Chapter 1
Embassy of Marat, St James Square, London, Monday 9am.
Martin De Souza sat quietly in the reception area of the Marati Embassy and wondered why this poverty stricken nation enjoyed one of the most exclusive addresses for an Embassy anywhere in London.
If he hadn’t been in the mining business he would probably not even know where Marat was on the map of Africa. He suspected most of the world’s population were in the same boat. Could most Europeans point to a map of Africa and confidently point out Chad, Gabon, Guinea, Togo, the Central African Republic or Marat? He doubted it.
When Africa was ruled by the Europeans in the late nineteenth century most of these little countries did not exist, had different boundaries or different names. The area that comprises Marat and the Democratic Republic of the Congo was once considered the personal property of King Leopold II of Belgium. Even when wars were being fought in the late 20th Century in central Africa, nobody was fighting over the tiny mountainous land that was Marat. Not until De Souza’s father and uncle discovered tanzanite in those mountains in the 1990’s did anyone even seek political power. Until then the country had been run as a State Administered Region of the Congo, without its own formal government or elections, without an army and without indigenous police.
The beautiful violet blue tanzanite that was mined in Marat changed all of that. More expensive, and far rarer than diamonds, suddenly fortunes were there to be made. De Souza Mining had calculated that there were billions of dollars’ worth of tanzanite in Marat.
Within a year the UN oversaw elections, and Benjamin Matista was elected president. He then placed his closest advisers in the roles of chief of police and head of the tiny Marat army. There were rumours that Matista was a Somali and that he was not in fact born and raised in Marat, as he claimed, but no-one questions the President too harshly when he controls the army and the police.
A portrait of the President in an impressive uniform adorned the wall behind the reception desk. Also in the reception area was a display of tanzanite, which looked real to De Souza, and if so, the display would be worth over a million pounds if sold in Hatton Gardens.
The De Souzas could not complain, however. They had made a fortune from Marat with their exclusive mining rights. Unfortunately, whilst the President and his government had more money salted away than they could ever spend, they would tell the people that once the army and police were paid for, along with the improvements to the roads and infrastructure, there was no money left for education and welfare. Unless, of course, the people of Marat were agreeable to working even harder in the mines.
Recent UN studies showed that the majority of Marat’s population were educated, fed and cared for by international aid and by humanitarian charities, an unacceptable situation for a country with great mineral wealth, but there were bigger problems in Africa that had to be managed first. The fight against poverty was also hindered by the authorities who siphoned off the aid money, and whose greed knew no bounds, whose consciences knew no shame.
Martin De Souza felt grubby even dealing with these people, who dined in London’s finest restaurants and lived in penthouse apartments whilst their own ethnic groups or tribes starved and lived in squalor. In the opinion of Martin De Souza, it was only the fact that most of the country belonged to the same tribe as their leaders that a descent into civil war was unlikely.
“Hello. So good to see you again.” A giant of a man strode towards De Souza, extending his hand. He was over six feet tall, heavily built and girded in an impressively tailored suit. His hair was short; his teeth were as white as ivory and his skin was that rich dark brown hue that looks almost purple in the right light.
“Jalou, how good to see you too,” De Souza managed to say before his companion ushered him out of the door.
“Come, let us take a walk. It is such a wonderful day,” Jalou suggested. His African accent had a deep timbre that commanded respect.
The man is out of his mind, De Souza thought, but didn’t say. It’s well below freezing out there. Nonetheless, he braved the cold wind and the icy streets to follow the big diplomat to a corner coffee shop, where they both ordered and then sat down in easy chairs either side of a low table.
The diplomat spoke first. “Martin, it is not good business to come into the Embassy unannounced. The Ambassador and his brother cannot be involved with our troubleshooting duties.”
The Ambassador’s brother was the President of Marat.
“I had no alternative, Jalou. The Hokobu woman has just landed at Heathrow Airport.” The Afrikaaner pronounced Hokobu as Huckooboo, just as the lady herself did.
“This is not possible. You have made a mistake.”
“No mistake. I saw her for myself. She arrived from Bangui on a KLM flight, changing at Schiphol. My informant stood behind her at passport control and assures me that she told the officer that her return journey is booked for Friday evening. My opinion is that she had someone drive her to the Central African Republic, so that you would not know she had travelled.”
“This is very bad news. She was supposedly under virtual house arrest. She will now speak at the international conference on Thursday morning and at the very least cast our government in a bad light. At worst she will persuade the Americans and British send their aid by way of food, medicines and clothing rather than in cash. Then the foreign aid workers distributing the aid will spy on us, and our income streams will be interrupted.”
“That need not happen, Jalou. You have the Chameleon here in London. You have used him before.”
“Martin, we have just seventy two hours before she speaks. Even that cold hearted killer will not be happy with such an assignment.”
“I think you underestimate the Chameleon, Jalou. Whilst we have no real idea who he is, we do know that with very little notice he killed the Israeli Minister of Culture when he was in Paris visiting the Jewish Memorial Centre, and the minister was being guarded by Mossad. Victoria Hokobu has no such protection; there is just her husband to watch over her.”
Jalou Makabate thought about the potential problems Mrs. Hokobu could cause and decided that investing in the Chameleon was necessary, if a little expensive. The assassin demanded one million dollars per successful hit, and always ensured that payment was made. The Chameleon had let it be known to all prospective clients that the reason the Israeli Minister had been eliminated, and Mossad had been embarrassed, was not a political one. It was because Mossad had refused to pay the balance of the fee for assassinating a Hamas leader. Good marketing.
Whilst the Israeli cabinet made a huge fuss and complained to the international community that it was an unconscionable act of evil by Hamas, Mossad knew the reality, but they weren’t saying.
***
Once he was alone, Makabate’s first phone call was to the Marati Chief of Police, a fellow Somali, instructing him to pick up and question Vincent Utembo, the Hokobu’s head of security, immediately. Makabate understood very well that if he reported to the Ambassador before he knew the woman’s plans and had a plan to eliminate her, he would be punished for allowing her to make the journey. He had no intention of being sent back to Marat, through no fault of his own, where they would have him living in a hut somewhere, supervising a mine.
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.
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