Shin Bet was tasked with keeping the Minister safe, and so a team of five agents were staying with Laurent on the Rue De Rivoli, less than five hundred metres from the Shoah centre.
Laurent was tense; a more accurate term would be nervous. The Shin Bet believed that the threat was minimal and that the Gendarmerie and Shin Bet together could eliminate any threat. Laurent was not so sure. There had already been a threat, called in from a phone in a service station on the A1 road. The threat was validated by the agreed code word, and the bomb had been found concealed under a motorway bridge, just yards from where the motorcade would have passed. A remote trigger wired to a mobile telephone would have detonated the explosives. In short, the explosives could have been detonated from anywhere; there was no need for Hamas to have anyone within sight of the explosives to set them off as the Israeli motorcade passed, given that the visit would be televised live from the arrival to the departure four hours later.
The reason for Laurent’s nervousness was that Shin Bet and the Israel based Mossad personnel were already celebrating. The rumour was that an assassin known as ‘le caméléon’ would try to humiliate the Mossad during the visit as a reprisal for not being paid for the earlier assassination of a Hamas leader.
The official ‘internal - eyes only’ explanation was that Islamic Fundamentalists did not want the assassin killing innocent French people along with the Minister, as they were already under pressure in France. They had therefore undermined his plan and called in a warning using the recognised codes.
It made sense, but Laurent didn’t believe a word of it. He figured that if he was planning to take out the Minister, he too might plant a bomb as a diversion. No one was listening to him, however, and so security was down to nine men: himself, five Shin Bet advance agents, and three more Shin Bet agents in the car with the Minister.
***
The five Shin Bet operatives had chosen a table in a booth out of sight of the door and of the bar. They took the additional precaution of concealing their illicit spirits in glasses of coke. The ‘no alcohol’ rule had been well and truly broken since the uptight Mossad man left to do another useless walk around.
“Hello, gentlemen. You can’t hide from me.” The men looked appreciatively at the pretty French girl in a black skirt and white blouse, carrying the tray of drinks. Her badge read Mari-Hostess.
“We are offering you complimentary drinks as it now six o’clock. Would anyone like one?”
In a few seconds the tray was empty and the shot glasses were drained.
One of the Shin Bet men saw the Mossad man heading towards the bar.
“Mari, please take these glasses away with you. We cannot be seen with them. We have a tattle tale in our midst.”
Mari looked puzzled, but she smiled anyway and went on her way. As soon as she rounded the corner she set the tray down on an empty table and removed her badge. Two minutes later, having recovered her coat from the back of a chair, she was stepping out onto Rue De Rivoli. As she walked towards the Louvre she took out her mobile phone and pressed redial.
“Hello.” The voice at the other end was English.
“It is done; all five took the drinks and consumed them.”
“Thank you, Justine. You have been as efficient as usual. I will send you a little bonus this time,” the Chameleon promised, whilst silently thanking some supreme being for the ready availability of Botox in Paris.
***
Laurent had been called from his bed at five in the morning. All five of the Shin Bet men were ill. They had blurred or double vision and partial paralysis. They wanted to vomit but their gag reflex wasn’t working. The doctor had diagnosed botulism, and an ambulance was coming to take the men to hospital.
They had all eaten together at an exclusive Thai Restaurant on Rue de Rivoli the previous evening, and they were blaming the food. Once again Laurent’s alarm bells were ringing. There were now only three Israeli security personnel to protect the Minister.
It was too late to call off the visit, and in any event the Duty Controller back in Tel Aviv told Laurent that he was panicking for no reason. He was reminded that the French, who had assigned undercover armed Gendarmes, were providing the real protection. The Israeli security officers were mainly there as a visual deterrent.
***
Rue Geoffroy L'Asnier is a cobbled street the width of a single car. The paving on both sides is lined with black steel bollards to protect pedestrians, as the pavements are, in places, little more than two feet in width. In short, Laurent thought, this is a terrorist’s wet dream. If you were looking for a good place to ambush someone, this would be the first place you would choose. Laurent had been nervous before; now he was scared.
The Minister was due in a few minutes, and the Palestinian protestors were out in force, carrying banners that read: Two State Solution, Free the Palestinians, Stop Building in the West Bank. They were pre printed in both French and English, and mounted on boards that were affixed to long handles.
In security circles, operatives on protective duties normally like to have a line of sight cleared before they will enter a road or street, but that was impossible here. The banners completely obscured the sight lines.
Nonetheless, the plan was working so far. The uniformed Gendarmes had cleared the top of the street to allow free access to the limousine. The Minister would get out of the car and walk less than fifteen metres to the relative safety of the gardens, which were ringed with machine gun toting French police. Once the Minister had finished, the Gendarmes would move the protestors onto Allez De Justes, behind the limousine, to allow it to freely exit the bottom of the one-way street.
Laurent’s main concern remained the few metres between the car and the garden. He had to concede that everything looked secure, but this was where the Shin Bet men would have been stationed, if they hadn’t been in hospital.
Laurent looked around as the limousine turned into the narrow road. The only building overlooking the arrival and departure was an academy of some kind, but luckily the windows were barred and opaque. The ancient building had two half glazed green doors that in normal circumstances would open outwards, but which were today barred and padlocked to prevent access or egress to the arrival point. The glazing was opaque Georgian wired glass which was protected by vertical steel bars at six-inch intervals.
Outside each green door was a worn stone step around five feet wide, and three French students sat on each step. Even though they were probably aged no more than sixteen or so, they had been frisked.
The car pulled up, and Laurent took up his position. His duty was to open the car door when it was safe to do so and let out bodyguard number one. Bodyguard number two would exit from the far side of the car.
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 running away holding a gun, and had to make a split second decision. He fired.
***
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 dinner.
***
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 disconnected.
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 10
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.
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 n
eeded 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.