by Ted Tayler
At a quarter to two, they compared notes.
“Annabelle, darling,” said Phoenix, “I reckon we’ve cracked it.”
“Relax,” she replied. “I won’t tempt fate by using your real name. Daddy accepts the idea a pair of hippies named you Phoenix, and your alter ego is dead as far as the world is concerned. So, if anyone engages you in conversation tonight, you must answer to Phoenix.”
“It’s a shame that Piya will be the only one of us without a partner,” said Phoenix.
“She said nothing at the meeting,” said Athena, “perhaps she was embarrassed. It didn’t prevent her from cosying up to Hera, did it? It was so obvious.”
“Did you want to run through these names once more before tonight? To make sure we’ve got them fixed in your head?” asked Phoenix.
Athena grabbed his arm and led him towards the bathroom.
“If we shower together, we can be in that bed by two o’clock,” she said. “If we’re dressed, ready to leave for the party by eight o’clock, we’ll be fine.”
“Lead on, Annabelle,” said Phoenix.
*****
In Lawrence Hill, Mansouri and Harrack were in a modest terraced house. Their hosts were at work. Since arriving yesterday evening, they had spoken to nobody inside the property. Each of the four bedrooms housed several people who kept themselves to themselves. Ahmed Mansouri and Omar Harrack had slept in the conservatory.
Mansouri called al-Hamady late last night on the burner phone he bought. He confirmed they were welcome. There was no point worrying the Syrian over something he couldn’t influence.
“The bombs are almost complete,” al-Hamady told him, “there will be three in total. You will not hear from me until one hour before you must leave for the station. Only then will I tell you where to plant the devices.”
“Can you tell us how they will disguise the devices?” asked Mansouri.
“Be patient. Trust the bomb maker. He has been doing this in Afghanistan for many years. He still has his fingers, which tells you he is an expert.”
This afternoon the rain beat a rhythmic tattoo on the glass roof of the conservatory. Mansouri grimaced.
“I hate the waiting,” said Harrack, as afternoon inched towards the evening.
“Why not visit a mosque?” said Mansouri, “you have four to choose from within walking distance. The Syrian was right. We are among friends here.”
Omar Harrack was a more devout Muslim than Mansouri. They shared the same extreme views, but the younger man had far more religious zeal than his colleague. He left the house to walk to the Albaseera mosque thirty minutes away. Omar wasn’t bothered. It was better than staring out of the conservatory at a grey skyline and an overgrown garden. As he walked along Queen Anne Road, he passed many others on the pavements. The roads were always busy in Bristol. Traffic built even more as the rush hour approached.
He arrived at the mosque and found the brothers there friendly. The prayer hall and ritual washing area were both spotless. After prayers, he learned where to find the best halal food stores. A large shopping complex in nearby Cabot Circus. Omar wasted an hour wandering around the shops before making the return journey.
The house had become busier now. Their hosts had returned from work, and there was more noise as families gathered to prepare food in the large kitchen. The time would pass quicker now, he thought.
Forty-eight hours until the call from al-Hamady.
*****
Tyrone O’Riordan had had the photos of the dark van and two masked men since Friday. He had not been idle. His mother still believed he was wasting his time. Tyrone reckoned they were the key to the organisation that had been a thorn in the Grid’s side for months. If the gang leaders he talked to were right, they had been active for much longer than that.
Tyrone wasn’t one for legends. But, the rumours painted a picture of criminals who escaped punishment by the authorities only to be killed or to disappear later. His mother called it a coincidence. Tyrone reckoned it was a campaign.
Someone waged war against crime, and it wasn’t the police. The government saw to that with their austerity programmes. The police made things worse by wasting time harassing motorists and pursuing historical crimes of abuse. It only made the Grid’s job easier. Tyrone had a fund on hand if he needed to offer bribes to keep the police off his back, but it had never been necessary. They were too incompetent even to discover there was money available.
It had taken Tyrone a while to find the person he needed. Several gang leaders told him of hackers they used, and experts on the dark web that facilitated the importation of firearms and drugs. Keeping a low profile was something at which they excelled. Their whole career depended on never being discovered.
At last, his search had been successful. Simon Gonzalez was twenty-four years old. Gonzalez possessed the computer skills to hack into the White House and the Kremlin to send one another Christmas cards in July. It worried Tyrone the lad hadn’t come up with a better codename than Gonzo.
Tyrone couldn’t persuade Gonzo to meet him in person. The hacker used an intermediary. As Tyrone walked to the Glencairn Bank on Monday lunchtime, a motorcycle courier roared past. When Tyrone reached the front door, the courier called out, thrust a jiffy bag in his hand when he turned around and then left as soon as he came.
Inside the jiffy bag, Tyrone found a mobile phone. As he removed the phone, it rang. It was Gonzo. Tyrone looked both ways along Gresham Street but didn’t spot anyone who resembled a computer hacker. Not that he knew what one looked like.
The message read, ‘Send instructions. The price is ten grand.’
That told Tyrone what he needed. It was no longer relevant what Gonzo looked like, Tyrone realised this kid didn’t appreciate the actual value of information on the men in the photograph. Inside his office, he sent the photo and instructions to Gonzalez. If the courier returned in fifteen minutes, the money would be in the jiffy bag. He had stashed the burner phone inside the bank for safekeeping. The instructions were simple.
‘1. Name these two men. 2. Where was this van twenty-four hours before and after this photo?’
The photo carried the date and time stamp that would give this hacker his starting point. If he were as good as his reputation, he would get the answers he craved.
A courier collected the money. No further messages had arrived yet. Tyrone was confident he only had to wait. Either way, Gonzo would only disappoint him once. If he was successful, it could be a better option than the Trojan Horse. Gonzalez could be the man on the inside, gathering knowledge for the Grid, and his enemy would be none the wiser.
*****
Phoenix and Athena left the hotel to walk to Park Lane a few minutes after eight o’clock. Phoenix was suited and booted; Not the clothes he enjoyed wearing, but one had to make an effort on occasions such as tonight. Athena looked magnificent. Her long hair fell in dark curls on her bare shoulders, the maroon coloured dress fitted where it touched.
Around her neck, she wore the diamond necklace her mother had worn at Larcombe Manor when she and Phoenix married.
The wedding party occupied the breath-taking opulence of the Dorchester’s magnificent ballroom. The venue that had often been the setting for London’s more exceptional social gatherings. The classic Art Deco interior accentuated a room steeped in history. Heracles and Aphrodite had the financial clout to make an impression. They knew how to throw a party.
When Aphrodite had first mentioned this evening, Phoenix imagined it might involve the Olympians plus a few close friends. As they entered the building, it was clear that although the wedding in Scotland had been a quiet affair, tonight would be different. The five hundred guests already here would be pampered in style.
“What a fantastic place,” exclaimed Athena.
“Aren’t you glad we got out of bed to come here?” asked Phoenix.
Athena ignored him. The smart suit might improve his appearance, but she would never rid him of his upbringing. Not that
she ever wished him to change. They were positive proof that opposites attract.
When the elegant door staff vetted their invitation, the couple joined the queue to be greeted by their hosts, James and Elizabeth. Phoenix took the opportunity to take in his surroundings. He wasn’t interested in the chandeliers, or the fixtures and fittings. No matter how much they must have cost. It was the people he wanted to study.
Could he recognise anyone? Elizabeth was a Duchess with royal connections. James was a captain of industry who graced the business world for decades. The people they knew well enough to earn an invitation would be wealthy and connected.
“I’ve seen many of these people on TV and in the newspapers,” whispered Athena. Phoenix was pleased his wife made productive use of the wait.
“I didn’t expect them to invite so many people,” said Phoenix, “I don’t see our other Olympians yet,”
Two couples stood ahead of them in the queue now, so Phoenix abandoned his people-watching. Behind them, the line grew. He might need to increase that number of guests. This ballroom looked capable of holding a thousand. Who had that many friends? Phoenix did a quick count on his fingers. He was satisfied with the ten friends he managed.
“Welcome, Annabelle,” said Elizabeth, “it’s wonderful to see you. You too, Phoenix.”
“It’s been far too long,” said Phoenix.
The Duchess gave him a cold hug and tutted when she realised what he meant.
“I’ve welcomed so many people; I’m losing track. This morning seems weeks ago.”
James Grant-Nicholls shook Phoenix by the hand.
“So glad you made it,” he said.
“We didn’t have far to come,” said Phoenix, “any idea where the others are?”
James had moved on to the couple behind them, but Elizabeth overheard.
“We asked that they seat you together in the far corner,” she told him.
He and Athena threaded their way through the crowds.
“I can see Duncan and Celia,” said Athena.
“What a great spot,” said Phoenix, “a quiet corner with a partial view of the dance floor. Do you think we received invites under sufferance?”
“I wouldn’t worry, darling,” said Athena, “that orchestra won’t play any tunes you recognise. Let’s say hello to the others.”
The most senior Olympian and his wife welcomed them. Then they found seats next to Troy Gardner.
Apollo, the ex-boxer and property tycoon, was with his young, blonde partner, Sophie.
“How do you find rubbing shoulders with the great and the good?” asked Troy.
“Terrific,” Phoenix replied, “we’re a long way from the action, aren’t we?”
“James may have thought we could talk more readily this way?” Troy replied. “You haven’t met Sophie before, have you?”
“This is the first social occasion I’ve attended since I arrived at Larcombe Manor four years ago. I’ve met no one’s partner, apart from Duncan and Celia.”
“That’s not true,” said Troy, “look over there.”
He and Athena looked towards where Troy nodded.
Hugh Fraser sat with Piya Adani. Ambrosia had indeed been working closely with their Logistics Officer.
“Very cosy,” said Phoenix.
“It explained her reaction when you said she was hands-on with the Irregulars project,” whispered Athena.
Piya nodded a brief greeting. Hugh Fraser gave a tentative wave; their affair was now in the open.
The party was soon in full swing. The guests took to the dance floor. Phoenix watched as Ludovic Tremayne, Achilles, shuffled his wife Rosalind around the room. He knew Athena would want to dance before the end of the night. He dreaded it.
“I love this song,” she said, as if on cue.
“Oh look, Jean-Paul and Simone are heading this way,” said Phoenix, “I’m sure they’ll be glad of the company.”
Jean-Paul looked as uncomfortable as Phoenix felt. Simone and Athena chattered away in French; another skill Phoenix hadn’t mastered.
“Do you enjoy parties, Phoenix?” asked Daedalus.
“Hate them,”
“James and Elizabeth look happy, considering,” said the Frenchman.
“Have you heard something?” asked Phoenix.
“I lip read,” Jean-Paul explained. “I saw Zeus talk with you this morning. He mentioned his first wife, Fiona?”
“Fiona disappeared without a trace,” said Phoenix. “We need to confirm whether she’s dead or alive.”
“If she’s dead, you must determine how she died, I assume?”
“Exactly,” said Phoenix.
“Elizabeth is very wealthy,” said Jean-Paul, “does Zeus believe she’s in danger?”
“If James is desperate for money, I should hope Olympus would have discovered it. They are both very wealthy. They honeymooned on a yacht in the Caribbean for a month. If he wanted Elizabeth dead, he had ample opportunity to shove her overboard.”
“Strange times,” said Jean-Paul.
Phoenix laughed. “Not half as strange as before you agreed to join Olympus, I can assure you. I prefer to call these times interesting.”
“Everyone is here,” said Jean-Paul, “and everyone has someone special with them. I did not realise Ambrosia was bringing a partner.”
“We suspected an ulterior motive for her frequent visits to Larcombe Manor,” said Phoenix, “I like Hugh Fraser. He’s very efficient in his work.”
“I’m sure Ambrosia appreciates that,” said Jean-Paul with a cheeky grin.
“We are not alone in our discomfort, Daedalus,” said Phoenix, catching sight of Dionysus.
Sir Malcolm Dunseith and his wife Louise returned to their table. The retired civil servant was still sober, but his wife it appeared, was not. She sat with a bump, hiccupped, and looked set to slide under the table. Celia Eliot came to her rescue. Dionysus joined Phoenix and Daedalus.
“Sorry, chaps, the old girl isn’t used to it,” he said, “two glasses of champagne and she’s anybody’s these days.”
“Don’t apologise, Malcolm,” said Phoenix, “they’ll be serving the food next. It will soak up the alcohol.”
Dionysus wasn’t convinced. Athena and Simone had exhausted their topics of conversation and rejoined the men.
“Dance with me,” said Simone. Jean-Paul’s eyes pleaded with Phoenix.
“I can’t save you, Jean-Paul. We may have to join you,” said Phoenix. “It will only be one dance. They’ll be feeding us in a minute.”
“You won’t get away that easily,” said Athena, as they merged with the other couples on the floor.
She was right as usual. After the banquet, they danced several times more. Malcolm and Louise watched the other seven couples from the sidelines. At eleven o’clock, James and Elizabeth made brief speeches thanking everyone for coming.
They were leaving early to fly back home to Scotland. Elizabeth insisted the partygoers stay and enjoy themselves. Phoenix looked around the ballroom; not many guests seemed keen to leave just yet.
“I see Piya and Hugh Fraser have latched on to Zeus and Hera now they’ve left the dance floor,” said Athena.
“I think you’ll find they’re leaving too,” said Phoenix, “Ambrosia looks keen on an early night.”
“If we want to be fit for duty at Larcombe in the morning, we should follow suit.”
“I’m ready to go if you are,” said Phoenix, “but I want to catch Zeus before we leave.”
He saw the Olympus leader returning from the toilets and intercepted him before he reached Hera’s table.
“Were you aware that Jean-Paul St Clair can read lips?” he asked.
“I wasn’t, no,” said Zeus.
“He knows about Fiona,” said Phoenix.
“Ah, I see. If Jean-Paul keeps it to himself, it shouldn’t pose a problem.”
“We hadn’t expected to see Ambrosia here with one of our agents,” said Phoenix.
“Ambro
sia asked our permission,” said Zeus. “She and my wife have become friends of late. Piya is ambitious and gets results. We have high hopes for her with Olympus.”
“Until we meet again in January, then,” said Phoenix. Athena was doing the rounds of the tables, saying goodnight to their companions. Simone came over to kiss Phoenix on both cheeks. He didn’t complain.
“You and Jean-Paul have become chums, oui?” she asked.
“We have, Simone,” said Phoenix.
Athena was back, and the two women embraced. Jean-Paul strolled over to wish Phoenix and Athena goodnight.
As they returned to their hotel, Phoenix reflected on what Simone had said.
It was true he and Jean-Paul got on better than he did with any of the other Olympians. He needed to re-calculate. Jean-Paul had helped swell the Phoenix friend count to eleven.
*****
Thursday, 9th October 2014
Athena and Phoenix breakfasted early in their Marylebone hotel. The car arrived at nine to take them to Fairoaks airfield, where Les Biggar was on the tarmac with the engine running.
“Enjoy your night out last night, Phoenix?” he asked.
“An experience,” said Phoenix.
“He’s not anti-social,” said Athena, “he prefers chasing villains.”
As they flew west, Phoenix gazed at the M4 motorway beneath them.
“I suppose Fraser’s back at Larcombe by now?”
“Ambrosia came south by train, according to Hera,” said Athena. “She told me last night when I went to say goodnight to everyone.”
“As thick as thieves those two,” said Phoenix.
“Your protégé, Fraser is a dark horse too,” said Athena. “I never imagined those two being an item.”
“As long as it doesn’t affect his work it won’t be an issue,” said Phoenix.
Their flight home was soon over, and Biggles set the helicopter on the lawn in front of the manor house. Athena looked at her watch.
“Great, we can drop our bags off at the apartment, and then attend the last hour of the meeting.”
