In the meantime, you, having used the full resources of the investigative branch, conclude that Mac is the Chameleon and you are so certain that you convince me to issue a notice on him.” The Director paused.
“And who exactly is being tasked with executing this innocent man, who as far as we know is enjoying a peaceful retirement growing spuds? Oh, that’s right. Gil Davis. The real Chameleon!”
The last three words were screamed in a tone that scared even Maureen Lassiter, and she had rehearsed it with the Director just moments before. Mitchinson’s whole body shook and tears welled in his eyes.
“Unless you want to spend the rest of your career in Iraq armed with a stick, poking at suspected IED’s, you will do two things. Firstly, you will stop the killing of Doug Mc Keown in its tracks and you will get him back here so that competent operatives can carry out a proper investigation. Second, you will ensure that Wondergirl is peacefully at rest by the time I write my next report for the Home Office next Friday. Could I be any clearer?”
“No, sir,” Barry replied, voice trembling.
“Now, get out of my office before I get the bomb squad recruiting officer in here to sign you up.”
Barry stood up and looked at the Director and his PA with their stony faces, and exited the office, convinced that he could feel his superior’s malevolent stare piercing his back.
In the men’s room Barry splashed his face with cold water, lamenting his situation. He had ordered an innocent man’s execution at the hands of the real assassin, and she was primed to carry out the execution this weekend.
What was worse, significantly worse, was the fact that the real Chameleon had ‘gone dark’ at noon and neither Barry nor Tim had any way of contacting their former Wondergirl to call off the assassination.
Barry might just as well put a contract out on himself; at least Gil Davis would make his exit from this miserable existence quick and relatively painless.
***
Gordon Traylor, Director of Special Investigative Services, had been hotly tipped to be the new head of MI5, thanks to his cooperation with the last government. He had done all of the hard work on the “sexing up” of the Iraqi Invasion Portfolio but John Scarlett had taken the flak, the praise and then Tony Blair’s promotion.
Rankling as it did with Traylor, he knew his time would come, but first he had to clean house. He would not take the blame for policies former government ministers sanctioned. Now here he was, caught in the middle of a civil war in Marat.
Two years ago Marat had been on the brink of civil war when strikes brought the mines to a standstill, but with his help the Marati Government were able to finance a mercenary brigade and suppress the uprising. In return, the British Government won a forty million pound order for mining machinery to be manufactured in a marginal midlands constituency, and Mrs Traylor now owned a Tanzanite necklace containing more carats than little Peter Rabbit could eat in a lifetime.
Doug Mc Keown had happily carried out Traylor’s bidding even after ‘Mac’ had left the service. Hell’s teeth, Traylor had even suggested the name. The Director had always known that he could trust ‘Mac’ to keep quiet about his former Director’s involvement whilst the pay checks rolled in, but Gillian Davis? There was a girl he would never trust.
With both versions of the Chameleon out of the way, Traylor’s links with a dozen or more unauthorised assassinations would be severed, and he could look forward to heading up the firm and enjoying a well-funded retirement. If only that idiot Mitchinson could ensure that the former Wondergirl was terminated, and soon.
Feeling much happier now that he had a plan, he lifted his BlackBerry and called a London number. Tonight he needed the kind of distraction that Mrs Traylor would never provide.
The phone trilled three times before a husky female voice answered. “Ter Haar Architects, Eloise speaking.”
Chapter 26
Cryostorage UK, Ariel Way, White City, London.
Saturday 10am.
Gil left Wood Lane tube station and found herself on Wood Lane itself, staring at the White City HQ of the BBC. Housed in unspectacular brick buildings behind security gates, the area was quite busy as staff readied themselves for a move to Salford in Manchester. The young assassin caught sight of equipment and files being loaded into vans ready for the long drive north.
Turning left, Gil passed under the old grey steel bridge that carried the local tube trains, only to be confronted by an unlikely modern office building with imposing black glazing set into a modern red brick tower. The building was only a few storeys high but it looked impressive in this low rise, formerly run down, area. Before she entered the smoke glass doors of Network House she turned to look at the postmodern architectural monstrosity on the other side of Ariel Way, which was the new Westfields Shopping Mall. Enclosed in light grey cladding, the huge building looked more industrial than commercial. Still, they had a memorable logo and no doubt the front entrance was impressive. Gil had no intention of finding out. An LED matrix mounted on one of the bleak grey walls flashed that the shopping centre car park had 3769 parking spaces available.
A number of media related companies were housed inside the Network building, including a couple of TV Production companies; not surprising, perhaps, given the proximity to BBC White City.
At the reception desk Gil introduced herself as Mrs Doug Mc Keown and was directed to the Isa Labella Café, which was situated in Network House on the ground floor, and where one Arthur Bellwood was waiting. He would have stood out in a crowd, as he was very tall and thin with the demeanour of an undertaker. His lank hair was unfashionably long and fell below his starched white collar. Arthur did not have to stand out in a crowd, as it happened, because he was the only person there.
Gil walked towards him and extended her hand. He wiped his hands with a napkin to remove any residue of egg yolk or HP sauce that might have migrated from his full English breakfast to his fingers.
“Mrs Mc Keown. It is a pleasure to meet you at last, though you are much younger than I expected, and these are less than convivial circumstances.”
“Thank you, Mr Bellwood. I am the second Mrs Mc Keown. A trophy wife, I fear, but one who loved Douglas dearly and who was stubborn enough to fight his first wife for his remains.”
“Indeed so, Mrs Mc Keown, and may I say that whilst you have all the necessary attributes of the said trophy wife, your obvious affection, intellect and endurance speaks of a much deeper relationship.”
Gil nodded mournfully, whilst casually wondering whether Arthur Bellwood spoke like this at home. Perhaps he did. Perhaps when he arrived home he would announce himself.
“I’m home, dear. Your respectful and devoted husband wishes to join you for a brief evening repast. How does that dutiful request combine, or otherwise, with your own plans?”
“Oh, do shut up, Arthur. Your dinner is in the oven. I’m off to the Gala bingo. It’s big prize night.”
Whilst she had been daydreaming, Arthur had continued speaking, but Gil decided that whatever he said would have been flattering but irrelevant. Her eyes turned to the aluminium case beside the table.
The case was about the size of a large carry on bag that one might use in an aircraft. It had a demountable handle and wheels. On the top of the case, in front of a sturdy looking carrying handle, was a transparent strip which encased diodes that glowed an attractive blue colour. As she watched the last diode turned red.
“As discussed, everything has been carefully stored since the unfortunate East European conflagration, and now,” he patted the case, “the remnants of a life well lived have been lovingly packed into this refrigerated carrier.”