by Ted Tayler
The Gloucestershire coroner dragged himself away from his fading vision of the Captain’s table and caught the last few words of Donald Chambers’s diatribe.
“Hunting takes place in all weathers unless there is a risk of injury to the horses; such as hard or slippery ground. The hunt will always pack up as dusk falls. That morning the conditions under foot were perfect. When I saw Mr. Faversham riding by me on the far side of the field he was going at a full sprint.”
At the back of the court, a well-dressed observer, with a military bearing, sat listening intently. Major Michael Purvis had not suffered at the hands of Jeremy Faversham. He was enjoying a day away from Larcombe Manor. Alastor took note of every tick in every box of the due process that a coroner’s inquest was designed to take. In time, he would deliver a detailed report to Erebus and his colleagues in the Olympus Project. It would show that after the coroner’s considered deliberation the death of Jeremy Faversham was an accident; no more and no less.
Once again, the meticulous planning and first-class execution that typified the work of Phoenix and his fellow Olympus agents had turned up trumps. Those two hundred clients might only retrieve a small proportion of the monies they lost. Even so, Jeremy Faversham would never have his hand in the till again.
After the banker met his maker in the copse overlooking Downend Farm, the people out on such a lovely morning carried on their business. The Master of the Hunt arrived at The Old Bell Inn together with his Field Master. They were not the first to arrive. Several dozen riders, both men, and women, milled around in the car park and on the approach road to the seventeenth-century watering hole.
Whether on foot, leading their mounts towards horseboxes, or still up and milling around in warm equestrian conversation, the scene that greeted the Master was redolent of that which had greeted his predecessors over the centuries. This idyllic moment was soon spoiled, as the riders were joined by hordes of so-called supporters and the noisy arrival of a rag-tag army of saboteurs.
The Master knew that close to a hundred riders had ridden with him today; many already making their way home, scattered abroad in the lanes and tracks across the shire. The social side of hunting had been so much more agreeable when he rode as a boy. These days there were so many oiks who followed the field, in their flat caps and wax jackets. Oiks who drove like idiots, squeezed into their people carriers, with no affiliation to country pursuits to any great degree and no respect for the countryside. They worked in towns and cities from Monday to Friday and played at being country folk at the weekends.
The saboteurs that pestered his hunt were mild by comparison with those of the crowd that followed the horses in the neighbouring county. Last year, a hooded thug attacked a fellow Master during a hunt trying to drag him from his horse. Later in the day, as the Master prepared for the drive home with his horse and hounds in the lorry, a group of masked men set upon him with baseball bats leaving him on the ground unconscious.
So far, the local saboteurs were only guilty of the more run of the mill crime of trespassing. Those still involved in hunting across the country knew that the police were reluctant to get involved. Fair to say, seven years on from the hunting ban coming into force, the sadistic sport of the hunt saboteurs was as popular as ever. The hunts do not generally get much help from the police when they are under attack from hunt saboteurs. Whether they are blowing a hunting horn to get hounds to run onto main roads, or launching vicious attacks on humans.
The Master dismounted and joined a group of familiar friends. A strong drink would be welcome over the coming hour. The food on offer in this wonderful old country inn would take away the bad taste the unsavoury elements they attracted these days left in the mouth.
“Hello there.” he called to the small crowd of riders “Has everyone returned safe and sound?”
“There’s no sign of Faversham as yet.”
There were a few sniggers and negative comments whispered among the banker’s fellow hunters. He was not as popular as he imagined. Jeremy Faversham had lived locally for many years on his vast country estate, but he was not entirely ‘one of us’. He splashed his money around, or more correctly as it turned out other people’s money. Several of the hunt supporters who were now having a go at him had been happy to be in his company when his largesse extended to buying rounds for everyone in the bar.
“I expect that poor horse of his protested at the extra weight Faversham expected him to carry,” someone shouted.
An hour or two later as the hunt’s staff left the Old Bell Inn car park and off the grass verges by the side of the road. Meanwhile, back in the copse overlooking Downend Farm, the emergency services had arrived, summoned by a woman out walking her dogs.
Wayne Saunders had seen Jeremy Faversham riding past. He was supposed to be concentrating his attention on the main pack of riders well in front of the banker. Faversham’s face had been in the media so much that Wayne recognised him at once. “Arrogant bastard!” he thought as the banker galloped towards the copse.
As soon as his mind was back on the hunt, he reflected on how things had gone so far that morning. The rest of his fellow ‘sabs’ had done everything he asked of them. There was no sign of the local press providing much of a presence, so they shelved a banner demo on this occasion. His instructions had been to mingle and chat briefly with the supporters, acting the part of followers. This helped find out which way the hunt was likely to be going. Several of them were to spray their hand with Intimate and to pat the hounds if they could get close enough to rub it well into their coats.
As the hunt progressed, Wayne had kept an eye out for the police; he spotted a couple of cars, but they were well away from the action. They seemed to be waiting for the saboteurs to regroup by their vans and cars to move away after the hunt finished. Wayne was happy about that; it meant they would not be blocked in by hunt supporters trying to score a cheap point after having the saboteurs sniping at them throughout their so-called ‘sport’.
Wayne had headed towards Downend Farm on foot, after the few riders that were not now cooling off after their workout. As usual, he kept his eyes peeled. He did not want to get too close to the riders; they knew him too well. He also steered clear of confrontation with the followers, the beaters, and the rest, just in case a few of them turned nasty. As his eyes had darted from side to side for danger, he idly wondered where Jeremy Faversham had got to. He looked over his shoulder towards the copse. He could see no sign of any horse and rider. Surely, he must be through the spinney by now, he thought, but looking ahead towards Downend Farm he could not pick out the portly banker among the handful of riders he saw.
Wayne Saunders had met up with his colleagues and they carried on making themselves unpopular with the hunting fraternity. They sounded their horns, shouted, and protested about the continued existence of the hunt, even in its much-altered state since the ban. The whereabouts of Jeremy Faversham soon became the last thing on his mind.
When the news of the banker’s death reached him, via a local radio news broadcast, Wayne remembered one odd thing that morning. As he had glanced over his shoulder towards the woods, he spotted a few walkers. On reflection, it was a strange place from which to be viewing the hunt. Wayne was not sure now whether they had been regular supporters or the casual brigade from town. They wore dark clothing, hooded jackets, and balaclavas. As he had looked towards them, to a man they cast their eyes down or to the side so that Wayne did not see one of their faces. The man at the back carried something in a canvas cover, around two metres long. In that few seconds, he surveyed the scene behind him, the image of a surfboard had leapt into Wayne’s mind. He had discounted that straight away as being just plain daft.
When he read the inquest verdict in the local press later, Wayne remembered that group of strangers and the item one of them had been carrying. He could not fathom what it meant. There were other foxhunts to follow and saboteurs to recruit; Wayne Saunders forgot all about Jeremy Faversham, the woods near Downen
d Farm and the surfboard.
CHAPTER 3
Colin and Rusty had met up with members of the clean-up crew in a lane on the opposite side of the farm from the road leading to The Old Bell Inn. They could not partake of the sumptuous spread that the Master and his friends were soon to be tucking into after their morning exercise.
Colin knew that before that food and drink had time to settle in their digestive systems, they would hear the news filtering through on Jeremy Faversham. He knew that their mission had been one hundred percent successful. The whispers and the rumours would creep around the walls and low ceilings of the old coaching inn, bouncing off the brasses and the pictures of hunting scenes.
Long before the horses, dogs, and 4x4s returned to their various paddocks, kennels, and garages, their owners would have learned of the death of the crooked financier. A man who robbed around two hundred unsuspecting, innocent investors of their hard earned cash. Colin Bailey would lose no sleep over his passing; he did not imagine many others would either.
The Olympus agents climbed into plain vans with tinted windows they had parked on the quiet stretch of countryside. They moved off without fanfare and merged with the lunchtime traffic. The trip back to Larcombe was uneventful and just over an hour later they drove between the stone pillars and negotiated the winding driveway that led to the Olympus headquarters.
“Home Sweet Home,” muttered Rusty.
“Another day, another dollar.” chipped in one of the clean-up crew from the back of the leading van.
“Another day, another dead villain.” said Colin quietly.
“Amen to that.” said Rusty.
The agents left the vans with the transport section and walked across to the old stable block. This was where the staff had their quarters. After a brief conversation and the removal of the communication devices they had been wearing, several of the crew went over to the icehouse. They returned the kit to the store and handed back the camouflaged commando to the lads in the indoor firing range. The subject of the conversation had been food. Thinking of the Old Bell Inn and the good food it offered had made everyone hungry.
Colin and Rusty were out of luck. The rest of the crew headed for the canteen in the terraced cottages where the estate workers lived many years ago. They made for the orangery. Colin phoned Erebus and told him they were back from the Cotswolds mission and ready to be debriefed. The elderly gentleman was ready for them. He saw the vans coming up the drive and had already walked over from the manor house to their usual meeting place.
The three men met in the orangery. Erebus had anticipated his two agents’ needs. A large pot of coffee and three cups stood on a tray on the table between them, and another plate piled high with bacon rolls.
“Dig in chaps,” said Erebus enthusiastically. “I’ve eaten my lunch, but after a fresh morning’s exercise in the country, I expect you both need something appetising.”
Rusty and Colin tried to express their gratitude without losing any of the roll, butter, and bacon they were devouring.
“While you two are catching your breath, I’ll just recap today’s events and you just nod in the right places.”
Erebus went through the agreed itinerary for that morning’s direct action; when he looked over the top of his glasses to confirm that a specific objective was met as planned, Colin and Rusty nodded. Eventually, Colin could reassure his leader that thanks to the fieldwork they did beforehand, the morning had gone without a hitch.
The old man sat drinking his cup of coffee, deep in thought. Colin and Rusty knew the meeting was not over yet; Erebus wanted to share something with them. They had learned to read him well over the time they worked for the Olympus Project. Erebus was deciding how much he should reveal.
After a few minutes, which the two agents filled by further demolishing the food on their plate and washing it down with a second cup of coffee, Erebus began to speak.
“It is common knowledge among our country’s intelligence chiefs, that it will be practically impossible to prevent a well-planned terrorist attack on mainland Britain. As we learned earlier this year, the most likely target for suicide bombers is the upcoming Olympic Games in London. Our own section here at Larcombe Manor supports this view without reservation.
A secret government report on possible threats from Al-Qaeda and other Islamic terrorist organizations indicates a conservative estimate of the deployment of as many as two hundred terrorists. In reality, the threat is likely to be much greater. The influence of homegrown terrorists is of even greater concern.
Despite the deaths last year of Bin Laden and Al Awlaki, their organization is still strong. The terrorists are developing new measures for the new countermeasures that MI5 and MI6 have devised. They are more security aware. They will avoid wearing certain types of clothing and overtly pray before carrying out a suicide attack because they know the police will watch for those types of signs.
The London Games will be subject to the biggest security operation in our nation’s history. The highly patrolled sporting venues and stadia are unlikely targets. Public transport will certainly be an option for them, as will the more isolated venues. We will need to be watchful. We must not under-estimate the internal threat. We know that recruitment and radicalisation are rife within our prison system. The internal threat is growing more dangerous. Extremists are conducting non-lethal training without ever leaving the country. We can no longer expect to track potential terrorists by monitoring passenger manifests between this country and Pakistan. Should these people evolve into suicide bombers, our umbrella of intelligence resources would struggle to find them on any radar screen.”
Erebus had sat forward in his chair as he addressed the two agents. He now sat back and looked closely at them.
“This could prove to be the toughest nut we’ve had to crack so far gentlemen.”
Colin sighed.
“What are you thinking Phoenix?” Erebus asked.
“I dislike nuts, Sir.”
Rusty nearly choked on the last bacon roll. Erebus merely placed his cup back onto the tray and rose from his chair.
“Well done this morning gentlemen. We will have to wait until the inevitable ‘accidental death’ verdict from the Gloucestershire coroner. Provided there are no complications, we can then draw a line under the Jeremy Faversham case. Rest up this afternoon chaps; I’ll see you both later at the meeting.”
“A meeting, sir?” said Colin.
“Ah, you haven’t seen the message I sent you this morning. You can catch up with things after you return to your quarters. Time is ticking ever onwards. August will be upon us before we know it and we must devise our plans post-haste. This evening will see the start of that process.”
Erebus left them in the orangery. As Colin and Rusty finished the last of the pot of coffee, they chatted over the likely themes of any plans that Olympus might conjure up to combat the terrorist threat. Erebus had been right. It was a difficult nut to crack. London was going to be teeming with people of all nationalities. Identifying potential threats would be extremely difficult. The Olympus Project agents were familiar with the task. Security around the Olympics would involve so many other agencies, possibly even the armed forces. It could easily become a case of ‘too many cooks’.
“We’ll be bumping into one another at every turn,” said Rusty “this is will be a nightmare mate.”
One of the stewards that populated the large manor house, and with a secondary role as an agent in times of trouble, came into the orangery to remove the tray and the crockery. Colin and Rusty took that as a signal to return to their quarters. Erebus wanted them fully rested and alert for the meeting this evening.
Colin checked his e-mails and read them. Sure enough, the ‘invite’ from Erebus to the meeting was there. So too were various updates on intelligence surrounding a couple of cases that Colin would be involved in over the weeks before the Games. A mother had reported her daughter missing in Oxford, but the authorities were somewhat slow in resp
onding. There was a note about the potential transfer of prisoners from one high-security prison to another. Colin was interested in that one in particular. Who was likely to be on the passenger list? He filed both items away and then opened a series of messages from Athena.
“Are you free?”
“Would you like company?”
“Why aren’t you answering, is there something wrong?
Colin delayed replying to these until after he had been to the pool. A few dozen lengths exercise was what he needed; he had spent too much time standing around on the damp ground in the countryside and cooped up in that blessed van for his liking. When he got back, he was dog-tired and lay on his bunk with the intention of taking a nap. Colin forgot Athena and her messages; he slept until Rusty knocked and stuck his head around his door.
“Come on mate! We need to be somewhere.”
When they entered the drawing room for the meeting, Erebus was once again deep in conversation with Henry Case. The old man nodded to acknowledge the arrival of the agents.
The others filed into the room soon afterwards. Minos and Thanatos walked in together as usual; Athena followed them and just behind her came Alastor. Several of the more senior ex-SAS operatives attended too.
Erebus looked around the room to check everyone was ready. Satisfied that they were, he asked Henry Case to go through the events of the past few weeks.
“As we agreed at our last summit meeting, the radicalised students involved in the Euston Station caper were dropped off at the service station near Spaghetti Junction. We have monitored their movements since that time and at present, no direct action is required.”