by Ted Tayler
Khadim had prepared for this. He pushed forward.
“Is it not disrespectful enough you hold these Games during Ramadan? You also want to manhandle my female companion and me; this is discrimination.”
Seconds later, Khadim, Shamila and several of the people in the queue behind had been rushed through the gate and onto the sands. The crowds still milled around. There was a real buzz within the Live Site and Khadim was now where he wanted to be.
Shamila lost sight of him in the scramble to find a spare piece of sand; she stood fifteen yards to his right, surrounded by happy smiling people, waving flags. Everyone was jostling her and she got a few stern looks and an elbow in the ribs when she tried to push her way towards her man.
It was 11:57
Colin and Brad were still edging their way through the traffic in Stratford, inching their way further away from the Westfield. Giles contacted Brad.
“I’ve got an update on the students. Farooq Habibi, the video star, and Aaleyah Fayad attend London Metropolitan and Queen Mary University respectively. They have known associates. Habibi is a member of the Islamic Society at university and is believed to have been recruited by Munaf Mansoor. Fayad was friendly with Abdul Bashir at QMU. Mansoor and Bashir are Games Makers volunteering at Greenwich Park. Both signed in as normal this morning.”
“Greenwich Park?” asked Brad.
“What about Greenwich Park? Colin asked.
It was 11:58.
“It could be trouble,” said Brad.
On the beach, Khadim Salah was anxiously waiting for the clock to reach noon.
Jack Mould was breathing slowly and steadily.
Kelly Dexter was in the driver’s seat of the van; sat alongside her was Hayden Vincent.
The ‘Samaritans’ logo on the sides of the van persuaded a warden to let them park on The Esplanade for fifteen minutes.
“Don’t let me find you here when I walk back along mind,” she said.
“Don’t worry, you won’t. Thank you for being a star,” Kelly had replied.
The view from the van was perfect. Jack waited.
“Do you have a clear shot, Jelly?” asked Hayden.
“Affirmative,” replied Jelly.
“Whenever you’re ready,” said Hayden.
At Greenwich Park, Spider-Man texted Roadrunner, Popeye, and Olive Oyl.
He pressed send.
“632”
Khadim Salah knew nothing of Munaf Mansoor and his coded signals. He was on his own timetable. He edged his hand towards the buttons of his tunic. It was time to trigger the bomb. Khadim’s hand trembled but he held his nerve.
Roadrunner was the only one to receive the call from Spider-Man. The phones belonging to Popeye and Olive Oyl rang but no one answered.
One of Brad’s crew alerted him from the rear of the van and relayed the message.
“I wonder what ‘632’ stood for?” said Brad.
Colin took a look at his watch. It was almost twelve.
“Boom?” he said.
The big screens at Weymouth broke away from showing events at sea; there was a lull in the racing. They switched to Greenwich Park for an update on the Grand Prix dressage.
Jelly Mould saw Khadim Salah tense. His rifle was pointing through a modified air vent on the side of the van. At this distance, he could not miss. He fired.
Shamila was moving to her left, still trying to push her way through the crowds to get back to Khadim. It was slow going. She spotted him. His head exploded. Shamila collapsed to her knees screaming. Blind panic replaced the happy atmosphere, as people desperately tried to escape, anywhere away from the nearly headless body, which stained the golden sands. Dozens of people were hurt in the stampede.
Two pairs of hands scooped Shamila Javed up from the sand and got her up the steps and onto The Esplanade. She was bundled into the back of the van. Hayden Vincent joined her and Jack Mould on the inside.
Kelly Dexter pulled away from the kerb and threaded her way through the traffic as it slowed to a crawl. Drivers ahead of her desperate to discover what had caused the commotion on the beach.
The stretch of beach that was home to the Live Site lay deserted, apart from Khadim’s body and his jacket bomb.
In minutes, the police, the emergency services, and men in suits from the secret service were descending on The Esplanade like flies.
The big screen still showed images from Greenwich Park.
Spider-Man and Roadrunner had moved into their agreed positions at either end of one of the open stands. They had set their timers to twelve noon.
Therese Slater sat near the end of the row with an empty seat beside her, watching the latest competitor in the ring.
She had almost given up on Colin.
Therese felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.
Both bombs detonated.
It was carnage.
The police, the emergency services, the men in suits, the holidaymakers, and former Olympics’ spectators, plus the security staff on the gates at Weymouth stared at the big screens.
The only person not watching the scenes from Greenwich Park was Khadim Salah.
CHAPTER 23
Colin looked at his phone. It was 12:02.
“Message still not delivered,” he said to no one in particular.
“With the mayhem going on around Stratford, it’s no big surprise if the mobile system goes into meltdown. Just think of New Year’s Eve,” said Brad.
“I sent a text to Greenwich Park,” said Colin.
“Hang on,” said Brad “Giles has got something… fuck. Say again?”
Colin sat staring straight ahead, as Brad listened to Giles.
“Two suicide bombers have hit Greenwich Park, several dead, dozens of seriously injured, a hundred or more walking wounded. The only good news is that they got the bomber in Weymouth. They had to shoot him on the beach, in amongst ten thousand people, but at least, he didn’t get a chance to detonate his bomb.
“Each event at twelve o’clock and the icehouse still say they were unconnected?”
Colin seethed. He wanted to reach Greenwich Park. He tried Therese again.
“Can we get over to Greenwich?” he asked Brad.
“We can try,” he replied “but it will be chaos; like this place. I can’t see us getting near mate, sorry. I reckon I should head for home; drop my urchins in the back in a safe house in Chiswick with my lads. Larcombe can decide what to do with them after this mess. I can drop you at the nearest tube station.”
“We’ve only moved a half mile in this traffic jam, Brad, I’ll run back to Stratford; take my chances that the trains are running. The DLR will take me via West Ham over to Cutty Sark from what I remember. I’ll be heading in the right direction. Drop me here. Cheers. It was almost good working with you again.”
“Cheers, Phoenix, I hope you find who or what you’re looking for safe at Greenwich mate.”
Colin was already running along the pavement. Why was he so concerned about Therese? Did he feel guilty? She had been desperate to see him. He could not have left to meet up with her while the situation was as it was at the Westfield.
He thought of the young girl in the café too. Had she made it to the hospital in time? The trains were running. He had more time to be alone with his thoughts as the train journey began.
It was 12:20
Shamila Javed had stopped screaming. Kelly Dexter negotiated the traffic jam around the docks and floored it on the relief road. They were in Yeovil in thirty-five minutes. The Bournemouth clean-up crew were going home; they could do nothing now. Athena’s backup plan would have to come into play.
Kelly dropped Jack Mould off at home. As she headed for the Frome turning off the College roundabout Jack was cleaning his rifle. Soon he was ready to put his kit away in the loft until the next occasion that Olympus needed someone taken out. Jelly cracked open a can of lager and sat in his conservatory. He wasn’t particularly happy with his work today. Far too easy, like shooting fish
in a barrel.
Hayden Vincent glanced at his watch. It was 13:00.
He gazed at Shamila Javed sat opposite him. The young girl was in shock, no doubt about it.
Hayden spoke to her quietly. He explained to her about Khadim’s training in Pakistan. He said that he had used her as a cover because the authorities would not suspect a young couple. Shamila listened and sobbed. She was so ashamed. What would her family think of her? Those nights when she ached for Khadim to come to her bedroom and they slept alone. She had believed it was because he loved and respected her he stayed away. What a foolish young girl she was.
Hayden knew that after Frome, Kelly would go on to Bath to drop Shamila off with Henry Case at Larcombe. It would be a while before Shamila saw her family again.
Colin soon discovered that the train service had been caught up in the mayhem of Stratford and Greenwich. It was after one o’clock when Colin arrived at Cutty Sark. The scene as he walked across towards Romney Road was a mirror image of the Westfield. There were emergency services and police everywhere. An army bomb disposal unit had arrived and helicopters circled overhead. There was a HEMS helicopter on the Olympic dressage arena, ready to pick up another casualty.
There was no way he could get near the stands. They had been turned into a mangled heap of wood and metal.
He rang Therese again.
There was no reply.
A St John Ambulance man walked towards him; his face pale and drawn.
“How many died?” Colin asked.
“Seven confirmed deaths; a few looked bad when they put them in the ambulances. They have been working on one woman over there for a while now. It doesn’t look good. She’s a fighter, though.”
Colin ran in the direction that the man had pointed. There were half a dozen people surrounding a body on the ground. A doctor, or a paramedic, was tending to her. Colin pushed through the protesting voices. He barely recognised Therese.
Another man in blood-stained scrubs caught Colin’s arm. Colin looked at him. The man shook his head solemnly.
Colin sank to his knees. Therese opened her eyes, her eyelids fluttered. She struggled to speak.
“Took your time,” she said hoarsely. Her eyelids fluttered once more and she was gone.
“I’m sorry,” said the doctor “I have no idea how your wife hung on this long with her injuries. It was obvious she didn’t want to leave without seeing you.”
“Not my wife,” said Colin “a friend.”
He stood up and as he turned away, the doctor said to his colleagues,
“Time of death confirmed at 13.08.”
Colin somehow left the Park. Thousands of people still milled around, too shocked to move. Strangers comforted one another. Officials did their best to help the authorities, but a major incident such as this was way beyond anything their training programme had imagined.
Colin walked for what seemed ages. He saw a station ahead. It was Deptford Bridge. He had to return to Larcombe. Colin needed the security blanket that Olympus, Erebus, and Athena provided him. He was devastated that he hadn’t been able to help to save those people. Therese was dead too.
He had considered killing her himself so she could never reveal his true identity. He had never loved her and yet she had fought for an hour against impossible odds, to stay alive until he reached Greenwich.
She deserved better. He resolved to avenge her death. This episode of bomb attacks might have ended. Others would surely follow. The Phoenix would be ready.
The hour-long trip via Canary Wharf and Waterloo delivered Colin onto the platform at Paddington at last. There was a train due to leave in a few minutes. Bath Spa and home were only just over an hour away.
Although the concourse was busy, and the tannoy announcements still echoed around the old terminus, the mood was sombre. London was already in mourning for the lives lost.
Colin slept fitfully on the train, dreamt nightmarish dreams, and it was Chippenham before he awoke, still feeling lost and alone. He rang Larcombe for the transport section to rustle up a taxi. He stood outside the station at Bath Spa and waited for five minutes for his lift to arrive.
As people passed him, their conversation was about the bombings. He caught snatches of what they said,
“Wasn’t it terrible? All those people dead.”
“Over thirty, they said just now on the news.”
“Where were the police? That’s what I want to know.”
“All that money they spent on security for the Olympics and that happens.”
“Who shot the Indian bloke on the beach then? Was that the SAS do you think?”
“He was a Pakistani.”
“Who, the bloke who shot him?”
“No, the man on the beach; his family came here from Pakistan.”
Colin saw the taxi with the Olympus logo arrive. He jumped in the back and they headed for Larcombe.
If what he had just heard was anything to go by, the next few weeks would be tough for many people. The families of those killed and injured. The Olympics organisers, who had to decide whether the Games could continue or not. The authorities, and last but not least Olympus.
There would be questions for the authorities to answer about how the London bombers got through the screening process to become Games Makers. Questions too about the ease with which they got their pipe bombs into their targets. They would be grilled on the fact that Khadim Salah had been flagged as ‘a person of interest’; yet he still managed to smuggle a jacket bomb onto Weymouth Beach.
As for Olympus, taking Salah out in such a public manner had been Athena’s call. Colin was not overly critical of her decision, without knowing the full facts of how things developed on the beach, but it did pose the question. Once the authorities had checked every potential section of their own forces to discover who had fired the shot, the spotlight would switch elsewhere. Would Olympus be caught full beam?
Back at Larcombe, everywhere was a hive of activity. Erebus and the others were in a top-level meeting. Henry Case had a young girl from the Midlands in Hotel California, for a quiet chat. Giles and his crew in the surveillance section monitored the aftermath of the three incidents.
Colin logged the Glock into the armoury so that Brad would get it returned in due course, then he went to his quarters to see if there were any messages. There was nothing for him. Colin checked to see if Rusty was in his room.
“You’re home safe and sound then Phoenix,” he said, “someone will be pleased.”
“Was someone looking for me then?”
“Her Ladyship of course.”
“I looked into the manor house on my way in, but they’re in a meeting.”
“I think they are discussing damage limitations, mate. Athena took every precaution. We didn’t have eyes on those two before they reached Weymouth. There was a possible window in the car park, where they might have taken him out, but Kelly couldn’t get Jack in close enough, because of the traffic. The beach was cutting it fine. If this Salah fellow had been trigger-happy there would have been many more dead people reported in the papers tomorrow. Fortunately, he stuck to his noon deadline and Jelly took him out.”
“We are bound to see attention being given to which organisation carried out the kill though Rusty. The authorities will know it wasn’t one of theirs, and although the British public may never learn that, the authorities will still want to find the shooter.”
“That’s where her Ladyship was clever mate. Jack’s rifle is an L115A3 and he is a wizard when it comes to fiddling around with the kit he uses. He got a few rollickings in the SAS from his superiors, but now he’s freelance, well, he does what he pleases. When they dig around and locate the bullet in the sand or wherever it ended up, everything about the type that Athena suggested he used will scream CIA.”
“Bloody hell, that was clever.”
“Exactly, it should deflect the attention away from Olympus and silence the spooks too, because they used the CIA as advisers on London 2012 secu
rity. What’s to say they wouldn’t have had agents on the ground at Weymouth? With luck, they will not query it with Langley, because they will look stupid. So that the public doesn't think our security services are complete tossers they will claim it as their own kill.”
“It sounds like a master stroke.”
“Your day out was buggered up though mate, wasn’t it?”
Colin could not tell Rusty everything, but he filled him in on what happened at Westfield Stratford. He told him he had gone to Greenwich Park to see if he could help. He didn’t mention Therese.
“Do you think the Games can continue?” asked Rusty.
“They carried on in ’72 at Munich, and again in ’96 at Atlanta. My guess is that the IOC and the government will put on a united front. They’ll issue a statement that the Games should carry on as planned to show that the world will not be cowed by acts of terrorism.”
The two friends chatted for a while and then Colin said he needed to shower and change.
“You whiff mate, but sometimes it’s good to talk,” Rusty said as Colin got up to leave.
“Thanks, Rusty, you’re a pal.”
An hour later Colin sat at his computer, flicking through the news updates. The St John Ambulance guy had it about right. There were eight dead at Greenwich and well over a hundred taken to the hospital. Several of those suffered life-changing injuries.
The café had yielded the highest fatalities. There were twenty-two dead. The only survivors an elderly man and a student. The student was critically injured.
“Ally didn’t make it,” Colin said thumping the desk.
There was a knock at the door. It was Athena.
“Thank goodness you’re okay,” she said, running to Colin and wrapping her arms around him, “I was so scared that something had happened to you.”
Colin rested his head on her shoulder. Athena felt the moisture on her skin. Colin was crying softly.
“Phoenix,” she said, “what is it?”
“The girl in the café, Ally, she didn’t make it. She served me a sandwich and a can of coke. I walked out of the door and up The Street. The next thing I know I’m on my knees. She had lost half an arm. She was in a bad way.