by Ted Tayler
Those caught up in the bombings in the capital and those who saw the would-be bomber executed at Weymouth bore the scars and the memories forever. At Larcombe Manor, time and tide waited for no man, as their agents continued to carry out direct action against those who sought to bring the nation into disrepute.
The Phoenix had been in the thick of the action in London. Kelly Dixon and Hayden Vincent were in Weymouth. Others had been positioned around the country, ready to strike where the action required it. Throughout August, Rusty had been at Larcombe waiting to be asked to join in the fun.
On the first Monday of the new month, that time had arrived. Erebus invited Rusty to join him in the orangery alone. Rusty was more than a little surprised; Phoenix generally attended these special meetings with the old man. Now and then, the old gentleman condescended to let the tough ex-SAS sergeant join them. A face-to-face meeting was a privilege not to be missed.
Rusty arrived in the orangery at the appointed time. He put on a clean t-shirt for the occasion. Erebus waited for him. He nodded at Rusty and noted the slogan across his chest; SAS–Super Army Soldier. The old man passed no comment.
“Thousands of foreign domestic workers are living as slaves in Britain, suffering sexual, physical and psychological abuse by their employers; over fifteen thousand migrant workers come to Britain every year to earn money to send back to their families. Many endure conditions that amount to slavery. They can suffer physical and psychological abuse. Thousands are not allowed out alone. They never have a day off, work all the hours God sends and receive a pittance in return. Foreign diplomats are among the worst offenders. Their workers, unlike those brought in on a domestic worker visa, cannot change their employer and face being homeless or deported if they run away. To prosecute diplomats for treating their workers as slaves is extremely difficult. Children are also being brought into the UK. One young girl was trafficked from Nigeria to London when just twelve years old. The girl’s employer worked as a cultural attaché at the Embassy. The young girl was employed as a domestic servant, but behind closed doors, she was often raped and beaten. When aged fourteen her employer threw her into the street. What had been her crime? She asked for a day’s holiday. The attaché left her with nothing; terrified and alone, she could do nothing but sit on the street, waiting for her abuser to change his mind. He relented in the morning and she returned to household duties and to be at his beck and call whenever he wanted her. In June of this year, she took her own life by drinking bleach. Her employer was adamant that there had been no signs that the girl was unhappy. She had been ‘a good worker, always willing and her smiling face around the house would be missed.’ Extreme mistreatment such as that is commonplace. Migrant domestic workers are in a uniquely vulnerable position. Thousands of miles from home, they rely on that single employer for their accommodation, work and immigration status. For the most part isolated; they don't mix with anyone. When this young girl died in June, a woman who cooked for the attaché contacted her family in Bandung to tell them what she knew. She was frightened of going to the police because her employer told her she faced deportation if she didn’t have her visa and documents. The cultural attaché retained those, and he intimidated too much for her to ask him to return them. We intercepted her story in text messages she sent to Indonesia. The cook said this child worked from dawn to midnight. She feared what might happen to her at any time. The cook told them what happened to the young girl and said that she suspected that her employer had raped her. This had been the reason for her taking her own life. The older woman feared she faced being assaulted too if she kept working there.”
“Beggar’s belief Sir, doesn’t it?” said Rusty. “I find it difficult to get my head around the massive numbers involved.”
“There are more servants in the UK now than in Victorian Times Rusty. Contributed to by the growth of childcare and the lower cost of domestic staff,” said Erebus.
“I’m hoping that folder in front of you holds the identity of the bastard involved? Excuse my language, Sir.”
“Everything’s there Rusty,” said Erebus. “I want this job carried out without delay. I believe the bastard concerned, as you termed him, has outlived his usefulness as a cultural attaché to these shores. Please arrange for him to be repatriated at once.”
“Consider it done boss,” said Rusty, and he picked up the file from the table and left the orangery to return to his quarters to prepare.
Rusty often sat in with Phoenix to watch the master planner at work. He had picked up a few tricks of the trade in the past two years. With the hours of training that Rusty gave Phoenix when he first arrived at Larcombe, it seemed only fair it became a ‘two-way street.’
Solomon Okonkwo was forty-six. He had been with the High Commission for three and a half years. The high-rise apartment he occupied was impressive and situated in Marylebone. Rusty always imagined that these blokes gravitated towards Mayfair or Knightsbridge. Their government picked up the tab. Rusty flicked through the information that Giles and his team had put together.
He was interested in learning that five million bought you more space in Marylebone than in the more upmarket areas of central London.
“Who knew,” asked Rusty, to nobody in particular, “how the other half lives eh?”
Rusty read further. Marylebone had transformed itself into a great destination, with a lovely village feel and, some would argue, the best high street in London. Marylebone’s international diversity with Russian, American and African inhabitants being part of its charm.
Rusty checked the easiest route to Northumberland Avenue to get to the Embassy. He had photographs of his target and could pick him up from there and follow him home. He wanted to look at the apartment block itself first; while Solomon was at work. Gaining access would not be an issue. Phoenix knew at least half a dozen methods, tried and tested, and half a dozen that never failed. One of those was sure to serve his purpose.
Rusty was already convinced that Solomon Okonkwo deserved to pay the price for his actions, but he went through the data on the young girl just the same. Olabisi Promise Chukwu had been just twelve years old when she arrived in the UK on a flight from Lagos. An elderly relative said to be an uncle from her village, accompanied her.
Olabisi arrived at Solomon’s new apartment only days after he had collected the keys from the letting agents. The diplomat had been staying at a five-star hotel for the first two months after taking up his new position at the High Commission. Solomon was a single man, with specific needs. Olabisi carried out his domestic duties and soon discovered that she was to be forced to offer other more personal ones too.
As well as Olabisi, Solomon employed an Indonesian woman, Nurul Ruby Pohan, a thirty-nine-year-old mother of four, who had worked in London for seven years. Mrs Pohan came to the flat seven days a week to cook.
Rusty looked at the photographs of the two desperate women. He looked at the long list of crimes that diplomats were responsible for in the past year. They included robberies, sex attacks, fraud, grievous bodily harm, drink-driving, and shoplifting. One suspect had been arrested for making a bomb threat.
“You couldn’t make it up,” muttered Rusty.
International treaty rules give immunity from prosecution to diplomats and any relatives living with them. Rusty was appalled that serious offenders escaped justice. The immunity granted exemption from arrest or detention.
“Well, in my book, that means that Solomon’s immunity doesn’t exempt him from having a nasty accident.”
Everyone at the Olympus Project was of the same opinion. Serious offenders escaping justice was not an option.
Rusty went through his outline plans once more. He felt happy. Transport could be arranged for the morning to have a day in the big city. He looked at his watch. Yes, he had time to drop in to see the lads in the armoury. Time to choose the proper kit and then walk to the pool. A hundred lengths should give him time to go through every step of his plan, just once more. One can nev
er be too careful. ’Fail to prepare; prepare to fail’, that was the mantra that Phoenix adopted. If it was good enough for him, it was good enough for Rusty.
The following morning, he was up bright and early. The transport arrived at the stable block at seven-fifteen. The seven forty-three train from the old Spa station arrived at Platform Five at Paddington, just before a quarter past ten.
Rusty collected his kit bag and started the journey. As the train sped through the Wiltshire countryside, he thought through the timetable for the first part of his mission. Straight ahead to the Tube; then the Bakerloo Line to Northumberland Avenue. That should get him outside the Nigerian High Commission before eleven.
The concourse wasn’t that crowded on this Tuesday morning. Rusty strode through the slow-moving throng of commuters, tourists, and students. Why were there always students around, no matter what time of day you travelled? Late for wherever they ought to be, he imagined. Either that or they selected a course where lectures were scattered here and there through each week, making sure of lots of free time.
Twenty minutes later Rusty studied the front doors of the building. The place had a character there was no disputing that. His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. A message from Giles. He had hacked into the CCTV in the vicinity and checked that Solomon Okonkwo had arrived for work. Giles confirmed that Solomon was definitely inside the building. The coast was clear for Rusty to pay a visit to Marylebone.
Another short ride underground via Green Park and he craned his neck to see the floor on which his target lived. As the crick in his neck increased, Rusty knew that his choice had been perfect. What he needed to do now was gain access. Time to use one of Phoenix’s ruses. He removed a clipboard and Hi-Viz waistcoat from his kit bag.
He strolled up to the nearest pedestrian crossing, donning his disguise as he went. As he waited for the ‘Green’ light. he kept an eye out for any movement at the front entrance to the apartment block.
There! A postie pushing a trolley. Early September and wearing shorts, but then they wore shorts whatever the weather these days. In her case, it was a mistake. The postwoman was old enough to be his mother, with legs that should stay hidden by law. The lights changed; as the mighty noise of traffic paused, Rusty crossed the road.
He hoped that a little charm would win the day. He held back for a second as she searched through her set of keys. The woman found the one that allowed her entry into the foyer and the post boxes on the wall.
Rusty sprinted forward.
“Here you go, sweetheart, let me get that for you,” he said, holding the door back in order for her to get her trolley through.
“Oh, thank you, my love,” the old postie cooed. “I’m getting too old for this game.”
“Too old?” said Rusty, “don’t be daft. The council has sent me round to check flats on the top floor, they keep hearing pigeons in the roof spaces. I might have to get rid of vermin later.”
“Bloody nuisance, pigeons,” the postie agreed, dishing out the post. The pile disappeared fast.
“Nearly done?” asked Rusty. “They can wait for me a few seconds longer; I’ll help you get out without scratching those pins.”
She was putty in his hands. She slotted the last gas bill into No 84 and wheeled her trolley back to the door. Rusty let her out.
“Have a nice day!” he called after her.
“And you too, love, you too,” cried the postwoman.
Rusty had already reached the lifts. Floor after floor slipped by in silence and then he was there. When the doors opened, the only thing Rusty heard was his own breathing. Quiet as the grave. Perfect.
To get inside Solomon’s flat presented no problems. The ability to pick a lock was one of the many skills that Rusty had acquired over the years. Once inside he moved around quickly and quietly. Just in case people were at home in the adjoining apartments. More than likely the occupants would be at work. These weren’t flats a single mum with a nipper could afford on benefits. Jeremy Kyle seeping through the walls was out of the question; always a blessing.
Rusty crept towards the windows. He peered out from behind the curtains to make sure that nobody watched him from the flat across the street, or idly glanced up from street level. There was no one. He tried to open the sash window. It was stuck or secured by something.
“Back to the kit bag,” he muttered, “just as well I collected a few bits and pieces from stores.”
Fifteen minutes later the window opened, it slid up and down smoothly, perhaps better than it had done for fifty years.
“Job’s a good one,” said Rusty, “time for lunch I reckon.”
Taking as much care on the way back to the foyer as on the way up, Rusty exited the apartment block. He shared the lift with a Jewish couple and met a lady with sunglasses and a voluminous handbag sashaying into the foyer. Nobody challenged the man with the hi-viz waistcoat and clipboard. Why would they? People who could afford these apartments didn’t talk to ‘the help’ did they?
Rusty removed his waistcoat and stored it along with the clipboard in his bag. He planned to find a decent pub for a pint and a bite of proper nosh. Two hours later fed and watered he strolled through Regent’s Park. Rusty made a mental note to thank Phoenix for telling him to take twice the cash you thought you’d need on a mission. Rusty thought that overkill, but a pint and proper nosh set you back a pretty penny around here.
Nurul Ruby Pohan was due to get to her employer’s flat at six o’clock. She was going to prepare a meal, cook it, and serve it at seven-thirty as usual. Everything would be in the dishwasher before eight. Nurul would be out of the door as fast as her little legs allowed. Before Solomon got any ideas.
Rusty made his way back to Northumberland Avenue. He wanted to arrive in plenty of time. These cultural attaches didn’t work too late. Solomon might leave early for once. He wandered the street opposite at just after half-past three. There was a crowd of people going in and out of the building. Rusty concentrated hard on making sure he didn't miss him.
At around half-past four the door opened. Solomon Okonkwo strode through it in a majestic manner. He was a big man. Suited, and booted, every inch the gentleman. A black limousine glided to a halt. Solomon merely bent forward to open the door, sliding elegantly into the back seat. Rusty desperately searched for a taxi. Two minutes later, he was in pursuit. Afternoon traffic in London can be slow, so his target hadn’t got that far ahead. Ten-pound notes in the top pocket of his driver got Rusty a shortcut and the gap soon closed to a manageable distance.
Rusty paid the rest of the fare as he got the driver to park near the apartment block. He crossed the road, between stationary vehicles as the traffic was starting to build in preparation for the evening rush hour. Where was a postie when you needed one? He didn’t have long to wait. A couple let themselves into the building; they were young and looked single. Maybe the guy had brought the girl from the office back for a ‘quickie’? Anyway, they were so engrossed in one another as they moved entwined to the lifts, they didn’t notice the door didn’t close properly behind them. Because of Rusty’s right foot.
As the lift ascended, Rusty slipped into the foyer and called the lift. His luck held. No one else was coming home just yet. The lift doors opened, and he pressed the button for the top floor. Rusty checked the gun in his inside jacket pocket. He didn’t plan on using it, except as a frightener. He pressed the buzzer on the door to Solomon’s flat. The door swung open.
“Come in Mrs Pohan, I’ve been waiting for you,” said Solomon Okonkwo, wearing only a towel. “Who are you?”
Rusty stepped forward and grabbed the cultural attaché. Despite being a big man, he was weak and no match for the trained SAS operative. Rusty kicked the door closed and bundled Solomon into the lounge, expertly zip-tying his wrists and ankles in seconds.
Solomon was shouting now. He demanded to know who the hell was in his flat. Rusty slapped a strip of duct tape across his mouth to shut him up and carried on with his preparations.<
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“Who am I? Why am I here? I’m your worst nightmare. It’s time for you to pay for causing the death of Olabisi Promise Chukwu.”
Solomon’s eyes widened. Rusty moved to the window. He opened the sash window to the fullest extent. He looked out onto the early evening traffic. As he turned back, he saw that Solomon’s eyes widened even more. Rusty shoved him unceremoniously to the ledge. Then he cut off the ties with a knife, ripped the tape away and held on to the towel. Just a gentle shove was all that was necessary after that. Solomon screamed. The traffic still moved along at a steady pace. Nobody looked skywards; not at once at least.
Rusty had already moved away from the window. He folded the towel neatly and put it away in the airing cupboard, and then he tidied up the flat and made his way towards the door. He paused and wondered whether to leave a note for Nurul Ruby Pohan. She wouldn’t need to cook tonight; she needn’t worry about the randy attaché any longer either. Just a few words, he thought would suffice; something along the lines of ‘Solomon has left the building.’
CHAPTER 2
Sunday, September 23rd, 2012
In the aftermath of the London Olympics, there had been many troubled times in the capital, indeed, there were deep concerns right across the country. Lights burned late into the nights at Larcombe Manor. The members of the Olympus Project and their agents vowed to continue the fight against terrorism., To battle with organised crime and to fight for justice in whatever arena they deemed ripe for direct action.
When Rusty returned from disposing of Solomon Okonkwo, Erebus asked him at the Wednesday morning meeting whether everything had gone to plan.
“No problems whatever, Sir,” replied Rusty. “Everything fell into place, you might say.”
Erebus smiled. “You played your part well Rusty. A few pedestrians had a nasty shock when the naked former cultural attaché dropped in. But a vote of thanks must go to Giles and his team in the ice-house. They have created a series of transactions that show that Solomon Okonkwo withdrew significant amounts of his nation’s funds to finance a serious betting spree. It’s a toss-up who will uncover it first; the police or the High Commission. Either way, his death will be ruled a suicide. The poor devil couldn’t face the truth coming out about his attraction to the fillies.”