by Ted Tayler
The inspectors lost track of the questioning as they heard what these men suffered. Each related the experiences that left them with PTSD and brought them to Larcombe Manor for rehabilitation.
As the last of the men closed the meeting room door behind him, the senior inspector said to Athena, “We should be eternally grateful to these men; you are doing a wonderful job in bringing them back to good health in mind and body. The work this charity does is outstanding.”
“Thank you,” said Athena.
The door opened and in walked Phoenix. Athena swallowed hard. What was he doing here? Erebus had sent him to a meeting in Swindon. A follow-up initiative to the disposal job Phoenix had been involved in earlier in the year. Those people in authority, who should have protected Tanya Norris and the others, were to be identified and set aside for further action. There would be no killings, but evidence would be gathered so that at the very least they lost their jobs, and in occasional cases face prosecution.
Colin looked around the room, in a wild search for any familiar faces.
“And who might you be?” asked the officious inspector.
Colin stared at him. He couldn’t reveal his code name. He couldn’t tell him he was Colin Bailey; the world outside believed him to be dead.
“Where did you serve? What regiment did you serve with?”
Colin did the only thing he could think to do. He collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Athena rushed to his aid. Minos called for the stewards. The inspectors were at a loss. Could this be an extreme case of PTSD? From what hellhole had this poor chap returned? On the other hand, should they be sharpening their pencils?
The stewards helped Colin to his feet and removed him from the room. In the corridor, he met Erebus. He was out of breath after chasing around trying to make sure the agents who were ‘at risk’ such as Phoenix, made themselves scarce.
“Dear boy, are you alright?”
“Had a shock sir, my mind went a complete blank there for a minute.”
Colin explained what happened.
“Couldn’t be helped, old chap. We had no idea they were coming today. Fingers crossed, Athena can explain you away. She has worked miracles already this morning. Another hour or two and we will be in the clear. Bloody pen pushers, they have ten times more of them in fluffy, unnecessary jobs than we have got fighting men. Priorities are all wrong.”
Colin was hurried out of a side door and he was soon in his quarters. His debrief with Erebus about the Swindon meeting would have to wait. One thing he would bring up with the old man when he saw him was his cover story for visits such as today.
He had not needed one so far because Olympus generally knew when the Charity Commissioners were visiting. It was less frequent now that the charity had become well established. Financials could be audited remotely, and every visit had left Larcombe with an unblemished record of success. The trouble was, each successive Government thought it vital to add further layers of red tape, more checks, and balances. They needed documented evidence that organisations were ‘going green’, promoting diversity, and any other rubbish they could muster.
Judas Priest interrupted Colin’s reverie.
Another text message from Therese on his mobile phone.
‘I bought tickets for Greenwich Park. Friday, Aug 3rd. Hope to see you x’
Colin thought it must be for a football match.
“Oh well, that won’t be so bad for a few hours, if it keeps her sweet.”
He sent Therese the reply she wanted to hear. Colin marked the date on his calendar and forgot it for now; he had two months hard work in front of him first. At least, that’s what he hoped.
The ICO inspectors left Larcombe Manor later that afternoon. As they travelled in the hire car back towards the city of Bath, they chatted over the events of the day. The manor house and grounds had impressed them; the gardens looked so beautiful at this time of year. A pity they didn’t have time to explore them more.
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, I believe.”
“There appear to be several ex-servicemen, still suffering from PTSD, many years after the action in which they fought; I was surprised to see 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 we saw 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 was 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, that ‘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 torch bearer. 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 to be 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 heavily 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.
“Th
e public outrage at an attack on the Queen or Royal Family would be considered 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, it is 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 sternly.
“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 would 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 would wear 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 thousand 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 far more freely in this than if we wore normal street wear. It is functional and reasonably 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 that ran that session said they were very 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 be criticised for not having a large number of ethnic groups involved; so there we won’t be the only 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.
“No,” said Aaleyah, thinking what a knob Munaf could be at times. “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 establish 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 talk about 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 into 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? Especially 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 we four 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 equipment’.
- 632 means ‘It is time’.
“I studied the event timetables carefully and noted three days when we might attack. My personal choice is Friday 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 talked about 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 that 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 be reassuring, but Colin grimaced throughout Alastor’s statement.
“So that would mean just 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 indicate 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 any doubts about the difficulty of this situation. 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. Every single visitor would be body searched. With no vehicles in or out, you can expect queues half way to Slough and the 100m Final being held in October.
Wait a minute; the Home Office just issued a statement, ‘We have a robust safety and security strategy. Intelligence-led and risk-based.’
We are in the shit good and proper then.”
Colin’s frustration boiled over and he slammed his fist on the table.
“Thank you Phoenix,” said Erebus, “we get your drift.”
