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.