Three Weeks in September

by Ted Tayler

  Outside the station, the other Irregulars were unaware their new team had suffered its first fatality. The Olympus team leader had contacted Giles Burke in the ice-house and waited for an update. He tried to call Monty back, to ask if this suspect had been alone. The call went to voicemail.

  He made another call: -

  “Finn, you’re closest to Platform 7. Can you get over there, please? Three guys in Muslim gear went past me just now. They were last seen heading for the Bullring. Monty sent me a photo of a young Muslim in similar clothing a few minutes ago. The two events may not be connected, but one face that passed me rang a bell.”

  “Will do, boss,” replied Finn, “I’m nearly there. I’ve just got to climb these stairs and I’m on Seven. Everything’s happening up here, boss. There’s been an accident by the looks of it. I can’t get close enough to see what was involved. The Transport Police and Network Rail staff are moving passengers away. I can’t see any paramedics yet. Hang on, someone has just reached the top of the stairs. Someone is on the track, boss. It doesn’t look good. Oh, shit.”

  “What’s up, Finn? What can you see?”

  “A railway worker fifteen yards further up the platform has just manhandled part of a wheelchair onto the platform, boss.”

  “Thanks, Finn. I’ll call Larcombe and tell them the news. Maybe they can get those other three on CCTV too. I’m positive they will identify at least one of them.”

  “The lone Muslim must have seen Monty take the photo, boss. He was right to be suspicious. If we find a link to the other three then could this be the break we’ve been hunting?”

  “We live in hope, Finn.”

  Badawi Akhtar had left Platform 7 at once. He couldn’t return to Walsall by train. He needed to leave the station and find an alternate route home. Badawi could get a bus from Corporation Street that got him there in forty minutes. First, he needed to call his handler. He wasn’t looking forward to admitting he had killed a man.

  “You fool,” Mansouri yelled, “you have put the whole operation at risk. Who was this man? Was he a policeman, or did you believe he was from the security services?”

  “He was a coloured man. Disabled, and in a wheelchair. I’m sure he took a picture of me. So, I grabbed the phone, and pushed him under a train.”

  “You have deleted the image?” asked Mansouri.

  “I have destroyed the phone,” said Akhtar. He was too scared to admit that before he did so, he had seen the ‘sent’ message.

  “Go home. Await instructions. You may be in luck,” muttered Mansouri.

  *****

  Sunday, 14th September 2014

  “What a terrible business,” said Rusty as he and Artemis watched the news report on TV as they sat down to breakfast.

  “We missed this last night,” said Artemis. They had enjoyed a rare evening away from Larcombe Manor, watching a show at the Forum in Bath, followed by a late drink.

  “Phoenix and Athena will have heard this news from Giles,” said Rusty. “We’ll be getting the call to a meeting soon.”

  “Athena will want to order an immediate response,” said Artemis.

  “If this was Mansouri or Harrack, how did they get this close to our Irregular without the others spotting them?”

  Rusty’s phone rang.

  “Here we go,” he said. Artemis pushed back her plate and made for the shower. Sunday was not to be a day of rest.

  Fifteen minutes later the whole team sat around the table in the meeting room.

  “Giles, can you bring us up to speed, please?” asked Athena.

  “Monty Jacks' death was being reported as a tragic accident last evening when the news first broke. Since then the police have interviewed his ex-wife. The reporter at News Street on the latest bulletin said the police now considered suicide as a possible reason for what happened. The reporter said Jacks had struggled to come to terms with his disability and had turned to Help for Heroes in recent years because of depression.”

  “We know that’s unfounded,” said Athena. “It may have been true in the past, and he sought help. But everything we found out about him indicated he was ready to return to action.”

  “I agree,” said Minos, “Jacks was eager to show he could still contribute. He told us he was the happiest he’d been in years. This was not suicide, nor was it an accident. I believe he was murdered.”

  “I have the clincher here,” said Giles, “here’s the last photo he took on his phone. He sent it to his team leader, who in turn forwarded it for identification yesterday afternoon. The timestamp indicates it was taken less than four minutes before he died. That phone wasn’t discovered on the platform, on the tracks, or anywhere on what was left of Jacks.”

  “Have we identified this suspect yet?” asked Henry Case.

  “It’s not a face that’s come up before. He’s never been in trouble with the law. The security services haven’t had their eye on him. We’re still hunting on social media, university connections, everywhere he might have been. He looks to be in his mid-twenties.”

  “The same old story,” muttered Phoenix.

  “Not entirely, Phoenix,” said Giles. “Our team leader at New Street asked me to check the route to the Bullring for three other men. This first photo triggered a memory from several minutes earlier. They had left the station together. We had more luck there. It took longer to find the CCTV images than it did to identify two of the men. They’ve been high-profile for the security services for over a year.”

  Giles passed copies of profiles of two of the suspects for the others to read: -

  “Yafir Uddin is twenty-nine and lives in Winson Green. He visited Syria two years ago, and the security services have had him under scrutiny ever since. He’s active on social media. His Twitter post yesterday welcomed the beheading and swore death to all infidels. He’s not been shy about pinning his colours to the mast. If he was on New Street yesterday, it wasn’t an innocent afternoon shopping.”

  “At last, we’re getting somewhere,” said Athena.

  “Which brings us to this charming character,” said Giles. “Zahar Osman, originally from Bangladesh. Twenty-six and living in Wolverhampton. He’s even more vociferous online, and his YouTube videos nasties get plenty of views.”

  “And the third man?” asked Minos.

  “Similar to the one likely to have been responsible for Monty's death,” said Giles, “not a known radical. We’ll find the links between them in time and put names to them.”

  “What’s our next step?” asked Alastor.

  “We put surveillance teams on the two we’ve identified,” said Athena, “then extend that surveillance to the others when we locate them. It’s obvious from their presence at New Street, and the reaction by one of their number to Monty Jacks seeing him there, that they are up to no good. If we can link them to Mansouri and Harrack, this could be the cell planning the next attack.”

  “A dry run, before the big day. Whenever that is,” said Phoenix.

  “We have a lead, at last,” said Athena. “When these men reappear and make for New Street, we take direct action. Monty Jacks' death must be avenged. If we can prevent these four from reaching their target, we will reduce the impact Mansouri and Harrack are hoping to achieve. Our next task must be to discover where those two have been hiding since Sunday.”

  “We’ve got people working on that, Athena,” said Artemis, “the search area is narrowing by the minute. If they’re in Birmingham, we’ll find them.”

  “Will it be in time?” sighed Minos.

  *****

  As the Larcombe team carried on their duties in the ice-house, Phoenix and Athena attempted to relax. Tomorrow was the day of Grace Fox’s funeral. They had decided to drive up this evening, to spend the last night in the house in Vincent Gardens, Belgravia. In the morning, a car would collect them for the drive across London to the West London cemetery. The Reverend Sarah Gough was joining them an hour before the car was due.

  In Birmingham, Mansouri a
nd Harrack were in conversation with Bakar al-Hamady. News that the death of the disabled veteran was being considered suicide had come as a pleasant surprise. Akhtar was off the hook, for now. Last night, Mansouri was seconds away from ordering his killing. Nothing must obstruct their bombing programme.

  “We go ahead with the plan as arranged,” said al-Hamady, “but there must be no more slip-ups. If there’s any hint the security services are onto us, then you must move to a place of safety. The other four are expendable.”

  Mansouri knew which mosque offered them security for as long as was necessary. It would be an impregnable place of sanctuary, right under the noses of the authorities. The address had been told them by al-Hamady when they studied plans in Liverpool at the beginning of the week. They could both be inside it within fifteen minutes of leaving this hotel.

  The Olympus team leader at New Street had received his instructions from Giles Burke. The three Irregulars were to stay in place, in case Mansouri and Harrack surfaced. He had called Hugh Fraser at Larcombe last night to pass on his condolences about Monty Jacks. The logistics officer had been distraught to lose a man on the first mission the Irregulars had undertaken. Fraser had urged him to find the culprit and make him pay.

  “Where are we off to, boss?” Finn asked his team leader as they drove out of the city at noon.

  “You are going to Winson Green to keep watch on Yafir Uddin. Tate is off to Wolverhampton to look after Zahar Osman. It makes sense that the other guy lives on the Metro route somewhere between Birmingham and Wolverhampton. My guess is, the four men travelled into the city by train yesterday and three of them used the tram to get home.”

  “There must be significance to where they travelled from yesterday, boss, don’t you think? Why not come in by tram too?”

  “Giles Burke told me the CCTV cameras inside the station captured them on different platforms to the one Monty Jacks was on. It might be possible to work out where the trains originated. I don’t think it’s the important element though. I reckon it’s the track they arrived on, and the tunnels they negotiate. Imagine what damage a blast in a confined space could cause.”

  Agents Finn and Tate were dropped off near the home addresses of Uddin and Osman. They would keep watch for the rest of the afternoon. Relief agents would arrive at between six and six-thirty tonight. The team leader returned to Birmingham. It was time to check on how the Irregulars were coping with the loss of Monty Jacks.

  The afternoon was warm and sunny in both Winson Green and Wolverhampton.

  Finn saw plenty of activity on the streets surrounding the house, but nothing from inside. The inner-city area was a melting pot of a host of nationalities. There was a strong presence of Afro-Caribbean and Asian families; some of which had been here for over fifty years. The prison which made the name familiar to many from outside the city was half a mile up the road.

  The agent was on a side street, with a good view of the front of the house. If they had bodies to spare, Finn would have preferred someone staked out at the rear of the property. The row of terraced houses had alleyways that led to the rear, but there could have been an escape route across the adjoining gardens. He became uneasy. He was the watcher. Why did he sense he was being watched?

  A crowd of people passed by on the other side of the road. He checked his watch. It was a quarter to six. The changeover was only a few minutes away. He could get home and relax. He didn’t envy his replacement hanging around here in the dark.

  A car pulled up outside Uddin’s house. A man got out; it wasn’t Uddin. He walked to the front door and knocked. Finn kept a close watch. Was his man indoors? Had he been there throughout the afternoon watching TV? Or had he been wasting his time watching an empty house?

  Finn didn’t hear anyone approach. He only heard the swish of a blade.

  A voice called out from the side street. The man at the house returned to his car and drove to where he stood.

  “Throw him in the boot,” Uddin said.

  “I’ll get the carpet bloody,” said Rahman.

  “So, burn the car. You won’t need it for much longer.”

  Ten minutes later, the relief agent parked the car where the team leader had told him he’d left Finn. He couldn’t see him. That was good; Finn was supposed to be out of sight while on surveillance duty. He walked along the side street. He walked past Uddin’s house on the opposite side of the road. There was a playing field fifty yards up the road, surrounded by metal railings.

  A dozen local kids had been playing football. It was time for dinner. The agent watched as they made their way towards the gate. They laughed and joked until they got near the gate. Then the whole pack was screaming and running in every direction. The agent crossed over to see what had spooked them.

  Finn’s head was stuck on the top of one of the metal railings.

  CHAPTER 12

  Monday, 15th September 2014

  Dawn had broken in Vincent Gardens. Athena awoke to the sound of her father moving around in his room. This would be a difficult day for him. Funerals were never a happy occasion. There always seemed more to attend than weddings and christenings the older she got.

  Phoenix stirred beside her.

  “What time is it?” he groaned.

  “Early,” she replied, “but I’m getting up, to check Daddy’s alright.”

  Phoenix turned over to grab another thirty minutes. Then he remembered the news that came through last night, just as they arrived in London. Another agent had been murdered. He got out of bed and got washed and dressed in ten minutes.

  The team leader had taken the rest of his crew out to Winson Green last night, to search for the body. It had been stuffed into a large skip behind a Chinese takeaway. Tate had returned from Wolverhampton to aid in the search, leaving his relief on watch. Neither had a thing to report so far. Osman didn’t emerge throughout the day, but he had been busy.

  While Geoffrey Fox and Athena tucked into breakfast, Phoenix sat with a mug of coffee and his laptop in the lounge. He needed to keep abreast of events. He was glad he hadn’t eaten. Giles told him when he called at eight that Osman uploaded the execution to his YouTube Channel late last night.

  Finn may have been killed outright with the first slash of the heavy ceremonial sword, but the images from inside Uddin’s house showed what had happened next. The gruesome sight had been viewed over thirteen thousand times. Uddin and a second man, possibly Rahman, who they now knew lived close by, appeared in the video. Rahman stood to one side, smiling as Uddin completed the beheading. Osman had added his own vitriolic commentary. Phoenix couldn’t stomach it any longer.

  Although the final act of today was not over, the time for grieving had to end. Olympus must seek revenge. Every member of that cell would pay with their lives.

  Phoenix issued the order to Rusty Scott.

  When he returned to the kitchen, Athena was washing the breakfast things.

  “Did you want something to eat, darling?”

  “I’ll have another coffee in a while. Sarah will be here before long. How’s your father coping?”

  “I think he’s cried all his tears in the past fortnight,” said Athena. “Can you believe everything that’s happened in that time? Last night was yet another tragic setback for Olympus.”

  “We knew before we tackled the Grid head-on that losses were inevitable. The terror cells have been inactive for a few months on mainland Britain, but when they raise their heads we are bound to suffer hits. Jacks and Finn were more shocking because of the way they met their deaths, and that these men knew they were being watched. Our training has been good enough to date, for our people to carry out covert operations without being exposed to danger.”

  “Someone watching for the watchers, do you mean?” asked Athena.

  “Mansouri and Harrack have proved themselves to be tricky customers. They may well have arranged a security screen around these cell members. Protecting their assets if you wish. Until they blew themselves to kingdom come on
whatever day they had planned.”

  “Is it possible someone other than Mansouri and Harrack arranged the security screen? Is there a Mr Big in the network of cells?”

  “We never determined where they stayed in Liverpool from Sunday night to Wednesday morning, did we?” said Phoenix. “That’s worth pursuing. I’ll ask Artemis to check if any likely suspects have turned up on a watch list, or persons of interest.”

  “Artemis will be busy enough without you adding to the list,” said Athena.

  “Yeah, well Rusty’s busy today and tomorrow. She’ll have time to spare.”

  A taxi drew up outside at ten o’clock. The Reverend Sarah Gough had arrived.

  Athena welcomed her at the front door and then took her through to her father in the lounge. Geoffrey was already dressed in a dark charcoal suit, with a black tie on his blue shirt. He stood when the vicar entered the room, and she hugged him.

  “Good morning, Mr Fox,” she said.

  “You can call me Geoffrey these days, Sarah,” he laughed.

  “Force of habit,” she said, “when I’ve known someone since I was a teenager.”

  “Talking of habits,” said Geoffrey, “I didn’t expect to see you in a hooded jacket and jeans. All part of being a modern vicar, I suppose?”

  Sarah had travelled up on the train in her day clothes.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got the traditional garb with me to change into before we leave. Shall we sit and discuss what you wish me to say about your wife?”

  Athena left them to it and checked Phoenix was getting changed. She found him in the kitchen with a slice of toast and a mug of coffee.

  “Daddy and Sarah are chatting. The car will be here at a quarter to eleven.”

  “Did Sarah mention Henry to you?” asked Phoenix.

  “No, she didn’t, now you mention it. Everything’s OK, as far as I’m aware.”

  The well-oiled machine run by the funeral director and the Kensal Green crematorium clicked smoothly into action at ten forty-five. The car arrived, and the four mourners from Vincent Gardens were soon seated inside. The black limousine cruised sedately through the streets of the city. As the driver swung the car between the gates to the cemetery, the hearse bearing Grace Fox’s body moved in front them up the driveway at a modest five miles per hour.