“What if they’re lying, Boss?”
“Bloody hell, Scott! Were you born yesterday? Of course they’ll be lying. They won’t even bother speaking to the operative unless the Commissioner kicks up a fuss with the Home Secretary.”
Geordie’s face was red with rage and Dee placed her hand on his arm to placate him.
“Terry, are you saying that if this person turns out to be the killer she might not even be tried?”
“Dee, as we are now obviously on first name terms, I’m not letting another spook slip through the net. But don’t be surprised if the suspect turns up dead at her own flat, with a written confession next to an empty bottle of pills.”
“Either way,” Geordie added ominously. The others in the room looked in his direction. His jaw was set in determination.
Chapter 25
MI5 Headquarters, Thames House, London, Friday 5pm.
Barry Mitchinson was bemoaning his lot. He was sitting in a cubicle in the middle of the office, with no window in sight. An air conditioning and heating duct, placed to suit an entirely open plan office, was sited directly above his head, a head almost free of the encumbrance of hair thanks to male pattern baldness.
As a result, he was always too hot in the winter and too cold in the summer. He was actually sweating today, although that might be down to the toothache. Barry had lost a filling last week and his NHS dentist couldn’t see him until after the weekend.
The phone rang and he picked it up. He tried not to sound bored. “Internal Investigations.”
“Hello, Mr Mitchinson. The Director of Investigative Services is standing beside me. He would like to see you now. He has a fifteen minute window.”
“Well, actually, I was just going out of the door as you rang,” he lied, “otherwise I’ll miss my train.”
“Mmm,” the Director’s PA intoned with apparent disinterest. “I’ll tell him you are on your way, then, shall I?”
Barry was left with a dialling tone. He slammed the receiver down.
“Damn!” he spat out venomously.
***
Maureen Lassiter had been the Director’s PA during his entire professional career; wherever he went, she went. She knew more about him than his wife. In fact, his wife would sometimes ring the PA to ask her what she should buy him for Christmas.
As Barry Mitchinson entered the Director’s suite, Maureen stood up. Without acknowledging his presence, she led him into the Director’s office and wordlessly pointed him in the direction of a hard seat facing the Director. Maureen closed the door behind them and sat on a comfortable sofa under the famous painting of Wellington at Waterloo. She flipped open her pad and looked at the poorly attired Mitchinson, who was clearly on tenterhooks.
The Director continued to write and did not look up. Barry was already sweating from that damned air conditioning outlet and was aware that the un-ironed check shirt he was wearing was now showing large damp patches under the arms and on his back. Furthermore, his unfashionable glasses had steamed up and he didn’t have anything to polish them with. All this and it was literally freezing outside.
Suddenly realising that his sleeves were still rolled up, he began to unroll them.
“Don’t bother, Mitchinson. I don’t think your tribute to Haute Couture can be improved upon.” The Director looked across at Maureen Lassiter and she returned the expected smile. “So, I was just wondering whether you would like working in the post room.”
Barry looked puzzled at the Director’s comment.
“You see, Mitchinson, since I took over this chair you have been demoted – sorry, vertically reallocated, no less than three times.”
Maureen winced in the background. She knew what was coming. The Director continued.
“Now you are sitting in the middle of a football field sized office with no staff and the worst job in the building.”
“Yes, Director. I was meaning to ask about that.”
The stare from the Director told the functionary that now was not the time.
“Two years ago you had an office with a Thames view; you had a driver and one of our famous expense accounts. Now you are a nobody, in an office full of nobodies, snitching on his colleagues. Tell me, Barry, how does Eloise feel about that?”
Eloise Ter Haar was Barry’s allegedly loyal wife. This alleged loyal wife had reverted to her maiden name, ‘for business purposes, darling’, as soon as he had been demoted from Assistant Director. Eloise mixed in the same circles as the Director in her role as her father’s business partner. Ter Haar Architectural Design had clients across the globe and Eloise was forever gloating about her job and her successful career. Barry suspected that she had been intimate with her clients on many occasions to secure assignments. He was also quite certain that she had slept with the Director of Investigative Services, whom Barry and Eloise had known since college.
Barry did not answer the question, knowing that there was no way to win that verbal battle.
“Not satisfied with ruining your own career, it appears that you are doing your level best to ruin mine, too.” The malevolent look on the Director’s face caused a shiver to run down Barry’s spine.
“Tell me, Barry, what was the last thing we discussed in this office?”
Barry knew the answer very well, but neither his brain nor his mouth reacted to the question.
“Maureen. If you please,” the Director asked in the direction of his PA. “It seems that Barry here has suffered a memory lapse.”
The PA read from her pad. “Mr Mitchinson explained that an ex employee of the service had taken to assassinating public figures for money, under the guise of the Chameleon. The said employee was known as Douglas ‘Mac’ Mc Keown.”
“I see. Maureen, does your note record my response?” the Director asked in a clearly rehearsed dialogue.
“You asked Mr Mitchinson if he was certain that ‘Mac’ was the Chameleon.”
“And what was his answer, please, Maureen?”
“He said he was absolutely certain, he was one hundred per cent sure.”
“I see. Well, Barry. Are you still certain that Mac is the Chameleon and that he eliminated the Israeli foreign Minister?”
“Yes, Director. I am still certain.”
“Do you believe that he is also responsible for the death of the Hokobus, on my patch?”
“Absolutely, sir.” Barry felt he was on sure ground.
“Maureen, the file, please.” The PA handed a manila folder to the heavily perspiring Barry, who now feared the worst.
“Barry, is that a fingerprint request from the Met?”
“Yes.” Barry knew his tooth still ached but he couldn’t feel it. He just wanted to die.
“So, it seems the police have evidence that one of your former assassins killed the Hokobus, who were here as guests of the Foreign Office. Would have been nice of them to tell us, of course, but nonetheless, that person was not Doug Mc Keown, was it? It was Gil Davis, your former Wondergirl from special operations.”
Barry went white and felt sure that he would faint, but the Director continued regardless.
“Guess who was on Eurostar the day before the Israeli shooting, and who returned to St Pancras in the evening of the day of the shooting?”
The defeated Barry Mitchinson sighed what he feared would be the answer.
“Gil Davis?”
“So, Barry. Let me see if I can sum this up. Your Wondergirl from special ops is actually the Chameleon. Maureen, who, with all due respect to her, is a personal assistant with no special training, found this out with one phone call to HM Customs and the Border Police.