by Ted Tayler
Erebus asked Henry to continue.
“As for Habeeb Rehman he was made of stronger stuff and following up on Phoenix’s point, his value is significant. He required us to move on to another tool in our kit bag, namely sensory deprivation. We left him in one of our air-conditioned rooms on Level Three with earmuffs, gloves, and goggles. By the end of the second day, we expect the detainee to be on the verge of a breakdown. Rehman remained only moderately disturbed. Our final ploy, as it turned out, was to treat him to noise and lots of it. He was stripped, sat on a stool, shackled hand and foot to the floor, and then we blasted him with strobe lights and excruciatingly loud rap music with the air-conditioning maxed out. This proved a schoolboy error. He lapped it up. After twenty-four hours of that, we had to revise our playlist. Someone suggested classical music, or country and western might do the trick. Giles from the surveillance techies had the key. He said while Phoenix underwent training, he had mentioned a liking for a band called Judas Priest. We downloaded a few albums and gave it a shot. Rehman broke and spilt his guts within six hours.”
“It’s not to everyone’s taste,” said Colin with a smile.
“I’ve never heard of these people,” said Erebus, “but if it worked, then we should be grateful. Well, Henry what did we learn?”
“We now have the contacts that Rehman had within the ring with which they interacted. A list of names, addresses, landlines and mobile numbers are in a file I handed to Erebus earlier this evening. The most important information Rehman gave us related to the suicide bomb attack on Oxford Circus station. This was a trial run. Al Qaeda plans to strike the capital during the Olympic Games. They have outlined plans for coordinated attacks on the Olympic Village which involves hostages, particularly high-profile athletes from around the USA and Great Britain. They plan to target several medal ceremonies on the same day into the bargain as they have identified these as a ‘soft’ target. Lots of flags flying, anthems playing and people more relaxed, happy and as a result less vigilant. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Copies of this intelligence will be handed to you as you leave. Thank you.”
The room fell silent as the agents absorbed the news. Erebus stood up to give notice that the meeting was at an end. Colin was the only one to speak. It was his final comment on this chapter of his new life at Larcombe Manor: -
“Gold Silver and Bombs,”
* * *
Book Two
Gold, Silver, and Bombs
Table Of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
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 wanted 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 fox hunts 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 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 man who had a pair of field glasses fixed on the edge of the copse. He not only followed 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 position. I’ll double-check too that our clean-up crew are alert and poised to move in as soon as our target is downed.”
The Olympus agents resumed their duties; communication needed to be at a minimum on a mission. There were too many parties scattered across this small corner of the West Country. Each with their own agenda. The days when the hunting crowd rode in these fields and woods by themselves following their sport were long gone.
Donald Chalmers worked at Downend Farm for over fifty years. He went straight from school to work on the land. Now retired, he lived 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 fast disappearing.
Donald rose early, just as he did every morning of his working life. Nothing had changed. He saw no reason to stay in bed now retired. He walked across from his cottage to this spot, his usual vantage point. A place he occupied on dozens of occasions. A spot he knew gave 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 to him what was what.
As he made his way 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 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 their 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 enlightened 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 f
ar left-hand side of the field. “Can you see the way the land drops away over yonder? If they have picked him up, the fox will head for there. We will watch 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 descend 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 in the company of 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 checked his other saboteurs, making sure they stood in the ideal spot to disrupt proceedings. Wayne had been at this game for a decade. Wayne got involved while at Bristol University although he hadn’t 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 most hunts understood the exact woods which 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 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 saboteurs out in the fields ready to blow their horns and call. This blowing and calling were 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 often seen this tactic work, and soon he could tell 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 were they 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 marked the boundary to Downend Farm.
The Phoenix and his Olympus colleagues had discovered this route too. They had studied Jeremy Faversham for months. Jeremy would take the easy route and thread his way 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 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. There was a sudden noise. Something lay on the other side. No, not something, someone. In his final seconds, Jeremy Faversham saw a figure spring 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. The horse’s brain could not compute what he saw. Jeremy realised it was a commando in camouflaged combat gear pointing a rifle straight at him.
Both Jeremy Faversham and Bonus Magnet died in the fall. 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, in time 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 was found that might have caused the animal to collapse so suddenly. 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 was 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 committed a fraud that almost led to the collapse of a bank in the City of London. That fraud costs investors millions of pounds. Investors such as Mr Michael Kent, the Gloucester coroner. Much of the forty million pounds Faversha
m raised from two hundred-odd clients at his private investment firm had been lost. It was alleged he 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 needed 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. 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 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 got his sticky fingers on Michael’s expanding pension pot and it disappeared without a trace.
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 underfoot 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. Major Michael Purvis had not suffered at the hands of Jeremy Faversham. He was enjoying a day away from Larcombe Manor. Alastor noted 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.
