by Ted Tayler
Mansouri and Harrack separated once they reached the main island of platforms. The two men dressed in the typical European streetwear of jeans and a hooded jacket. As three o’clock in the afternoon approached Mansouri and Harrack prepared to carry out the first stage of the attack. They left their large suitcases next to fellow travellers on Platforms 9 and 11.
The station’s platforms crowded with men, women, and children. Very few people gave a second look at the men as they hurried down the platform towards the exits. Their suitcases lay unnoticed for a vital minute. As passengers and rail staff wondered who the cases belonged to Mansouri and Harrack were already safe from harm.
The first explosion on Platform 11 occurred at precisely three o’clock. The Virgin Trains East Coast train pulled out of the station to journey south to London King’s Cross.
The second explosion on Platform 9 (East) occurred fifteen seconds later.
Thirty-two people died and over two hundred others injured, many of them critically on Platform 11. Ball bearings and shrapnel tore through everything in the nail bomb’s path.
Twenty-eight people died on Platform 9, and around seventy people were injured. Across Waverley station, people were running, screaming, trying to escape. Two explosions so close together meant there could be others planted somewhere nearby. An elderly lady dropped dead of a heart attack on Platform 1. In a rush to get to the escalators, people suffered injuries as they tripped and fell. It was chaotic.
Every train capable of being moved out of the station was waved off without delay, regardless of the timetable. Incoming trains halted at the nearest signalling point. The emergency services were three minutes away.
Every available ambulance and paramedic was diverted to Waverley and blue-lighted it at high-speed. The stricken platforms soon crawled with men and women whose only aim was to help others. Members of the public, off-duty nurses, and police officers doing what they could to assist the injured.
The Scotrail service from Glasgow was still travelling towards the city centre and pulled up at Platform 9 (West) when the bomb exploded. The driver immediately stopped the train and helped to evacuate passengers. They spilt out onto the platform in the immediate aftermath of the blast. In minutes, the three-carriage train would move out of harm’s way and join the others.
Nobody could have known the local service carried another deadly threat. Amina Badour remained calm as she walked down the platform and crossed onto the Eastern side. What she saw was nothing new. Rivers of blood. Body parts. People with terrible injuries. Glass and debris everywhere. Amina witnessed this happening to her people in Syria. Welcome to my world.
Amina heard voices, shouting to her above the sounds of the injured souls. They told her to go back. She kept walking; her right hand was inside her jacket pocket. It was her time. The emergency services personnel that surrounded her were working on people on the ground. Amina detonated the explosives in the vest she wore under her hooded top.
Outside the station, Ahmed Mansouri and Omar Harrack were in Calton Road. At the sound of the third explosion, they nodded to one another; the plan worked to perfection.
Amina Badour delivered a sickening blow for the cause; her martyrdom secured. The fight would continue. Their next destination lay a five-hour drive south.
Terror attacks aim to cause disruption and widespread fear. Waverley had suffered that worse than any other attack on mainland Britain. Bombings such as this aimed to produce the maximum number of casualties. Emergency responders were a legitimate target as far as the bombers were concerned.
Early in a terrorist attack, the exact intent, scale, and hazards are unclear. Without an informed appreciation of the potential threats, an emergency responder is unable to evaluate the risks to personal safety on arrival at an incident. They think first of the patient, despite the training that tells them to prioritise their safety above the scene and survivors.
At Waverley station on that Sunday afternoon, the cost of caring more for the lives of others than themselves was great
Six medical personnel died; four policemen, two rail staff, and a GP on holiday from Newcastle. Seven already injured passengers died.
Three injured people later died of their wounds in hospital. Twenty-three others were injured.
The bombings were the deadliest act of terrorism in Scotland's history. Public outrage was massive. The media linked the Canary Wharf incident in minutes. The government, both in Scotland and at Westminster came under severe pressure to act, without delay.
*****
At Larcombe Manor, an urgent call from Artemis interrupted the quiet weekend planned by Phoenix and Athena. She was standing in for Giles Burke, who wasn’t expected back from Devon with his girlfriend Maria Elena, until later tonight.
Phoenix and Athena were in their apartment with Geoffrey Fox; Hope was taking an afternoon nap. The family ate together earlier. If Grace Fox had been with them, it would have been a happy occasion. Her death in the London bombing last Monday had been a cruel blow. The mood was sombre.
Athena was trying to help her father through a bad patch this afternoon. At times, since the tragedy, Geoffrey seemed in control of his emotions. In the past hour, his grief returned to the surface, and she found herself more affected than she realised.
Phoenix had spotted the signs when they talked yesterday. Now, he could see that his wife struggled to cope. She had returned from London with her father to enable her to continue with Olympus business. It was fine throwing herself into her work to mask the pain, but it must come out in the end.
It was the only way. He had learnt that from bitter experience. The weeks following his daughter Sharron’s murder had been terrible for him and Karen to endure. It hardened his heart and created the stone-cold killer that sought justice wherever needed. Over the years that outer shell had softened by his relationship with Athena, and the birth of their child. When he picked up Hope for a cuddle, he realised he’d become a big softie. It wouldn’t be long before he shed a tear if the process went much further.
Phoenix took the call. He listened to Artemis as she relayed the dreadful news from Scotland.
“Was it important, darling?” asked Athena.
“It can’t wait, I’m afraid,” he replied, “you stay with your father. I’ll go to the ice-house and sort it out.”
Phoenix left them alone in the apartment and headed to Rusty’s. A knock on the door brought his friend outside in seconds.
“Artemis called me,” he said, “are you going underground?”
“We can’t risk Geoffrey hearing what we’re doing,” said Phoenix. “Let’s get to the ice-house and see what we’re facing.”
Athena watched from the upstairs window as they crossed the lawn. It must be serious, she thought. She sensed Phoenix had been trying to shield her from the impact of the news. Geoffrey came and stood by her side.
“Where are those two going, I wonder?” he said.
“Work never stops,” replied Athena, turning away from the window and leading her father back to his chair. “It’s nothing to worry over; you sit here and rest. I’ll fetch Hope from the nursery. She’s too fond of a siesta. I blame Maria Elena, getting her into bad habits.”
“You change the subject so well, my dear,” said Geoffrey. “No doubt I’ll be let into the secret one day.”
Athena allowed herself a smile as she made for the nursery. She felt wretched, but her Dad must never discover the truth behind the Project’s charitable veneer.
In the ice-house, Phoenix and Rusty viewed the full horror of the Waverley station attack. Artemis had CCTV footage from every camera before the first explosion at three. Several cameras went down in the blast, but those closer to the exits were still in operation.
“It’s almost impossible to comprehend how anyone could do this,” said Artemis. “The devastation of the two bombs was terrible enough, but this follow-up attack was heinous.”
Phoenix dragged his eyes from the carnage and the panicked ac
tivities of those on the platforms.
“We need to let the emergency services see to the aftermath,” he said. “I want to check what we’ve got in the build-up. Anything that gives us a clue where to begin the hunt for the terrorists.”
The three agents studied screen after screen. It wasn’t long before they spotted familiar faces.
“There’s Mansouri, and that’s Harrack wandering along the platform,” said Artemis. “Right, the bombs were in the suitcases. What we saw on the platform suggests they dispersed vast numbers of pieces of metal in every direction. They chose the two platforms among the busiest at that time of the day. As with the DLR bombing, the planning was meticulous.”
“Do we have anything in the minutes after the first explosion?” asked Rusty.
“Not from Platform 11,” said Artemis, “and the gap to the second blast on 9 was only fifteen seconds. These other cameras might give us a view of the platforms from a distance.”
Artemis brought images from half a dozen cameras up on the screen. They were grainy and shaky; neither agent could see much. The timestamp showed just after three o’clock. Then, Phoenix pointed to a screen. A girl walked steadily along Platform 9 only yards away from the mayhem on the other side as if nothing had happened.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“No idea,” said Artemis, “but the train originated from Glasgow Queen Street and travelled directly to Waverley. The journey time was around fifty-five minutes.”
“Where is she going?” he asked.
The screen images disappeared with a flash of light and smoke.
“She was the third bomber,” said Rusty. “Someone not present at Canary Wharf. Can we get CCTV from Glasgow?”
“Give me a few minutes,” said Artemis, “you two check the station’s external screens for sightings of Mansouri and Harrack as they left. I’ll dig around at Glasgow to see if I can spot her boarding that train. We need a better picture to work with.”
As the afternoon ticked on to early evening, they found what they wanted.
At six o’clock, they sat together, and Phoenix ran through the scenario they had put together.
“Mansouri and Harrack recruited an at present unknown female accomplice. We need to discover where and when that took place if we can. Then, we need to identify her. Mansouri and Harrack left the station and set off to mingle with hundreds of shoppers on Princes Street. The clothes they wore won’t help us keep them under surveillance easily once we hack into the CCTV systems in the city.”
“When Giles is back, we’ll make those two items our priority,” said Artemis.
“Learning the identity of the suicide bomber won’t prevent them from hitting the next target,” said Rusty. “These two haven’t finished yet. London and Edinburgh have suffered so far; where will they turn up next?”
“Rusty’s right,” said Phoenix, “the girl’s identity isn’t important. We’ll let the authorities put a name to her and notify her parents in due course. My bet is she’s a British citizen. Our job is to find the two bombers. I’ll talk to Fraser. If he has any of his Irregulars ready to roll, then those guys in the major cities must be our eyes and ears from tonight. They need to be on the ground at once. If one of them can pinpoint which city, it will save you and Giles hours of work.”
“I’ll report our progress at the morning meeting,” said Artemis. “Giles will have to hit the ground running when he returns from his break. I’ll carry on working here until the handover is complete.
“I might not see you before the early hours, I guess?” sighed Rusty.
“We can’t help that,” said Artemis, leaving her chair for a moment to remind Rusty how much she loved him.
Phoenix didn’t stay to watch the lovers embrace. He headed for the lift to return to the surface. He needed to visit Hugh Fraser in the stable block.
As he walked along the corridor to the new logistics man’s quarters, he passed the rooms which had been so familiar to him four years ago. So much had changed. He arrived as Colin Bailey, the fugitive. A stone-cold assassin who was running from the police. A man declared ‘missing, presumed dead’ after the struggle with his nemesis Phil Hounsell when he collared him at Pulteney Weir, in Bath.
Erebus, the originator of the Olympus Project, organised his rescue and brought him to Larcombe Manor. It was here that he became Phoenix, and lived next door to Rusty Scott, the ex-soldier who soon became a firm friend. The rooms he now passed had been refurbished of late to allow Hayden Vincent and Kelly Dexter to live as a couple.
Henry Case occupied the same spot as in those long-ago days. The former military intelligence officer presented a crusty exterior to the world back then. Phoenix found him direct if not always very polite. He lived up to his nickname ‘Head’. Yet, in recent months Phoenix had realised that the tough outer shell was there for a reason. Inside, Henry Case was a sensitive soul.
Phoenix paused as he looked at where his old room had been. That was where he and Athena became lovers. Erebus had spotted the signs from the outset. Sparks flew when they first met, and in truth, they made an unlikely pairing. Annabelle Fox, the university-educated former MI5 operative, whose wealthy parents lived in Belgravia, London; and a West Country misfit, whose real identity must remain hidden from the world.
They were like chalk and cheese. Phoenix found it hard to believe four years had passed. Look at them now; married, with a nine-month-old daughter. Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself.
He knocked on Hugh Fraser’s door. The fifty-one-year-old ex-Scots Guards captain answered.
“Phoenix, this is a surprise. Come in.”
“We need your help, Hugh,” said Phoenix, “but first, I need to apologise for not coming to see you more often. I knew when we worked together on the Edinburgh mission that you were the right man for this job. I told Athena we needed to move fast to get you here.”
“I was pleased to get the call,” said Hugh, “I needed a month to get things in Scotland squared away to my satisfaction. The man who succeeded me had to carry on operations in the same vein. It took time to find the right character.”
I’ll bet, thought Phoenix, someone prepared to produce highly detailed, colour-coded reports for every agent under his supervision. Nothing was left to chance.
“Where was I when you arrived here?” asked Phoenix.
“I moved in on the eighteenth so that will be three weeks, tomorrow,” replied Hugh. “You were at Larcombe initially, but your attention focused on the christening over the Bank Holiday weekend.”
“After that, I moved here, there, and everywhere,” Phoenix said. “I should have got back to you to finalise the proposals we worked on together. This weekend was supposed to be a fresh start for me. I have recognised the need at last to delegate more. I started with good intentions. My father-in-law is staying over, and my wife is feeling the loss of her mother deeply. Although we’ve tried to relax and to have forty-eight hours away from Olympus matters, events in Scotland have demanded our attention.”
“I watched the latest news bulletin before you arrived,” said Hugh, “if I had still been working in Edinburgh, I could well have been in the area. I assume this visit relates to those bomb attacks, and you need my help? What can I do?”
“Remind me, where did we get to with identifying the candidates for our team of Irregulars?” asked Phoenix. “I was to rubber-stamp the people you cleared with Henry Case, so they could be relocated if necessary, and found housing if I recall?”
Hugh Fraser was not a man who enjoyed sitting on his hands. He was a man of action. When Phoenix and Athena checked the plans for the missions in Rochdale and Rotherham, he had been itching to get moving.
A phone call from Ambrosia on Saturday evening had been unexpected, but most welcome. Their relationship was in its early stages, but Hugh hadn’t felt so positive for a while.
Hugh’s marriage foundered on the rocks years earlier. His wife enjoyed the army life; the job security, the foreign travel, an
d the social perks that came from being a senior officer’s wife.
The reality of life after he joined Olympus came as a shock to the system. Olympus didn’t have social occasions; there were no regimental dinners where she could dress in her finery. Hugh got stuck into his new role with relish; while his wife drifted into a series of affairs. In the end, she moved out without an argument ever materialising. He hardly noticed she wasn’t there.
When Ambrosia contacted him on the day he arrived, there had been a tingle down his spine. An ambitious woman, ten years his junior, told him she was keen to work closely with him on the Irregulars project. Ambrosia had been the one to introduce the idea to the Olympus organisation leadership in the first place. Hugh Fraser was intrigued and excited.
Ambrosia urged him to go ahead with the programme without waiting for Phoenix to give his final approval.
“Be proactive,” she had told him.
“I took the liberty of confirming the recruitment of the ex-service personnel cleared by Henry,” said Hugh. “There were eighteen men and women on the initial list we scrutinised in the orangery. The accommodation has been identified for prospective agents across the country by Minos and Alastor. I allocated one agent to each of twelve major English cities and scattered the remaining six around the capital. As we get clearance for additional recruits, we aim to add to the numbers in each city to provide effective teams wherever we need their skills.”
Phoenix was surprised at this news.
“OK,” he said, “I can’t criticise initiative. It was my fault we hadn’t decided. So, we could use at least twelve Irregulars for what I need. It’s doubtful these bombers will return to London. We have to hunt them in the provinces.”
“They have hit two targets on the railways so far,” said Hugh, “bombing the tracks near Canary Wharf, causing a derailment; now creating mayhem at a mainline station at Edinburgh Waverley. We can position an Irregular at the station in Newcastle, Manchester, Liverpool, and the other main centres as we move south. It would be a start. Our next requirement is more boots on the ground to beef up the teams.”
