Chameleon - A City of London Thriller (5 page)

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.