by Ted Tayler
“We can clarify that at the meeting,” said Athena. “Has Ambrosia talked to Zeus on this matter already, do you know?”
“I believe Ambrosia has been in touch with both Zeus and Hera,” replied Hugh, “but whatever she discussed with them wasn’t shared with me.”
The verbal game of ping pong continued for what felt ages to Phoenix. Whatever they threw at Hugh Fraser, he batted back without revealing too much. Could he ask him outright whether he was sleeping with the Olympus goddess? It wasn’t anyone’s business but their own. Were they plotting to undermine his and Athena’s status with the organisation? Now, that was a separate question, one he couldn’t ask, but one for which he needed the answer.
“I’ll give you a suggested distribution for those eighteen in the morning,” said Phoenix. “We’ll take those copies of your report back with us now, please. We can pass them to the rest of the team at the morning meeting.”
As the couple left the stable block, Athena seemed troubled.
“I thought we were doing the right thing appointing Piya as our latest recruit to the top table. Her background was solid, and her fortune more than welcome to bolster our funds. There were moments after she paid us that first visit I queried the wisdom of allowing her free access to Larcombe.”
“Erebus found Zeus and Hera at the outset. Their money helped form the Project. Perhaps they weren’t as disciplined in their selections in those early days. Poseidon and Demeter slipped through the net. Hermes was proposed by those two, and Zeus accepted, not knowing he was Demeter’s son. Since Erebus died, you and I have added a further layer of protection. We consider each applicant on their merits. Piya Adani ticked the boxes. As Ambrosia, she promised to add a dimension to the Project it lacked.”
“That was something Erebus wished for,” said Athena, “he even questioned naming the gods from Greek myth. He thought it elitist, and the upper echelons were too representative of the white establishment.”
“Apollo and I have altered that aspect,” said Phoenix, “and Ambrosia adds her ethnic contribution into the mix. Her upbringing nurtures her ambitious nature. That ambition so far has always been positive. She may wish to make a fast ascent up the Olympus hierarchy, but Zeus and Hera will resist attempts to steer the Project in a different direction. They don’t want a repeat of those treacherous times last year.”
In the stable block, Hugh Fraser was talking with Ambrosia.
“Phoenix and Athena have just left. They asked many questions; they suspect something’s going on between us. I told them nothing.”
“We are both free to be with whoever we choose,” she replied. “My work behind the scenes with Zeus and his wife is of more concern to them, I imagine. I aim high in everything I do. Too many of the gods around the Olympus top table are lethargic. Their money grants them entry, but they have no fight left in them. If we stand still, we will fall further behind the Grid. The terrorists will also move ahead with new methods of hurting this country. I can’t stand by to watch that happen. Olympus needs more dynamic leadership. With your help, I aim to reach the summit.”
“I’ll help in any way I can, Ambrosia,” said Hugh.
“You already have, darling,” she replied, “those three days last week were heavenly. I can’t wait for us to be together again.”
“When that will be is entirely in your hands,” said Hugh, “I’m on duty here at Larcombe for the foreseeable future.”
“Then, with your permission, we must show Zeus and the others we are more than colleagues,” she replied.
“Of course,” Hugh replied.
“Athena can hardly raise objections to my visiting you whenever I wish if we announce it in front of Zeus.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“We’re going to a wedding party at The Dorchester on Wednesday evening. A party for two of the Olympus gods. I don’t need to attend it alone. I shall warn Hera I’m bringing a partner. She will keep our secret from Zeus until the evening.”
“Send me the details of where you’re staying. It will be an honour to escort you,” said Hugh. “I’ll drive up to London in the late afternoon.”
“We’ll keep a watch on how the gods interact on a social level. It will be easier to spot alliances to be wary of in that environment, and differences we can exploit.”
“You can be devious at times,” said Hugh.
“To get what you want, Hugh, it’s imperative, Sweet dreams, darling.”
Later that night Hugh Fraser found sleep elusive. He wondered whether their relationship was genuine, or was she using him?
Hugh decided it was too much fun to matter.
CHAPTER 5
Tuesday, 7th October 2014
“I have returned.”
Ahmed Mansouri looked at the simple message a second time. It came through on his phone. He destroyed his collection of burner phones when they fled to the mosque. There was only one person this could be; Bakar al-Hamady had returned to the UK.
His younger colleague Omar Harrack knelt in another room, praying. He must tell him to prepare when he returned. The call could come at any time.
The elderly Syrian stood on the platform at Liverpool Lime Street. Bakar al-Hamady had taken a calculated risk. After he flew to Paris, he travelled to the Netherlands. Friends sheltered him there until he felt safe to return. The authorities had domestic matters occupying them. A small window existed in which he might slip back into the country.
Bakar flew to Belfast, and then boarded an overnight ferry. An eight-hour crossing delivered him to Birkenhead at six-thirty this morning. A replacement passport had been costly in Amsterdam. Whether his arrival had been in Northern Ireland or the mainland, it was genuine enough to gain entry. However, he went unchallenged. There was wisdom in travelling overnight; staff were half asleep. A taxi trip through the tunnel under the Mersey brought him to Lime Street Station. The train he waited for went to Bristol.
He contacted Mansouri and Harrack before he boarded. This service took him to Stafford, where he changed to continue his onward journey to Temple Meads. Bakar al-Hamady wanted to avoid New Street until the right time. When he reached Bristol, he would call Mansouri’s number once more. Then, they needed to meet to arrange to purchase more mobile phones. Every communication had to be covert now. Even when the authorities were under pressure, one diligent officer lay in wait to intercept a suspicious message.
The Syrian would reach Bristol at midday. He studied the layout of Temple Meads while in Amsterdam; Bakar knew its history. The famous British engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, planned a line that connected London to the West Country. Paddington station was one hundred and fifteen miles to the east. Construction of Temple Meads began in 1839, and it opened the following year. There was much work to be done to link the line from Bristol to Bath Spa with the line running from London to Chippenham.
Bakar al-Hamady wished he could travel back in time to speak with Brunel. They shared a similar vision. Brunel used one tonne of explosives each week to bring his dream to completion. Two and a half years to produce a tunnel of under two miles. It had affectionately been called God’s Wonderful Railway.
The Syrian wondered what damage he might do with one tonne of explosives on the Grade I listed flagship of Brunel’s GWR in the centre of Bristol?
Inside the mosque in the heart of the Midlands, Mansouri and Harrack gathered together their things. It didn’t take long. They destroyed much of their gear in Birmingham when the situation became too dangerous. The authorities raided houses in the nearby towns where the suicide bombers lived. Everyone was dead. The planned attack on New Street abandoned. Mansouri lamented the lack of coverage their deaths received.
It was usual for the security services to tell the British public when they foil a terror attack. They were quick off the mark then; an apology was far slower coming when a lack of numbers and paper-thin border controls encouraged breached defences.
Mansouri had anticipated the media report of a hunt
for the men responsible for the DLR bombing in Canary Wharf. He and Omar prepared for it and escaped by disguising themselves in female clothing.
Why didn’t they follow up on the trail that led from Edinburgh? The death toll there was far higher; they should have been on high alert after the first strike. The security services must have identified the potential New Street threat and acted against their colleagues. He wished to hear from al-Hamady again. Why was news of the deaths of the secret service agent suppressed in the media? The body disappeared. Mansouri watched the video posted by Uddin; it wasn’t a fake.
The British loved to weep and wail over a few dead bodies. The nation went into several days of mourning while ten thousand children died in Syria since the civil war began four years ago.
Mansouri wanted to ask al-Hamady to explain. Why order a news blackout? Which arm of the security services carried out the raids on the houses in the Midlands? Something didn’t add up. They needed to be cautious when executing their next attack. He planned each one with precision, and those they completed had been successful.
Ahmed and Omar had escaped to this mosque with minutes to spare. Birmingham was the key. Canary Wharf and Edinburgh Waverley generated the headlines ISIS craved. The authorities committed as many resources to find the culprits as possible, without result. That was because of al-Hamady’s superior planning.
Yet, when they uncovered the threat of an attack ten times greater than the last, they did nothing. It made no sense.
His phone rang again. Was it a second message from the Syrian?
“Platform 9 BTM. Come now.”
Mansouri heard movement next door; prayers had ended. Omar walked into the room without saying a word, Mansouri showed him the mobile phone screen.
“We need a trip to the shops,” said Harrack, “for a new disguise. I shall travel posing as your wife. We can still be on a train from New Street within the hour. By three o’clock we will be on the same platform island in Bristol as our friend.”
“The wait is over,” said Mansouri, collecting his bags, “we can continue with our work.”
The two men left the mosque without troubling their hosts; they could return whenever they wished. Their hosts had made that plain. Mansouri marvelled at the speed with which his young companion identified and purchased the dark blue burka in the Grand Central shopping mall. His sisters would have spent a whole morning on such a task.
Harrack followed Mansouri as they entered New Street station. They purchased tickets to Bristol Temple Meads with cash, and they boarded the train at a quarter past one. It arrived in Bristol on Platform 12 at three o’clock. Not a word passed between them throughout the journey.
When they arrived on the platform in Bristol, Mansouri looked for the Syrian.
“Over there, by the information screen,” whispered Harrack. Mansouri led the way. They crossed the island to Platform 9 and joined their colleague.
“Follow me,” said al-Hamady, “I’ll give you the grand tour. Enjoy the view while you can. It won’t stay this way much longer.”
The platforms and subway weren’t busy on a Tuesday afternoon. But nobody paid much attention to two Muslim men and a woman whose clothing covered every inch of her. Within minutes they reached the entrance to the main building. As they stood with their backs to the gate, al-Hamady listed the points of interest. The ticket office and machines lay ahead. The ubiquitous bookshop stood on the right, next to the entrance to the platforms. Customer Information System screens by the entrance showed arrival and departure information for every platform.
“The signalling to all platforms will accept trains in either direction,” he told them in Arabic, “the flexible layout allows trains on any route to use any part of the station.”
“Automatic ticket gates control entry to the platforms, is that correct?” asked Mansouri.
“Yes, those are on Platform 3, over there,” replied al-Hamady. “Walk with me. You see the main station restaurant and bar is on the left. On the right of the entrance is the subway linking the platforms. Those are reachable either by steps or lift, as we noticed when we crossed from Platform 9.”
As the terrorists entered the subway for the second time, they passed the main public toilets. James Protheroe was leaving. Despite the hard times he’d experienced since he returned from active duty in Kosovo, James’s memory was still sharp. Those three had passed him earlier when he was upstairs. They didn’t trigger suspicions at first, but he reasoned they didn’t move with purpose. It was unusual for people to wander around the concourse unless they were lost.
James Protheroe followed them as they looked at the ATMs and studied the various catering outlets; this was more than a sight-seeing tour. The older man pointed to the ceiling. They were beneath the passenger information office if his bearings were correct. A few yards further on and they were now below the lounge; a lounge filled throughout the day with travellers relaxing before the next stage of their journey.
Up ahead, al-Hamady continued to explain their surroundings to Mansouri and Harrack. Protheroe recognised it as modern standard Arabic but was unable to translate it. The speaker looked around sixty years old, and from his appearance, he was a Sunni Muslim from Syria.
“The third island platform where we met is our first target — platforms 9 to 12 service trains from a variety of sources. Most significant to us are those to and from Paddington and Waterloo. The subway will be next. The emergency services will need to use it to gain access.”
“Have we abandoned the suicide bomber approach now?” asked Mansouri.
“We must accept that the New Street scheme is beyond repair,” the Syrian replied. “From now on we revert to a series of bloody big bangs.”
Protheroe studied the second man; he might be from several North African countries. He looked much younger, perhaps thirty. The wife was young too, judging by the way she walked. A loose-limbed and athletic woman, with surprisingly large feet. How could anyone tell her appearance with that burka? Hell, she might even be a bloke.
The group turned towards him now. They had seen what they needed to see. Protheroe elected to keep walking past them, his mobile phone in his hand. Nothing unusual in that. He avoided others in the subway doing the same thing. The signal was weak, but he knew he must try to get a photograph.
Protheroe took several snaps as he approached the trio. The two men were deep in conversation. It was impossible to tell whether the burka-clad individual spotted his actions. Protheroe didn’t turn back; he walked to the next lift and made his way upstairs. They weren’t visible on the concourse. As he kept watch, he made a call.
“Protheroe here, at Temple Meads. I’m forwarding images of possible terrorist activity. I hope you can use them. Something’s happening.”
“Thanks, James,” said Hugh Fraser. “I’ll check them out. Don’t approach them. Keep watch and await further instructions.”
Outside the station, Barak al-Hamady had hailed a taxi. As he got in, he handed Ahmed Mansouri a piece of paper.
“My lodgings are in Bradley Stoke. I have a cousin living there. She will put me up for three nights. You must go to our friends in Lawrence Hill; they will make you welcome. Take this phone; it will be our sole means of communication. Destroy your phone. You must never use it again.”
Mansouri nodded. He took care of that before they left for Grand Central this morning.
“Everything will be ready for Friday afternoon,” said al-Hamady, as he closed the taxi door.
Mansouri and Harrack watched the cab disappear into traffic.
“I can’t be sure,” said Harrack, “but a man in the subway lifted his phone as he passed. He may have been searching for a signal, or he may have photographed us.”
“Has he followed us?” asked Mansouri.
“He didn’t look back. He went to the lifts.”
“Then, it is likely it was innocent,” shrugged Mansouri. “No matter, we won’t return until Friday. Our new friends from Lawrence Hill can loo
k for evidence that the security services have been alerted. We will take extra precautions.”
“Look,” said Harrack, “there’s a bus to Lawrence Hill. If we run, we can catch it.”
Mansouri shook his head.
“We don’t want to draw attention to us running. It’s unseemly for a Muslim wife. We shall walk to where our friends live unless another bus is due.”
Mansouri asked directions from a street cleaner. Twenty minutes later, they stood on the doorstep of the address on the piece of paper.
“There are many Muslims in this part of the city,” said Harrack, “no one will find us in Lawrence Hill.”
The terrorist trio had gone into hiding once more; the planning stage complete. Preparations for the bombs to be constructed had begun. One hundred hours remained before the heart of the Victorian station would cease to beat.
*****
Wednesday, 8th October 2014
“What time is Biggles arriving?” asked Athena.
“You’ve got twenty minutes to get ready, say your goodbyes to Hope, and run back to collect your dancing shoes.”
“Biggles can wait,” said Athena.
Phoenix could be so flippant; this wasn’t the plan. They were to drive to London with Hope and drop her off with her grandparents. She and Phoenix would be free to enjoy the evening wedding party. Sometime tomorrow, depending on how late they arrived in Vincent Gardens, the three of them planned to travel home to Bath.
The DLR bombing changed that. Her mother had died of a heart attack at the scene. Her father was staying with them at Larcombe Manor until he moved into that new home on the coast. Little Hope was to remain with her nanny, Maria Elena. They were to travel to London alone.
Phoenix decided discretion was the better part of valour. He could drive up today in time for the Olympus meeting, but they were too busy to hang around in the capital until the effects of a hangover cleared tomorrow.
