by Ted Tayler
“Seek and destroy,” said Rusty, “yes, that covers it.”
While the morning meeting took place, a visitor arrived to see Hugh Fraser. Piya Adani, the successful businesswoman who joined the Olympians only months ago as Ambrosia swept through the gateway, rattled over the cattle grid, and motored up the drive.
The hay fever season was behind her, and she was on top of the world. She had phoned Hugh Fraser last night to confirm she was arriving today. He promised to inform the estate’s security personnel. Athena had told her she was always welcome at Larcombe Manor; and even though the senior Olympian may have wondered why she was so keen to visit her logistics expert, Ambrosia didn’t worry over minor details.
Hugh Fraser stood outside the old stable block when she arrived. Athena had pointed it out to her on her previous visit, in between handing her a fresh tissue. The horses had long since disappeared, and now the block contained several offices, medical facilities, and living accommodation for Larcombe’s resident senior agents.
Hugh gave her a tentative wave, and Ambrosia studied him through the windscreen. He was tall, dark, and distinguished-looking. If not handsome, then he was a fine physical specimen. Life in the armed forces and now working for Olympus had kept him fit. She found herself blushing as she got out of her car.
“Welcome to Larcombe Manor, Ambrosia,” said Hugh, extending his hand.
His voice was warm, and the handshake firm.
“It’s lovely to meet you, at last,” she replied, trying to stop her knees from shaking,
“Come this way.”
Hugh turned on his heel and marched her along the corridor to his quarters. Ambrosia hurried to keep up with him.
“This is me,” he said, when they stepped inside, “compact, but a place for everything, as they say.”
“How beautiful; so neat and tidy, Hugh. It doesn’t look as if anyone lives here. It’s more like a show home.”
“Now you’re teasing me, Ambrosia. When you decide on the Army for a career, you learn how to keep yourself, your kit, and your surroundings in good order. Otherwise, you suffer the consequences. I knew when I came here that I wouldn’t get the comforts of home. But the opportunity to work with Phoenix was too good to refuse.”
“Bring me up to date with what’s happened,” she said.
“You have driven a long way to visit me,” said Hugh, “surely I can make us a tea or coffee first before we rush into business?”
Ambrosia was eager to hear about the Irregulars. Her pet project had fired up the Olympians at the first meeting she attended in early July. It was to be the launchpad for her accelerated rise in the organisation. Yet the man stood in front of her fascinated her. Ambrosia gazed into Hugh’s grey-blue eyes and congratulated herself for choosing three-inch heels this morning.
The only other man in her life had been her father. She loved and respected him, but the self-made Indian multi-millionaire had been vertically challenged just like her. Ambrosia was struck by how warm those eyes looked as Hugh studied her face; she always associated blue-grey with the cold until now.
“It’s not often you take this long to make a decision, surely?” Hugh asked. Ambrosia couldn’t take her eyes off his mouth as he smiled at her.
“A black coffee would be fine,” she said.
“Make yourself comfortable,” said Hugh, as he busied himself in what passed for a kitchenette.
Ambrosia stared at the bed for a moment, and then the wooden chairs by the desk. All that remained was the two-seater settee facing the wall-mounted TV. She perched on the edge of her seat; reluctant to allow herself to sink back into the inviting soft leather.
Hugh carried two cups of coffee over and joined her on the settee. He sat back, totally at ease. Ambrosia felt the warmth of his thigh against hers; it was disconcerting. Her father had done his utmost to find suitable young men to woo her. He was keen to see her make a good marriage. None of them interested her enough to divert her attention from the business.
The years passed, quicker than seemed possible, and now here she was, only weeks away from her fortieth birthday. Her father’s death in 2003 had been sudden, and she had thrown herself into her work. The company went from strength to strength under her stewardship, but that left less and less time for a social life.
Perhaps, it was time to relax, and let nature take its course. Parts of her body were sending messages to her brain that were new and intriguing. Ambrosia moved back in the settee; her feet barely touched the floor now, and their bodies grew closer than ever.
“How is it?” Hugh asked his face only a foot away.
“Wonderful,” breathed Ambrosia.
“It’s only instant they don’t supply exotic blends for us here in the stable block.”
Ambrosia hadn’t been thinking of the cup of coffee she held. She had been dreaming of how Hugh would make her feel if things moved from this settee to that bed, she glanced at earlier.
“You wanted to know how things with the Irregulars had been going? Well, my initial move was to establish a skeleton team in a dozen major cities. Phoenix was taken aback by my actions but considered them a positive initiative. Of course, the outrage at Waverley station in Edinburgh cause Olympus to bring forward the programme. They concentrated on four highly populated cities, allocating more Irregulars to each. We supplemented the first eighteen with men and women fast-tracked by Henry Case.”
“That’s excellent news, Hugh. We’re getting more people on the ground, in the right places. My wish is for every ex-service person who has fallen on hard times to be recruited, wherever possible. The increased intelligence they will bring to Olympus will be invaluable.”
“I agree,” said Hugh, “but we mustn’t lose sight of the events that gave us this opportunity, and why the veterans are so readily available to us. There was a significant loss of life in Edinburgh, many others suffered life-altering injuries, and the damage to the old station will take weeks to repair. Our veterans are at risk when they quit the forces. They have experienced disturbing things which leave them with long-term psychological damage. Without support for their PTSD, many veterans lose everything. Cuts to the armed forces have made things worse as veterans struggle to adjust to civilian life. The Government and military need to do more. These veterans were willing to make sacrifices for us. The least we can do is make sure they get the care they deserve.”
Ambrosia could tell Hugh was a compassionate soul. Her heart went out to him. She placed her hand on his.
“Consider me reprimanded,” she said, “I’m too wrapped up in this Irregulars project of mine. The bombings in London and Edinburgh were tragic. The families involved will be devastated. Olympus must find those responsible and bring them to justice. We can bring that about with the help of those people you now have in position. That’s is of paramount importance. The fact it raises our profile within the organisation is a bonus.”
“Where do we go from here?” asked Hugh, not moving his hand from his lap, where Ambrosia’s small hand still lay.
If he did, she would touch the stirrings of an erection that had laid dormant for far too long. He hadn’t looked at another woman since his wife left. The petite, Indian beauty that nestled against his shoulder had awoken the beast.
“We put our trust in the Irregulars programme to produce results that will advance our cause,” said Ambrosia. “We may be a new force within Olympus, but we are starting to shake things up. The next few days will be crucial. Right now, I want us to do what both of us has been aching for since I arrived.”
Ambrosia placed her coffee cup gently on the table. She turned her body towards Hugh and leaned forward.
“Be gentle with me, Hugh,” she whispered.
At Birmingham New Street station, the team of four Irregulars had been in strategic positions since early morning. Rusty Scott was still working on the operating procedures for them and the Olympus agents transferring in later in the day. Total coverage of every access point would be several hours
away.
Jason Pride, thirty-three years old, came from Horsham in West Sussex. He was a veteran of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Jason had lived in his car for a month last winter after being made homeless. He was invalided out of the Army with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder at the end of 2009, tormented by the horrors he witnessed during his brief army career.
He remembered snuggling deep into his sleeping bag on the back seat on bitterly cold winters’ nights. In those moments when he wondered whether he would ever get warm again, he believed his country had abandoned him. He risked life and limb for Queen and country, and yet he faced a bleak future.
Jason was bitter. There were immigrants from four corners of Europe, and across the world who had entered the UK since he joined the Army. Every one of them seemed in front of him on the housing list. His level of frustration was at boiling point. He was officially made homeless on December the first last year when he had to leave a flat he had occupied for four years. It was partly his own doing. He drank heavily and had fallen behind with the rent.
The struggles with his PTSD were not going away; and because he was homeless, with no fixed address, it was that much harder to get the medication he needed from a doctor. The symptoms came and went. Jason might be okay for weeks and then find it impossible to even get out of the house. He didn’t have that problem when he lived in the car.
The opportunity offered him by Olympus had been a lifeline. He now had a roof over his head, a part-time job, and the possibility of a future. This morning, he was close to the Hill Street access, which took passengers to the heart of the new concourse. His colleague was inside, having purchased a ticket. Kevin Watson was in the prime location to access any platform he desired. Kevin didn’t plan to go anywhere. He was waiting to catch sight of any suspects the others missed.
Kevin was older than Jason by twenty-two years. He got wounded at Bluff Cove during the Falklands War when the landing craft he was on had taken a direct hit. The longer journey time involved in carrying troops direct to Bluff Cove and differing opinions on how the landing was to proceed caused delays in unloading. That delay had disastrous consequences. Without escorts, or air defence, and fully laden, his Landing Support Logistics ship was a sitting target for the two waves of Argentine attack aircraft. Fifty men died that day. Kevin was among many survivors winched from the burning ships by brave helicopter crews.
Kevin had served in the Welsh Regiment, with distinction, and after recovering from his injuries, he returned to his family home in Wrexham, Clwyd. His service career was over. He drifted from job to job, and relationship to relationship; nothing worked out as he hoped. He could see the faces of the men killed at the far end of the landing craft. Men he trained with, served with, and ultimately fought alongside. He would wake up screaming, soaked in sweat. He was too scared to sleep and turned to drink to mask the pain. Kevin lost the last job he held as a delivery driver. Within weeks he was homeless. Kevin still believed that as a soldier, he should be strong. To ask for help was a sign of weakness. It took months for him to acknowledge his mental health issues. He had hit rock-bottom. Then, out of the blue Olympus came calling. It was his first step on a new ladder. He wasn’t stopping until he had left his old life far behind him.
Jason admitted to his fifty-five-year-old new colleague that during his time on the streets, he met veterans from the Falklands campaign through to the present day. Many now slept in doorways and begged from passers-by. Every homeless veteran he met either had PTSD or needed help as many had become addicted to drugs and alcohol.
“We’re two of the lucky ones, mate,” Kevin said, “I won’t waste this chance.”
Luke Griffin, from Solihull, West Midlands, was thirty-four years old. He joined up at seventeen and completed tours of Kosovo and Northern Ireland. Luke left the Army in 2008 and returned to his hometown where he worked in a warehouse. But he could not rid himself of the painful memories and turned to drink.
Despite being diagnosed with PTSD in 2011, his life continued to spiral out of control. By December 2012 he was homeless and using heroin. The Army had been perfect for him. They trained people to fight and kill — everything they needed they did for them. When Luke left the Army, they forgot about him. Luke used drugs to block out the memories.
In the last twelve months, he had been getting his life back on track. Help was there if you knew where to look, and you weren’t too proud to ask. Luke Griffin had been clean for ten months. Today, he was at the Stephenson Street entrance, ready to do his bit for the country again. Luke might not be wearing a uniform, but now had the chance to avenge his former colleagues; the men who stayed in after he left the Army to suffer in the desert heat around Basra. The men he searched for today were the same enemy. It was payback time.
On the opposite side of the station to Kevin Watson sat Monty Jacks. He entered the station from Hill Street. Birmingham New Street had level access for wheelchair users. All the platforms had lifts, and every entrance had automatic doors. Monty had been able to move around with freedom. Whether he could chase a terrorist in this chair, he wasn’t sure, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes and ears.
Monty was from a West Indian family from Manchester. He was forty-seven and divorced. His wife had left with their three children in 2010, unable to cope with his disability, and the dark moods that changed the happy-go-lucky, music-loving man she married, forever.
The SAS sergeant lost both legs below the knee when his vehicle drove over a roadside IED in Iraq in 2008. He had woken up two weeks later at Selly Oak Hospital, Birmingham. His troubles didn’t end when he left there. When he got back to Manchester, he found it hard to adjust. His family life fell apart, and he was on his own. The next eighteen months were a blur to Monty, looking back now as he watched and waited for a sighting of the bombers.
When life got too much at the beginning of 2012, Monty approached Help for Heroes and spent three months at Tedworth House. While he was in the recovery centre in the West Country, he met many people going through the same things. Problems he encountered on civvy street were ones they had faced and knew how to overcome.
The camaraderie he experienced at that home in Wiltshire saved him. Suicide had seemed the only escape when he sat at home. He recovered his self-esteem. When Monty left, to make a new home in Redditch, it wasn’t what he couldn’t do now he was disabled, but what he could do.
Monty Jacks had been awarded incapacity benefit back in 2008 but had it withdrawn under the new system brought in last year. He remembered the assessment process as being totally and utterly degrading. The progress he had made since moving to the Worcestershire town was under extreme threat.
Many veterans were already on the breadline. All they wanted to do was work, but for many, it was impossible. The challenges they faced were different to others who were out of work. They needed more support. Since last year, thousands of ex-servicemen got pushed to the breadline after being judged fit for work. Severely wounded veterans from Iraq and Afghanistan, who were once entitled to incapacity benefits were told they no longer qualified.
When Monty Jacks had heard from Olympus, he reckoned this could give him something to make life worth living. The government didn’t care. He was lucky to have a roof over his head. At first, he thought he wouldn’t qualify for the role they offered. Monty told the guy who rang that there were others on the streets who needed their help more than he did.
For once, the fact he was disabled was a bonus. He would be the first Irregular to be carrying out surveillance on the streets in a wheelchair. That had brought the smile back to Monty’s face. He agreed to answer the call whenever Olympus needed him.
The four Irregulars had no idea how close they were to the two bombers. Mansouri and Harrack had yet to leave their hotel room, only a few hundred yards away. They were in constant contact with al-Hamady and the others in the attack cell. Messages travelled back and forth as they relayed instructions. The bombers were staying put. For the next series of chec
ks on the plan’s effectiveness, they relied on the men who would travel from the suburbs on the day of the attack.
Larcombe was unaware of this, so the Irregulars looked for their faces in the crowds, but they would never spot Mansouri or Harrack among them. The Olympus teams directed to assist would be armed with the same redundant photographs when they turned up in the early afternoon. Rusty’s operating procedures would be ready by then and passed along the line to the team leaders.
The procedures might be impeccable, but how could the surveillance teams identify potential terrorists and put them into action? Phoenix had thought they were playing catch-up earlier in the week. Nothing had changed. Olympus needed a break.
CHAPTER 11
Friday, 12th September 2014
Athena had read the reports from the Olympus team and the Irregulars that Giles had forwarded to her last night. The ice-house staff still searched for the bombers anywhere in the country. In case they slipped through the net. She was awake early and out of bed before seven. There was so much to do, and so little time.
Her father told her at dinner last evening that the house in Vincent Gardens, Belgravia had been valued at four and a half million pounds. Geoffrey was putting it on the market right after the funeral.
“Daddy,” Athena had said, “I thought you should wait for a while. I warned you against making a rash decision, especially at a time like this.”
“The estate agent told me she believes we’re at the top of the market right now. In six months, a delay could have cost me half a million. No, I’ve made my decision. When I lock the door behind us when we leave for the funeral, that’s the last time I set foot in the place. I’ll stay here until I find a suitable bungalow along the coast if that’s okay?”
“Of course, Daddy,” said Athena, “what about Mummy’s things? What will you do with the furniture and your clothes?”
“I’ll hand a set of keys to the estate agent. She will show a series of oil-rich Arabs around, no doubt. She assured me there would be no problem finding storage for my bits and pieces once the sale was complete. I’ll only need a fraction of what’s in the house in my new little nest.”
