of the table and began his narrative.

"Gillian Davis has been a paid killer for ten years. Who knows how many people she might have killed in the service of Queen and country? Maybe she doesn't even know the exact number. However, one thing is certain; she has never been caught. Gillian Davis is one clever girl. My guess is that, like most covert operatives, she is adept at misdirection, creating false alibis and manipulating evidence. If she wasn't she wouldn't be much of an assassin.

Psychologically we all know that witnesses are suggestible. They can often be manipulated into remembering things that did not actually happen. In the FBI manuals we have study after study that discusses witness behaviour. We regularly encounter witnesses who are sure they have seen something but, when it is put to them, by a clever attorney, that what they saw was not possible, their recollection suddenly changes and they revise their memories to incorporate the new facts. The truth is that once they have changed their story their testimony is useless. The profilers call this cognitive dissonance; if what we see doesn't make sense, we create a new memory that does make sense. Psychologists say that if we humans behave that way, we would have continual internal conflicts and mental anguish."

"In our view, the manager at Longford Exotic Cars was in just such a position. I just got off the phone to him. It seems that, whilst he has no recollection of that car being hired by Celebrato, he checked the records as requested and they showed that a hire had been arranged on that date. He has persuaded himself that he must have been busy elsewhere and so it had slipped his mind. Invited to do so by their investigator, he printed off relevant pages of the hire database and signed off on it. As for his testimony on the cleanliness of the car, I think a jury could foresee the possibility of a tiny, clear contact lens escaping the attention of a minimum wage car cleaner.

Given our conviction that you're right about Gillian Davis being the murderer, Dee and I drew up a list of three questions for the manager that we felt might clarify the matter once and for all.

Question one - is there an invoice in the system for the hire, or did it appear only on the database?

Two - are Celebrato on Exotic Cars customer contact list? If so, when were they entered onto it?

Three - have their accounts department ever received a cheque for that hire?

In answer to those questions the manager has confirmed that there is an invoice, but it's a little puzzling. It seems that the invoices are usually generated automatically by the computer software and are automatically given the next available number in sequence. That means that any invoice slipped in later will not fit into the numbering system in the order it should. Exotic Cars have confirmed that the invoice to Celebrato is not numbered in sequence.

Further enquiries have shown that no-one at the company has Celebrato on their customer contact list, which is very odd for a business that thrives on repeat business.

Finally, according to the book-keeper, no payment has ever been received by Exotic Cars for the Celebrato hire. The lady we spoke to appeared very professional and she also noted that the invoice did not appear on the VAT records, whatever they are. My contact at CJIS tells me that VAT comes with an onerous tax recording system that is strictly enforced. Conclusions?"

The gathering considered the new information, and slowly the frigid stares passing between the two policemen began to thaw.

"Someone hacked into the database and altered it. They created a fake invoice electronically, which never existed in reality, and then they directed the investigator to enquire about the non-existent hire," DCI Coombes responded, clear admiration in his voice.

"Then the manager, confused by the conflict between his own imperfect recollection and a convincing paper trail that showed a hire had taken place, he subconsciously chose to accept the fake paper trail. Clever bastards!" DS Scott swore.

Steve Post looked at Dee.

"Dee and I both had the same thought and so a colleague of mine, who must remain anonymous, tried hacking into the databases of both Celebrato and Exotic Cars. He was able to obtain administrator's access in less than a minute. Administrators can edit or alter records.

Dee, gentlemen, we have destroyed their rebuttal evidence but at the same time we have clouded the issue. In their favour, they have made a valid argument that undermines our key piece of evidence. A court is likely to accept, at least in principle, that one way or another the contact lens could have been in the hire car when Vastrick hired it. Unless you have anything else to offer, there is no prospect at all that the US Courts will grant an extradition warrant. The case is way too fragile at present, and that is before she wheels out the big guns who owe her father a favour or two."

***

The interview reconvened, and DCI Coombes outlined their findings and suggested that the manager at Exotic Cars vacillated to such a degree that Davis' reliance on his depositions was unwise.

"Bravo, DCI Coombes," Pat Monaghan enthused, "you have confirmed exactly what we have been saying. No-one can have any confidence that the contact lens was dropped on the day of the murder. Now, I am quite certain that if we check carefully enough we will find that Ms Davis has an alibi for the time of the crime. After all, she is a busy woman, running a multimillion dollar business. My guess is that when we check her records back in London, those will also give rise to some argument."

"You mean you'll construct an alibi, whatever it takes," Coombes snapped.

"DCI Coombes, we are here voluntarily. We were hoping to keep everything amicable, but you are becoming antagonistic. Please let me calm matters down a little.

Off the record, I believe we all know that you have no case against my client. An extradition warrant based on your alleged evidence will not even reach the court. It will be sent back for 'want of cause'. The purpose of this meeting has been to confirm this reality to you and the persons sitting behind the glass.

Now, I am in the happy position of being able to assist you in the resolution of this terrible crime. I can confirm that my client knows who did kill the Hokobus."

If Steve Post hadn't given up swearing along with alcohol and coffee when he found religion, this would have been an occasion when he would have let rip a stream of profanity. Instead, his words were measured.

"Here we go. The SODDIT defence."

"Sorry?" Pete asked, puzzled.

"Some Other Dude Did it," Steve answered without humour.

***

"I am reliably informed that you will be receiving an encrypted email from the UK, specifically from the Home Office, which will contain a redacted version of a statement my client has made and which has been accepted by your superiors," Monaghan stated. "Her statement will clearly say that another person committed the murders and that your own security services are aware of the killer's past murderous history. Fortunately for us all, and perhaps by way of justice for the murdered couple, the murderer is himself dead and conclusive evidence of his demise has kindly been furnished by my cooperative client.

When you see the statement, you will see that my client is not attempting to hide her shameful involvement. On the contrary, she is shoring up your rather woeful case. No, my client is placing herself in the hands of the US authorities, who will consider the degree of her culpability, and she trusts that they and their UK counterparts will give her credit for her honesty and cooperation."

When the lawyer stopped talking, DCI Coombs was almost speechless, but he soon found his voice.

"Why stop there? You lot can give her a medal, and on our side of the Atlantic we'll see if we can rustle up an OBE. Hell's teeth, your client is a hero." He slammed his closed fist down on the metal table.

"Come on, Gillian, we've done all we can here," the attorney said as he rose to leave, and on that note Gillian Davis and her counsel left the room and the building.
Chapter 60

MI5 HQ, Thames House, London. Thursday 7pm.

The conference room was already buzzing when the Director walked in. Dame Monica Stewart-Smith sat down and the room fell silent.

"Gentlemen, this has been the worst day for MI5 for a generation, and by God we have seen some bad ones before. So, I want to get this out of the way, and quickly.

Andy, has the redacted Affidavit gone back to the States?"

"Yes Ma'am, almost two hours ago. I blanked out anything that might remotely have caused concern," the Security Services Director nodded before firing off another question.

"Good. Jeremy, are you lawyers happy with the situation? Are we squeaky clean?"

"Well, Ma'am, happy is not the word," Jeremy replied. "The Commissioner, and the Metropolitan Police generally, are hopping mad that the Home Secretary has cut them off at the knees, but they won't be pursuing the case any further. The murderer is dead, and we have shared the evidence with them."

"She had no choice, Jeremy. This confounded Davis woman has taken on the establishment and has given us a sound whipping." Dame Monica turned to a distinguished looking man of indeterminate years with a shiny bald head.

"Lawrence, she listed several funds that we have used to pay her in the past. Are they closed, and have the funds been secured?"

"Yes, Ma'am, but there was one account under the name of Britannic Investment Group, in the Isle of Man, that did not belong to us. Miss Davis appears to have inadvertently given us the account details, password and pass number for an account of her own. There was close to a million pounds in deposits in the account."

"What did you do with it, Lawrie?" the lady asked, using Lawrence's familiar name.

"We emptied it, Ma'am." There was laughter all around.

"OK, everyone, let's put this all behind us and move on; we have a country to keep safe." Dame Monica intended the meeting to end there.

"And Barry Mitchinson, Ma'am, what should I do there?" the new Director of Special Operations asked.

"Oh, you can leave him to me," his boss said with menace in her voice.

***

Barry Mitchinson was sitting in the apartment watching Countdown on Channel 4, thinking to himself, 'So it's all come down to this; watching daytime TV," when the phone rang. It was Maureen Lassiter.

"Barry, Five have just cleared a compromise agreement with Gillian Davis. The Home Secretary has signed off on a deal where Doug gets stiffed for the murder and she is ticked off for being an unwitting accomplice. Barry, the chatter on the third floor and in the restaurant is that you're the one who's getting the blame. You're going to be the scapegoat. Everyone is saying that the authorities have had to back off because she has evidence that MI5 tried to kill her. They are also saying that it was you who gave that order."

Barry's response would not have been capable of being broadcast until well after the watershed.

"Get me a copy of the agreement," he added, still seething. "I want to see what that bitch says and I want to be prepared if I'm to be called in front of the old hag again, which seems inevitable now." Barry paused midstream. "Maureen, we may need to do a runner, and quick." He looked at his watch. It was too late now to start calling banks.

"Maureen my love, tomorrow we'll transfer the funds to the Caymans and make sure our passports are up to date. I don't trust the old Dame to honour her part of the deal. If she'll dump on the Met, she'll dump on me double quick."

They said their goodbyes, and Maureen set about finding a copy of the agreement, one without the redacted elements, if possible. There was nothing on the server, at least nothing that she could access with level three clearance, and so she tried to think laterally. After a few aborted attempts to access the cache files stored on the server, waiting to be scrubbed - deleted by overwriting with ones and zeros twenty one times - she gave up on that. Suddenly she had an idea. It was risky, but it was the only way.

Maureen Lassiter had covered for Vanessa in the Legal Section many times; the woman was a sick leave aficionado. Vanessa worked only part time and so her workstation was empty by this time of day. Maureen booted up Vanessa's desktop computer and hoped that the part timer hadn't changed the password since last month. She needn't have worried. After a few key strokes the computer welcomed Vanessa Adamson to the server.

Maureen guessed that at sometime during the day the Legal Section head would have been copied in on the agreement, and so she used his PA's access to his Outlook account. The bosses in this place were supposed to be security conscious, but they allowed their PAs to arrange their appointments and deal with their meeting invitations. This gave the PAs access to their bosses email.

Maureen found what she wanted and forwarded the email to her own desktop before deleting her email from the 'sent' box. She was just clearing up when a voice called her name.

"Maureen, what are you doing here?" The head of Legal Services was smiling down at her. He had just returned from one of his interminable meetings and was carrying a file under his arm.

"I was wondering, Maureen. Now that your Director is no longer with us, well, maybe you could transfer into here. Vanessa is a waste of space. Things are always done more efficiently when you stand in for her. In fact, I wouldn't mind betting that you are remedying another of her faux pas as we speak."

"Vanessa managed to lock herself out of the timesheet system, but I've put her back on. Please don't tell her I told you," Maureen pleaded.

"I won't, but give my suggestion some thought, won't you? There could be a hike in pay grade if you transfer over."

"Jeremy, I'd love to work for you, if you think you could swing it," Maureen simpered.

"I think I can arrange it," Jeremy replied, with a knowing wink that suggested he knew more about her carnal predilections than he ought to have known.
Chapter 61

Courtyard Marriott Hotel, Lynchburg, Virginia, Thursday 9:30pm.

Steve Post, Dee, Pete and DS Scott sat in the restaurant waiting for their food, although no-one had any real appetite. DCI Coombs had been on the phone to Scotland Yard for almost an hour and they were now emailing him the agreement, or affidavit. Coombes would have had no idea how to access the attachment or how to print it, and so the young lady in the business centre was seconded into helping him. Her name was Melody and she was as pretty as the name sounded.

"What I don't understand," DS Scott puzzled over, "is why we had to go through that charade today. Why deny everything and wreck our case if she was just going to admit her involvement anyway?"

Dee answered after a quick glance in the direction of the FBI man.

"Paul, she has played us all. The woman is always several steps ahead of the game. She wanted to cooperate so that she could show you, and the Americans, that we had no chance of making a case for extradition, let alone conviction. My guess is that if she had made the admission without first destroying the case, the Metropolitan Police would have decided to take their chances and drag her back to the UK anyway. By rubbishing the case against her she was saying, look, I could walk away from this free and clear, but I want to do the decent thing."

"Magnanimous in victory?" Paul Scott asked.

"Yes." Dee was about to continue when a red faced DCI Coombes came over to the table and flung down three copies of the affidavit.

The affidavit was couched in legalese and had been redacted, but it was clear enough. Dee and Pete shared a copy and read through it quickly.
Affidavit

Sworn this 28th day of January in the year 2011.

Before:

Martin K Sherman, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the USA.

I, Gillian Davis, do swear and affirm, under oath, and in the presence of a notary and of witnesses simple, that my statement is a full and honest account, including no fabrications or misdirection and excluding no pertinent facts. I attest that the following words represent my full and complete testimony on the below stated matter:

Statement of:

Gillian Davis, formerly of 311 Covingham Buildings, Partington Road, London. United Kingdom.

I acknowledge and understand that any statement I give may be used as evidence before any court, tribunal or other hearing, howsoever constituted, relating to the deaths in the United Kingdom of Mr Samuel Etundi and Mrs Victoria Hokobu.

The said Gillian Davis will say as follows:

Following the termination of my employment by the UK Government on 23rd July 2007, in the Special Operations Section of Military Intelligence often referred to as MI5, I was approached by Mr Douglas McKeown, also a former operative with the aforesaid agency. Mr McKeown was operating as a sole trader offering outsourced security assistance to various wealthy individuals, companies and to his former employers. His identity was kept secret and his clients knew him only as the Chameleon.

Mr Mc Keown had always been a good friend to me and had acted as my mentor when I first entered the service. I trusted him implicitly and, on reflection, I now see that I looked to him as the Father I had never known. Our relationship was affectionate but not sexual.

Until the arrival of the Hokobus all of the Chameleon's assignments had been overseas, clear cut and morally defensible, otherwise I would have dissolved the partnership immediately. Typical assignments included the removal of terrorist suspects, Somali Pirates and the protection of major political figures. I recall that on each occasion where he took an assignment that had geo political implications, he required that the agency requesting the Chameleon's services first clear the assignment with the Chameleon's main customer, one Mr Barry Mitchinson at the aforementioned agency. As far as I am aware if Mr Barry Mitchinson recommended that we should not proceed we refused the assignment. The Chameleon was a hired gun but his alter ego, Doug, was patriotic. He was not interested in acting against his country or his country's interests.

This all changed last year when I assisted him in arranging the demise of a HAMAS leader for the Israeli's. Apparently, they been rumbled carrying out an assassination in Dubai and they could not afford any more bad publicity. Doug carried out the approved assignment and the Israeli's refused to pay. I recall that Doug was livid and I began to think that he had changed. His home life was falling apart and he seemed to be having a breakdown. I was set against his proposed course of action and refused to be involved. As a result he employed a contact we have used before, whose name I do not know, and he assassinated the Foreign Minister of Israel. The operation was clean as far as Doug was concerned but the French and Israeli operatives turned it into a bloodbath. I had travelled to Paris to find Doug and to dissuade him from such precipitate action, as it could only lead to trouble. By the time I tracked him down it was too late. I saw the assassination unfold on the TV news and so I travelled back to the UK and did not tell him about my abortive trip.

Our bank account was credited with the money owed within 24 hours.

By Christmas I had effectively dissolved the partnership, due to Doug's mood swings, which I put down to drugs and/or drink, and concentrated on my business, Celebrato Greeting Cards.

Then three weeks ago Doug asked me to assist him in the abduction of a 'rabblerousing' couple from central Africa, who he had been told were intending to 'damage UK interests in Marat' and 'overthrow the legitimate government of Marat' to the great detriment of the already poverty stricken citizens. I understood that the initial instructions had emanated from a Mr Jalou Makabate.

I now realise that either Doug had been misled by his contact at MI5 or he was deliberately lying to me. I suspect that it was the former because Doug played a recording for me that emanated from Thames House and it included Mr Barry Mitchinson voicing the agreed code phrase for; go ahead.

I participated in the abduction of the Hokobus, an act for which I am now deeply regretful but which at the time I understood was for the greater good. I deliberately planned the abduction so as to cause no harm. I carried no weapon nor did I, at any time, use violence. I subdued their bodyguard with a paralysing spray that causes less discomfort and less long lasting effects that CS spray or pepper spray. I convinced the Hokobus to return to their car, where I sprayed them too and left them, leaving the keys in the car for Doug McKeown, who was to drive them to an undisclosed location.

When I left them they were in temporary distress but not in any danger. I was stunned when I learned that they had been killed. By then Doug McKeown was uncontactable and I felt very vulnerable as I had lost a contact lens which may have given the authorities reason to believe that I was a murderer. I decided to leave the country as soon as possible and clear my name. My reason for leaving the country, and for making my statement in protective custody in the USA, is simply that my life may be in danger. In our former business termination often means more than simply being fired.

Imagine then my surprise when the next day I received a coded call from MI5 asking me to attend a secretive meeting with a junior operative. I met him in the abandoned Strand Tube Station, which had been used for anti terrorist training in the past.

He told me that his employers at MI5 did not know who the Chameleon was but that they were convinced it was Doug McKeown and that he had overstepped the mark killing the Israeli Foreign Minister and the Hokobus. They applied pressure on me to kill my old mentor and provide proof of death.

I had no alternative. I was frightened for my own life but in the end my efforts were not necessary. I tracked Doug down to a 'lock up unit' we had used in the past and I wanted to confront him. I must stress that I was unarmed and that I was in extreme danger because, his affection for me apart, Doug was a trained killer. I entered the lock up through an open door in the rear, only to discover mayhem inside. There had been an explosion and not much of my old mentor remained. I carefully gathered up his remains and set fire to the workshop.

I passed the gathered remains to my former employers at MI5, who confirmed the remains belonged to Doug by DNA testing. My own view is that someone, possibly the Israeli's, found out who the Chameleon really was and terminated him.

Later I was asked to attend another meeting with the junior operative, a Mr Tim McKinnon, for debriefing. I was wary because of the fact that I was the only outsider who could now identify Doug McKeown as the killer of the Hokobus, and the only one who heard Mr Barry Mitchinson of MI5 give the go ahead.

I attended the meeting and as I had anticipated Tim produced a gun. Once again I was unarmed. Tim shot me three times in the torso and l fell into a lift shaft. Luckily I was wearing a ceramic body cover under my Kevlar body protector and I was able to break my fall by grabbing onto a rope. Tim shot a couple of rounds down the dark shaft for good measure and left me for dead. I managed to escape but not before I heard Tim screaming. I later learned that a man had been electrocuted by the third rail in the rarely used tunnel and knew it must be Tim.

Given that I was supposed to be dead, and soon would be if I stayed around, I ran for safety and planned to clear my name whilst remaining in a safe haven.

By the issue of this statement I freely acknowledge my guilt as to my participation in the temporary abduction of the Hokobus but stress that, as far as I knew, Doug McKeown was going to hold the couple for three days until the conference was over and then he was to deposit them at their embassy in London.

Obviously I regret my actions. I am deeply saddened by the death of a couple who I now know were more honest and well intentioned than the governments who ordered their demise. I would happily return to the UK to be tried for the lesser offence of assisting in an abduction but I am afraid that I would not live to defend myself as my defence would open MI5 to a scrutiny that they would not find acceptable.

Let me say that I trust the UK Government implicitly and that I trust the head of MI5 implicitly but I believe that rogue elements within MI5, namely Mr Barry Mitchinson and his Director, are operating outside of their remit and the law. I have now been told that the Director took his own life on hearing that I had escaped his jurisdiction.

Finally, attached to this affidavit are details of illicit bank accounts held in safe havens where blood money is concealed and used to pay assassins like the Chameleon, and to benefit the rogue agents named above.

I therefore formally request the protection of the United States of America, whose passport I hold, and in due course I will issue a prayer of pleading to request that any extradition procedures be rebuffed.

Signed: _________________________________Gillian Davis (Miles).

Date: _________________________

Witnesses Ordinary: 1: _______________________Senator Denton Miles III

Witnesses Ordinary 2: ________________________James Lorimer, USA, DoJ

Notary: ________________________________________
Chapter 62

Courtyard Marriott Hotel, Lynchburg, Virginia,

Thursday 9:50pm.

Everyone had finished reading the statement and had dismissed it as the fiction it clearly was, whilst all secretly harbouring the feeling that if they had been unaware of the reality, this fiction might just sway them. Steve Post was the first to summarise the situation.

"People, this is the work of a warped genius. She has given up a potential murderer, cast herself as a victim and has implicated the UK in the murder of foreign nationals around the globe. As I said earlier, even the FBI have benefitted from her skills. She has an entry on the CJIS database and, whilst it is scant on detail, it seems to involve Cuba, and that is something our Government won't want anyone to know.

By writing what, on the surface, is an admission of guilt for kidnapping, she is threatening our two governments with embarrassment and humiliation. Given that she has such powerful allies I suspect that the FBI and CIA will pressure MI5 to let her go. First, because she knows too much, and second, because any future President who looked favourably on them would be an important ally for the secret services."

Their main courses arrived and although no-one was hungry any longer they ate anyway. There was simply nothing more to say.

***

Just as the disenchanted group in Virginia were beginning their meal, Barry Mitchinson's laptop beeped. An incoming email had been received. The MI5 man opened the attachment headed Affidavit and read the un-redacted version of the documents. His mouth gaped open as he discovered that he was named as a rogue agent who had authorised the killing of the Hokobus and who had also ordered the killing of Gillian Davis.

Of course, this was all true, but no-one should have known anything about any of it. Bloody hell, this was supposed to be a secret service, a secret service that couldn't keep a bloody secret!

The phone rang. Maureen Lassiter was on the other line. She was crying. Her sobs were so frequent that he could hardly understand a word she was saying.

"Look at the attachment," she sobbed, before becoming incoherent again.

Barry flicked over to the last page and read down the list. When he reached the last item he dropped the phone and threw his head in his hands. Maureen Lassiter heard him screaming, "No, no, no!" followed by an insane rant which concluded with the words, "I'm going to kill the bitch!"

***

Maureen hung up the phone and stared in disbelief as her future evaporated in front of her eyes, almost a million pounds disappearing from sight like a bad magic trick.

There, on the bottom line of the attachment, was the information that she and Barry had thought was totally secret:

"Britannic Investment Group, Isle of Man: Manx Bank & Trust

a/c nr. 08136541, password: Alleviate, passcode: 19-24356-98734-34285-A-Q.

Balance: GBP 974,645.00"

It had gone. All of it. It was now safely secured in the coffers of Her Majesty's Treasury.
Chapter 63

Notting Hill, London, two days earlier.

With help from Doc, Gil had tracked back the last payment made to the Chameleon, the one which had been made by the Maratis. According to the Chameleon's online statement, the payment originated from the National Bank of Marat. The details of the account number and account holder were shown clearly on the statement, as required by international law. Armed with this information, and the time of the transaction, Doc made a polite enquiry of the bank's lightly protected, daily suspense account database. As Doc later explained to Gil, the reason these bank records are only protected by a simple firewall is that they are 'read only' and they contain less data than is printed on cheques and bank debit cards. He joked that the information on the database wouldn't be of any use to a Nigerian spammer, for instance. This is because access to this suspense account database does not allow the reader to alter or amend any records. Nor does it help a hacker gain access to the triple firewalled, independently wired and much more secure, transactional banking system.

Nonetheless, and as expected, the database contained a back up copy of all the day's transactions, in and out. A quick look down the list produced the information Doc had been seeking. Minutes after the $1 million was transferred to the Chameleon, the same account was debited £100k in favour of Britannic Investments in the Isle of Man. It had been credited to account number 08136541. Doc was now on the prowl.

***

Barry Mitchinson proved to be a hard man to hack. Doc tried unsuccessfully for hours before accepting defeat. It wasn't that Barry's system was secure; it was simply the case that he was seldom online and one can't hack an unconnected computer. The breakthrough came when Gil suggested that Doc might have more success with a different approach.

Doc owned one suit, and it had to serve for weddings, funerals and the occasional court appearance. It was looking a little worn, but with a new white shirt and tie and heavy rimmed glasses, Doc looked the part as he rang the doorbell.

A tearful Eloise Ter Haar answered the door and looked enquiringly at the rather odd young man in the suit.

"Eloise Ter Haar?" he asked.

"Or Eloise Mitchinson," she hastily replied, "yes."

"Graham North, Security Services IT Breaches Division." He held up a warrant card that looked real enough at a quick glance but which in reality was photoshopped from an internet image. Doc felt that the leather card holder, £7 from Amazon, lent it an air of authority.

"I'm afraid my husband no longer lives here. I don't know where he is. But let's discuss this inside. To the neighbours you'll look like a bailiff."

Doc sat down with the very attractive middle aged woman. He had always preferred women of his own age but suddenly he could see the attraction of a more mature woman. Even in her tearstained condition she looked sophisticated and sexy. He wondered briefly whether, given her vulnerable emotional state, he might have a chance of getting to know her a little better. His wandering attention was halted by her sultry but quivering voice.

"What exactly can I do for you, Mr North?"

Doc explained that a computer at that IP address had attempted to access a restricted server in MI5, and that he was here to investigate. He also explained that it was an offence and that it carried jail time. He wasn't actually sure that was the case but it sounded ominous and had the desired effect. Eloise swore that she had never tried to access the MI5 server, that she was innocent and that Doc must believe her, she had just lost a close personal friend who had committed suicide and her husband had left her for a hussy who lured him away with perverted sex.

Doc lost his train of thought for a moment as visual images raced across his still adolescent brain.

"Don't worry, Eloise, the chances are that your husband's computer is trying to link in to the server automatically when you log on. I take it you have a shared computer?"

She nodded.

Eloise led Doc upstairs, her tight pencil skirt swaying with her hips as she ascended the steep staircase. She turned to ensure he was following, and smiled when she saw where his gaze was centred.

Eloise showed Doc the large screen Apple Desktop PC and switched it on.

"Please do as you like with it. I don't need any more trouble in my life."

Doc could have sworn that she had one less button fastened on her blouse than she'd had downstairs, and as a result he was treated to a feast of cleavage as she handed him the mouse.

Quickly and efficiently Doc set to work, ignoring Eloise's work and private files at her request. Barry's section of the computer was untidy and disorderly, but it took just a few minutes to locate a number of hidden files. The first was a large folder called 'empics' which appeared to contain Jpegs and mpegs, while the second was a smaller file called 'Personal Info'.

"Would you mind bringing me a glass of water, please? I'm parched." Doc hoped that Eloise Ter Haar would give him a few moments alone. She obliged, smiling the whole time.

Doc quickly cloned Barry Mitchinson's section of the hard drive, before deleting Barry's account. He quickly scanned the personal info file, and there in the folder he found a neatly typed word file called passwords and access codes.

"Why do people never learn?" he muttered under his breath.

On the sheet were passwords and pin numbers galore. He found the Britannic Investments password and pass-code, but his heart missed a beat when he saw the next line. It contained access details and passwords for Mitchinson's workstation at Thames House. This was the Holy Grail for hackers; an introduction to MI5's servers. Doc would be shaking hands, figuratively, with the MI5 server within the hour. He was going to be famous among his peers.

The download was complete and the hard drive clean as he heard Eloise ascending the stairs. He wanted a quick look at his USB drive data to ensure all the data had transferred correctly, and so he opened the picture file empics/ling/lounge.

***

When Eloise entered the room she saw Doc staring at the screen, his mouth gaping open. On the 21 inch screen was a picture of Eloise Ter Haar reclining on the sofa in a black basque and fishnet stockings.

Doc tried to speak, to apologise, but only a squeak emanated from his lips. Eloise smiled, put a perfectly manicured finger under his chin and closed his mouth.

"I wouldn't want anyone to hear about any of this. You know, I am an innocent victim in all of this." Doc nodded weakly. He was scared and excited at the same time, and his excitement was showing through his thin, cheap suit trousers. Eloise noticed.

"Obviously I can make it worth your while for you to keep me out of your enquiry."

***

Two hours later a sweaty and tired Doc sat on the tube train wearing a stupid grin on his face. He had come to a realisation. He had been wasting a lot of valuable time with drunken nightclub girls.

Despite the fact that he had the passwords to an account worth hundreds of thousands of pounds on the USB drive in his pocket, he was most looking forward to opening the other 'empics' jpegs. Eloise Mitchinson was all woman.

***

Once Doc had cloned Barry's hard drive and sent the account details to Gil, he had offered to drain the account and share the spoils with her. Gil had refused, reminding him he was being paid well enough already.

No, Gillian Davis wanted her erstwhile boss to suffer, knowing that his ill gotten gains had been taken by the same employers who were about to terminate him.

Terminate him with extreme prejudice, she hoped.
Chapter 64

Miles Estate, Lynchburg, Virginia, Friday 7pm.

Dee had said her goodbyes to Pete and the two detectives, who were now all flying back to the UK in time for the weekend, although how relaxing a weekend it would be for them was open to question. All three had been angry and frustrated when they left the hotel.

Steve Post had told them that he would make it his life's work to ensure that if Gillian Miles strayed off the straight and narrow he would be there to catch her, but the promise seemed more rhetorical that practical. Steve was determined and well intentioned, but Gillian Miles had made a life out of evading responsibility for her actions and now in one rolled up, global confession she had swept all former criminality under the carpet. What was even more galling for all concerned was the fact that she had done it with the cooperation of the authorities.

Now, against every piece of advice she had been offered – mostly unrequested - Dee stood leaning against a tree on the Miles Estate waiting for the Chameleon to make an appearance.

The main house and grounds were deserted, although a black and white cruiser patrolled every hour or so. The Senator, his wife and his staff were at a political rally in Washington DC, to be followed by a sumptuous state dinner in honour of a visiting head of state, according to the Washington Post's internet site.

Steve Post had been Dee's most fervent opponent in this regard. He had been forceful in his language when he told her that, whilst no good could come from a meeting with Gillian Miles, something bad could certainly come from it, something very bad. He had even offered to go 'off duty' and offer her some back up, but she refused. His career would be in tatters if the Senator ever found out the FBI agent was harassing his daughter.

The weather was cold, but Dee could bear it. She thought about Josh and home and West Ham fighting for their Premiership survival tomorrow, but she knew that she could not leave without confronting Gillian Miles. So she waited.

***

An old Chevy Tahoe belonging to the estate pulled up in front of the lodge concealed behind the main house, and a woman stepped out. In the half light it was difficult to say whether it was Gillian Miles or not. The woman came around to the tailgate, opened it and picked up two bags of shopping. Dee stepped forward out of the shadows and walked towards the woman, standing in the glow of the courtesy light.

"Gillian Davis, or Gillian Miles?" she enquired. The woman turned to face her.

"Yes, can I help you?" she offered, smiling all the while.

"I'd like to talk to you." Dee was now close to her nemesis.

"Of course," Gillian replied amiably. "Always nice to speak to a fellow Brit. While you're here you might as well help me with the shopping." She extended both arms, each holding a bag of shopping. Dee took one in each hand.

The blow came from nowhere, and if Dee had not been so well trained she would have been badly injured or killed. Gil's straight fingers punched towards the soft part of Dee's throat. Dee dropped the shopping and pulled back but the fingers still connected with her windpipe. Suddenly she couldn't breathe. Her throat muscles went into spasm and she could feel panic rising. Dee fell to the floor and rolled into a protective ball whilst trying to talk herself down from a full blown panic attack, but the adrenaline was pumping and her heart was racing. Dee knew from her training that a blow to the throat like this is only debilitating if you panic. Most people would instinctively throw both hands to their thorax, leaving their unprotected body open to a follow up attack. She tried to ignore her throat and tense her body for action.

She acted just in time because a heavy kick from winter work boots was aimed at her midsection. She twisted as the boot landed and it rode up her side, expending most of its force under her arm. Normally it wouldn't do much damage there, but just a few months earlier Dee had been shot in the very same place. She shrieked with pain but still pulled her arm in, trapping the foot. Rolling onto her back, she took the foot with her, and Gil uttered a blasphemy as she lost her footing.

Realising that she was going down anyway, Gillian bent her knees and intended to land on her counterpart's ribcage, causing some real damage, but by the time she went down Dee had rolled back under her and had grabbed her left foot, twisting it painfully. They were both on the ground now, rolling on the wet grass under a large maple tree. Dee was still spluttering and trying to catch her breath, but seemed oblivious to the discomfort as she fought for her life. Gil was amazed. She had never seen any opponent withstand her favourite blow and keep on fighting. Gil could feel Dee behind her and so she swung her elbow around blindly, hoping to hit a vital organ. She found bone and both girls groaned as Gil's elbow connected with Dee's forearm. Dee's rash move had left Gil with only one arm to lift her back into a fighting position.

Dee was hurting and her breath was still ragged. She needed a quick end to this fight. She twisted Gil's left arm, the one with the numb forearm, and pushed it up her back. The assassin shrieked as Dee used the hold to lift her to her feet. Realising that at best she would suffer major tendon damage, and at worst have serious fractures, Gil rose under her own steam until she was standing facing the trunk of the maple tree, with Dee behind her.

Dee placed her right arm across Gil's throat and released her twisted left arm so that she could secure the chokehold on Gil with both arms. Dee's right wrist was now locked in the crook of her left arm, and she began to apply the pressure necessary to send her opponent into unconsciousness.

Gil's first reaction would have been to grab for her attacker's testicles, the usual way out of a choke hold, but in this case there were none to squeeze the life out of. She could also have raked her boots down the other woman's shins, the second option for escape from a chokehold, but she guessed that this particular opponent would accept the pain and carry on. She opened her eyes and saw she had one more option, which was just as well because she was beginning to black out. Leaving her whole bodyweight in Dee's hold, she kicked up her feet and ran her feet up the tree. As Dee leaned forward under the weight of the other woman, Gil felt the weight of the two fighters on her bent legs and she extended both legs to push her attacker back.

As Gil had hoped, Dee lost her footing and fell backwards, losing her grip of the chokehold. She landed flat on her back, with Gil on top of her and spinning around to initiate another attack. Dee had no way of knowing that Gil was on the edge of exhaustion as well, and so she rolled out of the way of a left hook that hit her shoulder instead of her jaw. Both women managed to clamber to their knees, and Gil turned away from Dee when she saw a heavy can of chilli lying on the ground just a couple of feet away. It would make a weapon of sorts. Dee saw it, too, and as Gill reached out for it Dee fought dirty. She threw out her open right hand and slipped it under Gil's right arm which was reaching for the can. Then, hooking her wrist around the Chameleons body, she grabbed the other woman's right breast and squeezed as hard as she could, pulling the other woman around to face her. Gil cried out in pain as she was forcefully turned around to look into the face of Dee Hammond.

She didn't have long to look because she caught sight of Dee's left fist heading straight into her face. She lifted her head in an attempt to avoid the punch, but it was too late. She felt a blow to the chin and everything went black.

***

After taking a couple of minutes to recover, Dee stood up and looked down at the sprawling body of Gillian Davis. She was out cold. Dee stumbled over to the open tailgate of the Chevy Tahoe and sat down on it. Rummaging around in the shopping, she found a sixteen ounce bottle of blue liquid that looked like wallpaper stripper but which was in fact Gatorade. Dee slugged it down in seconds and waited for the caffeine and glucose to hit.

Fifteen minutes later Gil Davis began to rouse herself. She ached all over, and suddenly unconsciousness seemed an attractive option. She was lying on something soft. Was it a cushion of some kind? When she opened her eyes she was lying on the sofa.

Dee was busy in the kitchen when she saw signs of Gil stirring. She grabbed something from the countertop and crossed over to the sofa.

"Here, hold this against your jaw. It'll prevent it going stiff." She held out a Ziploc bag filled with ice from the icebox. Gil did as she was told and massaged her right breast.

"You fight dirty," she said, her voice filled with irony, or so Dee chose to believe.

"And you fight like a girl," Dee replied. Gil almost laughed, but it turned into a groan and a cough. "I only came to talk," Dee added.

"I thought Five might have sent you to kill me. They've tried twice already." Gil's tone was measured and calm. Dee walked over to the counter where the shopping had all been unpacked and picked up a tray.

"I've made us some tea," she announced, then placed the tray on the coffee table and gently moved Gil's legs off the sofa, sitting down beside the killer.

***

They served and drank the tea in relative silence, a silence broken only occasionally by the sound of a sharp intake of breath as the hot tea met a cut lip, or a mistreated muscle cramped. Gil stared at Dee intently for a moment, then made a declaration.

"I know you. I saw you on the internet last week. You were on YouTube."

"I don't think so; maybe I hit you too hard."

"No, it was definitely you. You were coming to the aid of that Clara girl and you marched Rob Donkin down the red carpet by the ear. It was a big hit on YouTube last week, once someone had dubbed it with a series of chimp sounds."

Dee hadn't seen the footage but she smiled at the recollection. Gil spoke with something approaching admiration.

"In different circumstances I might hire you to protect me."

"I'd need an army, with the enemies you've been making," Dee noted without any hint of irony.
Chapter 65

Miles Estate, Lynchburg, Virginia, Friday 9pm.

Gillian Davis had eaten, and dressed her wounds, as had Dee, and both were now sitting on the sofa, Gil with her legs tucked under her in the same way Katie Norman had just a week ago. Dee thought she looked so much younger than she was. It was true that she was well trained, scheming, manipulative, and quite possibly sociopathic, but she was like a teenager in her mannerisms and general behaviour. Perhaps if she had stayed in Chemistry she would have been married and settled by now, who could tell?

"Why did you kill the Hokobus?" Dee asked as she looked directly into the eyes of Gillian Davis. Without flinching or even breaking eye contact, Gil answered her question quite honestly.

"I don't know." There was no denial. There followed a long pause, which Dee wanted to fill with a judgemental statement like 'you must know, you took the lives of two wonderful people', but she didn't. She had learned that it was better to listen in order to learn.

"Every day since the killing I've asked myself that same question many times. I had never questioned my motives before. I was trained not to. If you thought about everyone you were ordered to take out - their families, their kids, their mothers, even – well, you would go mad. And some of my colleagues did.

So I guess I learned to shut it out. It was for the greater good and that made it right. Even when Doug and I went freelance we only ever took out bad guys. We made the customers pay through the nose but we only did what we thought was right. We even had a code. If we thought a hit was against the country's interests we would make the customer, usually national agencies of some kind, clear it through MI5. But it was all a fraud. Our ex boss knew someone from the old team was the Chameleon. I think he suspected Doug all along, but he wasn't giving us the all clear based on national interests, he was taking a cut.

I didn't even know until I did the HAMAS job and the Israelis refused to pay. Their excuse was that I had half of the million dollars and my contact had received one hundred thousand pounds and that was enough. Obviously Barry Mitchinson was taking a ride on the back of the Chameleon. I should have known then that I couldn't trust him. I should have known that he'd give the go ahead to shoot the Pope if he got his cut. I was stupid."

"Did he give you the go ahead to kill the Hokobus?" Dee asked. Gil nodded.

"But I'm not blaming him, Dee. Is it OK for me to call you Dee? I feel as though we've shared enough pain to be on first name terms."

"It's my name, Gillian." Dee replied neutrally. Gil looked at Dee and smiled, and suddenly Dee realised that this young woman had no-one. No family, no friends, no colleagues. She was lonely, hence her pilgrimage to the USA. She was trying to connect with the father who was, in reality, little more than a sperm donor.

"You probably don't want to hear this, and it won't endear me to you in any way, but I am not sure whether I would have turned down the money if I had known the Hokobus were fine people. Obviously I hope I would have done, but I just don't know." She looked at Dee and her eyes were wet.

"I think I may be damaged goods." She paused to gather herself. "When I was in that car and the couple were paralysed I could see something in their eyes and I knew they weren't bad people, but I did it anyway. I've relived that moment a thousand times and only recently did I recognise what it was I saw in their eyes." She paused and sobbed. "It was forgiveness." She sobbed some more, and Dee handed her a tissue.

"You, and everyone else, will think, she's seeing what she wants to see. She's placating herself. But I'm not. I believe I saw acceptance and forgiveness in those kindly eyes." By now her knees were up on the sofa and she buried her head between her knees and cried.

"It was my job to keep the Hokobus safe, and I failed," Dee said. This was a revelation to Gil.

"What about that tall Geordie man?"

"He's my partner. Don't ever go near him. I guarantee he'll snap you like a twig before you ever get to say sorry. We'd known that couple for just a few days but you were right about their eyes. They saw everything and they condemned nothing. We felt as though they were long lost friends. If I hate you, and I'm not sure whether I do or not, it should be because you killed a lovely couple, but it will actually be because I didn't save them." Dee's eyes also welled up. "I guess we're both conflicted."

"Dee, what I did was heinous, unforgivable. I know that. But what you did, well, it was heroic. I might have killed your clients but you wouldn't let their dream die with them. I watched that black actress standing at that podium, reducing some people to tears and stirring others to action. I saw the news of the uprising. Marat is free. The President is going to be tried for crimes against humanity and the Hokobus did it all, thanks to you."

Dee turned away quickly. She didn't want the Chameleon to see tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

"I have to be going," she said, her voice shaky.

"Don't be crazy. You can hardly walk. You're almost as battered as I am. Stay the night in the spare bedroom. Go when you like in the morning, but don't go out in this state. Please."

"How do I know you won't kill me in my sleep?" Dee asked, only half seriously.

"Ditto," Gil replied. "Should you decide to stay there is more I need to tell you, but for now I'm just too tired."

Dee's weary body made the decision for her, and she asked if she could have a hot bath before she retired.

"Of course, and I'll put some Ibuprofen by your bed. After I've swallowed a few myself."
Chapter 66

72b The Green, Richmond, London, Saturday 2am.

Maureen Lassiter was dead on her feet. She just wanted to lay her head on her pillow and allow herself to drift off to sleep. She was so tired that she would doze off at the computer, hallucinate and wake up, all in the order of a few seconds. She sipped her strong tepid coffee in the losing battle against fatigue.

The last piece of information she had been pursuing arrived in her inbox; a voice proclaimed "you have mail" and she opened it. Summarising its contents, she added it to her notes for Barry. He was in her bedroom, making yet more calls to people who were distancing themselves from him and his spectacular plummet into oblivion but who were afraid of what he might reveal about them on his way down.

Maureen read her notes:

'CIA, MI5 and the law enforcement agencies either side of the Atlantic unable, or unwilling to say where Gillian Davis is living. Scotland Yard met with her, as did the FBI but both met her at offices in Richmond, Virginia and her lawyer would not disclose her address, if indeed he knew it.

Amazingly enough the authorities could not find Davis with all of their resources but a private security operative, Dee Hammond did find her, and is probably the only person who does know where she is living.

It was assumed she was living in the Miles home, her Father's home, but this appears not to be the case; see Gerry's note.' Maureen flicked over two pages and found the email from Gerry, MI5's local contact in Richmond, Virginia.

"Mo. Good to hear from you after such a long while. No-one at Thames House speaks to me anymore – cutbacks? Remind them I'm cheaper than an airfare! Anyway, here we go. All Senators have government approved fast response security systems operated by Wells Fargo and so I rang the control center and assuming the role of the Lynchburg Police Department asked them if an alarm was going off as a neighbour though they heard something as they drove by. Wells Fargo said the house was secure, as far as they could see on their monitors, and that the Senator was away until Tuesday and the house was empty. They reminded me that the Lynchburg PD should be driving by every ninety minutes anyway. So, if your girl is in the area she isn't staying in the Senator's house.

Just a thought, if she talked to the Feds in Richmond and her lawyer is in Richmond, well maybe she is in Richmond too. Do you want me to run a credit card check? Let me know, sweetcheeks.

Gerry"

Maureen went back to the notes.

'Davis is not using any known account or credit cards but this means nothing. She probably has unknown accounts under several aliases, or at least she will have if she learned anything at all in her special services training.

Our only lead to her whereabouts, therefore, is the unlikely Dee Hammond. A Google search showed lots of YouTube hits for the same piece of video, Hammond leading Rob Donkin by the ear to the police. He must be one angry man. Also numerous press reports including the front page of the Sun newspaper reporting that Hammond had partially blinded Donkin when his attack on her backfired. The lunatic had tried to squirt undiluted bleach in Hammond's eyes. Sick boy.

The night duty operative at Vastrick Security helpfully gave Maureen an emergency number for Hammond which rang through to an answer phone for her Orange Mobile phone number.'

A hack of her mobile phone, courtesy of Sandra in the 'electronic interception section' at Thames house, proved most helpful. Maureen owed Sandra dinner at Jamie Oliver's Fifteen Restaurant in North London. Maureen turned to the intercepts.

"Outgoing text message to Josh Hammond: Know it's stupid. Outside Chameleon's place. Need to face her. Can't settle til I do."

"Incoming text message from Josh Hammond: Yes it is stupid. She is a killer. I am flying out. Be there Weds'day. Got to finish report. U still at Richmond Downtown Crowne Plaza?"

"No more traffic, D Hammond phone off or out of range."

At least Maureen had something. If they could persuade Dee Hammond to tell them the whereabouts of Davis, Barry could track her down and force her to make good their loss. After all, she'd had almost three million pounds in her account before it had been moved. She could afford it.

That money in the Isle of Man had been their nest egg; they could get away together if they had that cash. Maureen shuddered involuntarily at the thought of Barry's behaviour towards her earlier. He had brutalised her - rape wouldn't be too strong a word. But he was under extreme pressure. When they were together, relaxing, having retired from this madness, he would be OK. He wouldn't hurt her then. No, it was just the circumstances, she convinced herself. She hadn't seen the signs, and so it was partially her fault, anyway. She would have to be more careful.

***

Barry sat alone in the living room of the small garden flat which overlooked the green. Maureen had gone to bed. This tiny space in a Victorian building in Richmond would raise almost three hundred thousand pounds when it was sold, and even in a depressed housing market it would be sold within a week. Maureen had furnished it well; it was light and airy, the furniture modern and the artwork colourful. The pale deep pile carpet offered a soft contrast to the hard edges of the stainless steel and glass coffee table and bookshelves. The irony was that the flat could have been designed by his wife. Everything in it was exactly to her taste. Barry wondered for a moment whether the decor said anything about his taste in women.

His mobile phone rang; it was nearly three in the morning now.

"Barry, I'll give you this and then don't ever call me again. OK?"

"Of course not. I'm out of the game after this," Barry lied.

"Donkin is in room 417.1 in that private hospital at London Bridge. His bills are being paid by that celebrity publicist. The police will present him before magistrates as soon as he gets out, and I guess he'll go down, but the publicist will get a few good stories out first. The word on the ward is that he's faking total blindness to avoid the inevitable arrest and confinement in a place less comfortable than the London Bridge Hospital."

Barry had a plan. Now he could go to bed and sleep for a few hours.
Chapter 67

Room 417.1, London Bridge Hospital, London, Saturday 8am.

"How do I know I can trust you?" Donkin asked. "You might be working with the police."

Barry Mitchinson came to the conclusion that this man was even more stupid than the press alleged, but he kept his opinions to himself. He wanted to slap the celebrity wannabe, but he knew that he had to be kind. He wanted to tell the young man that he wasn't even important enough to warrant a part time police guard. He was a nobody.

"Look, Rob, I've explained my plan to you. You help me and you get what you've always wanted. The alternative is that you stay in here, playing at being blind until the medics get fed up and sell you out to the police. Then it's going to be arrest, remand, court and prison. Tell me you're not interested and I'll leave you alone. You can send me a postcard from the Scrubs!"

Rob's eyes were heavily bandaged and he looked every bit the blinded, vulnerable, misunderstood boy he pretended to be. He knew, however, that Barry was right. Although he denied it to sceptical doctors, he could see a good deal better now. He reckoned that he had recovered about seventy percent of his sight already. His main problem was his central vision; he still had black spots there and blurring around those black spots. Nonetheless, he could get around safely, and Barry's plan had two advantages - reuniting him with his girl friend, and a flight out of the country, taking him away from the threat of prosecution. His publicist would be mad as hell, but he wasn't the one who had to worry about going to prison.

Rob clambered out of his bed with Barry's help, and slipped on a dressing gown. As they walked along the corridor the nurse approached him.

"This is much better, Rob. You needed to get out of that bed."

"I'm just heading to the lounge where my Uncle and I can get some coffee and talk," he lied, with a total lack of conviction.

"Well, Uncle, take care of him. He needs his family to lift his spirits. Not surprisingly he's been a little bit depressed, but he will recover his sight in due course. There's really no need to worry." The nurse hurried on to another patient.

***

Once they were alone, Barry removed the bandages and gave Rob a pair of sunglasses which concealed his oddly coloured, creamy looking eyes and some of the skin burns. After changing into the ill fitting clothing which Barry had provided, Rob donned a beanie hat and they simply walked out of the hospital unchallenged and into a taxi.

***

By the time Donkin and his new protector had arrived at Maureen Lassiter's apartment they had already collected a few of the young man's belongings from his own tawdry apartment.

"As you both have current ESTAs I have been able to book you onto a flight to New York. You can't fly until tomorrow because of the twenty four hour Advanced Passenger Information System requirements.

At JFK Airport you will pick up a minivan with fold down seats. That should suit your needs."

Donkin sat on the sofa listening to his iPod, a wet flannel over his aching eyes. Barry talked quietly to Maureen Lassiter.

"Get the flat on the market immediately and make sure you turn up for work as normal. I may need you there. Don't give any indication that you may leave, or Five will reduce your security access even further.

I'll be back from the States in a few days, and we need to be ready to move quickly." Barry looked over at Donkin before whispering, "I don't think Rob will be making the return journey. He may find himself sharing a grave with Gillian Davis."

Maureen looked shocked. She hadn't anticipated any more killing, but she knew that arguing with Barry was fruitless. Once they had the money and were well away from here they could put all the violence behind them.

***

Because the doctors didn't make their rounds on a Saturday, Rob's absence from the hospital wasn't noticed until evening medications. The charge nurse, under explicit instructions from the man paying the hospital bills, reported the absence to the high profile celebrity publicist.

"Do nothing for the time being," the maddened publicist said. "He'll be out drinking. I'll track him down and have him in his bed by the time the doctors come around Monday morning. OK?"

"OK," the nurse answered doubtfully, "but if he isn't in his room by Monday morning I have to call the police!"
Chapter 68

Miles Estate, Lynchburg, Virginia, Saturday 7am.

Steve Post drove into the rear driveway of the Miles Estate along the unmade road leading to the Lodge, which was set well back from the main house. He parked behind a well-used Chevy Tahoe and climbed out of his government issued SUV.

As he walked towards the door he unclipped the holster under his jacket and made sure that his Glock handgun was easily accessible. He rapped on the old wooden door. A few moments passed and eventually a bleary eyed Gillian Davis-Miles answered his knock.

Steve held out his commission card and badge, both contained in a small leather wallet, and gave his name.

"What have I done to deserve a visit from the FBI at the crack of dawn?" she asked.

"I'm looking for Dee Hammond, a compatriot of yours."

He was about to continue when the door opened wide and Gil invited him in with a smile and a sweep of her hand. Steve stepped inside and saw Dee sitting on large sofa, tapping away on a laptop. Dee looked as surprised to see him as he was to see her sitting comfortably in the company of Gil Davis.

"Your husband is beside himself with worry. He asked me to track you down."

"Why didn't he call?" She knew the answer when she saw that she had no signal, and a series of red symbols and words told her that there was insufficient battery power for radio use.

"It took me all night to try to get the powers that be to agree to me calling in on the Senator's daughter unannounced. In the end they refused me permission. So let me tell you, if anyone gets to hear about this I'll shoot you both." He was clearly angry, but Dee understood that he must have been very concerned about her safety.

Gil invited Steve to sit down and she poured him a coffee, delivering it to him before sitting opposite on the sofa.

"It's nice to see that you two are now friends!" His acerbic tone revealed his disappointment in Dee, as it was meant to.

"Not so much friends as non combatant enemies," Gil added helpfully.

Steve looked from one to the other and shook his head.

"Look, it's none of my business, and maybe things are not as cosy as they look just now, so you can tell me to butt out if you want. But I need to understand what has gone on here that makes it possible for you two to sit in the same room without killing one another."

Dee explained the night's events and Gil's admissions, before accepting that she had been inconsiderate if not downright rude for not ensuring that she remained in contact. Steve was appeased but suggested that he and Dee should make tracks to his house, where his wife was going to prepare a Saturday morning brunch.

Gil didn't have to ask whether she was invited; the look on Steve's face when he looked at her was comment enough.

***

Dee followed Steve to his house in her hire car. The Chrysler was warm and comfortable and she started to drift. Shaking herself awake, she touched a button on the console which now housed her phone, and said 'Home' loudly. The phone started dialling the UK.

Josh did not sound unduly angry or worried when he spoke to her, and accepted Dee's apology graciously before moving on to explain that Tom Vastrick had agreed that Dee needed some time off and that if Josh came to the US they could spend some time at his ranch. He told her he would be there by Wednesday evening. Dee was excited, but also a little annoyed that her husband had contacted her boss directly. It suggested that everyone believed her to be too closely involved in the case. When she examined her own behaviour through their eyes, she realised that they were right. She had been on a mission to track down and hurt, possibly even kill, Gil Davis. Perhaps she needed that break, after all.

***

The brunch was as delightful as it was tasty. Pancakes accompanied both sweet and savoury dishes, and a few of Steve's buddies turned up, as did some of their church friends. Dee's spirits were lifted higher than they had been for some time by the jollity and humour of her fellow brunchers. One of the guys attending moved through the group, leaving laughter in his wake. Dee thought he might be a stand up comedian. He wasn't; he was a clergyman. She couldn't help but wonder what his sermons must be like. When Reverend Casterton left her laughing about his experiences as an American student of Theology in Cambridge, his position at the kitchen counter was soon filled by Steve.

"Sorry about this morning, Dee. I was just so worried. I'm still convinced that Gillian Miles is capable of killing without a second thought, and that will be hugely dangerous here in the US where she has powerful protectors."

"Oddly enough, I'm not so sure," Dee observed. "She's undoubtedly lost, she's undoubtedly amoral, but somewhere inside that body is a kid who never grew up. I wanted to kill her when I turned up at her cabin yesterday, but now I just want to see her get treatment." She paused as she swilled some fruit punch around in her glass. "I don't buy the government trained killer thing; she killed long before anyone asked her to kill for them. She told me that it was self defence, plain and simple, when she killed the first time, but she sought the man out and she was carrying a rifle. It wasn't just revenge. I don't think she knows herself why she acts the way she does. She seems to operate on an instinct for self preservation." Dee realised that the smile had slipped from her face. "Come on, Steve, I want to hear some more of those funny stories that have been circulating all morning."

"Dee, don't go near that woman again." Steve was serious.

"I won't. I think I can live with it now. I'm just going to chill out in the Hotel spa and watch old movies until Josh arrives."
Chapter 69

Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island, USA,

Monday 31st January, 9am.

Katie's security arrangements were quite straightforward, as she was living on campus for the first year of her course. Her accommodation was a simple dorm room on the first floor with a self contained kitchen area and bathroom. The single large room incorporated a bed and clothes storage on one wall, with a desk and study area on the opposite wall. TVs and music systems had to be accommodated in these small spaces and so students tended to have iPod docks and small flat TVs mounted on the wall opposite the bed. This was the arrangement Katie had inherited and maintained. The small kitchen area was equipped with a fridge under a counter, a toaster and kettle on the counter top and a microwave oven built in above. There was no oven or hotplate. The bathroom had a shower, W.C. and wash basin; if a bath was needed, the tub was down the hall. Any laundry had to be carried out in the basement at weekends, when there was usually a mad rush for machines.

Deanna Pope, her minder, was accommodated across the hallway in the same type of room. Katie could summon Deanna at any time with a single press of a preset key on her mobile phone. The college security desk in the entrance to the dorm block was already manned twenty four hours a day. This arrangement enabled Katie to enjoy a significant amount of freedom around campus without an oppressive security presence.

Katie's room looked out over a beautifully maintained square of lawn with bare trees. The lawn was coated in frost this morning as Katie prepared for her Psychology lecture. Deanna tapped on the door at around nine, and the two young women walked down the stairs and out into the cold winter morning.

***

The routine walk around the main campus building was watched carefully by two men sitting in a minivan which carried a printed sheet in the windscreen showing a brown bear below the word BROWN and above "On Hire to Ladies Volleyball Team".

The men were refreshed, having arrived in the US mid afternoon yesterday and sleeping from around 9pm to 6am. The journey from Heathrow had proven uneventful, as Barry had expected. They had sailed through passport control at both ends of the journey. Clearly, neither country had yet been made aware of Rob Donkin's disappearance. Even if they had been made aware, an absconder who had yet to be formally tried would be unlikely to raise any alarm. Barry wasn't playing the odds. He was well aware that in the UK every day hundreds of serious offenders fail to turn up for their court hearings, and many are never even pursued, as the police just do not have the manpower. To place them all on travel watch lists would be impractical.

The two men watched the girls enter the main building and then jumped out of the van and walked towards their rehearsed positions.

***

Katie pushed open the door to the lecture hall and allowed her friends to precede her, before nodding to Deanna who mouthed silently, "See you here after class."

***

The cold weather and the full class schedule served to keep the grounds clear of students, and so Deanna's journey back to the dorm room was quiet and uneventful until she rounded the corner of the old brick building. She then had twenty or so yards to cover before she could enjoy the warmth of the foyer and her morning coffee and chat with Jake on security.

An untidy, balding man with a purposeful stride huddled in a heavy overcoat, walked towards her. Deanna was immediately wary as she could not imagine why a man of his years would be leaving the girls' dorm rooms so early in the morning.

"Excuse me, Miss, I think you may have dropped this?"

Deanna turned to look behind her, where a younger man was jogging up the path towards her, holding out a small bunch of keys. In a second she weighed up the situation. A young man in dark glasses on a murky morning was distracting her, whilst another man, out of place on campus, approached from behind.

Deanna withdrew her pepper spray, keeping it concealed in her hand, and turned to face the older man, who had made up a lot of ground in the few seconds she had been facing the other way. She lifted her hand and squirted him in the face with the spray. His hands flew to his face as he tried to protect his eyes. Deanna then turned to the boy, who now looked scared and who was beginning to back off. For a moment his panic and fear convinced her that she had overreacted, but by the time she considered the possibility a smooth fist sized rock crashed into her skull from behind. Deanna would be unconscious for an hour or two, and insensible for the rest of the day.

***

As she fell to the floor, Rob Donkin laid her on her side as they had planned. Barry was to head off to the main building, whilst Rob was to report to security that a lady had slipped and banged her head and needed an ambulance.

Whilst Barry was still blinded by the spray, Donkin spotted a holster under Deanna's jacket. Unseen by Mitchinson, he lifted the loaded pistol from the holster and tucked it behind him into the waistband of his jeans. No-one would argue with him now, he thought.

It took a minute or two, but Barry Mitchinson eventually got back to the car, where he sprayed his eyes with bottled water. By the time he had recovered, he could hear the sound of sirens. An ambulance was approaching. Donkin had done his job well. The younger man arrived back at the van and climbed into the driver's seat.

"OK, old timer, time for your performance," he said, with a lack of respect that Barry intended to punish in due course.

***

Katie Norman was listening attentively to her lecturer when she heard a disturbance behind her. The doors had opened and an apologetic middle aged man appeared at the top of the stairs. The lecturer stopped speaking and looked directly at the interloper.

"I need to speak to Miss Katie Norman about Miss Deanna Pope. I'm afraid there has been an accident."

Katie stood immediately and gathered up her books, looking clearly worried but hoping that the accident hadn't been a serious one. The lecturer urged her to attend to the problem and return when she was able.

Katie and Barry stood outside the closed lecture room door.

"I assume you heard the ambulance sirens? "

Katie nodded.

"Well, Jake at security found Deanna Pope of Vastrick Security on the ground outside the dormitory. She had fallen and hit her head. She was unconscious as the ambulance left."

Katie looked concerned and panicky.

"As you probably know, I head up college security," Barry told her. Katie didn't know - how could she - but she nodded anyway. "Vastrick asked me if I could either stay with you or take you to the hospital to be with Deanna until they could get a replacement sent out. Do you wish to stay here and attend your lecture with me at the door, or do you want to follow the ambulance?"

"I want to go with Deanna; she's my friend as well as everything else." Katie had not thought to wonder why the college would have a security manager with an English accent. She was too worried about her friend to have even noticed.

"I have the college minibus outside, if that would be OK?" Barry asked. But he need not have worried. Katie was already on her way out of the building.

***

Katie jumped up into her seat behind the driver and Barry closed the door. He climbed in the other side of the van and slid over beside Katie.

"Donald, to the hospital, please."

Maybe it was auto suggestion at the mention of the word hospital, but she thought she could smell that familiar hospital aroma in the van. In a swift move the man beside her grabbed the back of her head and clamped a damp cloth over her face. She tried not to breathe in. She knew now what was happening but she was unable to resist, and the chloroform did its work.

The van left the campus and headed to Virginia on the Interstate, in the opposite direction from the hospital.
Chapter 70

Dale City, I95 South of Washington DC, USA, Monday noon.

Katie Norman was concealed under a blanket in the rear of the minivan; she had been injected with some kind of sedative by Barry Mitchinson, who was now in a service station grabbing some drinks and sandwiches. Rob Donkin took the opportunity to sneak into the back of the van and look at his girlfriend. She was beautiful; young, pretty and yet sensual. He stroked her cheek gently; it was as smooth as porcelain but warm and soft.

She pressed all of his buttons whether she knew it or not, whether she intended it or not. Rob daydreamed of the times they would be spending together very soon. She would be reluctant at first, but he would win her over, and if he couldn't he would blackmail her into staying, but he didn't want that. Successful relationships can't be built on fear. No, he would win her over with love. But he would take pictures of her which would cause controversy and wreck her career, just in case. A back up plan, that's all it would be. He loved her too much to hurt her like that, and he could take the pictures whilst she was drugged, so she wouldn't even know. That was how he would do it, he decided.

Donkin was sitting back in the front seat when Barry returned to the van with a white carry bag filled with drinks, pastries and chocolate bars. He passed the bag to Rob and took the slip road back onto I95. As they drove and ate he made Donkin practice the script until he was word perfect.

***

Dee had swum, exercised, read a novel and eaten, and she was bored. There were still two days to go until Josh arrived, and so she decided to call into the local Vastrick office, just for something to do. Before she could do so, however, her phone rang. The screen registered a US cell phone with a number she did not recognise. She clicked the green button on her BlackBerry and said hello. There was a brief silence, as if she had lost signal, and it was followed by a click.

"Hello," she said again, a little louder this time.

"Hello, Dee. Long time no see. Or, if you had your way, I would never see again."

Dee was sure she recognised the voice.

"Donkin?"

"The very same. Now, listen carefully and say nothing that might make me angry." Donkin's confident statement puzzled her, but she decided to listen anyway.

"I have Katie Norman." He paused as he heard a sharp intake of breath from his hated opponent. "I am on my way to you, and if you do everything we say, Katie will be returned to you safely. Now, listen carefully. These items are not negotiable:

One, you will contact no-one. We will know and Katie Norman will be punished.

Two, you will meet us at a point of our choosing in the Richmond area in the next two hours. We'll text you the coordinates.

Three, you will tell us where Gillian Davis is, and where we can find her, or Norman will be punished.

If we find Davis where you say she will be, my companion will release you and Norman and we will disappear from your lives - unless you report any of this, in which case you will both be punished. Understood?"

"I understand," Dee replied, giving nothing away. "Please, can I talk to Katie? Is she all right?"

"She's fine at the moment, and no, you can't talk to her. Just do what I say, OK? I'll call you again when we're at the meeting point. It will be a few minutes from your hotel. Yes, we know where you're staying. Don't contact the authorities or warn Davis." Donkin paused. "Oh, by the way, you might want to send some flowers to Deanna Pope." The line went dead. There was another silence and then a click before the dial tone reappeared.

***

Barry praised the young loser for being able to remember the thrust of the script, even if he had ad-libbed quite a bit.

"Barry, how will this all go down?"

"I've already explained. I get the whereabouts of Davis from the Hammond woman, I leave them with you, and when I see Davis with my own eyes I call you.

"And I can do whatever I want with the women?" Donkin smiled nastily, feeling the pressure of the Sig Sauer handgun in his waistband.

"Yes. Once I have Davis I don't give a damn about the others, they are simply a means to an end. The Hammond woman is a tough customer. She won't talk without encouragement, and our cherubic passenger will provide the incentive."

"You won't really hurt Katie, will you?" Donkin asked.

"Won't have to, Rob. Hammond will fold like a cheap suit when she sees I'm serious."

***

Dee had many options; despite the suspicious clicking on her phone she did not believe Donkin could monitor her calls. She could have called Steve Post from a landline, anyway. She could have called Vastrick for help, or at least the loan of a weapon, but time was short and she needed to think.

***

An hour away from Richmond at her lodge in Lynchburg, Gillian Davis unplugged her iPhone Vox from her iPad. The grid on the screen showed that Dee Hammond was still at her hotel in Richmond. Thank goodness for GPS.

When Gillian Davis had cloned Dee's phone she'd felt mildly guilty. The woman was asleep and, in a strange way, she had trusted Gillian Davis, perhaps unwisely. With the clone of Dee's phone residing on the second of the twin sim cards in her iPhone Vox, Gillian could read any text, listen in on any call and make a call as if it originated from Dee's phone. She had also ensured that the GPS was activated. Her intention was to ensure that Dee Hammond didn't get any wild ideas about taking Gillian out, or having her rendered back to the UK, and so this call was a surprise.

Gillian Davis too had options, and needed to consider them carefully. She could not blame Dee for disclosing Gil's whereabouts, even though it meant that she would have to move on again, just as she was getting settled. Gil made a decision and started packing a bag.

***

Dee's phone rang again at six minutes past two in the afternoon. She was ready; her plans were made. She would go it alone, sort of.

"Hello". Dee responded to the call, again offering no clues as to her attitude or state of mind. The voice on the other end was different this time. It was English, the accent suggesting education at a minor public school somewhere, but the voice was determined and bordering on the harsh.

"You keep this phone on until we meet, do you understand?" Barry demanded.

"Yes."

"Go to your car and head towards the I95 on the Downtown Expressway. Do not talk to anyone. Understand?"

"Yes."

Dee's phone beeped, and co-ordinates appeared on her BlackBerry.

"Type these coordinates into your sat nav and you will be here in ten minutes. Now, keep your phone on so I can hear what you're doing." Barry fell silent and Dee walked through reception to the valet parking area.

"Miss Hammond. Silver Chrysler 300. I'll just get it for you," the attendant said cheerily.

"Who was that?" Barry demanded.

"Valet Parking, they're bringing my car," Dee replied as she wrote quickly on a post it note which she stuck to a twenty dollar bill. The valet delivered her car and she handed the valet the cash. He saw the twenty and gushed, "Thank you Miss Hammond!"

Dee held her finger to her lips to demand silence from the valet, and stepped into the car.

"OK," the voice said, "that's the last talking you do, unless it's to me!"

The valet spotted the post it note and peeled it off his tip. It read:

"Ring Richmond FBI Field Office, Steve Post, and tell him to meet me at these coordinates ASAP, silent approach only."

The boy ran inside to talk to his manager.
Chapter 71

Darvell Salvage Yard, East 7th Street, Richmond, Virginia. USA, Monday 2.45pm.

Dee left the expressway and headed south over the river on the Mayos Bridge which took South 14th Street over Mayo Island. On the south side of the river the road became Hull Street, which bisected the East and West versions of 1st to 6th Streets before the sat nav told her to take a left onto East 7th Street.

Dee travelled through the industrial area, much of it quiet, some of it abandoned, for six blocks. Richmond's industry had obviously succumbed to the global recession in much the same way as the UK had.

"You have reached your destination," the lady on the sat nav announced. A second later her BlackBerry sprang to life in its cradle in the centre console. She switched it out of speaker mode and lifted it to her ear.

"OK, Mrs Hammond. Be sensible, now. Park over the road on the waste ground, behind the stretch limo will do nicely. Then cross Dinwiddle Avenue. You are joining me in the junk yard between 7th and 8th Street. Keep the phone to your ear until I can see you."

Dee did as she was told and walked around the perimeter of the salvage yard, which was completely fenced off, until she saw the sole entrance. She pushed the rusty old gates and they scraped long gouges in the ground until there was an opening large enough for her to pass through.

In front of her around twenty yards away she could see a new minivan. It stood out because everything else around it was scrap. There were narrow corridors of open space between precariously stacked squashed cars. There were rusty fridges, containers and oil drums that might have been stacked here in the 1960s. The place had the stink of dereliction. Dee walked carefully up to the van with the phone still at her ear, and looked inside. It was empty.

"We can dispense with the phone now." Barry stepped out of a shadow and let her see a deadly looking hunting knife. He saw her staring at the lethal blade and he smiled.

"I love the USA. I picked this up for thirty five dollars at a truck stop come hunting store. It's razor sharp, so don't try any heroics," he offered by way of introduction.

***

The junk yard had obviously not been used for some time. All of the cars were from the 1970s and 80s. Dee walked ahead of Barry and found herself in a preparation yard, a cleared area surrounded by mountains of scrap. Escape was only going to be possible by exiting the way she came in. Trying to clamber over the scrap could bring tons of the rusted metal down on top of anyone who attempted it.

In the middle of the clearing Dee could see two old folding chairs with ropes tied to them. The first chair was occupied by a tied and gagged Katie Norman, terror and bemusement visible in her teary eyes. She sobbed when she saw Dee. Dee moved towards her, but Rob Donkin stepped in front of the young starlet, blocking the way. Dee could have hit him twice and then moved his lifeless body out of her way, but she restrained herself. His time would come.

"Hands on your head," Barry insisted, poking the point of the knife into her back. Dee obeyed slowly. He frisked her whilst Ron Donkin held the knife. The balding middle aged creep ran his hands over her body with an intensity that spoke more of sexual control than of searching. Dee showed no emotion, but she registered her disgust internally. She was keeping score.

Donkin handed the knife back to Barry and took his place behind Katie's chair, stroking her hair proprietarily as he grinned at Dee. Barry Mitchinson ushered Dee to the second chair and ordered her to sit down. The second chair was around four yards from Katie's chair, and they both faced inwards towards the centre of the clearing. Dee knew that once she was tied up her survival would lie in the hands of a valet parking attendant ten miles away, but at the moment she was out of options, so she sat down.

Barry told Donkin to tie Dee's hands and feet and then secure her to the chair. Donkin pushed Dee forward on the chair so that she was leaning forwards and so he could get to her hands. Barry stood in front of her, wielding the wicked looking blade. It was now or never.

Whilst remaining in her seat, Dee flung her head back with as much force as she could, smashing the back of her head into Donkin's forehead. He went down, falling backwards with a yelp of pain and surprise. As she moved back into position, she sprang from the chair, pushing down on bent legs to power herself into the moderately built Mitchinson. He tried to bring the knife around but he was too late. Her head butt to the chest had unbalanced him and as he began to tumble his fingers loosened their grip on the knife. Dee turned through one hundred and eighty degrees so that her back was toward Mitchinson, and she used both hands to grab his knife arm. Her thumb, forced into the pressure point in his wrist, elicited a scream and an involuntary opening of his fingers. The knife clattered onto the dirt. Pulling his arm down at an unnatural angle, she bent the MI5 man double and used her right arm to secure him in a headlock, whilst twisting his arm up his back. It seemed to be all over, but Dee heard a muffled cry from Katie. Without relaxing her hold on Mitchinson, she turned her head just in time to see the twisted, bloodied face of Donkin forming a painful grin as he fired the gun at Dee from a distance of just three yards.

The bullet hit her like a heavyweight boxer's punch and she felt a searing pain in her right side, punctuated by the crack of a rib as the bullet passed through her midsection, just missing Mitchinson.

How she remained standing she would never quite work out. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was just bloody mindedness, but she did more than just stand. She looked at the bloody damage to her shirt and shouted, her voice a mixture of pain and rage.

"Not again!" She let go of the stunned MI5 man, who had not known that his accomplice had a gun.

"You damn fool, Donkin!" Barry blustered. "We need her alive!"

By the time he had uttered the words, Donkin had raised the gun again, ready to defend himself against the approaching Dee Hammond. She was advancing towards him, and her murderous expression scared him witless. He fired a second time, but the kick on the gun sent the second bullet harmlessly through Dee's billowing jacket, thankfully missing her body. Realising that he had missed, Donkin dropped the gun and tried to turn and run, but he was too late. With one last desperate lunge, Dee packed all of her remaining power into a right hook which caught Donkin on the left side of his jaw. His head twisted oddly, and an audible crack echoed around the junk yard. Donkin collapsed in a heap on the dusty, littered ground. His body lay at an impossible angle. His neck was clearly broken, and Dee thought he was most probably dead.

Dee tried to hold on to the chair for support, but the bone handle of the hunting knife crashed into her head and her body went limp as she joined Donkin on the dusty junk yard floor.

***

Dee had no idea how long she was out of it, but when she finally awoke her face was wet and she was tied to a chair, whilst Mitchinson, remarkably uninjured, stood over her, holding a bottle of water.

After a moment Dee noticed that Donkin still lay where he'd fallen. Mitchinson paid him scant attention, and had not even checked for a pulse. She realised then that Katie, Donkin and herself were never destined to leave this junk yard alive.

"Welcome back, Mrs Hammond. I suspect that within the hour you will bleed to death, so you have one chance and one chance only. You may think that chance is slim, and so it is, but it is a chance." He paused as he walked towards Katie, whose eyes were wide with fear. He was holding the gun.

"Mrs Hammond, I am a significantly better shot than the boy, and in any case I can't miss from here. Please tell me, where can I find Gillian Davis?"

"You're going to kill us both anyway, so why should I cooperate?"

"Firstly because I may, in fact, decide to let you both live, and secondly, because you can die quickly or slowly, dependent upon how generous I'm feeling. Let me say that I will feel more benevolent towards the pair of you if I can get my hands around the scrawny neck of Gillian Davis."

Dee had to play for time. She didn't buy any of that. She was certain that the moment he knew where Davis was, Katie and herself would both be dead.

"I'm sorry, Barry, whatever your name is, but I will not tell you unless you let Katie go. If you do that, I'll tell you and you can take me with you to find Davis, and you can kill me if we don't find her."

"Sorry, Mrs Hammond. You wouldn't last the journey." He raised the gun to Katie's head and flicked off the safety catch. "I'm sorry, young lady, but your good friend is sacrificing your life in order to protect a paid killer."

Dee was about to blurt out the address when Barry Mitchinson's hand suddenly disappeared in a dense red mist. All three of them stared in horror, as what was left of his tattered right hand fell to the floor, along with the gun.

Mitchinson screamed in terror as he used his left hand to grip the remains of his wrist, in a doomed effort to stop the arterial blood spraying out like a fountain in a parody of a low budget horror film. He collapsed to his knees.

"Steve, is that you?" Dee yelled, the pain in her side making her feel winded at the effort.

A figure carrying a hunting rifle with a light coloured wooden grip and stock appeared from behind a scrap car and picked its way carefully across the debris of junk until it was walking towards the two restrained women.

"I'm afraid your knight in shining armour didn't quite make it in time," Gillian Davis said in an ironic tone.

Gillian Davis propped up the Browning X Bolt 7mm Hunter rifle against an old refrigerator, and walked over to collect the Sig from where it had fallen. She carefully slid her pen into the barrel and lifted the gun, being careful not to touch it, whist sliding it in to her shoulder bag. She then picked up the knife and swung a hefty kick into Mitchinson's ribs. He was physically lifted off the floor by the force of it. He landed shaking and sobbing, his life blood seeping into the dust.

"That's for trying to kill me at the Strand Tube Station, you bastard. I did everything you ever asked of me, you malicious creep." She steadied herself, ready to deliver another kick, but he cowered away.

"Please, I need medical assistance. I'm dying! You're better than this, Gilly. You were my wondergirl. Don't let me die! Please!"

Gillian Davis looked down at what was left of his wrist. The hunting ammunition had exploded the joint, amputated his hand and destroyed the artery, pretty much as she had expected when she loaded 150gram, 7mm hunting ammunition.

"Sorry, Barry," she said with genuine remorse, "You are already dead. I suggest you make peace with your maker while you still have the chance."

Barry began weeping openly.

Dee was now concerned for her own safety.

"What about us?" she asked tentatively. "Despite everything, Katie doesn't deserve to die."

Gillian looked at her with a puzzled expression, and then she grinned.

"Nor do you, Dee. Do I deserve to die? Well, that's debatable, and these two are beyond deserving, but you've done nothing wrong. All you ever wanted was to find justice for those two sweet people who died at the hands of the Chameleon. Anyway, we don't have time for this. We need to get you to hospital, and a damn sight quicker than an ambulance would."

Gillian cut Katie's bonds and carefully removed her gag. Gillian looked at Katie Norman and saw herself as she might once have been; the innocence, the optimism, the normality.

"Come on, sweetheart. We have to get Dee to the minivan."

Gillian cut Dee free and took off her own jacket and shirt. Standing there, incongruously, in a lacy blue Victoria's Secret bra, she tore her Armani shirt into strips and, balling two strips into fist sized pads, she placed one on the bullet entry wound and the other on the exit wound. Dee squirmed. Katie held the pads in place as Gil wrapped the remaining strips of the shirt around Dee's body to form a bandage. She then removed her belt and tightened it around the makeshift bandage. Gillian then replaced her jacket to preserve a modicum of modesty.

"Katie, it will be your job to keep this tight. She can squeal all she wants, but don't let up. The pain is too bad, but she can survive that. Blood loss she can't. Understand?" She smiled reassuringly at the young woman. Katie Norman nodded, her jaw set in determination.

***

Gil Davis gunned the engine of the minibus. It was not the vehicle she would have chosen for a race to the hospital seven miles away, but it was all she had. She slammed the shift into drive and rammed her foot onto the accelerator. The minivan smashed though the chain link gates and onto Dinwiddle, before turning immediately left up Seventh Street. By the time she reached Hull Street she was doing over seventy miles an hour. Luckily there was little traffic south of the river. The minivan held onto the road as it careened around the corner and headed to the bridge.

By the time Gil saw the sign for the hospital, her driving had attracted two Richmond PD cruisers who were in hot pursuit, lights flashing, sirens blazing. Gil smiled as the road ahead cleared. After one final crazy turn onto Nine Miles Road, the van fishtailing madly, the Hospital was in sight. Gil ignored the Ambulances Only sign and slammed the van to a stop outside the emergency room entrance.

Immediately behind her the two cruisers screeched to a halt. The drivers were out in a second, perched behind their doors, guns out of holsters.

"Stop! Police!" they shouted in unison.

Gil carried on helping a bloodstained and barely conscious Dee out of the back seat of the van.

"Either shoot me, or come and help. This woman is dying!" Gil yelled.

The two policemen looked at the woman who was wearing a leather jacket over a blue bra, holstered their guns and ran to assist. Gil could be arrested and handcuffed when the sick woman was safely on a gurney.
Chapter 72

Darvell Salvage Yard, East 7th Street, Richmond, Virginia. USA, Monday 3pm.

By the time Steve Post arrived at the co-ordinates he had been given, along with significant back up, there was no need for the requested silent approach. Already there were curious office and factory workers gathering outside the entrance, alerted by gunfire and a speeding minivan crashing through the gates. Steve manoeuvred his SUV over the wrecked gates and into the yard, jumping from the car when he saw human activity.

Gun drawn, he followed the voices and found himself in a clearing in the midst of scrap metal. He holstered his gun when he saw the carnage. A paramedic from a neighbouring factory had fastened a tourniquet around a balding man's handless wrist and bent his arm double, fastening a second tourniquet around the forearm and upper arm. The man screamed in pain as the paramedic pulled the second tourniquet tight, forcing the folded arms together in a tight embrace. The bleeding slowed dramatically but Mitchinson lost consciousness.

The paramedic looked at the approaching FBI man, who was wearing a blue windbreaker with the FBI logo in gold, and spoke urgently.

"These tourniquets will lose him his arm but they may save his life."

An ambulance siren approached. Steve looked around; there was no sign of Dee anywhere. What was going on here? Dan Peterson, who had travelled with Steve, secured the crime scene and issued orders to uniformed cops, who were now arriving by the dozen.

Another office worker was attending to Donkin, who was showing signs of life, his eye lids flickering. She correctly identified a neck injury and tried to prevent the police from searching him, knowing that any movement could make it worse. She was unsuccessful, and Donkin was carefully frisked.

"My God, Dee, what happened here? Where are you?" Steve inadvertently said out loud.

***

The two ambulances had left the junk yard, sirens blazing, and the crime scene technicians were now bagging evidence, including the remnants of a man's right hand.

Steve's phone rang. It was Richmond PD.

"Special Agent Post?" The policeman wanted confirmation.

"That's me," Steve acknowledged.

"Sir, we have three women here at the Da Vita Community Hospital. One is being prepped for surgery, two are OK but one of them has committed a string of driving offences. The mouthy one - they are all English, by the way - said she refused to leave the hospital until you arrived. She said she is the daughter of Senator Miles, so we thought we should call before we arrested her."

"Hold those women there. I'll be there in ten minutes to take charge of the situation, Officer....."

"Sergeant Trelawney, sir."

"OK Trelawney, secure the hospital until I can figure out what's going on."

Steve concluded the call, grabbed Dan Peterson and they headed off to the hospital, leaving the bloodbath behind.
Chapter 73

DaVita Richmond Community Hospital, Virginia. USA. Monday 3:30pm.

Barry was drowsy from blood loss and morphine. His wound had been sealed temporarily, and he was connected to several monitors, a saline bag and a plasma bag. He had overheard the doctor talking to the policeman guarding the door.

He was going to lose his right arm below the elbow, but that would not be done at this hospital and nor could it be attempted until his blood count stabilised. However, the doctor was concerned less about the loss of the limb than he was about serious irregularities in heart pattern, which suggested that Barry may have suffered damage to his heart muscle.

The policeman listened with interest, but insisted that the patient be secured as he was likely to be charged with kidnap, serious assault and, potentially, murder. One armed or not, Barry realised that he was destined to spend his remaining days in a hellhole of a US prison.

The doctor agreed to keep him secured but comfortable until such times as it was safe to transfer him to a unit with more coronary support. The room fell silent and Barry drifted back into a dreamless sleep.

***

Mere yards away from Barry's cubicle, the hard pressed medical staff were even more downbeat. Rob Donkin had suffered a cervical spinal injury that had paralysed him from the neck down. His first and second vertebrae were badly damaged. The doctors had stabilised him, but he was in an induced coma and he would remain unconscious until they could get him to a specialist spinal unit. This would be harder than it sounded because of the shortage of spinal surgery beds on the eastern seaboard, due to the high number of spinal injuries arriving back from the war zones. It would also be difficult because Donkin had no visible signs of insurance.

The most likely outcome would be extradition, by an air ambulance transfer, to the UK. The US police would have liked to prosecute him, but they recognised that he was already imprisoned in a body that would never work again.

***

Dee Hammond had fared better than her two attackers. She was still in surgery but no-one was harbouring negative thoughts about the outcome. Test after test had been carried out and eventually, after much discussion, the surgeon had agreed to continue with the procedure. No-one would tell Gillian or Katie why they had delayed surgery. All they were told was that she would be fine and that she would be expected to make a full recovery.

The bullet wounds themselves would offer little challenge, even to a small community hospital surgical team, but there were complications. The bullet had nicked a kidney and other organs on its way through to shattering her twelfth rib, sometimes referred to as a floating rib because it is not attached to the sternum.

Steve Post listened carefully to Katie Norman's story of the day so far, and was surprised at the maternal protection offered to her by Gillian Davis. Gillian filled in the gaps as she held Katie's hand. What she had to say shocked Steve Post and forced him to reconsider his preconceptions about the former Chameleon.

She spoke as if she was being officially debriefed, and Steve realised that she must have been through this process many times before, so he sat and listened without interruption as Dan Peterson recorded the session on a handheld dictation machine.

"I knew that Dee Hammond was unhappy with me, and although I have always accepted my culpability, that is often not enough for some people. Wary of her intentions, I decided to keep track of her whilst in the USA. Purely for my self preservation, you understand."

She smiled, and continued. "I cloned her phone using my adapted IPhone and IPad and some security software used in law enforcement circles, called TriposDub. I also fed her Sim card details and GPS details into my iPad tracking application. I thought that I'd been very clever doing all this while she was asleep, but when she awoke and found her phone battery was flat I think she suspected. She didn't say anything, however, so I may have been a little paranoid.

When I overheard the first call from Donkin I knew that she might be in trouble and so I had a choice - leave her to it or keep an eye on her. At that point I had no idea what Donkin wanted, nor that he was working with Mitchinson, and so I gave it some considered thought and decided I couldn't sit by and watch her or Katie be hurt.

I live in the lodge behind the Senator's house, and the lodge contains the locked gun cabinet. I opened the lock - it took all of twenty seconds - and had a look inside. As expected there were no handguns, but there were two hunting rifles and plenty of ammunition.

I selected the Browning X Bolt rifle because it was better weighted for a woman of my stature and the sights seemed to be in good order. I loaded some 7mm 08 Remington cartridges that had a 150 gram load and went into the woods. It took me ten minutes, but I got it sighted in and took the limbs off two trees. You Americans certainly make sure that if you hit it, it doesn't walk away."

She paused thoughtfully before continuing.

"I drove up to Richmond from Lynchburg. It took just over an hour, and I parked in the hotel car park and kept my eye on Dee's Chrysler 300. When the phone rang again I recognised Mitchinson's voice and knew immediately that Dee was in trouble. Taking a risk, and knowing that she couldn't, I forwarded the text with coordinates to you. Your number was in her contact list."

"That was you?" Steve asked.

"Yes. I was hoping that you would turn up, to save the damsel in distress, so I could concentrate on meeting up with Barry. He tried to have me killed, you know." She was grinning.

"I wondered what was going on," Steve admitted. "When the hotel manager eventually deigned to call me I had already set things in motion. I guess I need to thank you," he added.

"Go on, then," Gillian teased.

"Don't push your luck; you're still in very deep water," Steve threatened, and so Gil continued.

"I followed Dee to the scrap yard, and when she disappeared with Barry I carried out a quick surveillance of the area. I came to the conclusion that he had placed no look outs. I collected the rifle from my Tahoe and slipped into the yard as quietly as I could.

Unfortunately, Mitchinson, more by good luck than by any tradecraft, had picked a great spot to keep his hostages. To get a clear shot I had to climb up an unstable scrap mountain without making any noise and find a stable shooting position. Luckily for me the scrap was well compacted, and I found a hidey hole on top of an old Chevy Chevette, from where I could see the whole area.

I was just setting up when I heard the first shot. Some idiot boy raised a pistol and fired, and the blow back nearly knocked him off his feet. If he hadn't been so close he wouldn't have hit Dee at all. In fact, he would have been lucky to hit the scrap yard and he was right in the middle of it. It was the sloppiest shot I've ever witnessed. By the way, the gun he used was bagged by one of your uniformed policemen. I picked it up carefully by the barrel so that I didn't smudge any prints.

I saw the blood and was amazed when Dee remained standing. The boy was amazed as well, and he raised his gun for the killing shot, but Dee laid him out with one punch. Barry cracked her on the head and she went down.

Dee was out for four minutes, in which time Barry Mitchinson tied her up. I would probably have blown his head off if I had a decent shot without Katie or Dee in the way. Anyway, I sighted the rifle and waited. When he raised the gun to Katie's head I knew I had no choice. I fired to disarm, not to kill. The hunting ammo did its duty, and from twenty five yards I don't miss, even with an unfamiliar rifle.

You know what happened after that. Katie explained it well, and I have nothing to add."

Steve looked at Dan Peterson, who nodded in confirmation that he had everything recorded.

"OK, you two. Wait here. I'll bring you news of Dee as soon as I get it."

"Mr Post?" Katie attracted Steve's attention. "Can you check to see if Deanna from Vastrick is OK, too? If those bastards have hurt her I'll strangle them myself in their hospital beds."

"I wish you would," Steve muttered under his breath. "Tom Vastrick himself is on his way down from Vermont. He'll probably be better informed than my guys."
Chapter 74

DaVita Richmond Community Hospital, Virginia. USA. Wednesday 2pm.

Josh Hammond and Christine Post sat chatting across Dee's bed. Josh had landed just that morning, having been unable to find an earlier flight. Dee was elsewhere in the hospital, undergoing further tests. Christine had been a constant by Dee's bedside since Steve left to try to sort out the legal quagmire that five Brits had left behind them in a junk yard in Richmond.

The room was filled with flowers and cards, and a balloon was floating just below the ceiling, secured by a red tape tied to the bed frame. Tom Vastrick had taken a break to eat and would be back soon. He had arrived within hours and had tried to persuade Katie and Gil to go to a hotel and rest, but they were going nowhere.

Eventually, in the early hours of Tuesday morning, Dee had awoken, albeit briefly, from an anaesthetic induced sleep and had convinced them that she would be fine. Gil and Katie were escorted to Dee's hotel room, where Katie fell dead asleep on the bed, whilst Gillian Davis slept fitfully on the sofa. Gil's and Dee's cars had been recovered by the police and were parked in the hotel lot by the time they awoke. After a further visit to Dee's bedside, the two reluctantly departed, leaving her to rest and Tom Vastrick to stand guard. Later that day Gillian went back to Lynchburg, and Katie was driven back to see Deanna, her minder, who was back at home nursing a lump on her head and a pounding headache.

That was yesterday, and today things were beginning to return to normality. The community hospital had been overwhelmed by three patients with serious and life threatening injuries arriving within minutes of each other. They had also been told very clearly that Dee had priority as the victim. As it turned out, all three needed the care of different specialist doctors.

A heavily bandaged Dee was wheeled back into her room and lifted into bed. She groaned, and the orderlies apologised for the discomfort. The gurney left the room moments before a lady doctor appeared. Dressed in her green scrubs, with her hair scraped back in a pony tail, she looked like every female doctor on TV.

"Hello, Josh, and Dee. We have just completed the tests and the results are very positive. It appears you have been shot before, is that right?"

Dee nodded. The doctor raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"Well, I don't need to tell you that so far you have been unbelievably lucky." Josh took his wife's hand as she continued. "You have lost your twelfth rib. It was shattered, and so we've tidied it up. It will ache for a while, but it will be fine. The kidney seems to have been unaffected by the damage it received, but we need to keep an eye on that. Otherwise the internal damage was limited to some intestinal bleeding, and the bullet holes will take time to heal. But you probably know more about that than I do. You must take a break and rest. That isn't advice, that's an instruction."

"She will be resting, you can be certain about that," a voice boomed from the doorway. Tom Vastrick, owner of Vastrick Security, left no room for discussion. The doctor spoke a little more quietly.

"There is one more test result that I would prefer to share in private."

"No," Dee protested. "Christine and Tom can stay. They can hear whatever it is. They're family as far as we're concerned." Dee smiled at Christine, whom she had only known for a few hours but who had done so much since the shooting.

The doctor was hesitant.

"OK, whatever you say. I have to tell you that another reason you will want to rest up is that you're pregnant."

Josh went white and Dee's eyes opened wide in astonishment.

"Yes. I wondered if you knew. I guess I have my answer now," the doctor blushed.

***

The pretty dark haired nurse pushed her stainless steel trolley past the trooper on guard outside Barry Mitchinson's room. The trooper was deep into an old Reader's Digest.

"Would you like me to bring you a drink when I finish my rounds, honey?" The deep languorous southern drawl was as sexy as it was out of place.

"Yes please, ma'am," the trooper answered, remembering his manners.

"Sure thing, hon. Give me five minutes." The nurse pushed her trolley into Mitchinson's room.

"Mr Mitchinson, you seem to have slipped right down the bed. Let me sit you up and plump those pillows." The casual banter was loud enough to carry to the trooper, as it was meant to do.

The nurse sat Barry up and plumped his pillows as she said she would. Then, quite unexpectedly, she withdrew what looked like a perfume atomiser and squirted it liberally in his face. He was paralysed. When the nurse looked right into his frozen features, he knew he was about to die.

"You are going straight to hell, Guv," Gillian Davis whispered, still smiling like the southern belle she was playing.

Gillian's paralysing spray did its work, but this time the mix was a little stronger than usual. Barry tried to move. He couldn't. He tried to breathe. He couldn't. He tried to panic. He could do that. It took an agonising three minutes for him to black out, and five minutes for his heart to stop. By the time the monitor alarm sounded and the crash team arrived, it was too late. Barry was dead, his face frozen. His eyes, dead as they were, still expressed terror.

The Chameleon was back in her street clothes by the time the trooper suspected foul play. Her dark wig had been discarded, and her soft brown eyes were back to their usual blue. In minutes she was walking back towards her car, parked a block away.

"They can never see past the uniform," she chuckled to herself.

As Gillian had predicted, when Steve Post interviewed the trooper later, all he could extract from him, by way of description, was she was a tall dark haired nurse with soft brown eyes. 'She looked like half the nurses in the hospital,' he said apologetically. Despite his best efforts, the hospital could not confirm for Steve that Barry Mitchinson's death was anything but the result of his injuries and a failing heart.

***

Perhaps it was the pressurisation or the poor administration of drugs during the transfer, but in the sleek Lear Jet, thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, Rob Donkin woke up. His eyes flew open, but the attending male nurse had dozed off in the comfortable leather seat next to the white leather covered bed.

The lighting was subdued. Rob had no idea what was going on. He couldn't remember anything. Where was he? Who was he? His heart began to race as he realised that he could not move. He could not feel his limbs at all. He knew that he was not breathing, but somehow he didn't need to. It was as if his lungs were filling automatically. He could see and hear engine noise, but there was something in his mouth that would have prevented him from speaking. In fact, he could feel it in his throat. He tried to gag but his gag reflect didn't work. Later he would hear that his voice box no longer worked anyway. He lay unblinking for minutes. He was scared. No, he was terrified. He was confused. He tried to close his eyes. He couldn't.

The travelling nurse woke up with a start as his chin hit his chest. He blinked himself awake and looked down at his charge. Donkin's eyes were open. The nurse dropped in a few tiny droplets of liquid and closed the paralysed man's eyes. Then, looking more closely, he could see that the man seemed to be crying. It wasn't possible, he thought; comatose patients don't cry. He persuaded himself that he had overdone the eye drops.

Rob Donkin could feel the tears on his face but nothing else. The strain of trying to remember something, anything, drained him. His mind closed down. It could take no more; he would try to make sense of what was happening later, maybe.
Chapter 75

## Vastrick Security Offices, Nr 1 Poultry. London, England.

## 3 months later.

Josh Hammond laughed at his own joke as Dee frowned. She was beginning to show now, and she had that glow of health that men often overlook in their pregnant women.

"I'm just your comedy sidekick," she scowled as she took another bite of her sandwich.

They were lunching in the conference room at Vastrick's London HQ; Tom Vastrick had joined them for this new daily routine.

"There's no need to come for lunch every day, Josh," Tom said. "We have her tied to a desk for the foreseeable future. We won't let her out of our sight. I promise." The two men smiled, and Dee frowned. She felt pretty good for a woman with several healed bullet holes and a missing rib, and couldn't understand why she needed coddling.

Tom left the room.

Josh leaned over and kissed his wife tenderly. She kissed him back, and for a moment it all got heated and passionate.

"Sex in the overnight cot?" he suggested playfully. "After all, you're already pregnant."

"Too busy, Josh. I need to finish early tonight. We have seats for the match."

Josh groaned. It looked to him as if the Hammers, his beloved West Ham United, were destined to be relegated to a lower division, and he had a season ticket so he could witness the final death throe. Dee saw the despair in his face and tried to take his mind off the subject.

"The Posts emailed this morning. They're coming over to London in the summer to visit." She looked out of the window at the torrential rain and hoped that the weather would behave itself for their visit.

Josh left. There was still concern in his eyes, although he had trained himself not to show it. He had work to do at his own office less than half a mile away. In this weather he would be soaked covering half that distance. Nonetheless, he shrugged as he stepped out onto Queen Victoria Street, and quickened his pace.

***

Dee returned to her office and tenderly touched the photograph of her husband. Despite the fact that she loved her career, she loved her husband more. Sometime soon she would leave all of this behind and find some other career, preferably one which didn't involve being shot regularly.

As she spun her chair around to look out of the window, her eyes caught sight of the beautiful leather bound set of books on her shelf. She lifted the first in the series and opened it. On the title page of Clara Campbell and the Spectral Schoolboy she read the dedication;

"To Dee Hammond, with all of my affection, and thanks, for keeping Katie safe. J Jackson Bentley."

For a few moments she was lost in thoughts and immersed in memories. She was oblivious to her surroundings when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

"The book is OK, but that girl who plays her in the films is brilliant."

Dee spun around, then leapt from her chair as Katie Norman ran to her and hugged her wildly. Katie stepped back and rested her hand on Dee's stomach.

"If I'm not the godmother I'll want a damn good reason why not."

They both laughed and hugged again.
Epilogue:

Presidential Rally, Capital Square, Richmond, Virginia. USA.

One year later.

The first black President of the USA was in Democrat territory. Despite the Democrats having lost one of its key Senator positions to the Republicans, in the form of Senator Denton Miles III, the President was convinced that the state would be his, come the election. Nevertheless, he felt that there could be no harm in telling the folks that he appreciated their support, and so he was due to appear on the podium in Capital Square in less than an hour.

Harvey Quince addressed his armour clad Special Agents in the foyer of an office block overlooking the square. Quince had taken over as SAIC, special agent in charge of the field office, after Steve Post had transferred to Florida to become SAIC in Tampa.

"OK people. We know what we have to do. The Secret Service is in charge, and we're here to do their bidding."

"Yeah, right!" one anonymous agent called out, to laughter from the rest. Quince ignored the heckling and continued.

"The ground level team will be carrying automatic weapons and will be on voice activated communications on channel 1, that is a multi service channel so no comments about our colleagues in the CIA, Secret Service or Homeland Security." There were murmurs as the ground team dispersed. The SAIC was now addressing just four people holding sniper rifles. All were armoured and helmeted. They each wore green and grey camouflage paint to dull the sheen from their cheeks and noses. All four were expert marksmen. Only one was a woman; Special Agent Gillian Miles.

***

It had been a hard year for Gillian. Despite being the daughter of a future Presidential candidate, she had endured hours of grilling over what Fox News had called 'The Junk Yard Shoot Out' and the unexpected demise of Barry Mitchinson. Nonetheless, she had been cleared for work on a consultancy basis for those Law Enforcement Agencies who needed a sniper. After rigorous training with the FBI at Quantico, and much to the distress of Steve Post, pressure from the DoJ, Department of Justice, gave Gil Miles a shot at an agency probation. The probation period ended with top marks and glowing recommendations from everyone who thought Denton Miles III might be the next President of the United States.

So it was that six months earlier, Gillian Miles stood proudly to attention as the Director of the FBI pinned her badge on her lapel in the presence of her proud father and Elizabeth Chase Miles. The passing out parade gave way to a boozy celebration, and Special Agent Gillian Miles had a photograph taken holding her personalised and embossed leather wallet, which when opened showed her shiny new badge below her commission.

***

There were only three high buildings with a true line of sight to the podium, and Gillian was stationed on the highest. In the week before the address was to be given, an anonymous email had been received by the Secret Service saying that Omar Al Madawi, a Syrian sniper loyal to President Assad, had sneaked into the USA by ship. It was immediately dismissed by the CIA, who claimed to know where he was, but despite their claims the tall buildings were emptied and FBI snipers occupied their rooftops.

"Rules of engagement are as follows," a senior secret service agent read out to the snipers.

"Unless the life of the President is in clear and imminent danger, you must first seek voiced authority to fire. Acknowledge."

"Yes, sir!" the agents barked in unison.

"Take your positions and radio in."

***

Gillian's perch was ideal. She could cover the roofs of the other two buildings, and she could see all windows facing the podium except the ones in her own building, which were covered by others.

"Skybird in position," Gil said into the throat radio as she held it to the surface of her skin.

"Roger that, and position secured, radio silence in five minutes. Switch to emergency channel if necessary," a distant voice responded.

Gillian had been delighted when she discovered that her favoured M107 Snipers Rifle was also the preferred tool of the Richmond Field Office. She secured the bipod and traversed the square, looking the whole time through her sights. The cross hairs on this model were different from her own scope; hers had a simple cross with a small circle in the centre. These cross hairs had one vertical line bisecting two horizontal lines. The target was to be placed on the central vertical cross hair between the two horizontal lines.

"We are live." An anonymous voice chirped through the radio static as Hail to the Chief rang out from below; it was played well by the National Guard Band, as far as Gil could tell from this distance.

The President took the podium and was raising and lowering his hands, palms down, in an attempt to quieten the applause. Eventually the noise died down and the President began to speak, praising the good people of Virginia, telling them how they had helped bring America out of recession.

There was no apparent threat from the lower buildings, and so Gillian Miles sighted on the President. She turned a thumbscrew ever so slightly to adjust focus, and the President came into focus. Even from this distance, Gil could sight the cross hairs over her President's throat. Securing the rifle in position, she tore off her microphone and threw it across the roof.

Gillian Miles smiled as her finger traced the hair trigger, the cross hairs still set on the President's Adam's apple.

"The Chameleon is back in business!" she said out loud, just before a loud retort echoed around the square.

THE END
J Jackson Bentley writes both fiction and non-fiction books and has been a published author for over sixteen years. He now works as a Legal Consultant in the UK, the USA, the Middle East and the Far East. His spare time is spent writing at home in the UK and in Florida. Married with four grown children he is currently writing a new thriller set in Dubai and he is compiling a book of short stories.

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Excerpt from:

Shadow of the Burj

An Emirate of Dubai Thriller

J Jackson Bentley

CHAPTER 1

Oxfordshire, England, February 10th, 6.00 am GMT.

The black custom painted motorcycle coasted into a clearing in the trees and its rider shut down the engine. The ground crackled as the rider rolled the big bike over the frozen mud. It was still early and the frost was thick on the ground.

The Harley Davidson looked dated but was in fact a recent model. The Sturgis Dyna FXDB, like all Harleys, looked a little old fashioned because it was low slung and the rider sat upright but close to the road. The bike appeared dirty and neglected on the surface but beneath the film of road salt and mud it was a powerful and well maintained road machine. The white and red decals on either side of the six gallon petrol tank declared it to be ridden by a "Warrior", the Warriors being a violent offshoot of the British Hell's Angels.

The rider maintained his distance from the shabby trailer park that was home to the Warrior's Oxford Chapter. He didn't want to wake anyone in the camp, at least not yet. He removed a thick leather glove and raised his left hand to look at the cheap gothic styled watch on his wrist. On each knuckle was a letter crudely drawn in blue ink, the letters spelled out the word HATE. His hand was grubby and unwashed, black oily deposits outlined his long fingernails. It was almost 6am and the camp across the clearing was silent.

Bricko, a nickname name derived from a crude comparison of his build to a sturdily constructed outside toilet, reached into his battered leather jacket and retrieved the tabloid newspaper he had purchased just minutes ago. He unfolded the red top newspaper and reread the headline; "Bikers Underage Sex Ring Exposed", the words and pictures were credited to a journalist called Max Richmond. The sordid story was accompanied by grainy pictures and it claimed to expose the activities of the "Warriors, a notorious motorbike gang who modelled themselves on the "Hell's Angels". The big biker did not need to reread the article, which started on the front page before continuing over four more pages in the centre of the paper. He knew what it said by heart.

Standing at around six feet two inches tall, and with a solid stomach that hung over a straining studded belt, Bricko would have looked like eighteen stone of menace to any opposing biker gang. His long oily hair and unkempt beard did not detract from the menacing message his cold ice blue eyes sent when he frowned, and he was frowning now.

Bricko had been living in this run down mobile home park for three months but he now knew that the time had arrived for him to move on. He knew that if he removed the Warrior motif painted on his black leather jacket and replaced it with a target he couldn't be in more danger than he was already. With a back story that linked him to the five most wanted biker gangs in the country, Bricko would have been considered the archetypal violent and transient biker. Once he had set things in motion this morning he would have to be out of here and on the road again within the hour.

The aging biker reached into his pocket and removed an ancient and battered 'pay as you go' mobile phone. The phone only registered a couple of bars and so he climbed off his bike and walked further into the clearing. When more bars appeared he dialled the number listed in the newspaper as being the 'Crimestoppers' confidential helpline. It took some time for the phone to be answered and when it was he heard a young woman on the other end of the line. She sounded bored and tired as she announced her first name. In her defence she had probably been manning the phones all night, dealing with drunks and hoax callers. Nonetheless, she perked up noticeably when she heard the deep bass voice that spoke with a thick Black Country accent. She had heard it a number of times before.

"This is Bricko. You might want to take notes." The biker knew that the call was likely to be recorded. "I've just seen the newspaper article about the motorcycle gang we talked about before and I can tell you that the "Warriors" are living in an old mobile home park outside Harringford Village off the B436." He paused while the operator took notes. "But the pigs had better be quick or the camp will be empty when they get there. Tell the paper I'll be calling for the reward money. Remember the name 'Bricko'". He spelled it out and ended the call.

Having made the call, he knew he could expect the police within the hour. Bricko removed the battery and sim card from the phone and threw them deep into the undergrowth; not that there was anything on the card that could lead the police to him. Then, quite deliberately he placed the phone under the wheel of the bike and climbed back on. The engine roared into life; there was no need for quiet now. He rode over the mobile phone and into the camp.

***

UK biker gangs had proliferated in the craziness of the 1960s when their reputation for violence and disorder preceded them. Each successive summer their standing had been enhanced as they were blamed for terrorising seaside towns and quiet villages across the country. But like most worries and concerns the fear of biker gangs was largely unnecessary, fuelled as it was by anecdote more than by fact. The truth was that the bulk of the violence associated with bikers was internecine, one gang targeting another. Only rarely did this tribal conflict spill over and trouble the general population.

By the end of the millennium the majority of Hell's Angels weren't dissimilar to the aging hippies who were conceived at around the same time. The bikers tended to be jaded, middle aged men and women who just refused to move on and who insisted on clinging to old habits and outmoded ideals. By 2010 most gangs or chapters of the British Hell's Angels consisted of part time members with homes, jobs and families who rode together only at weekends. After years of roaming the UK in gangs most bikers had succumbed to the luxuries of Middle England and were more likely to be found raising money for disadvantaged children, or some other charity, than raising hell. Some disillusioned Angels broke away into smaller, more extreme factions, continued to live the biker ideals and considered their ex comrades to be sell outs. That was a view held by Jonty Adams.

Jonty, christened Jonathan Derek Latimer, was raised in a bungalow in a leafy suburb of Oxford and had been a pillar of middle class young adult society until his final year at university. Celebrating the completion of his final exam and his last edition of the OSH "Oxford Student Herald" as editor, he had spent the night participating in a student drinking game and had drunk so much it was a wonder he could stand up, let alone walk home.

Jonathan was close to the digs he shared with fellow students when he spotted a young girl sitting on the kerb, crying. It turned out that it was her birthday, and she had got drunk and become immobile so her friends had abandoned her. She sat forlorn in torn tights and a black dress that concealed little. The new graduate helped her to her feet and together they stumbled towards his lodgings.

Even now, fifteen years later, he couldn't remember the details of what happened that night. He recalled, inasmuch as he could recall anything, that they had consensual sex and that he treated her well, but the bruises on her thin body and the invisible tears to her young organs told a different story. By the time he had sobered up, the girl had been interviewed by the police and admitted to a hospital, where she had been subjected to a rape test whilst her mother and father waited outside, bemused and confused.

"She was supposed to be at a friend's house...... we didn't even know she owned a dress like that," they were later quoted as saying.

Jonathan had fully recovered from his hangover by the time he picked up the local evening newspaper. He had even managed to attend his final tutorial. The lead story shook him to the core and he knew at that moment that his life was over.

Even through his drunken stupor he had appreciated that the girl was slightly built, not yet a fully developed woman, and somehow he had liked that about her, but never in his wildest imaginings had he thought that she was a virgin and had just turned 14 years old. As he read the article he swore out loud, to the consternation of a crowd of tourists walking by. He forced himself to read on. The police had his fingerprints on her handbag and the girl, Olivia, recalled that she had been raped on a college campus with historic buildings but was confused as to which one it might have been. Any scintilla of hope about evading justice that Jonathan might have held onto evaporated when he turned to the inside pages.

The sketch was masterful. His mother would have loved it on her living room wall. It might just as well have had his name written underneath. The girl had obviously spent the wee small hours awake and staring at his sleeping face before making her escape. If there had been any doubt about who the sketch portrayed it was removed by the description of his tattooed shoulders, a colourful eagle whose wingspan reached from shoulder to shoulder with the words "Freedom from Tyranny, Freedom from Government" written below. It was only a matter of time before the police spoke to Inky the tattooist and came knocking at his door. When they did, he couldn't be there.

Since then, and for the intervening fifteen years, Jonty had stayed one step ahead of the authorities. He changed his appearance, he made money where he could and now he led an ever decreasing band of hapless bikers who lacked the imagination to break free from the "Warriors" and its less than charismatic leader.

But today all that was to change; today Jonty was about to rejoin civilised society, today Jonathan Derek Latimer would emerge from the shadows and face the music.

***

Bricko propped up his Harley and walked purposefully over to the trailer that housed Jonty and his latest girlfriend. He tried the door. It was locked, but he pressed his shoulder to centre of the door and pushed until the thin metal bowed and sprang open. The door crashed against the trailer wall and Bricko stepped into the bedroom.

Jonty was awoken by the crashing door and assumed the worst, which would have been that the Angels or the Predators were mounting a revenge attack. He flung back the covers and made a grab for the old gun he kept by the bed. Bricko yelled at him.

"Put it down, Jonty, its only me, you prat." Jonty was standing naked beside the bed, holding his chest.

"Bricko, Dog, what are you doing? Couldn't you have knocked?" Jonty pulled the covers from the bed and covered the bottom half of his slack, pallid torso and in so doing left Dani, his girlfriend, naked on the bed. Bricko looked at the girl and snorted with disgust. Her pubescent body was thin, almost emaciated and undeveloped. Bricko wondered whether the girl was even a teenager.

"This," spat Bricko, "is what is going to send us all to prison." He looked purposefully at the young girl, who looked terrified. He walked over to Jonty and slapped the newspaper into his bare chest. Jonty took the paper and looked at the front page before dropping the covers and abandoning all thoughts of modesty.

"Not again," he wailed to nobody in particular. "Not again!"

***

Ten minutes later Dani and Jonty were partially clothed. The girl was sobbing pitifully and Jonty sat ashen faced on the bed, looking at photos of himself and the other Warriors selling dope, getting stoned and partying with very young semi naked girls.

Bricko had been sitting on the edge of the bed trying to comfort the distraught girl, while Jonty watched his future unravel in newsprint before his eyes for the second time in his life. Bricko stood up and walked towards the trailer door.

"You know, Jonty, you are a moron. We had a good thing going here and you've blown it with your appetite for girls barely in their teens. You must have seen this coming." He shook his head and pushed his way through the crowd of confused bikers who had gathered in the doorway to see what the commotion was all about.

Bricko was in his trailer throwing a few personal objects into a scruffy holdall when Jonty appeared in the doorway.

"Bricko, mate, don't let it all end like this." Bricko continued packing without answering or even looking up. Jonty covered his face with his hands and asked "What are we going to do now?"

The other biker zipped up his case and moved towards the door. "Well, Jonty, I don't know about you but I'm leaving. If the newspaper and that Max Richmond bloke have told the old Bill where we're living, we can expect a visit tomorrow at the latest."

"I guess it's time to move on, then." Jonty looked around the camp; it wasn't much, but he had lived here for almost five years, off and on. "I'll have the Warriors out of here by morning."

Bricko knew it was already too late for the rest of them but he smiled a mirthless smile and squeezed Jonty's shoulder as he passed. Jonty placed his hand over Bricko's and asked solemnly, "Brothers?" Bricko, looked into Jonty's eyes and replied with a conviction he didn't feel, "Always, Dog, Always!"

The customised black Harley was heading away from the camp on a rutted farm track when Bricko heard the sirens a mile or so away. He looked at his watch.

"Forty five minutes," he said to himself. "That has to be some kind of record." Two minutes later he was on the A34 and heading towards a lock up workshop on the outskirts of Newbury.

***

Bricko pulled the Harley into the lock up workshop and closed the door. There was a lot to do if he wanted to keep one step ahead of the police, who by now would have Jonty and his gang in custody.

The biker took off his jacket, pushed it into a large cloth laundry bag and sat on an old easy chair. He unfastened his boots, slipped them off and stood up. He was a good two inches shorter without the steps in the boots. Slipping out of his leather trousers and grubby black tee shirt, he revealed the webbing that held the bulky latex body suit in place. Relieved to be free of the constricting latex, he stuffed that, too, into the bag.

Standing in front of the stainless steel sink the shorter, thinner biker adjusted the shaving mirror before reaching for a set of Wahl hairdressing shears. Setting the guard at number four, Bricko pushed the shears across his scalp from front to back until his long greasy hair lay on the black plastic sheet on the floor beneath his feet. With his hair sticking up in an impromptu crew cut no more than three quarters of an inch long, Bricko was beginning to disappear.

The beard followed the long hair, and when he was clean shaven Bricko filled the sink with hot water and scrubbed every inch of exposed skin. It wasn't as good as a shower but nonetheless it felt good to be clean. Looking into the mirror, he expected to see a different person, but he had forgotten something. The transformed biker leaned over the sink and popped out his contact lenses one at a time, and the ice blue eyes were back to their original green. Satisfied at the transformation, he smiled at his reflection and said out loud,

"Welcome home, Max".

