Chameleon

In a few seconds both doors were open and the two bodyguards were looking around to assess any threats. They made the decision that the greater threat was the demonstration rather than the seated students, and so they placed themselves between the protestors and the Minister as he exited the car.

Two missiles flew over the police line, but Laurent and the bodyguards deflected them with their hands. One balloon was filled with flour, the other with ketchup. Laurent got the ketchup, and as he parried it away it burst open and covered him.

Eager to get the minister into safety, the bodyguards shielded him from the crowd by walking to the side of him, one slightly in front, one slightly behind. This allowed the minister to walk with some dignity towards his smiling host, who had his arms outstretched in welcome. The Minister moved towards his host, but never reached him.

The Rabbi on the welcoming committee was the first one to notice something odd. The three students on the stone step were looking up to where the glazed panel in the door had simply disappeared, leaving an opening. It had been removed silently. Before he could shout a warning, a black machine pistol poked through the orifice and fired off a controlled burst of six rounds. Every one hit the sprightly eighty two year old Minister.

Suddenly there was mayhem. The police did not know where the shots had come from, and by default surrounded the crowd of protesters. Laurent and the Rabbi pointed to the door, where three students were now cowering and crying, but they could not make themselves heard. Laurent withdrew his sidearm and ran to the door.

One of the Gendarmes from the garden rushed out to see the minister bleeding to death on the ground, and the Rabbi shouting in Yiddish and pointing to the door. The Gendarme saw a man ru

***

The Chameleon was delighted that the plan had worked so well. Of course, it had meant the sacrifice of a perfectly good backpack bomb to give the Israelis’ intelligence community a false sense of security. The bombers’ code words were easy to repeat; the Chameleon had used them before when working for the Mossad.

Justine had done well. Just a couple of drops of Botox, or Botulinium Toxin, was enough to cause considerable distress but not death.

The French Police had kindly obliged by barring the doors to the academy, meaning that no one could give chase. The Chameleon had been in the Academy all night, first hiding and then stripping away the glazing beads and putty holding in the glass from the inside. The rest had been easy; the glass was replaced, being held in only by blu tack. From the outside it looked the same, but it could be removed in two seconds. Finally a pinhole viewer inserted into a hole drilled in the door allowed the Chameleon to see exactly when the Minister was in range.

Perfect. The Chameleon relaxed into the first class seat on the Eurostar, and ordered di

***

The Duty Controller at the Mossad HQ in Tel Aviv sat with his head in his hands. He had just presided over the death of an Israeli Minister he had been charged with protecting, by an assailant who had managed somehow to get clean away without being seen by anyone.

One of his best agents had been cut down by friendly fire, and was probably already dead when he slid down the wall he had been thrown against by the impact of the French Gendarme’s 9mm parabellums. Pictures of him would find their way onto the front pages of newspapers around the world because, in the rush to evacuate the dying Minister, no one had stopped the paparazzi. Ari looked at the photos of the whole crime scene that were being offered for sale on the Internet, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the handsome young French Israeli sitting against the wall. Laurent still had his gun in his hand; blood had poured from his mouth after two of the rounds had destroyed his lungs, the whole picture becoming even more bizarre when one took into consideration the fact that he was also covered in tomato ketchup.

Even worse for Israel was the likelihood that, beside the picture of Laurent on the front pages, would be the picture of the pregnant Palestinian woman lying dead on the pavement on Rue Geoffroy L'Asnier, dead eyes staring, having been run down by the panicking Israeli Limousine driver.

The phone rang and an electronically enhanced voice spoke.

“Perhaps now you will pay your debts. Usual account, by the end of the week, or I work my way through the Cabinet.” The phone line was disco

Ari knew the Chameleon would have to be paid, despite what he had done. The government must never know that this was all about a dishonoured debt. If they ever found out, the Mossad would be closed down within a week.

Anyway, it wasn’t Ari’s problem any more. He had been fired ten minutes before the call came in.

Chapter 1 0

Hokobu Apartment, Parnell House, Oakley St, Kensington, London, Tuesday 8:30am.

The morning was grey and miserable but the frost wasn’t as cruel as it had been on previous mornings. Deep cloud cover seemed to have kept the temperatures to just below freezing. Dee turned onto Oakley Street. She had travelled on the tube from Greenwich, where she shared an apartment with her new husband Josh Hammond. Her coat collar was turned up, ineffectively, against the wind and her breath was expelled in clouds of water vapour through the scarf she held in front of her face.

Parnell House was a six-storey brick building, as anonymous as it was faceless. Probably built in the 1950s, it offered a view of an expanse of brickwork, windows and a flat roof to those passers-by who deemed it worthy of examination. The building had no aesthetic value that Dee could determine, but she knew that it was about to be listed as the minimalist architect that designed it was now popular again after years in the wilderness, thanks to a scathing critique of his work by an outspoken royal. In the centre of the long low building was an opening with apartments built above it. The opening was about six metres wide and four metres high. A metal grating which was actually an electronically operated gate filled the space. To the left hand side was a turnstile, which was operated by an electronic key fob or by the guard behind the glass window.

This level of security ensured that the only way into Parnell House was past the guard on duty. Dee stepped up to the turnstile and the guard pressed a button which initiated a buzzer, indicating that Dee could push on the turnstile and enter the security office.

Once inside she explained who she was and showed her driving licence, which was retained, and in return she was given a security card hanging from a lanyard, which was labelled VISITOR. The guards were all ex military types with abundant muscle and menace, all with short haircuts and no stubble. Their blazers and ties were identical. They were as anonymous as the building they were guarding. Five minutes after leaving the place, any description you gave of the guard that assisted you would probably fit every guard on the roster.

A capable but silent guard accompanied Dee right to the door of the Hokobus’ apartment and waited until she entered, before returning to his post downstairs. In the elevator, recently refurbished to its 1950s grandeur (which wasn’t in fact very grand at all), Dee had asked why the security was so much more visible than the last time they had used the facility. The guard mentioned that the premises were almost permanently on Condition Black Alert due to the sensitivity of the security services to the presence of one of the occupants. The guard would not say who it was, but Dee knew anyway, as did anyone who read the newspapers.

The sixth floor apartment housed the Hokobus, but the fourth floor was home to one of the Crown Princes of the United Arab Emirates whilst he studied in London. His Highness Crown Prince Arbaaz bin Al Salfah was studying Economics and Politics at Post Graduate level at the LSE and he appeared to be a clean-living, dedicated Muslim, which was not always the case with crown princes from the Middle East.