by Ted Tayler
Annabelle Fox and Sir Julian Langford had assisted them admirably too. The analysis of their questionnaire presented no obvious problems. After they dropped off their car and boarded the train to start their journey north to Wilmslow, the conversation turned to the staff interviews.
“How long has Larcombe Manor been open?”
“Around five years.”
“There appear to be several ex-servicemen, still suffering from PTSD, many years after the action in which they fought. I was surprised to find veterans of the Falklands still being treated. I wonder where they were before the Olympus Project started.”
“I have no idea. What did you make of that poor chap who collapsed?”
“Odd that, he looked exceptionally fit for a man, what, in his early forties, would you say?”
“Around that I suppose. I wonder where he served, Kosovo or somewhere in that region I expect.”
“We never got a name for him, did we?”
“No, we didn’t, now you come to mention it. Do you think we should follow up on that?”
“It’s something to bear in mind, certainly. If that was odd, then it makes you wonder whether everything we saw and heard today is as genuine as they led us to believe.”
“Perhaps we’re reading too much into it. What can we possibly know of the effects the heat of battle has on the minds of the young men we send off to fight on our behalf?”
The inspectors grew tired due to their long day’s work and the warmth of the train compartment. One by one, they dropped off to sleep. The senior inspector was the last one to fall asleep. His last thought was to make a mental note to include a note of concern in his report to the Charities Commission.
CHAPTER 17
Erebus sat at the head of the table and frowned.
This was becoming his most frequent expression. Colin wanted to tell him what his late mother used to tell him. In between slapping him around the ear and reminding him that his being born had ruined her life. She would say his face would stay like that if he wasn’t careful.
The actual Games themselves were enough of an issue for Olympus to counter any potential acts of terrorism without drawing attention to it. They also had to contend with a lengthy exercise such as the Torch Relay. The old man had good reason to frown.
Many opportunities existed to carry out an attack while that carnival was underway. The relay lasted ten weeks; with celebrations, almost every night. Thousands of people taking a turn at carrying the torch, there were famous faces, and others were ‘the great and the good’ from whichever area the torch visited.
Erebus had enough white hairs without considering the dangers that visiting national heritage sites, sporting events, green spaces, festivals and points in between might cause.
“How are we going to cope with this minefield?” he asked one morning towards the end of May.
“To be frank, we should leave it to the authorities,” said Alastor.
“I agree,” said Athena, “the relay has an escort of trained officers from the Met who run with the torchbearer. A wider team of cyclists, motorcyclists, senior officers, and operational planners supports them. If we intercepted intelligence that specifically identifies a leg of the relay being attacked, then we can react to that; otherwise, we should switch our resources elsewhere.”
“Is that the view of each of you?” asked Erebus.
Although not unanimous, it was a well-supported view and Erebus agreed with reluctance.
“I know concerns remain over the vulnerability of the relay runners, but on this occasion, we must leave it to the police and hope for the best.”
Colin looked up from the file in front of him on the table.
“The Diamond Jubilee celebrations are giving the authorities an extra-long Bank Holiday weekend to manage. Would any of our known terrorist organisations carry out an attack on the Royals, or the spectators watching the planned events, do you imagine?”
Minos shrugged his shoulders.
“The public outrage at an attack on the Queen or Royal Family would be so great that most groups refrain from attacks on such occasions. There’s no evidence to suggest a risk. Further to the concerns over the torch relay, true this weekend will bring several opportunities. There are ten thousand ticket holders for a Diamond Jubilee Concert in front of Buckingham Palace. The Queen is travelling to St Paul’s Cathedral to attend a national service of thanksgiving; after that, she moves to Westminster Hall for a formal lunch. The finale will be in an open-top carriage, she rides back to the Palace. Later in the day, there’s a ‘feu de joie’ and a fly-past.”
“I hope that meant fireworks,” said Colin. “Not a firing squad?”
Athena tried to suppress a giggle. Erebus peered over his glasses at Colin.
“I think the authorities have their work cut out ensuring no one gets hurt, whatever their blood colour. There will be thousands of people, dozens of places to carry out an attack, whether a sniper or a bomber,” he said.
“I reckon we are in the same position as we are with the torch relay,” said Colin .“We do not possess the personnel to cover every eventuality. We must rely on official channels to do the job they’re paid to do.”
Erebus again reluctantly agreed. He did not fancy the odds. With every day that passed, there seemed to be more and more attractive scenarios for a terrorist strike emerging. It was bound to happen, in the end. His fear was that because there so many targets, the odds against them knowing which one to offer the most protection grew greater and greater.
Abdul Bashir and Aaleyah Fayad had completed the term’s studies and examinations at Queen Mary University. They still met with the two male students from the London Met on a regular basis. Several weeks ago, the four of them collected their uniforms, ready for their roles as Games Makers.
Munaf Mansoor took his younger colleagues and Farooq Habibi back to his flat in Islington. They had several things to discuss. First, they had to rummage through their brand new kit bags and check out the paraphernalia they received.
They had a jacket, polo shirt, trousers, trainers, socks, cap, bag, water bottle, and that vital accessory for every British summer–an umbrella. The deep purple and poppy red uniforms that the other volunteers wore had been specifically designed to make them stand out from the crowd.
“How are we supposed to blend into the background and do what we want to do, in this?” cried Farooq as he paraded around the flat. Aaleyah laughed at her friend. He had his cap on back to front and his trousers tucked into his socks.
“If seventy thousands of us are spread across the different venues, don’t you see? We will hide in plain sight, it’s perfect,” said Munaf.
“Anyway, we won’t be just seventy thousand will we, because the general volunteers wear the same colours too,” said Abdul.
“Exactly, this uniform suits us well,” said Munaf. “We can move around with far more freedom in this than if we wore normal streetwear. It is functional and comfortable. The bag is part of the outfit. When the time comes, it will be normal for people to see us carrying one. No one will suspect what’s inside.”
“What about us, though?” asked Aaleyah.
“What do you mean?” said Farooq. He had grown closer to Aaleyah over the past few weeks.
“Not us, silly,” chided Aaleyah, “I meant us as Muslims. We didn’t see very many others at Wembley Arena when we attended our first training session.”
“I thought the McDonald’s guy running that session said they were pleased with the diversity,” said Abdul.
Munaf sneered. “This is Britain. There has to be an equal split of male and female, of old and young. They would face criticism if they didn’t have numerous ethnic groups involved. So, there won’t be only us four Muslims.”
“It’s no big surprise that Maccy D’s got involved, is it?” laughed Aaleyah.
“Why?” asked Farooq.
“Because most Brits are fat, lazy spongers who eat fast food, do you mean?” said Munaf.
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br /> “No,” said Aaleyah, thinking what a knob Munaf could be. “Because it’s great publicity for the business and it adds to people’s perception they have a great training scheme. Look at the materials they handed out too.”
“The travel cards we got will be vital,” said Farooq.
“And the meals vouchers,” said Abdul.
Munaf became serious.
“As long as the vouchers don’t need to be used in a McDonald’s, I suppose we’ll get good use from them. Now listen up, the time is over for laughing and joking. We need to set up guidelines on how we communicate in the next few weeks. From today, we must stop phoning one another on our own mobile phones. It is too risky to discuss our plans on an open line. We need to buy a cheap pay as you go phone each. When we meet up next, we will add each other’s numbers to the phones and use code names for our identities. We will no longer call one another by our given name in a message; is that understood? Farooq and Aaleyah, you are Popeye and Olive Oyl.”
Aaleyah looked towards Farooq and they both burst out laughing.
“It is not funny. You two will work together at the Aquatics Centre. Abdul and I will be at Greenwich Park. Your new disposable phones will let us text one another and keep our true mission secret.”
“What are your code names then?” asked Aaleyah.
“I shall be Spider-Man and Abdul is to be Roadrunner.”
That set Farooq and Aaleyah off laughing again. Abdul was happy with Roadrunner. He had visions of Munaf lumbering the two of them with Batman and Robin. No, Roadrunner was bearable.
“But if we text one another too often, won’t people will get suspicious? If we’re meant to be showing spectators to their seats and giving directions to toilets and so on,” said Farooq.
Munaf had worked on a solution to this. He handed over a sheet of paper.
“This list of phrases covers everything we might need. Each begins with a three-number code. If we stick to these, then if anyone from the security services is monitoring mobile traffic they will miss the significance. Only the four of us will know.”
The other three students flicked through the list that Munaf had written,
- 321 means ‘Meet at noon’. I will add the location ‘my flat’ for example.
- 412 means ‘Go underground’. Keep mobile silence until I contact you.
- 543 means ‘Collect kit’.
- 632 means ‘It is time’.
“I studied the event timetables and noted three days when we might attack. My choice is on Friday the 3rd of August. We shall pray together now. Aaleyah you should stand behind us three.”
Aaleyah did not argue. While they stood, the four students raised their hands and said: “God is most great.”
With their hands folded over their chest, they recited the first chapter of the Qur'an in Arabic. Munaf ensured they completed two cycles of prayer. Then they recited the second part of the Tashahhud, turned to the right and said: ‘Peace be upon you and God's blessings’. Then they turned to the left and repeated the greeting.
As the prayers ended, the meeting finished. Abdul stayed with Munaf and they discussed the days that lay ahead. Aaleyah and Farooq left the flat together and walked to a local park where they sat in the warm summer sunshine in companionable silence.
In the flat, Munaf told Abdul, “I have one major task left. I must buy the items needed to manufacture the bombs we will carry.” There were just over three weeks until the day of reckoning.
It was now early July and the meetings at Larcombe became more and more fraught. Intelligence was lacking in the areas they craved. There was nothing to suggest an organised attack was imminent; yet they were convinced it was out there, somewhere.
Alastor gave his latest update on the authorities’ security status. There was plenty of intelligence via the official channels. It should reassure them, but Colin grimaced throughout Alastor’s statement.
“Dummy runs in June by security staff achieved a ninety per cent success rate in foiling attempts to smuggle devices into the Stratford site.”
“So that means only the main stadium, the velodrome, or the pool got bombed,” grumbled Colin. “Or they could plant a device in a waste bin on a thoroughfare. They might dump it because the security was too tight to get it inside.”
Alastor gave him a stare and carried on talking.
“They are pulling back the Army’s explosive search dogs from Afghanistan; that should confirm the level of threat and the growing unease over their preparedness. These dogs are like teenagers; they get distracted or bored after half an hour so the thirty-odd teams they now have available to deploy are not enough by a long way. Troops will now search members of the public entering the site whether for the Olympics or Paralympics. Armed forces personnel will need to cover twelve-hour shifts because the GS4 people cannot get enough people recruited, let alone trained.”
Colin interrupted him again. Erebus peered over the top of his glasses but did not comment.
“The logistics of protecting athletes, spectators, and VIPs over a six-week period are horrendous. If you have doubts about how difficult this situation is, experts reckon the greater risk of attack is away from the venues. Targets might well be railway and bus stations, the Tube and large shopping centres. This is what we predicted throughout. What would the knock-on effect of a bomb in a mainline station be? Apart from hundreds of potential deaths. We would see increased security at the Olympic Park with every visitor needing to be body searched. With no vehicles in or out, you can expect queues halfway to Slough and the 100m Final being held in October.”
Colin’s frustration boiled over and he slammed his fist on the table.
“Wait, the Home Office just issued a statement. They have a robust safety and security strategy that is intelligence-led and risk-based. Great; we’re in the shit good and proper then.”
“Thank you, Phoenix,” said Erebus, “we get your drift.”
“Well sir, if you could keep people safe by using a well-turned phrase, the Home Office are the people to consult. We might as well pack up and go home if we think the terrorists are carrying out a risk assessment on their suicide missions. That statement is just bollocks.”
“Sadly, I must agree with you, old chap,” chuckled Erebus.
Colin looked towards Athena.
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “We did what we could to uncover the likely source of an attack. Unless our luck changes, we will deploy as many of our people as we can spare around the Olympic venues and add our eyes to the official authorities. Instead of being proactive, we will be reactive, that’s not the Olympus way.”
Khadim Salah had moved out of his home in the Birmingham area. His chance meeting with Shamila Javed in the café that afternoon had been a lucky break. They had been seeing one another every day. She was smitten.
Khadim had two objectives. He must convince Shamila that he loved her. This would not be a difficult task as Khadim was an experienced lover. It was not too much of a hardship either, as Shamila was attractive, if innocent a young woman.
His main aim though was to put distance between him and the possible scrutiny of the security services. After his return from Pakistan and those visits to the terrorist training camps, he suspected that he was under surveillance.
He had persuaded Shamila to come with him south to the outskirts of Salisbury. She was on holiday now from university. He suggested that she might enjoy a few weeks away from the city. He told her he had to go for job interviews in the region.
Shamila jumped at the chance of spending time alone with him. Khadim rented a two-bedroomed holiday cottage in Downton on the Hampshire-Wiltshire border. They arrived and got settled. Shamila was pleased to see that Khadim respected her so much that he made sure she had her own room.
In the mornings, Khadim set off in the hire car, with the pretext of having to attend interviews. Shamila took the fifteen-minute bus journey into the ‘city in the countryside’ each day. She found plenty to occupy
her mind, a thriving market, a buzzing arts scene, museums, and several of England’s finest historic houses. The old streets contained plenty of shops where she browsed clothes stores and shops where she could buy the things she needed to cook a meal for Khadim when he returned.
Khadim took the A31 that first morning and headed for Weymouth. The torch relay headed into the town at the end of the week. He wanted to see if everything he read about this resort was true. Might it be the perfect place for him? For a perfect seaside holiday, location counted. Khadim found Weymouth ticked every box.
With its elegant Georgian seafront, a fantastic sandy beach, and a deep harbour, it has been a favourite destination for many thousands of visitors each year, since the eighteenth century. Khadim headed first for Portland Harbour, and the National Sailing Academy. That was where they would stage the main Olympic events in a couple of weeks.
Behind the Olympic village rose the Isle of Portland. Khadim soon realised it was an island in name only, the four-mile slab of solid limestone joined to the mainland by Chesil Beach. He spent a few hours looking around the area; it was bleak and windswept. He decided that this was not the place for him.
Spectators had snapped up five thousand tickets for the main viewpoint at the Nothe Gardens long ago. Khadim spent Wednesday morning cruising around by the Fort and then drove over to the main part of town and parked on The Esplanade. It was not practical to gatecrash the pay-per-view site. It would attract too much attention.
As soon as Khadim had seen the beachfront, his mind was made up. Far better for them to head for the two giant screens on the beach. The hoardings advertised ‘an accompanying commentary so you will know what is happening’.
Khadim wondered what the presenters would say about his proposed change to the programme. He walked along the sands and imagined thousands of people sat around him, enjoying the summer’s warmth and the excitement on the big screens. It would be an afternoon they would never forget that was certain. There was just the small problem of getting through the security turnstiles into the fenced-off enclosure. Khadim had a few ideas on that score. He and Shamila would have no problem persuading the staff to let them onto the beach.
