Chameleon

Maureen smiled back, knowing that, as on all previous occasions, they would actually do nothing at all, but would receive a hundred thousand pounds simply because the Maratis thought that they were buying UK Government approval. When, she wondered, would these tin pot dictators learn that corrupt elected governments simply could not buy Western approval for money? Until these uneducated yokels woke up and smelled the coffee, there would always be underpaid civil servants who would take their cash.

Makabate listened carefully as the instructions came across the ether from Thames House.

“The code words for the Chameleon are; Peter Wright at the Foreign Office says hello.”

***

With a few more touches of his iPhone screen the diplomat called an answering service in London, left a message and told the girl that he needed a call back from Chameleon Enterprises by noon.

Chapter 2

Fitness Forum, Spitalfields, London, Monday 10a.m.

Just a five minute walk from Liverpool Street Station, in East London, lies Spitalfield Market. It has been the site of a busy market since 1638, when King Charles gave a licence for flesh, fowl and roots to be sold in what was then known as Spittle Fields. Three hundred and seventy two years later, and now located within the historical Horner Buildings, the area has become a paradise for shoppers who can buy anything from cheap trinkets to valuable works of art.

The Chameleon could see much of the street activity below, through the first floor plate glass window in front of the treadmill. Despite the extreme distance and high speed showing on the treadmill video screen, the Chameleon was breathing easily, though coated in a sheen of perspiration.

Just as the machine was slowing for a “warm down”, a vibration on the Chameleon’s left arm signalled that a text message had been received on the mobile phone hotline. Only very wealthy clients ever dialled that number.

After a brief delay, the Chameleon wandered into the corridor and looked at the message.

“Call JM from St James’s Square,” the cryptic message read.

An attractive woman in her thirties came up the stairs, admired the Chameleon’s washboard stomach and nodded an appreciative silent greeting, which was returned.

The Chameleon showered, dressed and left the gym, passing through the crowds on the street before swiping a card at the entrance of an impressive modern office block just a quarter of a mile away.

Sitting at a desk in a glass walled office, the Chameleon affixed an electronic voice changer to the telephone handset before dialling the client’s number.

“Jalou Makabate speaking.”

“This is the Chameleon. Send encrypted details of the assignment to the usual email address and I will action your request.”

“It must be done within seventy two hours. Will that be enough time?” Makabate asked.

“It will have to be,” replied the electronic voice that sounded much like the artificial voice of Stephen Hawking. “Ensure that the down payment is paid to my account within twenty four hours.”

“Good. This woman is a danger to all of the good citizens of Marat. She is determined to destroy the peace in our country and incite a civil war that will claim many i

“Yes, whatever you say,” the electronic voice responded.

Makabate was familiar with these brusque conversations, and so was not surprised when the call ended abruptly without any further warning or good wishes.

***

Relaxing back into the sumptuous leather chair befitting the founder and Managing Director of both Celebrato Greeting Cards Ltd. and its online presence at www.Celebrato.tv, the Chameleon pondered.

‘So, the boys at MI5 are still playing their childish games, code words indeed. Still, it seems that someone at Thames House wants this woman taken down, and for a million US dollars it’s a done deal, code words or no code words.’

Smiling as the world passed by on Spitalfields Square, fifty feet below, the Celebrato MD thought, ‘It’s all very well spending your days designing and printing bespoke greeting cards and making money the hard way, but one does need a hobby.

Chapter 3

Vastrick Security, No 1 Poultry, London, Monday 10am.

Dee and Geordie had listened carefully to Victoria Hokobu and her husband, and had taken meticulous notes.

Victoria Hokobu began by explaining that she used her maiden name, even though she was happily married to the distinguished looking Samuel Etundi, who was sitting by her side. Both in their mid thirties, the pair made a handsome couple.

Victoria and her husband were both from the M’baka ethnic group who traditionally spoke the NgBaka Ma’bo language. Hailing from what is now called the Central African Republic, their tribe settled in the mountainous landscape in the region that now forms Marat, in the late eighteenth century. In 1972 they were eventually recognised as a separate state by the United Nations, albeit they were still administered by their former parent state. Now, however, the nation state of Marat has a president and a burgeoning bureaucracy and lies sandwiched between the Central African Republic and Cameroon. Victoria explained, somewhat mournfully, that a tribal council had peacefully ruled Marat for two hundred years until Blue Violet Tanzanite was discovered in the mountains.

Wary of the sudden interest in Marat in 1996, Jaafar Hokobu, Victoria’s father, opposed the creation of a republic but was overruled by the other tribal elders, who foresaw great riches coming into the new republic. But, by 2001, the majority of the people had come to realise that the new president and his followers were robbing them. These were evil men who claimed M’baka heritage but who could not speak the NgBaka Ma’bo dialect.

Looking to Jaafar Hokobu to lead a popular uprising, the people began to withdraw their labour from the mines. Jaafar Hokobu was arrested, along with most of the other leaders of the uprising, who ‘confessed’ to their treason whilst in prison. Most were executed and white South African mercenaries were drafted into the tiny Marati army to help restore order and set the mines working again.

According to Victoria, the people of Marat, who numbered less than the population of Brighton, were virtual slaves in their own land. By travelling secretly into the Central African Republic, she and her husband had been able to fly to the UK from a city called Bangui without being apprehended. From Bangui KLM operated regular flights to Europe.

Their air fares were being paid by the organisers of a UN Conference to be held in central London, entitled; Ending Slavery, Ending Poverty. The conference was expected to present hard evidence of the corruption endemic in the continent of Africa, and to press for aid to be distributed fairly to those in most need by non-governmental organisations.

By acting in this way, Victoria was to argue, the richer nations could avoid their generous aid lining the pockets of the rich government officials who stole from their own people.

Victoria was intending to expose the Marati Government as thieves and show the world the real poverty being suffered by her people. She would say that the M’baka were a proud people who would not need aid if they could share in the national wealth created by the large Tanzanite deposits. It was the threat of this disclosure that she believed would lead her government to attempt to kill her before she addressed the conference in seventy two hours’ time.

***

Geordie sat with Dee in her office, temporarily separating themselves from the potential client, and together they examined the three stones that were being offered to them in payment for their services. The accompanying documentation said that they were; BVve, internally flawless and excellent. In short, these were the best possible Blue Violet very exceptional stones, cut perfectly to the square/princess design. Each stone was just over 10 Carats in weight and so the three together would be worth around thirty thousand dollars. That worked out at around seven thousand pounds per day for this three-day assignment.