by Ted Tayler
“I’ll go ahead and put the first phase of our plan in place Phoenix,” said Rusty.
“Right,” replied Phoenix. “I’ll give you an hour. Let’s synchronise our watches. On my mark, the time is 14.35. Mark.”
“Check,” said Rusty and got out of the van. He collected his kit from the rear and set off across the fields.
Colin sat in the van and waited. When the clock ticked forward to 15.20 he too left the van with his kit and set off at a brisk walk towards the target.
Al Stratton and Terry Wright-Jones lived in an isolated cottage on the outskirts of Great Bourton, just a few minutes up the road from Cropredy. They had been ideally situated for the cleaning task when it was communicated to them. The bodies of the cleric and the bomb maker were retrieved intact from another Olympus safe house in Banbury. They had transported them through the village at dead of night and planned to bury the bodies in the countryside straight away.
Both men had been Sergeants in the SAS, who served in Bosnia and Iraq. They had years of experience between them. When the black marks against their names for insubordination and unnecessary violence towards prisoners during interrogations mounted up, they found themselves surplus to requirements and back on ‘civvy’ street. After working for various security firms and debt collection agencies, always just staying one step ahead of the law, they had been approached by Olympus.
While they trained at Larcombe, they were warned that they were drinking in the Last Chance Saloon. Rusty and the other instructors had tried to break them, but they kept their noses clean throughout their training period. For the past three years, they had been used on various operations and although surly and distant with their colleagues, they did what they were told well enough. No black marks existed against their names in the reports that Rusty and Phoenix had seen.
The drink was their downfall. Stratton and Wright-Jones got back to the cottage on the night in question and went indoors. Their task had been to bury the two bodies, a half-mile apart, in areas with the minimum pedestrian footfall.
“Sounds like hard work Terry for two ragheads,” said Stratton.
“Sod it,” grunted Wright-Jones, “let’s have a drink first.”
One thing led to another as it often did with these two. Dawn was a distant memory before the drinking ended with both men passed out in the lounge. The devil makes work for idle hands. When they awoke, hung-over and irritable they chopped the bodies up in the outhouse behind the cottage. They then planned to bury them on either side of the same field. Three minutes away from where they sat in the cottage.
“They can wave to one another,” chuckled Wright-Jones.
“Fat chance,” muttered Stratton, “we’ll separate them. Then they’ll know what it felt like for our lads to stand on an IED and get blown to kingdom come.”
The bodies were mutilated; the shrouds filled with parts from each and Stratton and Wright-Jones buried the remains on opposite sides of a field near Cropredy Bridge that night.
Colin looked across the open ground towards the cottage. Everything was quiet. It was certainly isolated. There was no traffic sound anywhere. Just a few birds in the trees to break the silence. Through his glasses, he picked out the outhouse. He could just see the grill of an old Ford van parked to the side. Stratton and Wright-Jones were home.
To his right, a hedge ran the length of the field to the lane in front of the cottage. He needed to backtrack twenty metres and use the cover to get near the target by 15.35 when Rusty expected him to make his move.
He crawled backwards until he could safely hunker down and run towards the cottage under the cover of the hedge. Colin checked his watch again. Fifteen thirty-two.
He stashed his kit under the hedge and put his SIG Sauer P226 into the waistband of his trousers. It felt cold but reassuring against his spine. He strolled up to the front door, knocked and waited.
Stratton opened the door. “What can I do for you mate? Hang on, don’t I know you?
Colin nodded. “I was nearby and wondered if you guys wanted to join me for a beer. I’m parked up the road and staying in the pub in the village tonight.”
“That sounds great,” said Stratton, standing back and inviting him to come inside. “Why don’t we have a few beers. You can tell us what you’ve been up to. Phoenix, was your name, wasn’t it? One of the blue-eyed boys at Larcombe. Met up with you on that prison break caper.”
Colin stood his ground. He didn’t want to go inside the cottage alone. There was no movement from inside the building. Plan A had been for Rusty to gain access from the rear of the cottage and take out whichever operative didn’t answer the door. Colin would then dispose of the other man at the front when he was distracted by events behind him.
Colin heard a faint crunch of the gravel behind him and the unmistakable touch of cold steel on his neck.
“You’ll have to do better than that Phoenix,” sneered Wright-Jones, “we spotted you ages ago. It doesn’t take a genius to work out why you’re here. Someone must have uncovered our handiwork. The old boy sent you to clean up, didn’t he?
Wright-Jones continued talking as Stratton patted Colin down and found the gun. He looked at it and turned it over in his hand. Then suddenly he whipped his arm across Colin’s face knocking him to the ground.
“We’re going to take a short drive,” said Stratton, “one way for you I’m afraid.”
“Move,” growled Wright-Jones and shoved Colin forwards. He stumbled and fell again. Stratton pointed his own gun at him and the three men headed towards the outhouse and the old Ford van.
Colin experienced a sinking feeling. Plan A had long gone down the drain. Several other scenarios had been skipped in the playbook by these two old hands too. What could he do; he was unarmed and with Rusty nowhere to be seen. Had they spotted him as well? Was his best friend in the van? Had they killed him, or were they destined to die together side by side?
Colin thought over the past thirty months working for Olympus; Athena’s face drifted in and out of focus. His head was still spinning from the pistol-whipping Stratton dished out. With so much to live for, was this how it was going to end?
“Ah well,” he sighed as he stumbled to the rear of the van and Wright-Jones opened the doors, “nothing is ever forever, is it?”
The van was empty. Stratton shoved him towards it. Colin resisted. He wasn’t getting in without a fight. Stratton tucked the Sig Sauer in his belt and grabbed hold of him, bundling him into the back, and slamming the doors. Colin cracked his head on the bulkhead and lay there stunned.
He heard four muffled reports.
His head hurt; nothing made much sense. He curled up in a ball and waited for the van to pull away. He tried to think about how to make one last-ditch effort to save himself when they reached wherever these two planned to kill him and bury his body. What had happened to Rusty?
The van doors were suddenly thrown open.
Colin gathered up his strength and sprang out of the van. Stratton and Wright-Jones were lying in the yard, dead. They had both been shot in the back of the head. The exit wounds at the front destroying any chance of their relatives viewing the body. The familiar smell of death that should have attacked his nostrils was not in evidence. All he could smell was the true smell of the country.
“Thank God for Plan Q!” said Rusty, who appeared by his side. Colin saw his teeth as his mate grinned at him, but little else. Rusty was in full camouflage gear, his face blackened.
“Thought my number was up,” shuddered Colin. “What happened?”
“I could tell as soon as I got in the neighbourhood that the cottage had been chosen well. It’s nigh on impossible to get close without someone spotting you, especially if you’re as well trained as this couple. I had to use everything I’ve ever learned to make my way undetected into the garden at the rear. I had to improvise. I burrowed into the compost heap near the back wall. It meant I was six feet from the van doors. Then I waited for your conversation at the front do
or. Terry came out and crept around the side of the cottage. I was going to break cover then and ride to the rescue, but I thought that might end up with a fire-fight. Didn’t want to risk it. Sorry, you got roughed up mate. Once I knew they planned to take you off in the van to get rid of you. I stayed hidden until you were tucked up inside the van. They were a few feet in front of me walking towards the front of the van when I stood up and took them out. They never suspected a thing.”
“Thanks,” said Colin. Although it was alien to him to show emotion he wanted to throw his arms around his friend and hug him, but the stench was something awful.
“First things first,” said Rusty, “let’s get these two into the van. Then I’m going indoors to have a shower or two. A change of clothes and a beer will help. Maybe this pair has a stock of food in the house we can grab too. Then I reckon we watch telly and wait until nightfall.”
Colin couldn’t believe how Rusty could remain so cool.
“You knew these two guys; I got the impression you weren’t happy doing this job when Erebus laid it out for us.”
“They crossed the line Phoenix. When they joined Olympus, they agreed to follow the rules. I might have been unhappy about the mess they made of disposing of the prisoners. I might have questioned that Erebus thought it serious enough for them to be killed. But they were prepared to kill you without a second’s thought. I couldn’t allow that mate.”
The two friends bundled the bodies of Stratton and Wright-Jones into the van. Later that night they would be driven back to Larcombe, to their final resting place in the crowded pet cemetery.
The two agents spent the evening in total silence. Showers were taken. The food was prepared and eaten. They each drank a can of beer. The TV was watched and then switched off at the mains as midnight approached. No point leaving it on standby.
Rusty drove the old Ford through the lanes in darkness until they reached their own transport. Colin then followed Rusty back to the outskirts of Bath in the Olympus van. They swung between the pillars at the entrance to the estate at just after two in the morning.
At three o’clock an electrical fire was instigated at the isolated cottage near Great Bourton in Oxfordshire. The fire burned swiftly. It’s great living in the country, miles from anywhere; unless you need a fire engine. Before anyone noticed the flames, and the brigade summoned, the blaze reduced the cottage to little more than a shell.
CHAPTER 4
Tuesday, September 25th, 2012
“Back so soon, gentlemen?” asked Erebus as Phoenix and Rusty strolled into the morning meeting.
“Mission accomplished,” said Rusty.
“Everything went according to plan Sir,” added Phoenix; with a grin at his pal.
Henry ‘Head’ Case looked up from the reports he read.
“I think we may need to apply for planning permission for an extension to the pet cemetery if we have to bury many more bodies. A work detail is in progress as we speak, ferreting away the two you delivered early this morning.”
“Sad business,” said Erebus, “when we have to bury two of our own. I’m afraid they were ‘off-message’ the modern parlance is, so we had no alternative. I believe we can draw a line under the Cropredy affair now and move forward.”
Athena had not seen Colin since he left the meeting yesterday, so she was unaware of the near-death experience he endured. He and Rusty’s blasé comments when Erebus had spoken to them were designed to protect her as much as keeping the full facts from the old man. There was time enough to tell him what had gone on when he debriefed the operation later. Almost certainly in the orangery.
“I don’t suppose we missed much while we were away yesterday?” asked Colin.
Athena smiled.
“You couldn’t have picked a better day to be off-site. The Avon & Somerset Police paid us a visit.”
“What on earth for?” asked Colin.
“They were looking for you Phoenix,” said Erebus. “Or more precisely, they asked after a troubled serviceman. A man who raised a few doubts in the mind of one of our visitors earlier this year from the Charity Commission.
Sir Julian Langford QC, known to his colleagues as Minos, the judge of the dead in the Underworld, took up the story. Another of the Three Stooges, Minos was nearly sixty years of age. After a long career in the law courts watching criminals evade justice or receive softer and softer sentences for serious crimes, he had retired a disillusioned man. A family tragedy followed. His young son Harry committed suicide. The drugs he used were bought online as simple as downloading a CD onto his iPod. Minos joined Olympus after reading the advert placed by Erebus in The Times; he was a valuable and contented member of an organisation able to make a difference.
“You will recall the Data Protection Act raised a few issues concerning the personal information we hold on our people here at Larcombe. The Commissioners required a questionnaire to be completed and then the ICO inspectors descended on us without warning for a review of our answers. The visit was said to be in an advisory capacity. They offer practical advice on how we might improve things, should the need arise. We took our normal precautions for when strangers visit. The ice-house was locked down and only a skeleton crew remained in the stable-block. I did my utmost to show them that our records were in an exemplary state. If they looked out of the windows of this room, they would have seen a few servicemen. Men tending to the flower beds, cutting vegetables from the kitchen garden; that sort of thing. The whole picture we try to portray at times such as that is what you would expect to see when lads return from the theatre of war suffering mental problems. A modest level of activity and exercise to complement the counselling they receive while the mind repairs itself. The interviews went well. The candidates we chose had been schooled well. Everyone kept to the script. They were poised to sign us off with distinction.”
“Then I walked in and stuffed everything up,” said Phoenix.
“I’m afraid it complicated matters Phoenix, there’s no denying that,” Minos replied. “Rather than debriefing the Swindon mission as you expected, you realised the situation and collapsed in a heap. This gave us an opportunity to get you out and concoct a cover story. We avoided answering awkward questions about who you were and where you had served. We thought we had pulled the wool over their eyes. Unfortunately, the senior Inspector chewed over events on the train journey north and in due course sent a report to the Charity Commission, just to cover his backside. They decided his concerns about what went on behind the walls of the Olympus Project significant enough to call for further investigation. In the current climate, with the Leveson and Savile inquiries prominent in the news it was inevitable. So they invited the police to at least confirm the identity and current status of this serviceman. Was this the right place for him to be treated etcetera? Had we mistreated him here even?”
Henry Case joined in at this point. “Minos and I met to talk about your case Phoenix in the aftermath of the visit. We thought it politic to create a plausible persona for you that would satisfy the ICO if they came calling again. We have to keep sweet with the Charity Commissioners no matter what. For five years we have kept the authorities and the public at arm’s length.”
“So what happened yesterday then?” asked Colin, who had felt a slight chill running down his spine ever since he heard that the police had been asking after him.
“Two officers arrived mid-afternoon without warning,” said Athena, “a female Detective Inspector, and a uniformed sergeant. They travelled across from the county force HQ at Portishead. These days it’s where their Criminal Investigations people are based. They wanted to speak with you. They asked to interview the serviceman of around forty years of age, who fainted in front of ICO staff members during their advisory visit. I called Henry Case, and he brought over the paperwork we had prepared.”
“We informed them that Warrant Officer Second Class Garry Burns was the soldier they had seen collapsing. They were advised that Burns was a veteran of several trips to
Iraq. After he returned he had been diagnosed with severe PTSD. He could still function and work from time to time, but there were several days a month where he got emotionally unstable. After leaving the military, he had spent several years having random erratic episodes and his GP just chalked it up to his excessive drinking and his temper issues. When he came here as a volunteer we got him to cut back on his drinking and stopped him fighting everyone in sight. He did things he was not proud of over there. As did many of his colleagues. We offered to counsel him for his mental issues and arranged weekly visits with a social worker. That social worker got him into sessions with a psychologist and quarterly sessions with a psychiatrist. Those sessions helped him find his way back. It was slow at first; several months passed before we built the trust that enabled him to share his experiences in a vulnerable and truthful way. It can be a real battle to enter willingly into therapy. To open up to a stranger and hope they don't tear you apart and judge you. After a time, talking, and drugs for depression, sleep disorder and mood swings he was judged to be ‘relatively’ normal. The police were informed that the incident during the ICO visit was caused by a virus. I showed the detective the MO’s report on the matter. As he had entered the Olympus Project as a voluntary patient we couldn’t prevent him from walking away. We told them we preferred that he had stayed here, among friends; fellow servicemen who understood the hell he had suffered. But he was adamant he felt well enough to make it on the outside on his own. We said that he left Larcombe Manor to travel the world in July. We hadn’t received a card from him so far.”
“How did this DI react to that?” asked Rusty.
