The Phoenix Series Box Set 2

by Ted Tayler

  Phoenix gazed out of the window. A taxi pulled up near the pavement.

  “Here we go,” he said, and they left Athena’s family home to make the ten minutes trip to Curzon Street.

  Everything at the venue was as professional as you could ever wish. Phoenix and Athena followed the signs to the room that Olympus had booked and entered to find a traditional boardroom layout furnished in an ultra-modern style. There were twelve high-backed comfortable chairs around the long light-coloured wooden table; five chairs awaited on either side and one at each end. The table had elegant small floral displays, carafes of water, and glasses for each attendee. Phoenix noted a total lack of any notepads, pens or pencils and definitely no electronic equipment. They had arrived first.

  “This is very smart,” he said quietly to Athena. He felt uneasy in surroundings such as this. It wasn’t something to which he had been accustomed.

  “Check out the named cards on the table,” she whispered back, “we’re sat opposite one another at the far end from Zeus. Hera is next to us. Just remember that you mustn’t reveal the identity of anyone who enters this room.”

  “Nothing to write with; nothing to write on,” said Phoenix, “all electronic equipment removed. I suppose mobile phones will be confiscated in case I take a selfie with a pop star. Do you think they’ll do a sweep of the room for bugs before we start?”

  “The sweep will have been done beforehand, I don’t doubt,” said Athena. “As for mobile phones, we’d better turn ours off now before anyone else arrives.”

  One by one their colleagues gathered. As each person entered they briefly welcomed Athena and Phoenix and made their way to their allotted chair. The conversation was limited; once they were seated the various leaders joined them, seemingly relaxed and everyone waited patiently for proceedings to begin.

  Phoenix studied the room intently to see where each arrival sat. Poseidon had arrived first. In myth, the God of the seas, but Phoenix couldn’t believe he had ever sailed the high seas like Erebus. He was a refined-looking gentleman, well dressed and in his late sixties. Poseidon had the demeanour of a banker rather than a sailor. His face was not familiar; his expression was so blank it was impossible to gauge what he was thinking. When they shook hands as he welcomed the two new arrivals to the Twelve Olympians, his hand had been icy and limp. Poseidon’s eyes were a piercing colour of blue, but no emotion showed in the briefest of glances that passed between them.

  Hera and Zeus had arrived together. Athena was surprised by the warmth of the greeting from Hera as she clasped her hand in hers and said how good it was to meet her.

  “Erebus has told us so much about you, my dear Athena; we have high hopes for you in Olympus.”

  Hera merely nodded to Phoenix and swept away towards the others sat at the table.

  Zeus appeared much more circumspect in his approach to both Athena and Phoenix. His welcome was cordial yet guarded. Athena chided herself for making snap judgements. Phoenix was in charge of the ‘people-watching’ today, she should let him get on with it.

  Phoenix found Hera and Zeus to be two peas in a pod, both physically and in manner. He struggled to remember the particular attributes that Erebus had made him read up on for these characters from Greek myth. The supreme leader of Olympus and the lady who would be sat at the opposite end of the table to him were relatively short, perhaps five-foot-six and weighed in at around fifteen, or sixteen stone. The couple looked no more than sixty years old. They gave the impression of being well-heeled bucolic farmers. Phoenix imagined they had vast tracts of land somewhere near the capital that had been in their family or families for generations.

  A few details of the myth drifted back to him. Zeus and Hera were said to be both husband and wife, and brother and sister. Phoenix shuddered. A simple tale of country folk indeed.

  Phoenix did a double-take when the next woman arrived. She was a pop singer who had burst onto the scene in the mid-Sixties. There followed a string of hit singles and more than two dozen platinum-selling albums. She still performed today on worldwide sell-out tours. Phoenix had read she was worth in the region of seven hundred and fifty million. Husband number four was half her age and showing signs of fatigue.

  When she approached Athena, you could feel the temperature drop in the room around them. There was the barest touch of a gloved hand on that of his partner and then she turned towards him. In the seconds that it took her to reach him she had undressed him with her eyes. Phoenix swore he could hear her purring as she stroked his hand in welcome. It unnerved him.

  “So, that is Demeter,” whispered Athena as she slithered away, “I don’t think she approved of me.”

  “Really? She appeared to take to me in a heartbeat,” said Phoenix, earning him a look that should have turned him to stone.

  The others came through the doors thick and fast now, so introductions and welcomes had to be cut short. The meeting was due to start. Phoenix and Athena joined Hera at the foot of the table.

  “You will have an opportunity to meet the remainder later, Athena,” said Hera, “Zeus will allow us to take a break later this afternoon for refreshments.”

  Hera turned to Phoenix.

  “You must find this strange, Phoenix.” she gushed “You haven’t been with Olympus long, and most of your time has been in the field I understand?”

  “Not strange at all,” Phoenix countered, “it’s very much as I expected. I have been active in the field as you say, but I’m here today because Athena and I come as a package. Wherever she goes, I go going forward.”

  There was a distinct hissing sound from where Demeter sat, further up the table.

  “Time to get our meeting underway ladies and gentlemen,” said Zeus.

  The next two hours flew past and Phoenix soon found that his mind in a whirl. Zeus controlled the agenda with a rod of iron. Phoenix tried as hard as he could to remember everything he heard. He longed for a pen and paper, or a tablet so he could take notes and refer to reports or financial statements in a free moment later. Nothing of what was said was allowed to be written. No reports were distributed.

  Zeus had the figures for the very healthy Olympus ‘fighting fund’ in his head and passed that information to his colleagues. Nobody questioned whether the figures were accurate. It appeared that everyone took whatever Zeus said as gospel. The numbers were impressively large and there didn’t appear to be any shortage of donations.

  Phoenix discovered that as well as the Twelve Olympians there were still further contributors who stayed permanently in the background. They were never referred to by name, their identifier merely a number.

  “Olympian number seventeen has transferred five million pounds into our accounts. We have sent her a message thanking her for her generosity.” Zeus acknowledged several examples of extra funds being donated to the Olympus Project.

  Zeus moved on to give progress reports on direct actions around the world. These were brief verbal snapshots of what involved clearly complicated and dangerous incursions by Olympus agents in Africa, Asia and Central America. Phoenix remembered how Rusty had schooled him in how to survive on missions such as those. If the need ever arose for him to work abroad. As it turned out, Erebus had kept him close by him at Larcombe. He had taken him under his wing. Today, listening to conditions in several of the theatres in which other agents operated, he was very grateful to the old gentleman.

  Phoenix wanted to ask Athena whether they had other centres similar to Larcombe Manor abroad. Although a few agents had been sent on overseas sorties during his time at Larcombe, men such as Garry Burns and his team, for instance, it was far from being the norm. It suggested to Phoenix that there must be, at least, one, if not more, base on friendly foreign soil, from which direct missions could be launched.

  Athena hoped that the break for refreshments came soon. It had been a while since breakfast and neither of them had thought to grab something for lunch while they rested at her parents’ home. She glanced across at Phoenix and cau
ght his eye. Phoenix gave her a tiny grin and pretended to be falling asleep. As she turned back towards him thirty seconds later as Zeus wrapped up the global review she realised that Phoenix had fallen asleep. Hera was nudging him in the ribs.

  “Let’s take a break for half an hour, everyone. Refreshments are on the way to us in two minutes.”

  Whether Zeus saw what was happening, or it was the telepathic interaction that can exist between husband and wife, or brother and sister, was unclear. But the pause in proceedings gave Phoenix and Athena time to regroup, get coffee and cakes inside them and catch up with the people they hadn’t met earlier.

  Apollo was the sporting hero that Athena had intimated would be present. He was a former boxer who had fought for and won world title bouts in the Eighties. The enormous purses in the fight game made him a very rich man. Unlike many others who either didn’t know when to stop fighting or to stop spending, this fighter boxed clever with his money. He had invested in property and had amassed a fortune, at least, ten times what he had earned in his career. Apollo was five or six years older than Phoenix, but he didn’t show it. His handshake was painful.

  A younger man approached Athena and Phoenix. He was in his early thirties; they recognised him from a string of funny TV adverts. As CEO of a mobile phone company, his worth was several billion.

  “Hello there, I’m Hermes,” he said, “it’s good to meet you. I hope you’re more comfortable now. The first time is the worst isn’t it?”

  Phoenix shook his hand.

  “You couldn’t be anyone else, could you?” Phoenix said with a grin, warming to the young man.

  “I’m glad there’s fresh blood coming into the Project; the old fogies tend to plod along at a snail’s pace. These meetings take forever to get through. I hope we get a chance to talk later. Are you staying in town tonight?”

  Athena looked at Phoenix. She had been hoping for time alone. There was so much she needed to tell him.

  “We are, Hermes,” said Phoenix, “perhaps we can find a place for an early evening drink and a meal. We won’t stay too late tonight though; we need our beauty sleep. We have plans for tomorrow.”

  Athena had to be content with that; thank goodness Phoenix had his sensible head on today. Zeus rounded up his flock, the meeting was to reconvene. Athena was eager to learn how Operation Yewtree had become an interest for the Olympus Project. Discovering what sort of character Nemesis, Aphrodite, Heracles and Dionysus were and whether they were for them or against them had to be put on hold for now. Their proper introductions might have to wait until the next occasion that Zeus summoned the twelve leaders.

  Meanwhile eighty-five miles away in Wiltshire, events were unfolding that would shatter the quiet Friday afternoon in the countryside and upset Athena’s plans for the weekend completely.

  CHAPTER 9

  Dimitar Marinov wanted to keep the authorities and the public at the state of high alert and panic that the first two attacks generated.

  Families across the south of the country were winding down their working week, anticipating a great weekend enjoying the extremely warm weather. Dimitar wanted to show them that no one could feel safe.

  He and his crew gathered in their rented farm outbuildings and prepared to leave. Dimitar had never visited the county of Wiltshire before, except to pass through it on the motorway. He imagined it to be inhabited by mostly very rich people who in the old days had enjoyed hunting, shooting and fishing. This impression was influenced by the acres of green grasslands and wooded areas that flashed past his car window as he drove past. He could see few factory chimneys or palls of smoke in the near distance that indicated signs of heavy industry.

  Two four-man crews left the farm in battered old Land Rovers and headed west, Dimitar’s driver today was Iliya Todorov; the enforcers Pantev and Hristov sat in the back. As the miles clicked by Dimitar licked his lips at the prospect of delivering another murderous blow to the soft underbelly of the British people.

  Five minutes behind them, Georgi Bonev had Zlatko Yankov as his front-seat passenger and their firepower lay in the capable hands of Dobrev and Tsankov.

  “Are you sure you understand what we need to do?”

  Georgi eyed Zlatko as their boss’s voice crackled through the walkie-talkie.

  “Check,” Zlatko replied.

  “Are you happy with what we are doing today, Zlatko?” asked Georgi.

  “We must go along with whatever the boss says,” replied Zlatko, “what choice do we have?”

  Georgi drove in silence the rest of the way via the M3 and the A303 to the small town of Amesbury.

  The men behind him wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet in the back of his head if Dimitar thought he had stepped out of line. Or if he suspected he wasn’t prepared to follow orders.

  Georgi had been a gang member throughout his adult life. He knew no different, but there was a line he never wanted to cross. Dimitar had chosen the enforcers well. The men were as ruthless as he himself was and neither of the four assassins had any line they wouldn’t cross.

  Dobrev and Tsankov, together with their counterparts in the rear of Dimitar’s vehicle would blindly follow whatever orders Dimitar gave.

  The gang had been driving for just over an hour when they pulled into a lay-by. They drew up behind the first Land Rover. The final communication was by walkie-talkie. Nobody left their vehicles. The summer sun left everyone in the cars boiling hot with no cooling breeze.

  “There should be dozens of people drinking in the beer garden of the busy pub in the centre of town that I have selected as our target. You’ve seen the layout of the building from the drawings I showed you in the outbuildings. Balaclavas will be worn. Make sure you keep your sleeves on your clothing buttoned to your wrists. It’s hot, but we don’t need any survivors describing tattoos or any other distinguishing marks. Is that understood?”

  Dimitar heard nothing but grunts of agreement as he had expected.

  “Remember too that you ignore the staff and customers at the bars and eating areas. Move quickly to the rear of the building and attack the beer garden. Then you go straight over the fence at the rear where we will be waiting in the Land Rovers to collect you.”

  “Yes, boss,” came the response from the four gunmen.

  A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the large pub restaurant on the main street. Signs advertised the famous chain that this old hotel belonged to in every window and on boards standing on the pavement. The pub opened from eight in the morning until midnight.

  The masked gunmen exited the rear of the Land Rovers and ran through the passageway that led to the beer garden. Never looking left or right into rooms that contained many dozens of late afternoon customers. Plates of food were being delivered to tables by youthful members of staff continuously; the bar staff kept busy with regulars who stayed there drinking most of the day.

  Then there were the local self-employed workmen who had quit grafting early today to swallow a few cold beers before going home. This summer weather needed to be enjoyed while it lasted.

  Seconds after they had left the Land Rovers the gunmen burst into the glare of the sun as it shone brightly on the crowded beer garden. Umbrellas festooned the grassy expanse of ground that had been filled with ubiquitous wooden picnic tables. The tables were covered with plates, glasses, bottles and cans. Everywhere people of all ages were having fun in the sun.

  There were tables of young men, swallowing pints of lager enthusiastically. Youths who paid no heed to the fact they would never get through to midnight unscathed at the rate they drank; even with the help of the burger and chips they were scoffing.

  Elderly couples sipped glasses of something strong with a mixer and several ice cubes. The conversation much quieter than on the nearby tables but most of it concerned the weather and everyone had a smile on their face.

  Dotted here and there sat young mothers with children. Soft drinks for most of the mums, but with the occasional large glass
of wine evident as well. The little ones had bottles or cans with fancy coloured drinking straws. In between the tables, chubby little youngsters ran around, without a care in the world. The children were enjoying the sunshine and fresh air until Mum decided it was time to get home after picking them up from school.

  It was a scene repeated in towns and villages across the whole country that Friday afternoon. Something that represented the British way of life. Dimitar Marinov planned to shatter this idyll forever.

  As the Land Rovers made their way through side streets to take up their position at the rear of the beer garden, Dimitar, and the others heard the initial bursts of gunfire and the screams. It had been around forty seconds since Pantev and his colleagues had stepped out onto the pavement outside the old pub.

  When Iliya and Georgi reached their destination, the four masked men were clambering over the fence and preparing to jump into the back of the still moving vehicles.

  Dimitar looked pleased. As soon as Andrey Pantev and Konstantin Hristov safely climbed on board Iliya drove them quickly away from the devastated beer garden. Only ninety seconds ago the scene had been full of fun and laughter. As Georgi collected Anton Dobrev and Boris Tsankov the driver offered up a prayer.

  A prayer for the poor souls that had been slain. A prayer of thanks too that he hadn’t been asked to join the gunmen. Killing children was that step too far. There was no going back; even if there ever had been. The police would hunt them like dogs after this afternoon’s attack. The nineteenth of July in Amesbury would become as 9/11 had become to the Americans. A date that would never be forgotten.