The display of Tanzanite which had so prominently illuminated the lobby had gone, and only an empty glass case remained. The valuable stones were now in the Ambassador’s briefcase as he headed to Nice on a British Airways flight, before being driven to his Villa on the water at Cite Lacustre, Port Grimaud near St. Tropez. A heated argument with his brother, the Marati President, ended with the announcement of his early retirement. His brother was enraged at the perceived betrayal, and distraught that the Ambassador refused to continue to fight for the survival of the government in diplomatic circles.
Jalou Makabate sat alone in his apartment. His wife and children were on their way to Mogadishu to stay with her parents. Before she left, his wife accused him and his government cronies of ruining her perfect life in London. She had made it clear that she had no expectation of him joining them, before she cleared out their joint accounts without his knowledge. Jalou would also have been on a plane out of the country, had it not been for a visit from the Metropolitan Police, who wanted to interview him as a material witness, or suspect, in the murder of the Hokobus.
How could this nightmare version of Hades have rained down on him in such a short time? Had not the Maratis bought and paid for the loyalty of the British Government to their rule? Just a year ago the former British Labour Prime Minister had shaken hands warmly with the Marati Ambassador as they signed a contract for yet more mining equipment, plant which would be built in the Midlands. Jalou’s own contact in the British security services had actively assisted in the suppression of the Marati miners’ strikes by canvassing his superiors and promising that full democratic elections would be held in 2012 in return for help now. As was only to be expected, his political and security contacts were no longer available, now that he had no Tanzanite to bargain with.
He rested his head in his large hands and considered his options. The last option was a return to Marat, the landlocked, mountainous hellhole he had helped to govern. Somalia was almost as unpleasant an option. He needed a quiet and beautiful place to spend the rest of his days and his fortune, kindly provided by the hard work of the Marati miners. He settled on Madagascar as a bolthole, but he needed to keep the Metropolitan Police happy. He had been informed by the Foreign Office that his diplomatic immunity had been suspended because, without an appointed Marati ambassador in residence in the UK, there was no one to claim immunity on his behalf. Perhaps he could extract one last favour from his man at MI5.
***
Geordie switched off the TV and walked over to Dee’s desk, taking a seat opposite her. The fact that the government of Marat had ordered the murder of the Hokobus, and that now they were in fear for their own lives, was not punishment enough for him, the man who had happily taken responsibility for their safety. The bodyguard made it clear that he wanted the actual killer brought to justice.
“Dee, this is all very well but I think we owe it to the Hokobus to at least try to find their killer.” The frustration in his voice and the agitation in his body movements barely concealed his anger and self-loathing.
Dee leaned back in her chair and smiled at her colleague and friend.
“I agree. Believe me, I’m just as keen for that to happen as you are. We’ll see what we can do to assist the police. I’ll clear it with the boss, but when he sees how much we’re going to get for the Tanzanite, I don’t think he’ll be disappointed.”
“How do you mean?” Geordie asked, looking straight into her eyes.
“Well, according to the broker the Hokobus recommended, the price for Tanzanite has grown by fifteen per cent in just twenty four hours, thanks to the closure of the mines. Our stones are now worth around thirty five thousand pounds.”
Geordie simply stared at Dee. The fact that the gems had increased in value because a beautiful woman and her husband had been killed was anathema to him.
“And, by the way,” Dee added kindly, “you shouldn’t blame yourself for their deaths. I know they wouldn’t want you to.”
It would be a long time before the unhappy bodyguard could accept that simple truth.
Chapter 23
Celebrato Offices, Spital Square, London, Friday 9am.
The Chameleon had not stayed alive and free for so long without being able to see the writing on the wall. Last night, as she soaked in her hot tub, Gil had pondered her meeting with MI5. She had the water very hot, in the Japanese style, so that it was almost painful to climb into. As the jets forced water onto her aching shoulders, she relaxed.
She would give Tim what he wanted; evidence that Mac (or the Chameleon) was dead. That part was easy. Unfortunately it appeared that the special operations unit were cleaning house and she was the last untidy remnant in their otherwise orderly home.
Gil remembered being surprised when she had been made redundant; there were no threats, no suggestion of termination, of trimming loose ends. It was just goodbye, have a nice life; they even arranged a leaving party. Nonetheless, she had always assumed that at some point policies would change, governments would be voted out and new incumbents would sweep in expressing moral outrage at the unauthorised termination of foreign nationals who had become embarrassing, or whose continued existence was inconvenient to the UK or her allies.
Now, out of nowhere, a liberal politician with very libertarian views was responsible for overseeing the security services and in due course she would find out about ‘special operations’ and would blow her perfectly coiffed top.
Gil knew that she was expendable as soon as Mac was declared officially dead. She reckoned she had a week.
Her plans made and her body boiled she stepped out of the tub bright red where the water had touched her skin.
“The Japanese are right,” she thought as a feeling of calm and wellbeing swept over her naked body. “Being in hot water does concentrate the mind.”
***
Sitting at her desk, Gil followed the chaos in Marat with interest. Luckily they had paid her before their accounts had been frozen. There were rumours that one of the old South African statesmen was heading to Marat to convince the President to stand down and to announce free elections.
The phone on her desk rang with long single tones. It was an internal call. She pressed the speaker button and addressed the receptionist.
“Yes, Jenny, what is it?”
“Mr Donald Roper is here for your nine thirty appointment.”
“All right, thank you. Bring him in and organise some refreshments. He has walked all the way across Spitalfileds to get here; that’s a good four hundred yards.”
Jenny sniggered as her boss’s words reached her over the headphones. The receptionist removed her headset and ushered the rotund lawyer into Gil’s office.
Don Roper was no taller than five feet and his body shape could best be described as spherical. Nonetheless he was sharp and efficient and he had been advising Gillian since she was a teenager.
After the formalities had been dealt with, Don Roper took a wad of papers from his briefcase and laid them on the table.
“Gilly, I have to say this is the worst idea you have ever had. Are you absolutely certain you want to proceed?”
“Absolutely, Don. We’ve had a good offer for the company, valuing it at almost fourteen million pounds. I only ever invested three million, and most of that was recovered from the ever generous Gordon Brown and Peter Mandelson.”
“I have to warn you that if you proceed there can be no turning back. Your interest in Celebrato ends tomorrow once the money is transferred, as will your job as MD.”
“It’s OK, Don. The staff are the happiest I have ever seen them and I don’t really run the company day to day anyway.”