The Phoenix Series Box Set 2

by Ted Tayler

  I strolled along Calle San Jaime around lunchtime as he whiled away an hour with this blessed newspaper under his arm. I thought of ways to dispose of him on his river-walk up to the Roman bridge, but the waters were too shallow to conceal the body. In the end, I decided to stick with what I knew best. Throughout my business life I have taken risks; doing things my competitors never dream of doing. I decided to do the deed in plain sight. Risk everything on the roll of the dice.

  I flew home on Monday morning and called my mother. She was in Australia, with her latest husband. Even younger and less appropriate than the last. She was in no immediate rush. William Hunt wasn’t going anywhere and she had other things on her mind. I didn’t ask what they might be; I knew better than to question her motives.

  We met for only the second occasion that year in mid-July in London. A few words passed between us; enough to get me on a flight out to the Balearics early the following week. I visited the marina café once more and watched the comings and goings on ’Elizabeth’. Gavin the crewman fetched supplies, started on the regular clean-up and looked to be kept busy for the next couple of hours.

  William Hunt sat on the verandah of the Ring O’ Bells with a cup of coffee. His copy of The Times neatly folded in front of him on the circular table. He was too pre-occupied with his preparations for his crossword to notice my approach.

  I bounced up the steps, eager to carry out my mother’s wishes. I stabbed the old man in the neck and without breaking stride hurried past the pool table into the restroom. I waited for thirty seconds. Then hearing no cries of alarm from the bar or outside, I calmly walked out, descended the steps and escaped into the town to find a taxi.

  I disposed of the syringe in San Antonio. As far away from Calle de Mer and the pub as possible. Drug paraphernalia was not an uncommon find around the club capital of the Mediterranean. On my way back to my hotel in Santa Eulalia I sent mother a text.

  ‘Bellringer silenced.’

  The next few days proved interesting. Poor Gavin appeared distraught. A nice cushy number cruising around the Balearics had come to an abrupt end. I knew I didn’t have long before someone arrived from England to claim the body. I made a phone call from the hotel lobby to the company dealing with William Hunt’s mortal remains.

  The embalmer and I rapidly came to a financial agreement. He pushed the old man’s name to the top of his list in exchange for the equivalent of a year’s salary. I followed him home that evening and dropped the envelope containing the cash through the open door to his shabby first-floor apartment. No chance now of anyone tracing the true cause of William Hunt’s demise.

  Two familiar faces arrived in town the next day. Very sombre; lots of tears. I smiled as I watched them from what had become my favourite spot on the island. It appeared that the old man was flying home with an escort and Gavin was getting things ready to leave the sheltered haven of the marina. As he finalised things with the harbour master he left ‘Elizabeth’ unattended. I crept aboard and stowed away until we were well out to sea.

  The more people you kill, the easier it becomes. I was so relaxed I slept an hour or two longer than intended. Gavin was fast asleep when I slipped from my hiding place. The crewman awoke a second after my chloroform-soaked cloth pressed over his nose and mouth, but he was too late. He clawed in vain at my strong hands and soon lost consciousness. I tied him up securely and regularly added to his sedative. I sat and watched over him until morning as I read through the manuals for ‘Elizabeth’ and the rest of her class. By dawn, I was confident I knew which buttons to press.

  I dressed in fresh clothes from Gavin’s closet, A tight fit, but the subterfuge was only necessary while I negotiated the narrow channels in the marina. I managed this without mishap and soon motored out into the open seas. From there three weeks of hopping from harbour to harbour around the coast of mainland Europe lay ahead of me.

  Two days out from Ibiza I got rid of my unwanted passenger. He was alive, if only just. Trussed up like a mummy he didn’t suffer long as he dropped to the bottom of the ocean unable to move either his arms or his legs.

  The weather remained kind throughout my journey. My GPS and the technical wizardry Gavin had at his disposal on ‘Elizabeth’ were simple enough to master. My real father didn’t pass on many attributes in his share of my genes, but I am always in awe of his innate skill at anything he tackles. Mother had been attracted by it once.

  I received more than my fair share of her cold demeanour; which precluded any emotional attachments, male or female. She soon sensed I had inherited her dark side. That was what made us such a formidable pair. There were no limits to what we did to achieve our ends.

  I was to deliver ‘Elizabeth’ to the Lymington Yacht Haven during Cowes Week. I was scheduled to arrive within a day or two of the time Gavin expected to steer her into her berth. When William Hunt’s friends came to visit from Larcombe Manor, they would find her secure and unharmed.

  A note from Gavin showed he had found another post; sailing a yacht in a far-flung Pacific paradise. They had no reason for suspicion. Mother had decided this option was much safer than scuttling the yacht in the Atlantic. She frowned at my suggestion of rigging ‘Elizabeth’ to explode into splinters of wood, glass, and metal when someone from Larcombe entered through the cabin door.

  “Far too dramatic darling; and too remote. I want to be there when they die. Much more satisfying. No, do what they are expecting Gavin to do, return the yacht to its home and after that, they can keep it, sell it, whatever they wish. It’s of no consequence. We can wait.”

  Wednesday, August 14th, 2013

  Today was the day I left my final safe harbour at Barfleur. I was going to negotiate the English Channel. This may seem foolhardy; if not downright dangerous for a novice. That morning I gave thanks to Michael Woodford and the skippers who took me under their wing during that final summer we visited the Isle of Wight together.

  In the less frantic weeks that followed the social whirl of the regatta, I crewed for various sizes of boat. Mother disappeared to tour around Greece and Italy, so I was dumped on Michael Woodford and his family for the rest of the summer.

  I discovered that Michael spent his retirement days drinking cider and chatting of days gone by to locals and incomers. In the meantime, I learned the ropes on the craft that skimmed through the Solent or tackled the busy shipping lanes between the island and the French coast. When I left for home, bronzed by sunny days and balmy breezes, my education for what was to come today was complete.

  To make a solo crossing of the English Channel is a daunting prospect. One is sailing out of sight of land, crossing busy shipping lanes and tackling ripping tides. These are stern challenges, but not insurmountable ones. If your preparation is good – passage plan, weather, tides and boat checks – there’s no reason you shouldn’t succeed. Confidence is a hurdle, but not something in short supply as far as I’m concerned; besides, Gavin had already done that work for me in his spare time in Santa Eulalia.

  It’s the skipper’s job to make sure the paperwork for the boat is in order. The chances are it won’t be needed today, but if it wasn’t at my fingertips then I could be in a whole lot of trouble. It’s essential I don’t draw undue attention to myself. Gavin’s certificates, licences, and insurance were in order. I had my passport and EHIC.

  The right charts and reference books had been meticulously collated for easy reference. Gavin even owned one of those handy zipped-top holders full of rulers, dividers, pencils and an eraser. The last time I saw one of those was when I sat my A-Levels.

  I had to give Gavin a gold star for his planning. He realised the necessity to use a single time zone and made the adjustments for tides and heights. I checked the forecast with our dear old Met Office just in case; if things went wrong any enquiry panel used their version as gospel on every occasion.

  The forecast was south-west Force 3, becoming variable. I could always use the motor if the wind died. Visibility was good. I had a green li
ght. I made sure I stocked with plenty of easy to prepare snacks and drinks. I had filled the water and fuel tanks brought aboard emergency jerry cans of fuel and bottles of water and odd spares for the engine.

  ‘Elizabeth’ possessed a decent toolkit and sail repair kit. I checked engine oil, gearbox oil, fresh water in the header tank, drive belt tension, and saltwater filter. Once I got moving, I ensured I had cooling water in the exhaust.

  Gavin’s diary confirmed the rig had been thoroughly checked a couple of days earlier, the winches too had only recently been serviced. At a few minutes after five, I eased ‘Elizabeth’ out of her berth. I was totally focused on every small detail. I had courses to steer from buoy to buoy; sails to set. No time left to be nervous.

  For that first couple of hours, I found it difficult to judge the range of oncoming ships and altered course very early. Better safe than sorry. I soon got settled into the rhythm and spent the next few hours gliding in between tankers ploughing majestically on without a care in the world. I took time out for a drink and a bite to eat.

  The wind was perfect. ‘Elizabeth’ skipped along at six knots for a spell; I sensed the wind veering and we slowed to under four. It was time to lower the spinnaker and switch to the motor for a while. My nerves were tested for the next few hours but at last, we emerged on the other side of the shipping lanes without even a near miss.

  As we entered the Solent the wind picked up enough for me to revert to sail. I was in familiar territory now. Close into the shore there were dozens of smaller craft. I wondered whether they had someone with the experience of a Michael Woodford to tell them where the dangers lay? It is sometimes hard to manoeuvre through a race in a small boat. How large a race could that little craft ahead cope with and not be mangled by it?

  In the trips I made alone, close in to shore, I avoided races altogether as far as possible. Either by going at slack tide or by staying well out to sea. A very calm sea can give you a false sense of security; the race is cunning and leads you into it; before you know it the tide accelerates and you’re committed. You can go from smooth calm with a slight swell to a white-knuckle ride in less than a minute.

  These kayakers were experienced so they were prepared; it wasn’t long before the waters calmed, but I bet their little hearts were beating faster than an excited puppy’s tail. A race often forms by headlands where the moving water is compressed, speeding up and causing rougher conditions. If the turbulent waters meet waves going in the opposite direction, the water is more likely to break, with short sharp waves collapsing.

  Where two streams converge then this results in rough water as in the tides off Hurst Point, over to my left. I avoided this by keeping close to the Isle of Wight. I could look up at the cliffs to enjoy the comparative wildness of this part of the island. Occasionally I could see people walking the coast in the early evening sun.

  Every so often the sea became less smooth as I passed a hidden ledge, but the generally calm sea meant it posed no problem. I skirted past Crooked Lake and turned towards the mainland allowing the stream vector to take me into Lymington port. On the way, I felt the sea become rougher as I passed over the Fiddlers Race. It smoothed out as I looked for the series of navigation lights leading into Lymington Harbour. It was just before ten when I arrived at the Lymington Yacht Haven.

  This last part of the journey had taken two hours. I had to keep a close watch for several dangerous rocks and hidden reefs. Imagine damaging this beautiful yacht on one of these semi-submerged rocks. I wanted her to be in pristine condition when Athena and Phoenix came calling. We didn’t want Athena to be upset; not in her condition. She won’t know that mother is aware that she is ‘with child’ of course; our colleague is careful not to show their true colours. What a blessing to have someone on the inside these days.

  I had to remind myself that I still needed to thread my way alongside the marina and get ‘Elizabeth’ into her reserved berth. After an exhausting journey, I was losing concentration. Before long though everything sat in its rightful place. Time to print off Gavin’s note, tidy up, collect my things and get ashore. All that remained was the final paperwork.

  With that completed, I set off on the twenty-minute walk into Lymington and the excellent room reserved for me at Stanwell House. After ten hours of sleep and a hearty breakfast, I took a taxi to the station. I arrived at London Waterloo before noon. I sent my mother a text while I sat on the train.

  ‘HRH is in residence. Can’t wait to meet again.’

  My summer break had ended; the business world called me back to its bosom. Deals to be hammered out, millions to be made. As I walked into the atrium that led to my London HQ my phone vibrated. Mother had replied.

  ‘Rest. Gather your strength. Difficult days lie ahead.’

  CHAPTER 4

  Friday, August 16th, 2013

  “We must leave for London later this morning Phoenix,” said Athena, “you’ve stalled long enough this week already. My parents will be dashing off for the weekend, or boarding a cruise liner before we know it.”

  “There’s a lot of work to be done, Athena. The need for direct action in London is urgent, you know that.”

  “Could you not delegate? You’re supposed to be the joint head of operations here at Olympus these days.”

  “This one is personal. Rusty and I owe it to the victims to handle matters.”

  Athena knew the background details to the situation and was sickened by the sheer volume of harassment and intimidation these landlords had meted out. The violence was beyond shocking. How was it a whole litany of beatings, sexual assaults and far worse could go on under the noses of the authorities without anyone noticing? No wonder Phoenix and the other agents were kept so busy.

  She wondered what kind of world awaited their unborn child. It was up to her and the people in her organisation to look for continual improvement. The more they could root out evil, the better. Time was of the essence. Her due date of mid-January was going to be here before they knew it. They had much to do before then.

  Phoenix and Athena left their apartment and walked together to the ground floor for the morning meeting. The others were there, waiting. Minos and Alastor sat deep in conversation. Thanatos stood with his back to the window. He looked up when he saw them arrive.

  “Good morning,” he said, taking his seat. “I have read murmurings in the media this morning that the US will soon begin military strikes in Syria. This isn’t on our agenda for today; should we promote it to the top of the list?”

  “The Yanks are welcome to try to sort out that mess,” muttered Henry Case. “I suggest the UK best keep their noses out. The whole region is a powder keg waiting to explode. As for Olympus, we have smaller, less problematic issues to tackle here at home.”

  “I agree,” said Athena, “a wrong move in the North African theatre could easily lead to an international incident. That’s the exact opposite of what Olympus is set up to achieve. We pride ourselves on working under the radar. We don’t want to be caught in the open for the world to see. No, we’ll stick to the agenda you were given. We’ll be brief today too because Phoenix and I are off to London. Minos will finish up proceedings in our absence,”

  Minos was surprised by the delegation of responsibility, but happy to oblige. Thanatos bit his tongue. All three senior men were coming to terms with Athena being the new head at Larcombe. Erebus had always indicated his wish for the former MI5 operative to be his successor. They had inevitably imagined they would play a far more significant role because of their seniority.

  The rapid rise of Phoenix was something none of them had foreseen.

  “Let’s get on with matters then,” said Athena. She was in no mood to waste time today.

  Henry Case and Giles Burke were first in the firing line. The ice-house personnel was developing new systems to improve their intelligence-gathering capabilities. Nobody was allowed to stand still in the modern world of crime fighters. The criminals improved their operations year in, year out, s
o Olympus had to stay ahead of them.

  “We have completed the installation and Artemis and myself are testing it thoroughly this week and next,” reported Giles. “We will go ‘live’ from the first of September.”

  “Will you be able to hack into the BBC and arrange for a decent daytime series to be scheduled from January?” asked Phoenix.

  “The impossible can be achieved without too much difficulty, Phoenix,” replied Giles, “miracles may take longer. Nobody’s making decent programmes these days.”

  Athena tutted. Not so much at the typical light-hearted banter Phoenix always brought to meetings; more because news of her pregnancy was still secret. Throwaway comments like that could get people putting two and two together well before a bump gave the game away. She switched her attention quickly to her chief interrogator.

  “Do you have anything else, Henry?”

  “As we’re limited to time because of your London trip, no, there’s nothing that can’t wait. I’d just mention that several suspicious deaths as a result of cosmetic surgery have been recorded. We’re looking into whether the same surgeon has been responsible, and checking his credentials. There appear to be discrepancies. Finally, a twelve-year-old girl had been admitted to hospital last evening in Glasgow. A rather nasty experience after taking an as yet undefined narcotic. Artemis has spotted a reduction in the age profile of victims in this region. Not content with targeting young adults and teenagers, the low-life drug peddlers are now waiting at the gates of junior schools to develop a new income stream.”

  Athena shuddered. She had been correct. There was much to do to lift this world out of the gutter to make it a better world in which to raise her child. The words of Robert Kennedy drifted up from her memory: -