by Ted Tayler
Athena and Phoenix sat and listened to the elderly gentleman; they were enthralled. Their drinks remained untouched as Erebus laid before them the projected scope for the organisation based here in the countryside just outside Bath.
“It looks as if we’ve got our work cut out Athena,” said Colin.
“How on earth will we finance this escalation?” asked Athena. “Indeed, how can we even sustain the organisation in its current form?”
Erebus looked at her.
“When we committed ourselves to the Project in 2007, I told you that as well as my money, and that of you and your three colleagues, we received support from others. People with access to funds who believed in what we did. Their financial backing depended on their identity being kept secret. Nothing has changed in that regard. In football in recent years, the media mention the term oligarch for business magnates who became super-rich, very quickly, particularly in Eastern Europe. In recent years, in the Middle East, India and the Far East too. Our ‘angels’ are not oligarchs. Safe to say their money has been amassed over centuries. The families that these men and women come from have walked the fields and travelled the highways of this nation since the Middle Ages. There is as much chance of that well running dry as Fulham winning the Premiership.”
“Very reassuring,” said Athena.
“Sorry, was that still a football analogy?” asked Colin, aware that he had huge gaps in his sporting knowledge.
“Not to worry Phoenix,” said Erebus, with a smile. “Oh, before I forget, you have been with us for over a year now and your own financial situation is becoming clearer. Our accountants convinced the Cayman Islands bank that your alter ego is no more. A year and a day have passed and they are now happy to accept the terms of the will we sent them bequeathing the balance of your accounts to a worthy charity. As soon as the Olympus Project has received the money, we will transfer ninety per cent of it into a personal account in your name.”
“That’s a sizable handling charge,” cried Colin.
“Ah, but doesn’t it feel good, donating to charity?”
“Who will I be then, Mr Phoenix?” asked Colin. “Will I get a card to use at an ATM? I’ll need to practice my signature.”
“The account will be in the name of Phoenix Holdings, which we thought apt. Our accountants will handle it on your behalf. They’ll ensure it continues to make money and you can draw any cash you need for your personal use. You may continue to access Olympus funds when out in the field on direct action, of course.”
“Of course,” said Colin, “do you have any idea when the Swiss banks might cough up?”
“As usual, they are proving a more difficult nut to crack, but be patient Phoenix; it will turn out alright in the end.”
“Well, ninety per cent OK, at least,” muttered Colin.
Athena thought it time to change the subject. It was always unseemly to discuss money. She had no idea how much money Phoenix had salted away, or how he had got it. She did not want to know, she loved him whether he was a prince or pauper. Athena wanted to return to the matter of the future direction of the Olympus Project, post-Erebus.
“You gave us an insight into the future earlier Erebus. Do you have any particular ethos or ‘mission statement’ in modern parlance, to sum up to what you believe the new and revitalised Olympus should aspire?”
Erebus got up and walked back to the table. He found a sheet of paper in the back of one of his files.
“Let me quote the following:
Our mission will be to pre-empt threats and to maintain national security by collecting intelligence that matters, producing objective analysis, conducting effective covert action as directed, and safeguarding the secrets that help keep our nation safe.
“That sounds good,” said Colin.
Athena giggled.
“What’s so funny?” asked Colin.
“It should sound good. That is almost word for word the mission statement of the CIA.”
“I thought it covered want we strive to do,” said Erebus, “but generally, we do it better.”
All three chorused, “Of course.”
“Right, let’s be serious for a moment,” said Athena, “these drinks are way too strong.”
“The drinks have put colour in your cheeks, my dear,” said Erebus, “but you’re right, we should put our long-term visions aside for now. We must concentrate our minds on the more pressing matters of the coming week.”
“Phoenix won’t know this, but we have a handful of agents inside the Olympic Stadium for the Opening Ceremony on the twenty-seventh,” said Erebus.
“Do we know the theme of the ceremony?” asked Colin.
Erebus referred to his files again and showed Colin and Athena aerial shots of the stadium.
“The ceremony is expected to be seen by a global television audience of more than a billion. So, it had better be up to scratch. I can’t imagine this Boyle fellow getting finance for another picture if he makes a cock-up of this. The show will tell the story of the making of Britain - culturally, socially and politically. Take a look at these pictures we got from a helicopter that flew over East London at the weekend. The extravaganza will feature smokestacks, pits and steam power as it showcases Britain's industrial history. You can expect to hear ‘dark satanic mills’ being belted out through the million-watt sound system.”
Colin wondered what Iron Maiden and Judas Priest were doing that Friday night. If they were on stage, he would snap up a ticket, no question.
Erebus was still explaining the possible programme of events.
“The organisers have already revealed there will be light and shade. Life is about balance. I expect they’ll trot out a group of bloody Morris dancers some when.”
“As relevant to England’s history as a Balti,” said Colin.
“You have it in one,” said Erebus.
Athena then told Colin about the people Olympus had on the inside.
“They first found out they had a part in the ceremony in January, having auditioned in November last year. We had no idea what they were getting themselves into, but we anticipated we would need eyes and ears in the stadium. They were processed and assigned to various roles from dancing to backstage work. Rehearsals started in Bow in April and then moved to Dagenham; final rehearsals switched into Stratford four weeks ago. Two technical dress rehearsals are scheduled before the final ceremony. One today and one on Wednesday.”
“We know what the official security levels are for this carnival,” said Colin, “what will this handful of agents bring to the party?”
“They are highly trained people. They won’t get distracted by their own roles in this show, or by the hype that will surround the entire evening,” said Athena. “If they see or hear anything suspicious, they will act accordingly. It’s a calculated risk.”
Erebus sat deep in thought. He looked towards Colin.
“Do you think we have missed a trick somewhere Phoenix?”
“I hope not. If I had been asked last autumn, I would have seen the sense in having people on the inside. Back then, the likelihood was there would be an orchestrated attack by Al Qaeda on the Games. We were looking at medal ceremonies being bomb targets, kidnappings and dozens of different scenarios. We may well get something such as that. If we do, then the planning has occurred far away from these shores. The terrorists won’t even be in the country yet. That seems unlikely. I reckon the lack of any real evidence of orchestration suggests that we will need to stop a lone wolf.”
“The lone wolf being this Khadim Salah perhaps?” asked Erebus.
“If he is a suicide bomber, then the girl is probably a cover, something to make him appear to be a normal bloke with an attractive younger woman on his arm.”
Athena smiled to herself. Phoenix was four years older than her.
“While I still worked with MI5,” she said, “we examined the phenomenon of suicide bombing. Young males carry out most attacks as we know. They became a weapon of choice among te
rrorists because of their deadliness and ability to cause mayhem and fear. What is it that motivates these attackers? The driving force is not always religious fanaticism but a whole range of things including politics, humiliation, and revenge. A bomber’s life story rarely shows any plain connection between violent militant activity and personality disorders. In fact, most suicide bombers are psychologically normal and are light years away from being loners. Khadim Salah was a bright student who lost his way. He drifted from one dead-end job to another and then found a niche in which he could be very successful. The recession saw the rug pulled out from under him. What was his response? He attended university and excelled. He got a first-class degree. The fact it was in Politics and Sociology has intense relevance. Over the past three years, he has been building up the hatred he has for the system he sees as responsible for his redundancy. He believes it was because he was a Muslim. What other reason could there be? He was brilliant at his job by all accounts. Someone has to pay.”
“I think you’ve nailed it,” said Colin “he was humiliated. In his eyes, he deserved more respect.”
“If this chap wants revenge, why not plant a bomb in the Olympic Stadium and claim responsibility afterwards? Why on earth would you blow yourself to smithereens?” asked Erebus.
“If he does, we’ll never get the chance to ask him,” said Colin. “We need to find this couple and take them out of the picture before he gets the chance to do the deed.”
CHAPTER 20
Popeye and Olive Oyl were returning home after an evening at the cinema. Their new mobile phones rang.
‘321 my flat tomorrow.’
“What do you think it means?” asked Aaleyah.
“Nothing urgent. If it can wait until tomorrow,” said Farooq.
Munaf was in his flat. He turned to Abdul.
“Everything is ready. Every element has been bought. They are a few in the bag on the chair by the window. The rest is at my uncle’s place. I told him I needed spare storage for my books while I was away from the campus. He doesn’t suspect a thing. I shall pick them up tomorrow at eleven o’clock and when the others arrive, we can begin.”
“Do you think the others are as committed to the cause as us?”
“Why do you ask? What have they said?”
“Nothing,” said Abdul, “but they are too close. This will make them weak.”
Munaf nodded. He would keep a close eye on Popeye and Olive Oyl tomorrow.
Before dawn, the two men rose and began their preparations. Their simple breakfast of a bowl of porridge with milk and one slice of toast was enough to sustain them throughout the daylight hours. Fasting during Ramadan was one of the Five Pillars of Islam, Munaf and Abdul used it as a time of self-examination and increased religious devotion. They read the Qur’an for most of the morning.
Munaf left the flat and walked the short distance to his uncle’s shop. He picked up his things and walked back to the flat. No one paid him any attention.
Abdul looked up as Munaf walked back into the flat.
“Everything we need is here now?” he asked.
Munaf nodded. He removed the contents of the bag and took great care placing them on the table. He brought the other bag from the chair and added its contents to the collection.
“We have time before the others get here. Let me tell you about the pipe bombs we will carry. Pipe bombs are by nature improvised weapons. The steel water pipes themselves are easy to buy. You want them no more than eight inches long and two inches in diameter. Normal metal galvanised pipes are best. The way I bought most of these materials was by buying the caps one day, then getting the pipes a few days later. Bought from a different hardware store each time to avoid suspicion. We need to drill a small hole in the centre of one cap per pipe, for the fuse.”
The fuses Munaf planned to use were electric, with wires leading to a timer and battery. Abdul viewed the components on the table with wonder. This was starting to get real.
“Once we have the holes in the caps, we can attach the fuses and tape them on so they don't move. Then we screw the cap onto the pipe really tight. I’ve borrowed a vice from my uncle; he never uses it so he won’t miss it. We can use that to hold the pipe firmly to fill up the pipe. It said in the manual I downloaded that normal firework powder works great. I bought all sorts of bangers and stuff and emptied the powder into an old Nescafe coffee jar. That was a dirty, time-consuming job. I wore oven gloves to stop my hands from getting filthy. I put newspapers on the floor in case I spilt any, and the landlord wondered what I’d been doing. Once the pipe, cap, and fuse are stabilized, we can pour in the powder. I’ve got a funnel thing in the kitchen drawer. We cram as much powder and shrapnel in as physically possible in each one.”
Munaf and Abdul were so wrapped up in what they were doing that Farooq and Aaleyah were outside the flat door and knocking to be let in before they knew it.
“Hi there,” said Aaleyah, “what are you guys doing?”
“Get inside and close that door,” shouted Munaf.
“Sorry,” said Aaleyah, “you did say to get here for prayers at noon.”
“What was it you needed us here for, anyway?” asked Farooq. His eyes widened as he took in the various items on the table.
“We have everything we need,” said Abdul, “it is nearly time.”
The room fell silent. Prayers followed and then they read from the Qur’an. Later in the afternoon, Munaf showed them what they needed to do.
As night fell, everything was assembled. It was time for them to eat. A simple meal of dates followed by pasta cooked with vegetables and chicken and a slice of plain cake with custard washed down with cranberry juice.
Aaleyah and Farooq made their way back to their respective digs.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” said Farooq. Aaleyah nodded and stood silently by the doorway into her apartment block.
“We only have two messages to go,” she said.
“Until tomorrow then,” said Farooq, not wanting to think about it.
Back at the flat, Munaf and Abdul studied the results of their handiwork. Munaf was satisfied.
“We have done well Abdul.”
“Roadrunner,” he said.
“Do you have your uniform ready for tomorrow, Roadrunner?”
“I do, Spider-Man,” said Abdul with no hint of a smile, “we must be the best Games Makers we can be at Greenwich Park. Many people are relying on us.”
As Abdul retired to his room to sleep, he glanced at his watch. The Opening Ceremony had been on the television tonight. He had forgotten it. He wondered if it had gone well.
The newspapers and the media were ecstatic about the extravaganza that had taken place at the Olympic Park last evening. Twitter was in meltdown with ten million tweets. The first day’s events were due to begin.
The four students were on duty, ready for a ten to twelve-hour shift. Aaleyah had a ten-minute bus ride to the swimming events; the journey for the boys was just over forty minutes. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in their purple and red uniforms they welcomed, directed, assisted and comforted visitors of all ages, and from every corner of the world. It was a long day, and at the end of it, they were shattered.
Deep in the Dorset countryside, Khadim and Shamila were lying low. She didn’t realise it, of course, she thought they were just chilling, getting to know one another better. It seemed to her that Khadim wanted to spend his day as a devout Muslim should during Ramadan, fasting in quiet contemplation. Shamila was cool with that.
Khadim allowed Shamila to take the bus into Dorchester on Monday to shop and they drove to Lyme Regis together on Wednesday to stroll along the Cobb. The weather was very pleasant. Khadim thought they were far enough along the coast from Weymouth to pose little risk. It would be Friday soon enough.
At Larcombe Manor on Thursday morning, Colin lay on his bed. He tried to think of a way to tell Athena that he was going to be away for the day tomorrow. She was bound to want to know where he was going.
If he was evasive, she would smell a rat. Therese had texted him to remind him about Greenwich Park. Colin was catching an early train and would be up there by eleven o’clock.
A few hours in her company wouldn’t be too much of a hardship; far better to keep her sweet than to provoke her. Therese could expose him. Now that Erebus had told him he would soon have one and a half million in his bank account, keeping Therese sweet was of paramount importance.
Colin had at least done his research, and he now knew that it was horses he was watching, not blokes kicking a ball. A slight improvement, but he was desperate for something to break in the hunt for Khadim Salah and he could go somewhere else instead.
These past few weeks, since the prison break mission, he had been starved of action. Most of all he missed the buildup, the planning he found so fascinating, pitting his wits against the complexities of the job in hand. He loved working out in minute detail how he would complete a successful mission. To react at a moment's notice to an impending crisis was alien to him. Colin did not like it.
There was nothing for it; he had to bite the bullet. He must tell Athena the truth about the London trip. Colin had made up his mind. He jumped up off the bed and made his way towards the main house.
No sooner had he poked his head around the door to his room and entered the corridor when Rusty shouted out to him.
“Come and look at this mate.”
Saved by the bell. Colin turned and followed Rusty’s voice. Hi, ex-SAS buddy was looking at images.
“Don’t tell me,” sighed Colin, “did I ever see any this big?”
“No mate,” said Rusty, “it’s not a porn site, it’s a CCTV feed from Lyme Regis.”
“Lyme Regis,” asked Colin, “where’s that, when it’s at home?”
“On the Dorset coast, you ignoramus. Twenty-five miles from Weymouth.”
