Chameleon - A City of London Thriller by J Jackson Bentley Page B
Authors: J Jackson Bentley
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
