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.