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 that she was also the Chameleon. Perhaps if they knew her history they would understand.

Chapter 1 2

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 and 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.