Chameleon

CHAMELEON

Mark Burnell

COPYRIGHT

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Mark Burnell 2001

Mark Burnell asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780007336722

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2012 ISBN 9780007372928

Version: 2015-09-28

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

PRAISE

‘Chameleon is a Casablanca for the 21st century. Burnell writes with verve and assurance about the unsavoury realities of international terrorism. Where he really excels, however, is with his characters. Not only are his two protagonists convincingly complex and three-dimensional, but they also share a love story which is as moving as it is passionate.’

Boris Starling, author of Messiah

DEDICTAION

To Isabelle with love

EPIGRAPH

The only indecipherable code in the world is a woman.

Leo Marks

Special Operations Executive

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Epigraph

Paris

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

Moscow

Keep Reading

Acknowledgments

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

PARIS

The rhythm of the windscreen wipers was hypnotic. The rubber blades squeaked against the glass, smearing rain left and right. James Marshall leaned forward and peered at the brasserie on the other side of the street. The clock on the dashboard said it was five to two. He checked his own watch – it was marginally fast – and lit a cigarette. The caller had given him the address, the time – two o’clock – and a reminder not to be late. That had been half an hour ago at a pay-phone at the Gare du Nord.

The other phone call – the one that had caught him at home the day before yesterday – had come out of the blue. And out of the past. He’d recognized the voice instantly. A simple job that paid cash in hand; that had been the offer. Good cash, too, considering how little work was involved. He wouldn’t even have to leave Paris. At first, that had made the proposal all the more attractive.

Would he consider acting as a courier? Nothing fancy, naturally, just a fetch-and-drop, as a favour from one seasoned veteran to another.

Of course, he’d said, he’d be delighted. There had been times in the not-so-distant past when he would have considered such a job beneath him, when he would have been offended by the offer. James Marshall, the courier? The errand boy? Now, he was as grateful for the opportunity as he was for the money.

He instructed his Tunisian taxi driver to drop him on avenue de Friedland, from where he walked back to rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré. The rain was growing stronger. And colder. A lead sky darkened everything. The driver of a delivery van attempted a U-turn in front of the brasserie. The vehicle stalled. He tried the ignition twice. Nothing. He slapped the steering wheel and tried again. Still nothing. A woman in a navy Mercedes saloon held open her hands in exasperation. The van driver shrugged. The traffic staggered to a halt. Headlights sparkled, exhausts wheezed.

Marshall tried to ignore the tightness in his stomach, the tightness that suggested it would have been better to ignore the money. He wished he was home. His chilly, damp, single-room apartment in Saint Denis had rarely seemed so appealing. He crossed the street, meandering through stationary vehicles, and entered the brasserie.

Half a dozen customers congregated around a curve of copper bar. A waiter took his damp raincoat and asked if he was alone but he was already moving into the dining room. Oleg Rogachev was in the far corner, at a table by the window. Marshall recognized him from the photographs he’d studied; built like a bull, a moustache like a slug, silver hair cropped to a spike. His collars and cuffs were tight to the skin, accentuating fat hands and a fat face. He wore a charcoal silk double-breasted suit.

Rogachev looked up from his plate – pig’s trotters and spinach – and nodded towards the seat opposite. The man sitting next to him was a stranger but not a surprise; a translator, Marshall assumed. Rogachev spoke no English and had no reason to expect Marshall to speak Russian. As it happened, he’d been fluent for thirty years.

With only a slight accent, he said, ‘In Britain, we have a saying. Two’s company, three’s a crowd.’

Rogachev raised an eyebrow. ‘This is Anatoli.’

‘I hope neither of you will be offended if I ask him to leave.’

There was a frosty pause. Then Rogachev said, ‘I’ll see you back at the hotel.’

Anatoli rose from the table and left. Marshall sat down. Rogachev pushed his plate to one side, hailed a waiter and gesticulated with chubby fingers. A clean glass arrived. Rogachev waited until the wine had been poured.

‘I hope your people recognize the risk I’m taking.’

‘They do.’

‘Then I hope they’ll show their appreciation.’

‘They will. But only unofficially. They’re keen to stress this and they’re sure you’ll understand their reasons.’

Marshall looked out of the window. Gridlock, a crescendo of car horns, teeming rain. When he looked back, he noticed the small device next to Rogachev’s glass. It resembled a travel radio but had no aerial or display. The Russian felt for a switch on the side. He saw Marshall’s expression and said, ‘It jams directional radio microphones. It emits violent electronic signals, casting a five-metre protective shield. Anybody trying to listen to us will hear only static.’ He smiled slyly. ‘Even though I’m not here, it’s better to be careful.’

Hence the delay in naming the rendezvous, Marshall supposed. In the old days – in his day – these types of precaution had been routine. Naively, he’d imagined things would be different now. He wondered where Rogachev’s friends and enemies thought he was. Moscow? Yekaterinburg? Miami?

‘What have you come to offer me?’

Marshall took a sip from his glass. The red tasted bitter but the effect was welcome. ‘It’s possible that the investigation into Weaver Financial Services will come to nothing.’

Rogachev pulled a face, unimpressed. ‘That is possible anyway.’

Marshall shook his head. ‘There’s something you don’t know. Weaver’s links to Calmex in Lausanne have been established. Arrest warrants are being prepared as we speak.’

The small, piggy eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Go on.’

‘If you accept our offer, the Weaver directors will still have to be replaced. That is non-negotiable. The company would also have to pay a small fine for a lesser misdemeanour. It’s better if the investigation comes up with something.’

‘What else?’

‘On the plus side, your assets would cease to be frozen. Also, your status as persona non grata would be revoked on the understanding that you do not try to enter the United Kingdom for a period of six months.’

A waiter came to clear plates and refill glasses. Rogachev ordered two espressos and the bill. ‘You should know that the reason I’ve decided to come to an arrangement with you is not for my own advantage. That is merely – how would you put it? – a bonus.’ He reached into his pocket and produced a gold Sony Mini-Disc which he placed on the table between them. ‘I’m a wheat trader, not a criminal. The people who are exploiting my commercial network are renegades. They are a threat to everyone.’

‘Of course.’

‘I want that distinction understood.’

‘Naturally.’

He tapped the Mini-Disc. ‘It’s essential they never discover the origin of this information …’

‘I understand.’

‘… because that could lead to complications. The kind of complications where everybody suffers.’

Marshall tried to ignore the threat. The espressos arrived. The Russian added sugar. Outside, the congestion caused by the delivery van had escalated. The driver was now standing next to his vehicle, arguing with half a dozen people. Some of those inside the brasserie had turned to watch the commotion.

Rogachev spoke softly. ‘The courier will arrive at Heathrow Terminal Two from Budapest on the third of April. Malev flight MA610.’

Marshall took a propelling pencil from his jacket and began to write notes on a small pad. ‘What’s the name?’

‘You get the name when the flight leaves Budapest. I don’t want him intercepted in Hungary.’

‘What’s he bringing?’

‘Plutonium-239.’

‘From where?’

‘MINATOM. I can’t be more specific.’

MINATOM was the Russian Atomic Energy Ministry, a vast department which had a history of not being specific.

‘How much?’

‘One thousand five hundred grammes.’

‘What’s he bringing it in?’

‘A suitcase with a shielded canister inside.’

‘Concealed or loose?’

‘Loose, we think.’

‘How pure is it?’

‘Ninety-four per cent.’

‘Anything else?’

‘He may be carrying quantities of Lithium-6.’

‘How much?’

‘We don’t know. Probably two to four kilos. Maybe nothing.’

‘Do you know the target?’

‘No.’

‘What about the end user?’

‘Unidentified.’

Rogachev glanced at the notes Marshall was taking. Bread, sugar, bacon, olive oil, kilos and grammes, pounds and ounces; it appeared to be a conventional shopping list. When they were finished, Rogachev paid in cash, leaving an extravagant tip. They collected their coats and stepped outside. The rain was heavier; there was a flash of lightning, a five-second pause and a rumble of thunder that was almost inaudible over the chorus of screeching horns. The soaked van driver was shouting. Rogachev erected an umbrella. He seemed amused by the scene in front of him.

Marshall was thinking ahead. The disk, the drop in Montmartre, then back to the Gare du Nord. From a public pay-phone, the London number that he’d memorized, the message relayed, then back to Saint Denis, perhaps stopping off at a café for a cup of coffee. Or something stronger. Then tomorrow, the delivery. A plain brown envelope, he expected. Full of francs …

It wasn’t thunder. It was louder than that. And sharper. The liquid that splattered across his face wasn’t rain, either. It was hot.

The umbrella slipped from Rogachev’s grasp. A gust of wind carried it away. Another deafening crack and he was spinning. Marshall didn’t move. Shock insulated him from what was happening around him. Time slowed to a standstill. He had no idea where the source of the noise was. He saw faces turning in the rain, hands rising to mouths, eyes widening. Nobody was paying attention to the van driver any more. Rogachev fell forward, smacking against the car at the kerb before collapsing to the ground. He left blood across the white bonnet. Rain diluted it pink.

Curiously, Marshall found himself thinking about the good old days.

1

She’s eighteen months old. Two years ago, she was twenty-five years old.

They made love slowly but it was a hot afternoon and soon their bodies were slick. Laurent Masson was a tall man with no fat on his sinewy frame; dark-haired, dark-skinned, dark dirt beneath his fingernails. When she’d first seen him, Stephanie had thought he looked slightly seedy, which she liked. She, by contrast, had never looked more wholesome, which she also liked. Plump breasts, the curved suggestion of a belly, a dimple in the soft flesh above each buttock. She’d allowed her hair to grow; thick and dark, it fell between her shoulders down half her spine. Summer sun had tanned her normally pale skin, a healthy diet had improved her complexion.

The first-floor bedroom was small; a high ceiling, floorboards worn smooth, two tatty Yemeni rugs, a narrow double bed with a wrought-iron frame. On one wall, there was a mottled full-length mirror. On the opposite wall, there were six sepia photographs of Provence’s brutal beauty.

Masson was on his back, Stephanie above him, his body between her thighs. Slowly, she rocked back and forth, trailing her fingertips across his chest and stomach. Neither of them spoke and there was no hint of a breeze to cool them. When she came, she closed her eyes, dropped her head back and bit her fleshy lower lip.

Later, Masson smoked a cigarette, rolling his ash onto a dirty china saucer. Stephanie stood by the window, naked and damp. Her gaze followed the land, falling away from the farmhouse, across the vineyard and the dirt track that bisected it. The vines shimmered in the heat. Somewhere at the bottom of the valley, screened by emerald trees, there was the road. To the right, Entrecasteaux, to the left, Salernes. Beyond either, the real world.

‘Last night, the dogs were barking all down the valley.’

Behind her, Masson shifted, the bed-springs creaking. ‘They kept you awake?’

She nodded. ‘Some were howling.’

‘You should have spent the night with me.’

‘Actually, I liked it. It sounded … sad.’ She crossed her arms. ‘Sad but beautiful.’

‘Will I see you later?’

‘If you want to.’

‘Do you want to?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know. I never know what you think.’

‘Lucky you.’

Laurent leaves. From the yard, I watch his old Fiat lurch along the track, kicking up clouds of golden dirt. When the dust has settled, I go inside and make tea. The kitchen is cool and dark; a stone floor, terracotta walls, a heavy oak table flanked by benches. Bees murmur by the small square window over the sink. French windows open onto a terrace. A blanket of greenery laid over wooden beams provides dappled shade. Behind the house, olive trees are organized along terraces that climb the hill.

The farm belongs to a thirty-five-year-old German investment banker who was transferred from Frankfurt to Tokyo eighteen months ago. Initially, I rented it for six months through an agency in Munich. That was just over a year ago; I’m seven weeks into my third rental period. The roof leaks in places, some of the plasterwork is crumbling, the windows and doors are ill-fitting. But I don’t mind. In fact, I prefer it this way. It feels more like a home. Then again, how would I know? I’ve lived in too many places to count but not one of them has been a home.

When the tea is ready, I take it outside. The fragrance of summer is as strong as its colour; scents of citrus and lavender envelop me. I love days like this as much as the severer days of mid-December, when fierce winds scrape the harsh landscape, when rain explodes from pewter clouds that seem only just out of reach. Then, the dusty track turns to glycerine, cutting me off from the road. I always enjoy the artificial isolation that follows.

There is a large fireplace in the sitting room and a good supply of logs in the lean-to behind the outhouse. For me, there is a childish comfort in being warm and dry as I listen to the storm outside. I was raised in north Northumberland, close to the border with Scotland. Wild weather was a feature of my childhood. More than a mere memory, it’s a part of me.

That’s the thing about me, I suppose. I’m a collection of parts that never adds up to a whole. With me, two plus two comes to five. Or three. Or anything except four.

As far as the people around here are concerned, I am Stephanie Schneider, a Swiss with no parents, no siblings, no baggage. I live off a meagre inheritance. I spend my days reading, drawing, walking. I came from nowhere and one day I’ll return there. That’s what’s expected by those who gossip about me. Apparently, I’ve slept with a couple of men in the area – surprising choices, some say – and now I’m seeing Masson, the mechanic from Salernes. Another outsider, he’s from Marseille. The local word is, it’s a casual relationship.

This happens to be true. It’s because I can’t cope with commitment. Not yet – it’s too early for me – maybe not ever. But I am making progress.

I read my book for ten minutes – The Murdered House by Pierre Magnan – and then lay it to one side. From where I’m sitting, I can see my laptop on the fridge. There’s a fine layer of dust on the lid. It must be nearly a month since I last switched it on. In the beginning, it was two or three times a day. Slowly but surely, I’m severing my ties to the old world. With each passing day, I feel increasingly regenerated. But this process has not been without its setbacks.

The first man I had an affair with after moving here was a doctor from Draguignan named Olivier. I should have known better; he was very good-looking, always a danger sign. We met in Entrecasteaux during the firework display to commemorate Bastille Day. He was charming and amusing, so I started seeing him, which was when he changed. Sometimes, he would be jealous, at other times, indifferent. When I walked into a room, it was impossible to know whether he would say something wonderful or cruel. He was not interested in equilibrium; we had to be soaring or falling. And if we were falling, there would be reconciliation so that we could soar again. For someone of my age, I’ve had more than my fair share of highs and lows. The last thing I needed was Olivier’s amateur dramatics.

The night we separated, I drove to his house in Draguignan. The previous evening, he’d come out to the farmhouse. He’d arrived two hours late. The dinner I’d cooked had spoiled but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. We had sex – it was coarse and uncaring – and in the morning, between waking and leaving, he managed to insult me four times without even realizing it. Not that I minded; I was already over him. I phoned him later that morning and said I would come to his house and cook for him again, and that I’d appreciate it if he was on time for once.

He was only an hour late. I put the plate before him – beef casserole in a red wine sauce – and filled our glasses.

‘You’re not eating?’

‘I ate when it was ready,’ I told him. ‘An hour ago …’

He shrugged and began to fork food into his mouth. I watched in silence as he finished the plate and took some more. When he finally laid his knife and fork together, I rose from my chair and dropped his spare keys onto the table.

‘I’ve taken my spare set back. Here are yours.’

He looked down at the keys, then up at me. ‘What is this?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Some kind of joke?’

I resisted a cutting retort and simply shook my head.

A frown darkened his face. ‘What are you saying, Stephanie?’

‘You drink with your friends but not with me. You fuck me but won’t kiss me.’

He sat back in his chair and sucked in a lungful of air. ‘So –’

‘So nothing.’ I didn’t want to hear a second-hand apology. ‘It’s over.’

‘Wait a minute …’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’

‘Yes. Why? Why wait? Why waste any more time?’

‘Can’t we at least talk about it?’

‘My mind is made up.’

‘What about me?’

I think I smiled at him. ‘Exactly.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You know. And if you don’t … well, it makes no difference.’

I picked up my car keys, which were lying on the draining board beside the sink.

‘Stephanie …’

I turned round. Given an opportunity, he couldn’t think of anything to say, so I said, ‘One last thing, before I go.’

‘What?’

‘Did you enjoy your dinner?’

He looked confused. ‘What?’

‘It’s a simple question. Did you enjoy it? Yes or no?’

He shrugged. ‘Sure, I guess. It was fine …’

I walked over to the swing-bin beside the door, stuck my arm inside, found the empty can and tossed it to him. ‘You’re a spoilt child, Olivier. For someone with some intelligence, your behaviour is moronic.’

He glanced at the label. ‘Dog food?’

‘Not just any old dog food, darling. Premium quality dog food.’

‘You gave me dog food?’

‘I wanted to do something that would make you understand.’

‘Understand what?’

‘How you’ve made me feel over the last few weeks.’

Stranded for a reply, all he managed was: ‘You said it was beef casserole!’

‘It was. Made with dog food. Beef heart and something else, I think … it’s on the label.’

The colour drained from his face. I couldn’t tell whether it was rage or nausea.

‘You lost interest in me but you lacked the courage to tell me.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Are you seeing someone else?’

He faltered. Then: ‘No.’

‘You are, aren’t you?’

‘No.’

I didn’t want an apology, just a slither of honesty. ‘Come on …’