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.