by Ted Tayler
“You’ve lost me, Rusty, am I missing something?”
Rusty shook his head. Phoenix could be dim at times.
“No mate, it’s brilliant. It was the simplicity of it that made me chuckle, mate. Have you got an update yet on the weather?”
Colin scooted his chair over to his computer and called the latest forecast up for the coming week.
‘Forecasters say there will be dense fog patches in many areas on Monday, with isolated snow flurries towards the South East. The rest of the week is expected to be cold and dry. The battle between cold and mild air over the UK and whether rain or snow will result has been flagged up by BBC Weather and the Met Office. It was uncertain whether the mild air would win and give snow turning to rain, or the cold air would win, resulting in heavy snow. The latest news suggests the odds against the cold air prevailing have shortened. Wrap up warm.’
“Happy days.” exclaimed Rusty, “looks as if it will be Pa Larkin.”
“Sorry?” asked Colin.
“Perfick,” guffawed Rusty.
Colin’s computer beeped. Giles had sent a file with the latest update on what was happening at the two prisons.
HMP Belmarsh had selected twelve prisoners for transfer. Colin recognised several of the names. There was that fanatical cleric never out of the media before being incarcerated a year or two back. The young student who had bomb-making material and equipment hidden in the chemistry laboratory of his local technical college. Another name on the list only recently arrived via Guantanamo Bay.
None of the twelve men being transferred was ill. Nobody needed Hannibal Lecter type handling during transfer, so HMP Wakefield was happy to agree to receive them.
The name of the person authorised to receive them with open arms was a custody officer called, Joe Nethercott.
Giles attached a copy of the booking form that Belmarsh had sent and that he checked Wakefield received this morning. The ice-house people *would now track the final confirming movement fax on Sunday.
Colin was satisfied things were moving along well. He emailed Giles with the details he wanted to be transmitted and at what time they should go out on Monday. Colin’s stomach rumbled.
He had been so engrossed in his plan and the preparations for the exercise he had forgotten lunch altogether. He rang Rusty, but he didn’t answer. As he set off to walk to the canteen alone, Judas Priest echoed through the corridor.
“Rusty, fancy a bite or have you already eaten?”
It was Athena.
“Food, that would be lovely. We’ve only just finished our supplementary meeting. The one carried over from this morning. I am starving. Wait for me.”
Colin slowed down and looked back towards the house. He spotted her emerging from the side of the manor house. At first, she walked quickly, her hair blowing in the cool stiff breeze. When she saw Colin, she broke into a run.
He turned and walked towards the old worker’s cottages, waiting for her to join him. If Athena thought, he was going to start running towards her in slow motion she had another think coming.
CHAPTER 12
The weekend weather followed the projected pattern. At Larcombe Manor, the snow lay four inches thick across the whole estate. In the city and the surrounding countryside, people struggled to go about their business. Everyone dreading a return to work on Monday.
Colin’s face wore a smile a mile wide.
This worried many of the agents he met because Phoenix was not a man one associated with levity. He was a ruthless killing machine. He smiled occasionally and enjoyed the odd bit of banter, but he soon got back to business.
Colin had spent the weekend checking that he had everything ready for the mission. His trip to the transport section had been fruitful. Rusty had helped find the staff they required.
Athena had dropped by for a few hours on Sunday morning to help relieve any stress that might have been building up over the task that lay ahead. A good enough reason for the smile on its own. But Colin had received other good news too.
Giles had confirmed the transmission of the final fax confirming Monday’s switch. The contractor would collect their twelve assorted packages at ten o’clock, ready for the drive north.
Colin and Rusty picked up a 4x4 with snow tyres from the transport section. They loaded the vehicle with the kit they needed and set off to drive to Wolverhampton. It was six o’clock in the evening. It was cold, and the dark night sky threatened further trouble.
As morning broke, a familiar scene heralded a February day. Temperatures had dropped below freezing; cars stood on driveways across the south of the country struggling to tick over. Further up the country, there had been a covering of snow on higher ground. Lower down, fog and ice disrupted travel. The threat of snow remained. But as the man said on the radio that Colin and Rusty listened to in their vehicle, “all roads are passable with care.”
“No worries then Phoenix,” said Rusty, blowing on his hands to keep them warm.
“None so far,” replied Colin, keeping an eye on his watch.
A car pulled up in front of them in the lay-by.
“This looks to be Jeff and the lads,” said Rusty.
The driver got out of the car and walked back to the cab of the vehicle. Rusty jumped out, and they shook hands.
“Alright Rusty,” the driver said, in a heavy Yorkshire accent, “happen you’ve picked a good day for it.”
“With luck, it will get worse before it gets better,” said Rusty. “Time to move. Follow us to the meeting point.”
The driver returned to his car and Rusty climbed back into the cab and set off from the lay-by. They headed towards Milton Keynes. The wind blew flurries of snow across the road. Clouds were filling up and looking ominous.
In Belmarsh, prison officers made final preparations for the transfer of their twelve inmates. The clock ticked around towards ten o’clock. Outside the prison, the contractor’s truck went through check-in.
Security staff checked the doors and inside the vehicle, the engine compartment, the roof using fixed mirrors, underneath using handheld mirrors and under the wheel arches. The truck got the all-clear at nine-fifty.
Once inside the prison, escorts brought the twelve men into the yard. They were led by the truck in pairs and secured in individual cells. The handover was completed and at ten o’clock on the dot, the vehicle with twelve prisoners and four security firm employees on board began the journey to Wakefield.
As they approached the Dartford Tunnel, the snow clouds that had been gathering throughout the morning decided to flex their muscles. Before the truck emerged at the other end, conditions had taken a decided turn for the worse.
The driver and his companion in the front cab of the vehicle were glad of the heater and the company that the radio supplied. Their colleagues in the rear compartment had the worst of it. They were stuck in the back with their twelve charges and little chance for conversation.
“The motorway should stay open,” muttered the driver. “There’s enough traffic belting past us at a rate of knots to keep one lane open. Regardless of how much snow we get.”
“I don’t fancy being on the rural roads today, though,” replied his mate.
“I’m looking forward to a hot coffee when we get to Newport Pagnell; okay if we stop off at our usual place?”
“Suits me, the old Welcome Break will be heaven today.”
“Not just for us, but Mick and Slim in the back too.”
“Hold it. Turn that radio up a minute; let’s catch the news and the weather forecast.”
They caught the end of a weather update… ‘set for a cold and dry week after snow fell across much of Britain. According to the Met Office, ice is likely to be a hazard on roads and pavements across parts of Wales and much of England. The warnings cover the period until midday.’
“There you go. We might be slower than usual travelling up today, but we can still make a short stop for a coffee.”
“And hot sausage rolls?”
/> “You are a cruel sod. Do you want to torture those Muslims in the back or what?”
“Now you come to mention it.”
The banter continued to the background music of Radio 2. Mile after mile clicked by and at twenty-five past twelve, the truck turned off the motorway between Junction 14 and 15. It pulled up at the Welcome Break.
“Mick, we’re popping into Starbucks for a coffee; warm ourselves up, mate. What do you and Slim fancy?”
“Anything, as long as it’s hot mate, it’s bloody freezing back here.”
“Okay, give us ten minutes, the place looks busy. I expect plenty of other buggers have had the same idea. Get off the motorway for a while and get warm.”
“Call us when you’re back. Oh, Slim says any chance of a hot pie or a sausage roll.”
The driver shared the joke with his mate. As they argued over who was getting out of the warm cab for the refreshments, an urgent bulletin broke into the music. It interrupted the Kinks singing ‘Sunny Afternoon’.
The newsreader painted a forbidding picture.
“Motorists are being warned to drive with care after freezing conditions in England have led to a series of accidents. No-one is thought to have been hurt but a twenty-five-mile section of the A1 northbound in North Yorkshire closed this morning. Drivers said they were stuck for four hours after collisions involving jack-knifed trucks and other vehicles. Severe weather warnings are in place across England with ice posing a major hazard. These low temperatures are set to continue for several days. Please take care when travelling and allow extra time for your journeys.”
“This will be fun,” said the driver, “right, who’s going then?”
They played rock, paper, scissors (best of three) to decide who was going for the drinks. The driver lost and set off, moaning, head bowed against the driving snow.
Rusty and Colin sat in the car that had joined them earlier in the lay-by. They were no longer in the truck. The four men who had followed them from outside Wolverhampton had changed clothes and now waited in position.
The two Olympus agents watched as the second-hand vehicle they had bought in Wolverhampton negotiated the slippery surface of the car park. It drew up safely alongside the prison van. The driver’s mate looked across at the front cab of the new arrival. He recognised the livery of the truck and the uniforms of the two men inside. He waved out. The men in the cab waved back.
As soon as the driver returned from Starbucks with the coffees and got back into the front cab, the back door of the newly acquired Olympus prison van opened. Rusty’s mate Jeff wandered across.
The driver called his colleagues in the back. He told them he would knock on the door, and when they opened it, they would get their coffees. He walked towards the rear of the vehicle and nearly collided with Jeff.
“Alright mate,” said Jeff, “good to meet you. I’m Joe Nethercott.”
The driver recognised the name from the forms handed to him by the staff at Belmarsh. This was the person designated as the receiving officer at HMP Wakefield.
“What are you doing here? Do me a favour. Bang on the door, these coffees are bloody hot.”
Jeff rapped on the door and stood back. Satisfied it was just the driver with their coffees, the door unlocked and opened.
The other agent who had been in the back of the truck with Jeff now stood at the front of the truck, talking to his mate.
“The weather is bloody awful up north and it’ll take you four hours to reach Wakefield from here, not two. Getting back home from there could mean you’ll be stranded overnight somewhere. We have the paperwork with us for the switch. Come on back with me and Joe Nethercott will take you through what’s happening.”
Nothing suggested anything out of order. After all, the truck was one of theirs. It was obvious they came from the same firm; the uniforms showed that. So, moments later the four men chatted over the change of plan while the two men in the back sipped their hot coffee and listened to the conversation.
The twelve prisoners felt a draught around their ankles with the door ajar, but they couldn’t complain.
The driver scrutinised the paperwork. Sure enough, the appropriate details were there. He was to transfer his prisoners to the Wakefield van and return to base. With luck, they’d be home and by the fire before Eastenders.
“Everything looks in order. Just to be on the safe side, you don’t mind if I call my gaffer from the cab to double-check?”
“No, of course not, carry on,” said Jeff.
Rusty and Colin sat and watched as the driver walked to the front cab of his truck.
“Don’t fail me now Giles,” said Colin.
He need not have worried. Giles had hacked into the systems at Belmarsh and Wakefield and sent the necessary fax to the contractor, authorising the new transfer arrangements. It had arrived at twelve noon. When his driver called in, the transport controller confirmed that a second vehicle was completing the journey to Wakefield. They could make their way back as best they could in the worsening weather.
“Okay Joe,” the driver said, “that’s fine. Let’s switch the prisoners.”
Twelve bemused men switched, two by two, from one truck to another.
Twenty minutes later, the southbound truck left the car park and headed home towards London. As they drove, they stayed in touch with conditions by listening to the radio.
‘Delays are inevitable.’
‘Motorists heading out this afternoon and evening should make sure they know their route and check it’s open.’
‘Drivers should make sure they have enough fuel, blankets, and warm clothes. If it’s a long journey, they should have food and drink and a fully charged mobile phone.’
“I’m bloody glad we’re not going on to Wakefield in this, mate.”
“Me too. I don’t envy those other blokes that trip, I can tell you.”
It was a long journey. Heavy snow had caused widespread travel disruption across southern England. Roads became treacherous in many areas, leading to calls for drivers to take more care. As the snowstorm continued to engulf the truck, they slithered to a halt. They were stuck in traffic on the M25 in Hertfordshire for four hours. Snow ploughs were brought onto the motorway to sweep away the snow; they finally arrived back at base at midnight.
As they turned into the truck park, they were surprised to find so many people waiting. They soon discovered why.
When the second-hand vehicle had moved off to join the M1 North, the car driven by Rusty had followed close behind. Colin rode shotgun. They were leaving the motorway at Junction 15 and heading into Northampton. The weather was lousy. There was no chance they could drive anywhere today.
Jeff and his crew took the truck to a lock-up on the outskirts of the town. The truck was soon tucked away in a safe place, despite the shouts of protest from the cells, as the prisoners now grasped that this was yet another unscheduled stop.
The four Olympus men changed back into their civilian clothes before leaving the lock-up. They joined up with Rusty and Colin in a local pub. It was warm and inviting. The conversation over a good meal and a few drinks kept everyone entertained.
“We’ve got time to spare before things kick-off,” said Rusty.
“What gave you the idea Phoenix?” asked one of the crew members.
“I read an article online last month. The Ministry of Justice was concerned that the sale of former prison service vans–used by firms such as G4S, Reliance, and Serco to transport prisoners–could allow criminals to pose as prison guards and smuggle suspects and convicts away from hospitals or courts. Fleets of the vehicles were due for decommissioning from January after new contracts were awarded to private firms to provide security services across the UK for the next seven years. Before the transportation of inmates was outsourced, out-of-service vans got destroyed. The Ministry of Justice was concerned that while prison service vehicles that have reached the end of their service were destroyed, this was not the case with vehicles operated by priv
ate contractors. Any of those vehicles, which started service eight years ago, when private security companies first won Government contracts, can now legally be offered for sale on the open market. We needed to buy uniforms and insert the relevant paperwork into the system. A little bullshit to the other crew and a big thank you to him upstairs for the weather; we were home and hosed. We picked up the truck from a batch waiting to be decommissioned for just over six grand. Rusty told them we planned to strip it out to use it as a horsebox.”
“What do we do with the packages we picked up?” asked Jeff.
“Almost forgot them. They’ll be freezing,” said Colin.
He got his mobile phone out of his coat pocket. He sent a text message to a series of numbers.
‘Your dinner is in the oven. I’m off to bingo.’
“We had better finish these drinks and head back to the lock-up. We’ll have company over the next few hours. Weather permitting.”
CHAPTER 13
The agents left the warmth of the pub and Jeff and his lads made their way back to the lock-up. Snow still fell steadily. The streets were virtually empty. There was an eerie silence as the men split into pairs and approached the lock-up. They moved into position two minutes apart. Just in case someone was foolish enough to be wandering around the back streets on such a foul night. Nothing could be left to chance.
Rusty and Colin took the car from the pub car park and followed. Rusty pulled up and parked fifty yards past the garage. Colin knew Jeff was inside keeping himself and his mates warm by burning the security firm clothing they wore. All he and Rusty could do now was wait.
“Heads up,” said Rusty, “this vehicle’s one of ours.”
A van stopped by the double doors to the lock-up. The doors swung open, and the van reversed up to the entrance. The driver stayed in the cab with the engine running. The garage doors hid what was happening at the rear of the van. Not that there was anyone around to see. Jeff selected three prisoners’ names from the manifest. He turned to the three guards who jumped from the back of the van. They had dressed from head to toe in black clothing and wore ski masks.
