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.
Geordie stood in the kitchen preparing breakfast. The aroma of bacon was irresistible and the sound of it crackling on the grill made Dee feel hungry, even though she had already had a breakfast of bran flakes and orange juice.
“Mussi, you must make some breakfast for your lady boss, she is too thin,” Victoria joked. “In Marat she would be the last girl to be picked in a marriage festival.”
Geordie simply smiled and shook his head. Dee sidled up to him and looked to see what other goodies were cooking. It was to be a traditional English breakfast with bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and baked beans.
“Why does she call you Mussi?”
“Don’t ask. It’s a longer story than you’ll have the patience for listening to.”
***
Breakfast was enormous fun. Samuel and Victoria knew a host of amusing anecdotes about life in Marat. They regaled Dee and Geordie with tales of their village hermit, who won second prize in the local lottery and was presented with a fridge as his prize. He lavished much attention on the gleaming new appliance, ensuring that it was always full; the handbook said it was more efficient when it was full. Unfortunately, the old man did not realise that in order for it to work properly it needed to be plugged into a source of electricity, which didn’t matter anyway as his traditional Rondel home had no access to such modern marvels.
Their village itself was modern and well equipped, thanks to aid provided by the US, Canada and the UK under the UN programme. Victoria was ashamed that they needed aid when the country produced so much wealth, only for it to be stolen by the mining companies and the authorities.
Before the conversation became too sombre, Dee jumped in to lighten the mood.
“So, why do you call Geordie here ‘my little Mussi’?”
Victoria told them the story.
“In our folklore a village in the central bush was being terrorised by a big lion who would come into the village and take food and people away. The menfolk were scared of the giant beast, the womenfolk stopped singing and the children no longer laughed and played.
Then a little white boy came to the village selling sticks, and he promised that if the villagers bought all of their sticks from him he would get rid of the lion. The villagers made the promise and little Mussi had the lion chase him into the forest, to the biggest tree in the jungle. It was so big that it took an hour to walk right around it. The foolish lion began chasing Mussi round and round the tree, but soon the wise Mussi was sitting high in the branches. The foolish lion ran around the tree chasing Mussi all day and all night and all the next day, whilst Mussi slept in the branches.
The next morning when Mussi came down from the tree the lion was exhausted. It had worn its legs away with all of the running and it was all skin and bone. Mussi killed the lion easily with his spear, and returned to the village wearing the lion’s magnificent mane around his shoulders. The menfolk became brave again, the women sang happy songs about Mussi and the children laughed.
So, you see, he is my little Mussi, he has come to save me from the lions who would terrorise me into silence, and who would like to stop me singing.”
Dee did not know what to say and so she said nothing. Victoria Hokobu carried on eating, mopping up the last of the egg yolk with her fried bread.
***
The next hour was spent discussing security arrangements with Geordie, which had been devised in response to the risk assessment carried out in the office on Monday.
Content that the Hokobus were as safe with Geordie, or little Mussi, as with anyone, Dee waved them off in their armoured Mercedes and set off for the tube station on foot. The temperature had risen dramatically by perhaps a degree or so, and now it was only as cold as the outer reaches of Antarctica.
Chapter 1 1
St Margaret’s Church, Westminster Abbey, London, Tuesday 2:30pm.
The beautiful church of St Margaret stands beside and behind Westminster Abbey. It is laid out parallel to the famous abbey but predates the better-known building. The medieval building, which consists of the church itself and a somewhat oversized tower, was the third church built on the site and was consecrated in 1523. To place the church in its historical perspective, the glorious stained glass window at the front of the church was specially made for King Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon in 1520.
Since then the church has served as the chapel of the House of Commons, and Sir Walter Raleigh lies buried in front of the altar. There are also exquisite windows dedicated to Caxton and Milton.
The church was designed and built along Norman lines. When viewed from the front there is a central nave and chancel with a high roof. On each side there are small chapels, choir stalls and a vestry. These have lower single pitched roofs which are shallow and which attach to the central body of the structure. There is a triple arched public entrance at the front of the building and the tower is on the left front of the building when viewed from the Abbey.
For the Chameleon, the history of the church was not as important as its position and its ongoing repairs. As with all churches of its age, St Margaret’s needed constant renovation. The tower had been repaired recently and now the shallow monopitch roof between the nave and the tower was receiving attention, but work had been halted when the freezing weather arrived and it would not commence again until spring.
The Chameleon had been on the roof between the nave and the tower for some time, but lying still in freezing conditions was part of the sniper’s job description.
Concealed under a tarpaulin shelter erected by the builders to keep the roof watertight until it could be permanently repaired, the Chameleon was partially protected from the biting wind.
It was never far from the Chameleon’s thoughts that this might be a waste of time. There was no guarantee that the Hokobus would even visit the Abbey, but in the assassination game one sometimes had to play the odds.
Tourists to London listed Westminster Abbey in the top three historical attractions visited. It was ranked even higher for Anglican Christians, which was the faith observed by the Hokobus. Added to that information, the Mercedes had already passed plate recognition cameras at three other favourite tourist destinations; Tower Bridge, Covent Garden and Trafalgar Square. The Chameleon also felt confident in taking the view that a visit to the London Eye today would be a waste of money, given the mist and poor visibility, especially when tomorrow morning was expected to be bright, cloud free and freezing cold again. No, all in all it was a good bet that the Hokobus would want to sample the London Eye on a clear day, if at all.
As for the Abbey, normally there were two main points of entry, the main front doors and the side door perpendicular to St Margaret’s Church. Concerned about the heating bills, the Abbey custodians were directing the few hardy visitors who were out and about to the smaller side entrance, which had an enclosed lobby and which allowed the Abbey to retain at least some of its heat. This was not uncommon in the cold winter months, as the Chameleon had discovered during a routine research exercise.