by Ted Tayler
“All work and no play...” whispered Athena as they walked hand in hand to the door of the orangery.
Colin gave her a quick kiss goodbye before they left the building. They arranged to meet up later and Colin headed for his quarters. What he needed now was to keep a clear head and find background data. He rang Giles in the intelligence section and put in a request. Giles said he would email the information to him within the hour.
Colin thought about a cold shower, but opted instead, to run to the old worker’s cottages; a visit to the pool was required to clear his head and to stop him thinking how good it had felt to hold Athena again.
Twenty lengths of the pool sorted him out, but all that time splashing from end to end, started him thinking of Therese Slater. Now he and Athena were indeed a reality; might it be time for Therese to go?
Colin sighed as he towelled himself dry after his swim and got dressed. Not for the first time he wondered why this ‘relationship’ lark was so complicated.
When he got back to his room, he found that Giles had furnished the details he needed. Colin set to work analysing the procedures that HMP Belmarsh needed to follow.
• Select named prisoner for transfer
• Check prisoner meets criteria for receiving establishment
• Obtain name of person with authority to accept prisoner at receiving establishment
• Complete the booking form
• Fax booking form to office by noon Thursday for moves the following week
• If trip can be completed in a day, a contractor faxes both establishments on the day before the move
• The contractor collects as specified in the movement fax and delivers the same day
Colin made a note to double check HMP Wakefield’s criteria; then he listed the actions he needed Giles and his team to carry out over the next few days. Colin had been educated in the KISS principle – Keep It Simple and Stupid. His plan was simplicity itself, provided they had the information to hand he had requested. With one problem sorted, he lay on his bed and thought about what to do about Therese Slater.
He remembered that morning in Blackpool when she had asked those questions and he had tap-danced his way around the truth.
He could hear her now, saying, “I don’t know who you are. I don’t understand how you were dead, but now you’re not. Do the people you work for know who you are? How have you become entitled to the holiday so soon? What kind of job is it anyway?”
He had spun the story well. “They were looking for people who liked hard work, didn’t mind getting their hands dirty, and prepared to travel around the country chasing up clients. I got in touch and they employed me. They offered me the job no questions asked; as long as I hit my quotas they’ll keep employing me.”
It had done the trick. Therese and he had swapped mobile phone numbers and he promised to ring her as soon as he had a break due. She hadn’t rung him in the past two months. He got the feeling that Therese was a strong woman; capable of standing on her own, he certainly did not classify her as the clingy, needy type.
Colin decided to ‘let sleeping dogs lie’.
With another problem sorted, even if only for a short time, he thought about those ‘sleeping dogs’. He wouldn’t get to enjoy a full night’s sleep tonight, so he had better get his shut-eye now. As the afternoon dozed away for Colin at Larcombe Manor, in Milton Keynes the situation was to take a dramatic turn for Abdul Rivzi. Although Olympus ignored his activities on market stalls scattered around the Midlands, other agencies did not.
Today was the day for Abdul to appear in court. After he left hours later, two men in a dark saloon car followed him home.
At the end of the week, a report would appear in the local paper.
“A trader who sold fake designer clothing at a market in Midsummer Boulevard has been given a community sentence and ordered to pay £800 costs. Abdul Rivzi, 51, of Pentagon Way, was handed a community sentence of two hundred and forty hours of unpaid work. In addition, he was ordered to pay costs of £800 having admitted sixteen charges relating to more than four hundred items of counterfeit clothing. It follows an anti-counterfeiting operation at the market by Buckinghamshire Trading Standards over an extended period. A council spokesman said that having made a test purchase and confirmed it as fake, Rivzi was arrested and clothing and cash seized.
Magistrates considered aggravating factors including an earlier conviction for possessing counterfeit goods and that there had clearly been a number of offences over a lengthy period. They were satisfied that the cash seized formed part of the trading operation and Rivzi forfeited over a thousand items of clothing.
Trading Standards believed that clamping down on illegal traders such as Rivzi could help the fight against serious organised crime. The sale of counterfeit goods damaged honest businesses who suffer when sales are lost to criminals who peddle these illegal goods. The profits might be used on occasion too to fund more serious organised crime.”
Abdul Rivzi didn’t see the report. He didn’t serve one hour of his community service. Callers at his home over the next couple of weeks found the property appeared to be empty. His car sat in his driveway. There was never any sign of the mole whose Olympus handler had code-named ‘Top Gear’.
In the evening, while Colin sat in the canteen eating, and anticipating the arrival of Athena to his room later, Abdul Rivzi was in an abandoned warehouse in Leicester. The men who had followed him from the court were there. Around a dozen other men had joined them.
A chair had been bolted to the floor in the centre of the room. Abdul was lashed securely to it. He was blindfolded and frightened.
An elderly man stepped forward. He spoke quietly to Abdul.
“Who do you report to?” he asked.
“No one; what do you mean?” replied Abdul.
“I thought you might remember that you reported to Waheed Shaikh, the leader of your cell.”
“Him, of course, but why did you ask who I reported to?”
“You have been receiving money; the money you get from selling your goods on the market stalls is not nearly enough to explain the amounts in your bank account. Who has been paying you this money?
Abdul did not reply. He feverishly thought how to explain away the money he had received from his handler; how had this happened? Who had betrayed him?
“If you refuse to answer a question, that’s when the beating starts.”
Four men came forward from the gathered crowd of onlookers. They started with punches, slaps. They tired of that so four other men took their place.
The old man returned to stand next to Abdul.
“It is better you talk. Tell us about the British security services. Who is your handler?”
Abdul’s face bled; his nose broken and several teeth loosened. He tried to speak. The sound that came out was weak and barely a whisper.
“I’ve never spoken to the security services.”
The old man shook his head, even though Abdul had spoken the truth.
The group of men surrounded Abdul. He heard them curse him for becoming an MI5 spy, for betraying his people.
“You will be taken out and shot for being a spy."
“Where you're going you'll not be telling anybody a thing."
“We will skin you alive, Abdul and nobody will hear you scream."
Finally, the imam spoke.
“We are tired Abdul. We will leave you to consider. In the morning, you will be ready to tell us what we want to know.”
They cut him from the chair and strung him up, his hands raised above his head. He was to be kept in this stress position for eight hours.
The torture continued when he was alone in the room overnight. They left the air conditioning unit on full blast. Abdul was not sure his body could take all that cold on top of the beating. He felt certain he would answer their questions in the morning; the beating was preferable to the standing.
At first light, several of the men returned, the elderly imam
accompanied them.
He whispered to their prisoner. “Are you ready to talk now Abdul?”
Abdul heard another voice.
“He is too weak to handle torture, especially electrocution.”
“Perhaps we should try it anyway,” said the imam.
Abdul drifted away; the pain didn’t register after a while. He was somewhere else, floating on his back in a swimming pool, gazing up at a clear blue sky.
They asked him questions, but his mind had gone.
When he refused to answer, they beat him on the soles of his feet.
Abdul gazed at the sky and relived the events of the last year. He was ‘Top Gear’ a senior figure in the cell at Milton Keynes who acted as an agent for a branch of the secret service. An agency so clandestine, MI5 and MI6 were unaware of their existence.
He was of such value to them he got paid tens of thousands of pounds with the flow of information from him handled by a special intelligence section. He was clearly the most important source within any terrorist cell in the UK.
Inside the cell, he had risen through the ranks to become a key figure. The irony was that one of the purposes of this cell was to search for informers and agents of the security forces.
Many people, both Al Qaeda members, and others were picked up by the cell and interrogated for lengthy periods of time. Sometimes they held them in Milton Keynes, but on other occasions, they took them to isolated houses in remote areas where they could be held for weeks.
Abdul had taken part in such interrogations. He had beaten people to death. He had told his secret security service handler many things; but not the depths of his involvement.
The beatings continued. Abdul Rivzi never gave up the name of his handler. He was unable to speak. Around seven o’clock in the evening, Abdul grew cold. The sky overhead filled with clouds. It was getting darker.
He was so tired.
It would be so easy to just sink to the bottom of the swimming pool and sleep.
CHAPTER 11
Erebus had returned from visiting Elizabeth. The doctor had told him there was little more they could do. It was a matter of time. Erebus had expected as much. In a strange way, he welcomed it; she was no longer the Elizabeth he had known. She was an empty shell. Her body was functioning, but her mind had decided it would no longer have anything to do with it and had begun shutting down.
The old man had sat in the main meeting room since five o’clock this morning. Sleep was not possible. Lying in bed alone, as he had done for several years now, just as unattractive. He had showered and dressed; ready for the nine o’clock meeting. He sat in the chair and stared ahead, seeing nothing, alone with his memories.
Colin too lay awake. He was alone this morning. Yesterday had offered the opportunity to relax, exercise, and fine-tune his plans to disrupt the prison transfer. Recalling his passionate encounter with Athena the night before had kept him warm throughout the day. As each twenty-four-hour period elapsed, it took all of the men and women at Larcombe Manor a day closer to their next big challenge.
Athena had used the day before to do her own thinking. She thought about Erebus; how Elizabeth’s situation might affect her mentor’s attitude towards the Olympus Project. Could he retire and pass the reins over to her? Would he be able to give the commitment to the cause that the stern challenges that faced them demanded?
Her mind never drifted far from thoughts of Phoenix either; their lovemaking had been both tender and passionate. She had given herself to him completely; yet in the morning, he had been cool and distant. It was imperceptible, but she felt it keenly. He reminded her of the need for them to suppress their emotions. The tasks ahead were too important; the security of the nation depended on Olympus getting it right. There would be no second chances.
In Leicester, the body of Abdul Rivzi travelled on its way to its final resting place. The two men who had snatched him from his doorstep in Milton Keynes had been given the task. His body was in the boot of their dark saloon car. The driver set the satnav for a lake on a golf course ten miles outside Leicester.
The spy identified as ‘Top Gear’ had taken his secrets with him to the afterlife, the imam, and his colleagues had broken Abdul physically and mentally; but somehow he had clung on to the knowledge they craved. The terrorists had lost that battle. Olympus had lost a vital, irreplaceable asset. Who had suffered the greater loss? Only time would tell.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour; Erebus shook himself awake. Doors were opening and people arriving for the morning meeting. Athena, Thanatos, and Minos walked purposefully forward together to join him. Alastor trailed behind with Henry Case. They appeared troubled.
“Welcome back Erebus,” said Thanatos.
Athena touched the old man’s sleeve and asked, “How’s Elizabeth?”
Erebus shook his head.
“She only has a matter of weeks; maybe even days.”
“I am so sorry, Erebus,” said Athena.
“Is everyone present?” said Erebus, breaking away from the circle of his closest friends and colleagues. Normal service had been resumed.
“Right then; the first item on the agenda is the prisoner switch. Phoenix, will you present your proposal please?”
Alastor spoke.
“Might we digress from the agenda Erebus for a moment? We have urgent and potentially grave news from our intelligence section.”
‘Head’ Case stood up and broke the news to the agents and their superiors around the table. Abdul Rivzi, their invaluable contact within the Milton Keynes cell had failed to contact his handler. He had missed two scheduled contacts so far. Activity monitored via CCTV feeds hacked into by the icehouse computer geeks had spotted unusual traffic movements by known cell members in the early hours of this morning.
“Trading Standards…” Henry Case continued.
“What have bloody Trading Standards got to do with it?” exploded Erebus.
Henry explained.
“Alastor and I agree. It is almost certain that the case exposed the details of his bank accounts to someone in the cell and this would have ended in interrogation, torture, and execution. We must assume that they know everything.”
“This thankfully was not very much. He knew nothing about whom he worked for,” said Alastor.
“Even so, it gives us a problem,” said Athena “we have to place our entire reliance on the icehouse to intercept any email or mobile traffic to and from the cell. We are blind, but at least, we can hear.”
Erebus added “It also means that the Milton Keynes cell and the other cells in their hub believe that the ‘secret services’ know of their existence; in addition, they will suspect that the authorities know everything they have planned so far in regards to London 2012.
This would encourage them to amend their strategy. To do that, meetings are likely to be held, requests for advice and guidance from their superiors and so forth. Losing Abdul Rivzi is a severe blow, but we must keep positive. Most of all we must stay alert. Henry, please get that message to your people on the intelligence team.”
“I shall do that right after this meeting Erebus.”
Colin had sat quietly listening to this conversation. He waited for his chance to reveal his plans for the coming operation.
Erebus noticed that Phoenix looked impatient.
“Do you have any comments, Phoenix?”
“It strikes me that if it was an official government authority that was supposed to have planted a mole in the Milton Keynes cell; therefore Olympus is in greater danger of being exposed. We consistently try to carry out our direct actions under the radar. If Rivzi’s body is ever discovered, or his family starts asking questions about his disappearance, sooner or later MI5 or MI6 will be alerted. If they hadn’t put him inside any cell; who had?”
“Fair comment Phoenix,” said Erebus “how do we counter that possibility?”
“By making it appear that supporters of Al Qaeda have pulled off a spectacular publicity coup in
mainland Britain. A coup, which switches the security services attention away from the Midlands and Abdul Rivzi, while switching the public’s attention towards the failings of the authorities in general. It might look like this in fact.”
Colin then showed them the details of his daring plan.
After he had finished his presentation, the room was silent for a few moments. That silence ended in spontaneous and unprecedented applause.
“Brilliant! Dear boy, you have surpassed yourself,” said Erebus, more animated than he had been for a few weeks.
The direct action received the green light.
Athena stood up and addressed the meeting.
“This mission must not be seen as a cure for the ills the system is experiencing. This is just the first step. We are painfully aware that we have a prison population that is growing. We have fewer officers in prisons than ever before and we have less police to cope with the criminals on the street. So, what we have seen is the unchallenged growth of extremists. Men capable of whipping up anti-British feeling and inspiring their followers to commit acts of terrorism.
The authorities have fewer people to search them out these days, so the police service and prison service find it difficult to handle. Naturally, the government rejects the claim that staff shortages are hindering efforts to stop Islamic radicalisation within the prisons. Well, they would, wouldn’t they? They have also proposed that the high-security jails should have units that work with the security services to root out extremism.
Moving prisoners from HMP Belmarsh and the others that will surely follow, reduces the chance of serious levels of radicalization occurring. To concentrate the vast majority of potential terrorist troublemakers at HMP Wakefield is an interesting strategy, but a strategy not without risk.
Over the last few years, there has been a noticeable change in our gaols, with people becoming radicalised and then getting themselves involved in violent situations. The people responsible for that coercion were the more prominent Muslims inside our prisons.
We now know that in HMP Whitemoor, a prison with a large Muslim population, inmates housed there, convicted of terrorism offences, have tried to influence and pressurise others. Non-Muslim prisoners often join the extremists because they are promised protection; before long, they too are plotting acts of terror as well as endorsing groups such as Islamic State and al-Qaeda.”
