Gil had been up early and had been busy. Once she was dressed and ready to go, she tidied the bed and replaced the tissue box on the table top beneath the TV. The hidden camera would have immediately sprung into action, being activated by sensing any motion, and the watchers would now be enjoying full audio and video coverage of Gil’s tidying up.

***

Holmes and Moriarty had switched duties at 6am, and so Thom Passerell would be keeping his eye on the Chameleon until later tonight, when she would be snatched and rendered back to the UK. The plan was that Jared and Thom would follow her into the room, where she would be apprehended by three subcontractors from a local security company. As well trained as she was, Gillian Davis would not be able to meaningfully resist, rather she would be met with overwhelming force and a very potent chemical cosh.

Thom looked at the screen showing the hotel room. The box covering the hidden camera had been removed in a bout of tidying up by the target, who was now fussing around and making herself ready for her long (and last) tourist day in Cuba.

The camera had the equivalent of a wide angle lens and so almost the entire room could be seen. Against the wall he could see a designer suitcase on a stand constructed so that it folded flat in the wardrobe when not in use. The lid of the suitcase was open and clothing and toiletries spilled out. A hot air brush was left cooling on the opposite bedside table, beside a can of hair spray and a can of Sure deodorant.

Gil Davis came into view. She was dressed in a long floaty summery dress that hung from her shoulders and brushed the floor. Her fair hair was flowing across her shoulders and down her back. A large floppy sun hat completed the ensemble. Gil looked in a mirror as she set the hat correctly on her head, and Thom noticed that she was very heavily made up, but did not wonder why. He supposed it was just something women always did.

Satisfied with her appearance, the target turned on her heels and flounced out of the room. Passerell watched her enter the lift on the hotel security camera screen, and he waited patiently until he caught sight of her in the lobby. Security camera number five in the lobby showed Gillian enter the restaurant for breakfast. The MI5 man shut down the monitors, let himself out of the room and walked along the corridor to room 431. He slid the housekeeping room card into the slot, and when the light turned green he entered the Chameleon’s room.

The bathroom was a mess. Towels were strewn carelessly in the bath and on the floor. Moisturiser and toothpaste lay by the wash basin with their lids off. This was one untidy lady. Moving to the bedroom, he saw that underwear was draped over the back of a chair, whilst all of the occupant’s clothing, books and beauty paraphernalia had been left loosely packed in the suitcase. On the desk was an itinerary for Gilllian’s stay: Today the tour, tomorrow a rest day, Saturday a boat trip and Sunday a 4x4 trip into the country’s interior. At least the lady was organised in one aspect of her life. How she had survived in the service with such an untidy mind bemused Thom, or would have done had he given it any thought.

If Thom had been as alert as he should have been, he might have given some thought to the possibility that, as a trained agent herself, she had allowed him to see just what she wanted him to see. As it was, he left the room happy that all was well, in order to follow his quarry once she left the breakfast room.

***

Gil sat with two girls from Newcastle whom she recognised from the plane the day before. They amused and entertained her with their exploits of the previous evening, where they had cruised the local bars looking for olive skinned young men who would succumb to their obvious blonde charms. They had been particularly successful and, as a result, had just parted company with three such lotharios who had stayed the night, still hung over if the girls were to be believed, when they came down for breakfast.

“I hope this National Shrine is interesting,” Tanya said, moving on to the day’s outing. “If it isn’t I’m going to stay on the bus and have a sleep.” She paused and winked at Gil. “Cos I didn’t get much sleep last night, pet.” Both Geordie girls laughed, and Gillian frowned in mock disgust.

The bus ride to the National Shrine of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre was short and uneventful. From the outside the Basilica, a minor Basilica in the parlance of the Catholic Church, is not especially impressive. It is a whitewashed building with three maroon coloured domes. The two smaller domes sit either side of the larger one, which tops the central tower. It is inside the basilica where the greater attraction lies for tourists. Once through the door and out of the glare of the bright Cuban sun, the interior comes alive with detail and history. The stained glass is bright and colourful, redolent of the art deco age from which it originates. The Basilica, built in 1926, also houses the famous brightly coloured original statue of the Lady of Charity. In this statue the Lady is depicted as a Rubenesque woman with well rounded proportions, dark skin and rosy cheeks. The National Shrine was, to the Catholic Church, no more than a sanctuary until 1977, when the Pope granted it the status of a Basilica.

When the old bus rattled to a halt outside the building, the tour party all disembarked and stood together as a Cuban Tourist guide with a blue pennant on a long stick approached. The blue pennant was emblazoned with a yellow logo and the name CubaTurista. After a brief shouted introduction, informing the group that the bus would return for them in two hours, the loud Cuban woman led them inside the Basilica.

***

Thom Passerell had secured an ancient Havana taxi, a 1958 Chevrolet Impala; it was a blue saloon version with masses of shining chrome, a deep ‘v’ symbol on the bonnet and a stretched Chevrolet badge nestling in the V. The seats were well worn leather which was so smooth and hard that if you didn’t hold on around corners you slid from one side of the car to the other.

With no conviction that the old car would complete the journey, he asked the driver to follow the old tourist bus that was carrying his quarry to the National Shrine.

Although it was only just after eight in the morning, it was already hot and sultry. Thom knew, from spending years in Cuba, that the elderly taxi would have no air conditioning. Nonetheless, this taxi did at least have glass in all of its windows, albeit two windows were stuck halfway down, never to move again, allowing warm air to blow in. At least he had a draught.

Forty five minutes later Thom paid the driver and listened as the tour guide explained that the tour bus would return around eleven o’clock. He watched as the tour group went inside, and noted that Gillian Davis was on the edge of the group. He reverted to Cafe Cubana, on the other side of a busy road, which was awash with street furniture advertising Havana Coffee. Carefully selecting a pavement table with a view over the entrance to the Basilica, he ordered a Cafe Americana and waited.

***

Once inside the Basilica, which is no more than a name for a minor cathedral in which a Bishop might reside, the tourists began snapping away at the colourful interior. The fact that the National Shrine was here at all, let alone be open to the public, was more to do with Castro’s fear of the population than his fear of God. The Catholics had ruled Cuba with a firm hand before the revolution, the people heeding their church more than their secular leaders, and the revolutionaries were deeply suspicious of the church and its influence. The visit of Pope John Paul II a few years earlier had led to the Sisters of Mercy being allowed back into Cuba in greater numbers to care for the Basilica, but even now the male clergy were few in number and were subject to constant surveillance.