by Ted Tayler
Gold, Silver, and Bombs
(The second novel in ‘The Phoenix’ series)
By
Ted Tayler
Copyright © 2015 by Ted Tayler
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.
All rights are reserved. You may not reproduce this work, in part or in its entirety, without the express written permission of the author.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Other books by Ted Tayler
We’d Like To Do A Number Now (Aug 2011)
The Final Straw (May 2013)
A Sting In The Tale (Oct 2013)
Unfinished Business (Mar 2014)
The Olympus Project (Dec 2014)
Where to find him
Website & Blog: - http://tedtayler.co.uk
Facebook Author Page: - https://facebook.com/EdwardCTayler
Twitter: - https://twitter.com/ted_tayler
About The Author
Ted Tayler was born in Corsham, Wiltshire in 1945 and moved to Melksham in 1950. He began singing with local bands in 1963 and managed to combine travelling around the country with holding down a full-time job. His love of all types of music spans over fifty years.
Ted is now retired and lives with Lynne, his wife of over forty years. They have three children in their thirties and four grandchildren. His book of memories from those years singing with bands 'We'd Like to do a Number Now' (Aug 2011) sold moderately well and reunited the members of the last group he sang with. It also led to a reunion gig (Nov 2012) which due to the others musical and work commitments proved to be a ‘one-off.’ One month later, Ted decided to occupy his mind elsewhere and wondered whether he could write fiction, as well as a good yarn about the old days.
His first novel 'The Final Straw' contained murders, music, sex, and comedy and explored the dilemma - could YOU love a serial killer? 'The Final Straw' was voted 'Quality Reads UK - Best Book Ever' (Sept 2013).
While his first book was ‘on tour’ during that summer Ted produced a collection of a dozen short stories entitled 'A Sting in the Tale' (Nov 2013) and which included stories from different genres, all with a twist in the final pages.
As his first work of fiction received such a positive response, the sequel to ‘The Final Straw’ just had to follow and ‘Unfinished Business' duly arrived (Mar 2014). This continued the story of Colin Bailey the stone cold killer as he returned to the UK with more scores to settle.
‘The Olympus Project’ (Dec 2014) was the first book in a new series where the main character 'The Phoenix' has been enlisted by a secret organisation which sends its operatives across the world removing anyone who poses a threat to political or economic stability. The main action of that story centred on a group of radicalised British Muslims who were tasked with creating havoc in Central London through a coordinated suicide bomb attack on the London Underground.
In ‘Gold, Silver and Bombs’ The Olympus Project and their operatives, with ‘The Phoenix’ now fully integrated into their organisation, have a series of threats to remove. Their biggest challenge, however, will come in August 2012 when security measures will be tested to breaking point during the London Olympics.
Acknowledgements
The love and support of my family, without them this would have been impossible.
CHAPTER 1
Jeremy Faversham sat astride his favourite animal. His beloved hunter Bonus Magnet was part Irish Draught, part English thoroughbred. Standing at seventeen hands and eight years old, Jeremy knew he had been a good find. On a brisk January morning, he could think of nowhere he would want to be than in the saddle, hacking across the glorious Cotswold countryside. He was among friends. The cares, and stresses of the working world far, far away.
No two foxhunts were ever alike. The continuous chaos of the chase appealed to him. Jeremy knew he must be on constant alert, and he rigidly stuck to the centuries old protocols and accept the inevitable uncertainty.
Foxhunting was a way of life rather than a mere sport, Jeremy reflected, as he negotiated a tricky downhill slope. Over the years, it had framed his life. While he worked in the City at the bank, he often caught himself viewing his financial experiences in a hunting context.
Just like himself, the fox was a predator. Jeremy Faversham might have appeared to be the country gentleman, suitably attired for the occasion, but there were skeletons in the closet. Those skeletons attracted several groups of people. People from those groups now watched the banker as he made his way across open ground towards Downend Farm.
The Phoenix was one such man who had a pair of field glasses fixed on the edge of the copse. He was not only following the banker’s progress. Phoenix kept an eye on the hunt saboteurs too, who lurked in the cover of the trees. From time to time, he switched his attention to the hunt followers. At least having a moving target eased the boredom.
“Everything going as planned?” whispered Colin.
“Faversham’s heading in the right direction,” replied Rusty, a few hundred yards further ahead. He watched events unfold on the opposite side of the field.
“I’ll keep tabs on the great unwashed and the hunt supporters; try to make sure they don’t interfere” Colin replied “although, it’s good to have them on the scene. It will muddy the waters when they investigate the accident.”
“Roger that” replied Rusty “I’ll move ahead and confirm the equipment is in the correct positioned. I’ll double check too that our clean-up crew are alert and poised to move in as soon as our target is down.”
The Olympus agents resumed their duties; communication needed to be kept to a minimum on a mission. There were too many different parties scattered across this small corner of the West Country, each with their own agenda. The days when the hunting crowd had these fields and woods to themselves and their sport were long gone.
Donald Chalmers had worked at Downend Farm for over fifty years. He went straight from school to work on the land. He was now retired and living in a cottage a half a mile from where he stood. He had been part of the hunting scene in these parts the whole of his life. Donald’s wife Catherine passed away seven years ago and they had no children to help fill the cottage with warmth and laughter. Instead, they spent much of their lives outdoors; they enjoyed the companionship of and worked with horses and dogs every day. An uncomplicated style of country living that was fast disappearing.
Donald had risen early, just as he did every morning of his working life. Nothing had changed. He saw no reason to stay in bed now he was retired. He had walked across from his cottage to this spot, his usual vantage point. A place he occupied on dozens of occasions. A spot he knew would give him a glimpse of his old life. He might not be in the midst of the action anymore. But he could tell anyone who listened what was what.
As he had made his way slowly up the path to the step over the fence, the trees thinned out. Donald spotted a small gathering of watchers huddled against each other by the fencing. Dressed for sitting in their cars rather than standing on a chilly stretch of Cotswold countryside in the early morning. Donald smiled to himself. Not because of their discomfort, but because he knew it was almost certain he had an audience.
Donald nodded a greeting as heads turned to acknowledge his arrival.
“Hello there,” he said, “shall we see good sport today do you think?”
Few intelligent comments came in response to his question. Donald knew his educational commentary would fall on virgin territory. These were townsfolk trying to experience a slice of true country life, without getting thei
r brand new boots dirty or any snags from thorns or branches in their fashionable jackets. Thank goodness, he had not stumbled upon a group of bloody saboteurs. If they found his favourite spot, he would have to walk another mile to get as good a viewing point.
Donald started to tell his unwitting students of the fox and his many attributes. “A fox can sense changes in temperature, a subtle change in the speed of the wind; he knows the lie of the land, he knows accurately the distances between strategic points. Mr. Fox knows who you are and who I am. He can tell the difference between when a human being is wearing hunt kit and when they are not.”
Donald pointed to the far left-hand side of the field. “Can you see the way the land drops away sharply over yonder? If they have picked him up, the fox will head for there. We will see him dart over the brow of the hill. When he reaches the bottom level, he will have earned himself time. The hunters will be slow negotiating the steep descent and the hounds will fall back a touch. Mr. Fox will dash into the woods and into a covert. He could emerge in a while and go down to the stream, or he might lie low for an hour or two. By the time the hounds re-discover his scent, he will be long gone. He will stroll back to his den at his leisure. If they are lucky and keep on him then he will take them further on into the woods. He understands that the hunter is at a huge disadvantage on rough terrain. Not every pack of hounds can negotiate the thick clinging undergrowth they will find in there. You mark my words; the fox decides when the chase has ended; not the hunter or the hounds.”
Donald took his hip flask from his inside pocket and took a swig. The fire of the brandy warmed him as it made its way down his throat. He basked in the glow of admiration from his students who had soon recognised they were accompanied by a real countryman. They resumed their vigil in silence.
A little further on, closer to the sounds of the approaching hunt, Wayne Saunders had his own set of binoculars. He was checking on his other saboteurs, making sure they were in the ideal spot to disrupt proceedings. Wayne had been at this game for a decade. Wayne got involved while at Bristol University, although in truth he had not needed much persuading. When the ban came into force, they thought they had won. Seven years later, they were more active than ever.
Wayne knew that most hunts understood exactly which woods harboured fox-cubs. Patches of wood or brush, owned and protected by hunt supporters, were where the fox might have their litter. Many foxes stayed in the same coverts from generation to generation. Wayne and his cronies had learned this and kept records of which woods to police and which to ignore.
A lot of the saboteurs’ work went on before the meet even started. One of the best methods was to pre-spray. Wayne delegated that job. He did it when he was a rookie, but it meant getting up early and Wayne was no fool. As this was one of the first meets of the season he had several ‘sabs’ out in the fields ready to start blowing horns and calling. This blowing and calling designed to confuse any new hounds and try to wrest control of the pack from the huntsman.
This morning he asked his rookies to lay a few false trails too. So if the dogs became interested in the false trail, then they could increase the blowing and shouting. Wayne had seen this tactic work on several occasions and soon he would see whether their preparation paid dividends.
Jeremy Faversham still galloped in pursuit of the bulk of the mounted field. He was not a fit and healthy young man any longer. There had been too many executive lunches and fine dining at evenings and weekends for that. His horse was sound and keen as mustard, but the extra weight he carried meant that Jeremy was way off the pace these days.
A large part of the field, who paid their subs or ‘cap’ money on the day for a good ride across the countryside, rarely saw a kill or the hounds at work. The majority cared little for the technicalities of hunting and the Field Master kept them in the background until the hounds were well on the fox’s scent. Only at the death would they be encouraged to follow on at close quarters.
The overweight banker and Bonus Magnet were nearing the woods. Each rider had their own particular route through familiar parts of the ground over which they were hunting. Jeremy had used the same approach many times. This path led to the five-barred gate and access to the scrubby bushes and trees lining the wooden fencing that indicated the boundary to Downend Farm.
The Phoenix and his Olympus colleagues were aware of this route too. They had studied Jeremy Faversham for months. Jeremy would take the easy route and thread his way slowly through the trees and bushes until he reached the far side of the woods. As he lost the momentum that his gallop provided, then he dismounted, opened the gate, and led his horse into the next field. He would close the gate behind him and set off once more.
This less dangerous shortcut often brought Jeremy closer to the action, while many of his companions risked life and limb trying to jump fences and fallen trees. On other occasions if the fox led the pack in a different direction, then Jeremy was one of the last to arrive back at The Old Bell Inn. The place where riders and followers gathered.
Bonus Magnet gamely galloped onwards. The gate was now clearly visible. Jeremy and his horse were quite alone; isolated from the main bunch of riders by physique and design in equal parts. Bonus Magnet weighed up the obstacle. He recognised its construction and its size. To clear this gate would not be a test for him. Landing on the other side with his rider thumping back into the saddle after the exhilarating leap; that was another matter.
There were two strides to the gate. Suddenly there was a noise. There was something on the other side. No, not something, someone; in his final seconds, Jeremy Faversham saw a figure spring up from the bushes. His brain tried frantically to process what it was as he catapulted forward out of the saddle.
Bonus Magnet had cleared the gate but crumpled on landing. The poor horse had spotted something that appeared to be materialising out of the ground, just where he intended his front hooves to land. Naturally, the horse’s brain could not compute what he saw. Jeremy realised that it was a commando in camouflaged combat gear pointing a rifle straight at him.
Both Jeremy Faversham and Bonus Magnet were fatally injured. The Olympus clean-up crew rose from their hiding places in the nearby bushes without a sound. They removed the cardboard commando, so familiar on the firing range back at Larcombe Manor. Together with the spring mechanism that released him at the precise moment Bonus Magnet prepared for take-off. The crew eliminated any evidence that there had been anyone else in this part of the woods, apart from the stricken banker and his horse. Once their task was finished, they disappeared as quickly and as quietly as they had arrived.
CHAPTER 2
The news of the infamous banker’s death covered the front page of every newspaper. There were features on every television news bulletin. Although nobody openly celebrated Jeremy Faversham’s death, his infamous financial dealings had blackened his character. More tears were shed over the death of Bonus Magnet than over the demise of the wealthy banker.
There were pictures of his four-hundred-acre estate in Gloucestershire. The weekend supplements contained full details of his ski chalet in Chamonix and his pied a terre in South Kensington. The red tops concentrated on the complete chapter and verse of the scale of his salary, share options, and recent bonuses. Every part of Jeremy Faversham’s life exposed for the world to see.
The media circus moved out of town within days, on to the next big news item. For those people who watched more intently, gradually the picture became clearer.
A few newspapers carried a report of the autopsy for Bonus Magnet. The eight-year-old thoroughbred died from head and neck trauma because of an acute fall. No medical evidence could be found that might have caused the animal to suddenly collapse. The saddle and tack appeared to be in position and firmly secured. The coroner determined that the horse lost foot control during a high-speed gallop and Bonus Magnet’s death was an accident.
In due course, the inquest into Jeremy Faversham’s demise took place at the Gloucester Coroner’s Court.
The Medical Examiner’s report showed that the banker broke his right collarbone and suffered multiple skull fractures. The Master of the Hunt told the court Jeremy had been an experienced and enthusiastic rider for many years. The coroner looked around the sparsely populated room. He recognised the banker’s family and friends; he spotted a few local reporters. The other people in the room might have been from the national press. He could not tell. Considering what a swine this Faversham had been it was a surprise not to see more faces.
After all, Jeremy Faversham was involved in committing a fraud that almost led to the collapse of a bank in the City of London. That fraud cost investors millions of pounds. Investors such as Mr. Michael Kent, the Gloucester coroner. Much of the forty million pounds Faversham raised from two hundred odd clients at his private investment firm had been lost. He had allegedly misspent and embezzled twelve million. Michael Kent wanted to dance on this man’s grave. Kent wished he had a bigger audience to watch him do it. Individuals need to be held responsible for their actions, he thought, they had to know the real consequences of their behaviour. It was no good the Government bailing out these banks; that would not give sufficient incentive for them to mend their ways. They needed banging-up in jail! Locked up for a bloody long time and throw away the key.
As Michael Kent listened to an old codger called Chalmers rambling on about what he saw that morning, he mused on the prospects for his old age. He had been looking forward to retirement. He had been looking through the glossy brochures for the cruise ships. Michael Kent was a confirmed bachelor. He had a close circle of friends, who bored him to tears. He had toyed with the idea of selling up and seeing out his time on a series of ships. What could be better? Travel broadens the mind and every couple of weeks he would have new companions at the dinner table. That seemed an attractive proposition until Jeremy Faversham had his sticky fingers on Michael’s expanding pension pot and it disappeared without a trace.