by Ted Tayler
Phoenix didn’t wait to hear the crunch when the van landed. He set off running towards the pub in the distance taking advantage of every bit of cover available. He would still get soaked by the time he got there. The ground shook under his feet. The blast that followed was tremendous. He found himself on his hands and knees. His ears were ringing. Phoenix struggled to his feet, took shelter under a tree, and looked back.
Giles and Artemis would find it difficult to hide what had happened. A long stretch of the coastal path had disappeared. Thousands of tons of earth and rocks had slipped into the waters beneath. Nobody would ever lose a ball in the rough on the left of that hole again.
Phoenix made it to a cluster of trees and bushes opposite the pub car park. People had ventured outside and looked across the headland to see what had happened. He heard voices.
“Another cliff fall,” said one customer.
“There was a bang, wasn’t there?” asked another.
“I thought it sounded like a bomb.”
“Around here? Perhaps a WWII mine suddenly broke loose from the seabed and crashed onto the rocks.”
“Good thinking,” muttered Phoenix.
The rain was dripping down the back of his neck now. A car turned into the road leading to the pub. Phoenix stepped out of his hiding-place. The driver flashed his headlights and turned the car around. Phoenix got in. The pub’s customers were staring towards the sea. Nobody noticed them leave.
“Are you patched-in with the ice-house?” asked Phoenix.
“Yes, sir,” said the driver.
“Giles? Can you hear me?”
“Got you, Phoenix. I’m seeing the satellite view of the damage you caused. It’s the least of our worries.”
“Did Rusty not catch up with al-Hamady? What happened?”
“It seems al-Hamady suspected Temple Meads had been compromised. What alerted him, we don’t know. Maybe he expected to see the bomb maker outside the station; to confirm the other two were safe inside. Something altered his plans.”
“He reached Parkway?”
“He was three minutes ahead of Rusty and Hugh. When they arrived, they found his car abandoned. He had entered the station with a knapsack on his back, walked into the main waiting area and detonated whatever device it contained.”
“He realised it was likely he was the only surviving member of the cell, so he committed suicide,” said Phoenix.
“I was listening to the news as I got here,” said the driver, “shall I turn on the radio again?”
Phoenix nodded. This was his worst nightmare. A phone call could have saved these people.
The two men listened to the news as they travelled back to Bath. Every witness interview was a hammer blow to Phoenix.
“I had just reached a ticket window when I saw a flash of yellow light.”
“I never heard an explosion, just glass and masonry falling. There was blood everywhere.”
“All around us people were shouting and screaming.”
“When I arrived, there were people coming out of the station with blood pouring from their wounds.”
“Rescuers are inside now searching for survivors under the rubble.”
A news reporter gave a summary at four o’clock.
“The police officers at the scene of this terrible incident were joined by members of the security services. This was a terrorist attack, carried out by a single person. A Middle-Eastern man in his sixties entered the waiting room, called out in Arabic, and detonated a bomb in a bag on his back. No confirmed link to earlier attacks in London and Edinburgh has been established to date. Investigations will continue. The death toll is over forty so far, with perhaps two hundred injured. The emergency services have been marvellous here this afternoon. Conditions inside the waiting area have been traumatic. The building’s structure sustained severe damage, and yet paramedics and firemen have refused to withdraw despite the concerns of their superiors. Their bravery sends a message to ISIS, or whoever sanctioned this attack. You will never break the indomitable spirit of the British nation. Every minute of the time I’ve spent here at Bristol Parkway I’ve witnessed that spirit at work. It’s humbling.”
“Turn it off,” said Phoenix. They had reached the gates of the estate.
The driver dropped him at the front door. Phoenix climbed the stairs and walked along the corridor to the apartment. Athena and Hope sat together on a settee. She stood and carried their daughter to meet him.
“You should have told me,” she said.
“I didn’t want you to worry. I was perfectly safe,” he replied.
“What more could Rusty have done at Parkway?” asked Athena.
“We knew the Syrian was carrying a bomb. We could have sent a warning.”
“Artemis called me to the ice-house. I went through the timings of every step you and Rusty took during both missions. It was impossible to stop without taking a unilateral decision. Protocol demands I ask permission from Zeus to do something that endangers our security. Any warning risked exposure by admitting we had knowledge that wasn’t shared by the authorities.”
“She told me there wasn’t time,” said Phoenix, “but it still hurts so many died.”
“Hundreds more would have died if you hadn’t killed Mansouri and Harrack.”
“Can we at least raise the matter with Zeus in January?” asked Phoenix, “another occasion could arise. We need a set of conditions that allow us to take that unilateral decision. They can question us on our actions at the next meeting.”
“I have no clue on what his thoughts are on the matter,” replied Athena. “It’s a tough call to make. We will discover in the next twenty-four hours whether our actions today have gone unnoticed.”
Phoenix hugged his wife and daughter. Today had been a trial. Whatever lay ahead for Olympus was uncertain, but if he had these two in his life, he could cope.
CHAPTER 9
Saturday, 11th October 2014
The media spotlight was firmly on Bristol Parkway in the morning. A further sixteen deaths were confirmed overnight. The number of injured had raised to two hundred and thirty-six. Parkway opened in 1972 and was the first in a new generation of park and ride stations. It had become the third busiest station in the West Country after Temple Meads and Bath Spa. After yesterday’s terror attack it would be out of action for weeks.
There were echoes of concerns expressed after Canary Wharf and Edinburgh Waverley. Why didn’t the security services prevent the attack? Thousands of man-hours had been spent poring over the wreckage on those sites. Reams of witness statements were taken. Why wasn’t security at railway stations across the country increased?
The praise for the emergency services continued to feature in every newspaper and on the rolling twenty-four-hour news channels. However, the questions over the bombing campaign mounted.
At Larcombe Manor, the free weekend many hoped for was curtailed. Phoenix looked forward to a pleasant trip to Lymington to get re-acquainted with their yacht, ‘Elizabeth’. After yesterday’s fun and games, he hoped Rusty and Artemis could join them.
Everything changed when Athena called an emergency morning meeting.
“Are we at risk, Giles?” she asked. “Was there anything from yesterday’s actions that could be linked to Olympus?”
“Nothing from Parkway, as our people arrived too late to stop al-Hamady. We may have caused more problems for ourselves if we had been in time. The bomb wasn’t on a timer like the others; witnesses say he activated the trigger himself.”
“Rusty arrived three minutes after al-Hamady,” added Artemis, “he would already have been at Parkway. Even if they caught him outside the building, it’s hard to see how they could have disabled him without being seen.”
“Temple Meads Transport Police didn’t have cause for concern,” said Phoenix, “the bombs never reached there. Unless they realised the Irregulars, Rusty, and Fraser were working as a team, then they would be none the wiser.”
“Which leaves
Portishead,” said Athena, “what’s our position there?”
“Two local TV channels have sent reporters and camera crews to the site,” said Giles. “Rock falls around the coastline are common. Erosion is a big problem. If a hotel or a holiday chalet fall into the sea, it’s headline news for twenty-four hours. Yesterday’s fall is thought to be different. Eye-witnesses report hearing a massive explosion. They’ve cordoned off the area around the site. Experts have said there’s a significant danger of another fall.”
“That’s good news, surely?” said Alastor.
“Phoenix chose a good spot to send the van over the top,” said Artemis, “the only way to view the damage is by boat. I saw nobody on the headland in that awful weather, but a white van was sighted on Beach Hill two minutes before the explosion. The lifeboat was launched at first light this morning to check for signs of a vehicle.”
“I hoped it got buried under the rocks,” said Phoenix.
“The explosive power of those two bombs would have destroyed the van,” said Henry. “Any lightweight wreckage they found floating on the surface could have come from anywhere. The metal components from the van and the bombs would be on the seabed.”
“Spread over a great distance,” added Giles. “Our main concern has to be to deflect attention from the explosion. One eyewitness suggested an old mine hit the rocks.”
“I heard him say that,” said Phoenix. “That’s where we can focus our misinformation. How do we get our hands on another mine to cause a big bang maybe five miles up the coast?”
“eBay,” said Minos.
“It’s not like you to joke over such serious matters, Minos,” said Athena,
“I’m not joking,” he replied. “I saw one for sale the other evening.”
“We won’t pry into what you were looking for, Minos,” said Rusty, “but if it’s still for sale, I suggest we grab it.”
“What other concerns were raised in the media, Giles?” asked Athena.
“We knew there were at least two men involved at Canary Wharf. We noted the apparent disinterest shown by Mansouri and Harrack as they left the area. The surrounding crowds stopped to discuss what happened. The security services had them both on their radar but neither man’s name was ever associated with that attack in the press. Some commentators have found evidence to suggest the same men were at Edinburgh Waverley. The red-tops are concentrating on yesterday’s shocking scenes and the bravery of the paramedics. At the higher end of the profession, investigative journalists are asking why this man acted alone?”
“The authorities have yet to name the suspected bombers of the DLR,” said Artemis. “But, Waverley was at least a three-man attack. The bombs laid by Mansouri and Harrack were supplemented by the female suicide bomber. Amina Badour was identified quickly. The security services should have found a link between Badour and the other two men. She entered the UK with Mansouri. The nature of the attack led us to believe they formed part of a cell even if we couldn’t put a number on how many it contained.”
“With al-Hamady dying alone yesterday,” said Athena, “you’re saying brighter journalists are wondering why there weren’t more bombs and bombers at Parkway?”
“Exactly,” said Giles. “Canary Wharf felt the work of a team, so did Waverley. Unless the team lost members in an attack, such as Badour, there should have been more cell members at Parkway.”
“The last thing we need is for the focus to switch to Portishead,” said Henry Case, “and one loose end that could trigger that is our Afghani bomb maker. I understand the logic behind leaving the body in the house. The ticking bombs became your priority. If they call the police when the body is discovered things may snowball.”
“The Afghani came here legally,” said Rusty, “he owned a property in Hanham, and he drove a brand-new van. There will be a paper trail. An autopsy will show minute traces of the materials he used. They’ll soon put two and two together. That will suggest a link between him and al-Hamady. The cousin that al-Hamady stayed with at Bradley Stoke will be traced. Everything points to Bristol as being the centre of operations for the Parkway attack. Occupants of the house will remember the house guests. Questions will be asked about where they went? Did they kill the Afghani and scarper? Or did someone remove the three terrorists?”
“Did a muppet leave a body behind? said Phoenix, realising how serious a mistake this may have been.
“The bombs stopped you from thinking straight,” said Athena.
“I know this sounds stupid, but I didn’t have a piece of carpet big enough in the conservatory to cover him. Rusty and Hugh came prepared. I couldn’t risk lugging him over my shoulder in daylight.”
“What can we do?” asked Athena.
“As Henry said, we distract attention from Portishead,” said Artemis, “and Giles and I will trace every step our teams took yesterday. We can erase footage here and there. It may prevent the authorities from pinpointing specific vehicles and linking them to both the house in Hanover Street and Parkway.”
“We’ll need a huge slice of luck,” said Phoenix. “Or breaking news that moves the media circus on to the next major story.”
*****
Tyrone O’Riordan didn’t have a yacht. He didn’t often take weekends off either. His mother relaxed in her penthouse while he studied the details of the Grid’s next big job. The Albanian gang provided him with the first draft of their planned bank raid. There seemed to be loads of pages to read. Tyrone had been out to a nightclub last night. He couldn’t drink any more coffee, he was hyper.
He poured himself a large glass of Bushmill’s. Hair of the dog, kill or cure, take your pick.
“There might only be three of them, but they’ve been busy,” Tyrone muttered.
The whiskey helped, but he remained on edge.
His mobile rang. It was his mother.
“I’ve got something you might be interested in,” said Colleen.
A young woman said the same thing to Tyrone last night in the nightclub. That was another reason he found it heavy going this morning. The birds were in full voice when he got home.
“Is it important, Mum?” he asked, “I’m waiting for a call.”
“I’m sure you can spare a few minutes for your mother,” she said, “I’ve got a guest list.”
“Really? From where?”
“The Dorchester, Tyrone. Try to keep up with me. There were photos of a wedding party in the folder you sent me.”
“Oh, so you opened a file on your own, then?”
“Thanks to your instructions, sweetheart. I’ve got them pinned up on the wall behind my computer.”
“Who was on the list?” asked Tyrone, taking more notice.
“Lots of fancy titles, and people from the business and finance world. The crowd in the corner tucked away from the others, they came from a charity. No names on the guest list, just sixteen spaces allocated to the Olympus Project.”
“Have you looked up who they are?” asked Tyrone.
“They’re based outside Bath at a place called Larcombe Manor. It’s a registered charity operating since 2007. They look after ex-servicemen suffering from PTSD. I looked up the Charity Commission reports on them. They’ve passed every inspection, and the results they achieve are amazing.”
Tyrone slapped the tabletop hard. His thumping head protested, but this was a breakthrough.
“You’re a genius,” he cried, “a charity, my ass. What a great cover. All the stories mention them being well-drilled and ruthless. Of course, they are. They use former soldiers, and marines, one hundred per cent fit, mentally and physically.”
“Happy to help, son,” said Colleen.
“We know where they’re based now. The charity reports will tell us how many men they have on-site. I’ll get someone inside their systems in the next week or two, and they can discover what their strength is outside Larcombe Manor.”
“Will that be who this Gonzo character is?” asked Colleen.
“He’s putting a nam
e to the guy with the great-looking woman in that photo,” said Tyrone. “It’s him and his mate we need to get rid of first. I thought I needed to find their van, but I don’t have to pay Gonzo for that, not now. I’ll tell him where and when to look. It will be on a traffic camera on the M4 heading west on the evening of Thursday, the second of October.”
“The Grid will soon remove its only remaining opposition,” said Colleen.
“I’m glad you rang, Mum. You’ve made my day,” said Tyrone, “but I must love you and leave you. I’m expecting an urgent call any minute.”
Tyrone contacted Gonzo via a message board. The dark web hacker had suggested it if Tyrone needed to get in touch with him urgently. The sooner they got the ball rolling, the better.
Tyrone yielded to his legacy of a thumping headache from last night. He had one more glass of Bushmills and took to his bed. The next time he awoke it was seven in the evening. He showered, felt refreshed, and ready to face the rest of the day. When his mobile pinged minutes later, he drew in a deep breath. Was this the news he had been expecting?
The text message was brief but to the point.
“We’re in.”
It came from Aleks Bogdani, the thirty-eight-year-old leader of the Albanian gang.
Earlier today, Tyrone had studied the draft plans for the bank robbery. That was for later. Aleks and his team were now inside a safe-deposit vault. A room that would soon be relieved of a sum of money to make his mother’s eyes water.
Aleks had used a professional make-up artist to disguise their features with latex prosthetics. The three men wore wigs, but Tyrone couldn’t tell from the group photo the cheeky beggars sent him on their phone. They looked like a middle-aged Jewish boy band.
Zamir Tanush was a year older than Aleks. The baby of the group, Januz Goga was a mere thirty-five. This was not their first rodeo. Each man was a seasoned criminal before arriving in the UK. They didn’t come here to work; they came to get rich.