“Aye, she insisted on calling me Bonnie Lad because she heard that Geordies use the expression. No-one had called me Bonnie Lad since me Granddad died.”

They went over the plan again in detail so that Angela’s hard work would not be in vain.

***

The telephone rang at the Celebrato Cards reception. The receptionist answered the phone, avidly following her usual script.

“Ms Davis, please. Tell her that Peter Wright from the Foreign Office is calling.” His name was not Peter Wright, nor was he from the foreign office; that was an in joke based on the fact that an ex employee called Peter Wright had almost ended MI5’s secret existence by publishing his notorious book ‘Spycatcher’. The caller expected Gil to recognise the long unused code for an urgent meeting.

He was eventually put through to a voice he recognised, even after all of this time.

“Gil, it’s Tim McKinnon. We need to meet urgently.”

“Well, hello to you, too, Tim. It’s been a long time. You never write, you never call....”

“Sorry, Gil. How have you been? Are you married yet? Kids?”

“I expect you already know the answer to those questions and many more. Do you still keep files on ex employees’ lives after the service?”

“Astute as ever, I see. I know most of what you have been up to, yes. As for me, I married Celeste, after the world’s longest engagement, and now we have two kids. But we can catch up on all of that when we meet.”

“Why are you so convinced I will agree to a meeting at all?”

“It will be a ‘coded’ meeting, Gil. The top bosses think it’s that important.”

Gil considered the prospect of a ‘coded’ meeting so long after she left the service. A coded meeting was a formal meeting held under the Code for Operatives as determined by the Official Secrets Act. Such meetings were held rarely, and so the subject matter was going to be serious.

“OK Tim, where and when do we meet?”

“The Tunnel, as usual. Ten in the morning, tomorrow.”

“You spies are all the same. Why not McDonald’s for a change? Why an abandoned tube station? It’s all a bit cold war, isn’t it?”

“We still have a facility down there. You will find your way in quite easily. There is only a standard three lever lock to beat. It should take you all of ten seconds, unless you’re rusty.”

“I’ll be there, Tim, but I have a company to run. I can’t afford to do anything more than talk for free.”

“Don’t worry, I have a budget.”

Chapter 20

Westminster Hall, London: Thursday 9:55am.

The hall was laid out much as it had been for the visit of Pope Benedict XVI a few months earlier. The seating was laid out on the lower level floor in theatre style. The first few rows had comfortably upholstered seats and were reserved for invited guests. The rank and file of attendees sat on barely padded chairs which appeared to have been in use since the Second World War.

This was the third day of the conference but by far the most important. Today the discussion was on foreign aid and how to ensure it reached the needy and helped the UN to defeat slavery and poverty. In today’s gathering were over forty ambassadors, the UK Foreign Secretary and the former UN Secretary General Kofi Annan. The Secretary of State for the US was joining the current UN Secretary General, Ban Ki Moon, in the UN Building to participate by video link. Both looked sprightly, considering it was five o’clock in the morning where they were sitting.

The first talk was scheduled to last twenty minutes, and it was to be a plea for fairness in the distribution of aid by Victoria Hokobu, daughter of the late, but still revered, African statesman Jaafar Hokobu.

As the crowd settled the UK Foreign Secretary rose and walked to the podium. A man of medium stature who had been in the public eye since he had vocally supported Margaret Thatcher on TV as a teenager, he was now shaven headed in an attempt to conceal the fact that he was prematurely balding. In the familiar nasal tone that reflected his upbringing in a middle class home in North Yorkshire, he opened the ceremony by inviting Bishop Kuma Matwami of Nigeria to offer an invocation and prayer for the poor and afflicted.

There followed a minute or two of business, explaining to the delegates where the fire exits, restrooms and most importantly, the refreshments were situated. The Marati Ambassador and brother of the president, His Excellency Solomon Matista, sat expectantly beside his aide Jalou Makabate.

Solomon Matista was as ruthless as his brother, but today, in just a few moments, a woman he had only heard of in Marati folklore was due to speak to the audience. Of course, he had been assured that she was now dead, and so he had offered himself as reserve speaker in case she could not make the conference. He sat ready with his notes, preparing to give a twenty minute presentation saluting the fine work of Victoria Hokobu in bringing to his brother’s attention the abuses of state and foreign aid. This practice, he would assure the audience, had now been ended thanks to the great efforts of President Matista.

The UN official completed his announcements with the introduction of Victoria Hokobu, the African Human Rights Campaigner from Marat. The audience followed the official and applauded when the introduction was made.

The Marati delegation smiled at the prospect of the confusion that would reign when it was clear that their key speaker was not present.

From behind a screen at the side of the stage strode a large African woman dressed in brightly coloured clothes and smiling widely. The Marati ambassador’s jaw dropped open as, in the familiar sing song dialect of the tribes of central Africa, she began to speak.

“Good Morning Mr General Secretary, Secretary of State and Mr Foreign Secretary. I am Victoria Hokobu and I am here to talk to you about how your generous aid is failing to lift central Africans out of slavery and poverty.”

***

The murderous look on the face of the Ambassador sent Jalou Makabate scurrying out of the great hall, fumbling with his cell phone as he exited into the freezing cold morning air. The big African shivered as he dialled the number for the Chameleon’s answering service. As soon as the girl picked up at the other end he yelled into the phone.

“This is JM of St James’s square. I need a return call to this number immediately. There is an emergency.” Then he remembered the agreed code. “The patient needs further treatment.”

He stood outside, exhaling clouds of warm carbon dioxide into the chilled air. He could feel the cold in his bones already, but he dared not return until he had an explanation.

After an interminable and uncomfortable wait, that was in real time only eleven minutes, his phone vibrated. He answered immediately. The voice he heard was not as distorted as it usually was.

“JM, your call is unnecessary; the patient did not survive the operation.”

“Is that so? Then how do you explain that the patient is standing in the hall behind me, ending my career, and quite possibly, my life? I paid you a million dollars, for heaven’s sake!”

The Chameleon paused for a moment and spoke into the distortion device.

“JM, your money was well spent. I can assure you that the patient and her husband are in the company of angels. Call me again when you know the full story.”

The line went dead and Jalou entered the building to find his way to the great hall blocked by a uniformed figure.

“Sorry, sir, we cannot allow re-entry during a speech. But don’t worry; she is only scheduled to speak for another five minutes.” The security guard smiled but made it clear that there would be no exceptions.

Makabate picked up his phone again and speed dialled a mobile phone number he knew would be answered quickly. The phone rang twice before it was answered.