The Phoenix Series Books 10-12 (The Phoenix Series Box Set)

by Ted Tayler

  Monday, 19th January 2015

  At Larcombe Manor, the phoney war had begun. Every ex-serviceman who lived in the grounds of the Georgian mansion knew their role if the worst happened. They patrolled the boundaries day and night. Ice-house security systems watched for intruders who might appear overhead.

  Athena had awoken early; there was a familiar feeling in her stomach. It was not the right time. Athena planned for a brother, or sister for Hope before she reached forty and knew the longer she waited, the more difficult the pregnancy might become. Should she tell Phoenix of her suspicions, or wait until she had it confirmed by the doctor?

  Today, there was another matter to confront — Orion’s funeral service in the Abbey.

  The morning meeting would be brief today. There were briefings and training sessions for personnel in the ice-house. Several had served in one of the armed forces, but there were others, Artemis for instance, who brought layman’s skills to the command centre.

  They had to know what to do if an evacuation was necessary.

  When the senior agents gathered at nine o’clock, Athena asked Giles for an update.

  “The misinterpretation of the ISIS messages has been made public,” said Giles. “Serious questions are being asked of the people who started this concerted campaign. It may not have derailed it altogether, but it’s no longer on the main line. We’ve got enough momentum to see this matter side-lined until after the General Election. One good shove will see it finished.”

  “Terrific, Giles,” said Athena. “Minos, will you and Alastor give that final shove, please?”

  Minos nodded. He knew if he and Alastor dug deep enough, they would find a way.

  “Henry, what do you have to report?” asked Athena.

  “Kelly Dexter is six months pregnant now. Hayden doesn’t think she should serve on our defensive line. Kelly planned to keep working for as long as possible, but the possible escalation of the Grid’s attacks has made Hayden think twice.”

  “If Kelly wishes to take a step back into a pure training role, that’s acceptable,” said Athena. “We will have agents going through retraining and recruits coming to Larcombe until that becomes impossible. Olympus must not alter the public perception of what we do by bowing to pressure from the Grid.”

  “Business as usual,” said Phoenix.

  *****

  “Next Sunday, at midnight,” said Tyrone O’Riordan.

  “What’s that?” asked Colleen.

  “D-Day. The destruction of the Olympus Project.”

  “How many men did you find prepared to risk their lives?” asked Colleen.

  “More than enough,” said Tyrone. “I told them to expect a picnic.”

  “The gangs and their leaders won’t thank you if it goes pear-shaped,” said his mother. “How many is more than enough?”

  “Three hundred,” Tyrone replied. “We have an unlimited supply of automatic weapons and ammunition. Loads of it has been coming into the country from Eastern Europe. They won’t know what hit them.”

  “Do you know what they have at Larcombe Manor?” Colleen asked. “What if they have heavy artillery, rocket launchers, grenades? Won’t the neighbours raise the alarm once your men start the attack?”

  “We’ll overrun them by sheer weight of numbers, mother. Don’t be so weak. Remember, they’ve got women and children to protect, so if we walloped them with that first strike, they’d crumble.”

  “I don’t want us killing women and children, Tyrone,” said Colleen, “your Dad never stooped that low.”

  “Don’t worry, mother. No women and children, but we can’t afford to let this organisation recover. You understand that, don’t you?”

  *****

  There wasn’t a spare seat in Bath Abbey as Phil Hounsell’s coffin arrived. His Portishead colleagues stood shoulder to shoulder with the Manvers Street contingent. There were high-ranking police officers from across the country; Phil Hounsell was one of their own. A man who had moved on to a different career, but he was respected.

  The manner of his death had shocked the local community. Artemis recognised members of many of the families that had lived on the street near Mary Trueman’s old home. They had been her neighbours when she worked in Bath and Portishead.

  Artemis was a few rows behind Erica. Shaun and Tracey stood either side of her; heads bowed throughout the service. Artemis wanted to hug them as she had done when she had first met them. They had driven south as the news of Erica’s kidnapping had broken. When he went into the station to help in the hunt, she had worked with Erica’s mother, Mary, to comfort the young children.

  Artemis spotted Callum and Debbie Wood in the congregation. He caught her eye. It was clear he wanted to talk when the opportunity arose.

  Athena was on her own in a pew filled with people she had no connection with whatsoever. She found herself crying at poignant parts of the service. It was only a few months since they had attended her mother’s funeral. Her emotions were all over the place. Her father had returned to Larcombe this morning; he was moaning already. He had plans for next weekend as if she didn’t have enough on her mind.

  Callum Wood wasn’t one hundred per cent sure if he had spotted the CEO of the Olympus Project. He would ask Artemis when they talked.

  When the service ended, the family left the Abbey, walking behind the coffin. The midday traffic didn’t let them travel over five miles per hour on the short journey to Haycombe crematorium.

  Row upon row of uniformed police marched outside into the bitter wind. Nobody stood around, chatting for long. The Abbey courtyard was deserted within minutes as the rest of the congregation slipped away to find a warm place to remember a colleague or friend.

  “Zara,” it was Debbie Wood who called her name.

  The two women hugged. They had always been on good terms.

  “Hello, Debbie. It was lovely to hear that you and Callum had a son. Ronnie is it?”

  “Yeah, my mum’s got him today. I’m picking him up now. Callum wants a word, and then he’s going back to work. Nice to see you again, shame about the circumstances. You know where we are if you ever want to chat.”

  Debbie scuttled off, wrapping her coat tighter against her.

  “Let’s get out of this wind,” said Callum. They found a table in All Bar One around the corner from the Abbey. It was warm and welcoming.

  “Hot chocolate?” asked Callum.

  “Bugger that, I need a drink,” said Artemis.

  Callum fetched two large whiskies and a bottle of dry ginger.

  “Right, it’s time to put our cards on the table,” he said after they had taken their first sip. “I’ve followed up on the dates Erica gave me for the only trip Phil made for Olympus. He was near Musselburgh at the end of October. At that time, police arrested Sir James Grant-Nicholls and charged him with the murder of his wife Fiona, who had been missing for years. They found her remains in the grounds of his estate. What possible connection could that have with the charity? Did Phil find the body?”

  Artemis took another sip of her drink. She might need to get another whisky. She didn’t say a word.

  “The CEO was there today, wasn’t she?” asked Callum. “A tall, dark-haired woman sat on the end of a row near the back. She was there representing the Olympus Project I imagine? Erica told me you work at Larcombe too. Why didn’t you sit together? Why didn’t you tell me you worked with Phil? What have you got to hide?”

  “Callum, I’ve never lied to you. It doesn’t do to lie to the police. I told you what I thought you needed to know. I want to find who was responsible for his death as much as you do.”

  “We haven’t made much progress on that front,” he sighed. “We keep confirming who it wasn’t.”

  Artemis knew it was dangerous to say more. Phil’s killer belonged to the Vasiliev gang. He had disappeared, and those who murdered Phil and Les Biggar were no longer breathing. She wished she could tell Callum, but it was impossible. As for Phil’s trip to Scotland, t
hat was even more dangerous to discuss.

  “I work in one department at Larcombe, Phil worked in another,” she said. “We never encountered one another at work. What he was involved in on that trip, I’ve no idea. The case you referred to can’t have concerned Phil, surely? It must have been a coincidence. He was looking for the family of an ex-serviceman, I expect. We don’t get requests to search for dead bodies.”

  Callum remained unconvinced. He was sure Zara knew more than she was admitting. His copper’s nose told him so, and it was rarely wrong. They had finished their drinks.

  “Same again?” he asked.

  “Not for me, thanks,” Artemis replied. “I promised my husband I wouldn’t be late.”

  She got up to leave.

  “Don’t forget what Debbie said, give us a ring if you want to talk,” said Callum. “I might have more questions for you, are you planning to go anywhere?”

  “I won’t be moving far away from Larcombe,” she replied. “As for questions, I don’t think there’s any more I can add to what I’ve told you, Callum.”

  Artemis left the bar in the centre of the city and walked to the station. As she walked, she called Rusty.

  “Can you send a car to fetch me from Bath Spa, please? I’ve had a drink. I’d better not drive.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll come into Bath,” he replied.

  “Thanks. Did Athena get back yet?”

  “She drove back from the Abbey,” said Rusty. “The only person I’ve seen her talking with since was the doctor. They were chatting in the corridor outside Athena’s apartment.”

  “You don’t think…?”

  “Another baby? No, Phoenix would have mentioned it.”

  Artemis wasn’t so sure. Athena might hide her pregnancy from Phoenix with the imminent threat of action from the Grid.

  She wouldn’t want him to worry.

  If Athena was pregnant, it changed everything.

  CHAPTER 13

  Tuesday, 20th - Friday, 23rd January 2015

  The grounds of the manor house had lost a little of their beauty. As Athena looked over the lawns from the guest bedroom windows, the vehicles from the transport section felt an ugly intrusion. She had persuaded Henry not to dig trenches. That would have been too much; Erebus would turn in his grave.

  When the Grid’s thugs attacked, Larcombe’s defenders had cover. Athena couldn’t imagine those moments. She prayed they were brief. When someone stood toe to toe with bullies, they chose flight over fight. After she met with the doctor yesterday, she wished that was the case more than ever.

  Athena watched a car leaving Larcombe as it drove along the elegant driveway and rattled over the cattle grid. She waved a hand even though she knew the driver wouldn’t look back.

  Nine o’clock. Time to get to the morning meeting.

  Phoenix was heading to the Midlands. Despite her opposition, he insisted on attending Andy Walter’s funeral in West Bromwich.

  Phoenix elected to stay on the A46 for most of the journey. A short stretch of unfamiliar roads brought him to the part of West Bromwich where Andy was born and raised. He had time for the scenic route — time to remember working with Andy and of the others buried or cremated this week.

  The responsibility of leadership weighed heavy on his shoulders of late He never set out to be a leader. He preferred to work alone. Erebus and Rusty taught him to be part of a team. A team that had become his family’ it hurt when a family member died.

  Phoenix had first met Andy Walters when they needed a shadow team of drivers to follow the transport vehicle from Belmarsh prison. There had been plenty of action in those few days last June, ending in Tommy O’Riordan’s killing. Andy had been a driver for senior military personnel in Iraq, and Afghanistan. He left the Army in 2011 and freelanced as an armed chauffeur for Arab Royalty when they visited London.

  Phoenix recalled that he referred to him and Rusty as Batman and Robin. You never saw one without the other.

  After a three hour drive, Phoenix pulled into the Sandwell Valley Crematorium. He had thirty minutes to wait. The car park was only half-full. Whoever it was inside, making their final journey, didn’t have a big family. Several cars arrived as he waited.

  Erebus insisted any funerals should be low-key, family and close friends only, to protect the organisation’s security. Phoenix expected to see a handful of Andy’s former colleagues, but not so many as to draw attention.

  The funeral cortege entered the gates of the crematorium with seven minutes to go. The hearse bearing the coffin stopped at the door. Two funeral cars drew up behind. Andy’s widow and three children got out of the first car; two elderly couples emerged from the second. His parents and in-laws, Phoenix assumed. Andy had been fifty-one. He was lucky to have the full set.

  The other mourners gathered on the pathway leading to the main door. Phoenix got out and walked across to join the queue. Nobody spoke. They filed inside. The service followed a traditional format, and forty minutes later, they were outside again.

  Phoenix made his way to his car; he was not alone. He counted five men altogether. Agents he had never met. Olympus personnel didn’t stand in line to offer condolences to their colleague’s family. Andy knew that when he joined. The Olympus pension fund would look after his family’s financial well-being.

  “When the family is grieving,” Erebus told him, “they need reassurance that everything is taken care of, not platitudes.”

  Phoenix waited as one by one the cars left. He followed them at a distance through the gates. He needed time to reflect, to rest for a while, before facing that drive back to Larcombe. Phoenix drove into West Bromwich for a late lunch.

  Phoenix parked near a shopping centre and strolled around the nearby streets to clear his head. A new-looking police station stood on the opposite side of the road. Maybe there was a café closer to where he parked. He turned and headed back the way he came. Inside the shopping centre, he found just what he needed. He ordered a healthy snack and a coffee. Rusty wasn’t around to get him into bad habits.

  “Hello, stranger,” said a voice, “mind if I join you?”

  The man who sat opposite Phoenix was a policeman.

  “Mick, how are you? What brings you to West Bromwich, are you working undercover again?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that, Frankie, or whatever you’re calling yourself this week,” said Mick, the barman from Newcastle who Phoenix met during the Dwyer case.

  “Something tells me you didn’t find me here in this café by chance,” said Phoenix, “have you been following me?”

  “You would have spotted me,” grinned Mick, “no, it was just my good luck. I was leaving the station when I saw you pause on the pavement. I wondered why anyone would turn around and head in the opposite direction unless they had an aversion to police stations. Then the face and the way you walked brought it back.”

  “I’ll wear a wig and a false moustache next time,” said Phoenix.

  “There may not be a next time,” said Mick. “Look, the people you work for helped put away those criminals on Tyneside last year. My bosses were very grateful, but it didn’t stop the top-brass starting a covert operation trying to track you.”

  “One more worry,” said Phoenix.

  “You’re getting flak from organised crime, aren’t you?” asked Mick. “No big surprise. Police around the country continued to receive unexpected help in cases where they’ve struggled to find sufficient evidence to break these gangs and put people away.”

  “We do our bit,” said Phoenix, “without attracting too much attention.”

  “Several big names disappeared too, with no clues who was responsible,” Mick continued. “The team investigating your outfit put these disappearances at their door. My input early on convinced them you were good people using methods outside the law to get results. The trouble is there’s another bunch of people to concern us both.”

  “Are you implying police areas are giving us unofficial permission to c
ontinue with our work because of its positive effects?”

  “You didn’t hear that from me,” said Mick. “In London, top-brass, intent on pursuing the PC culture that has neutered the police force, want you hunted like dogs.”

  “So, these are the people you meant?” asked Phoenix.

  Mick leaned closer and dropped his voice to a whisper.

  “It goes far deeper than that,” he said, “you know the establishment in this country; a collection of powerful groups with a permanent need to protect their position. They will do whatever it takes to influence the democratic process, so it doesn’t threaten their interests. I’m aware in my job the law favours the powerful. Look who controls the media. The unemployed, those on benefits, immigrants, they are forever under the microscope. It’s all done to switch focus from those who wield the real power.”

  “Hang on,” said Phoenix, “are you referring to this concerted effort to embroil us in an unwinnable war in the Middle East?”

  “Why am I not surprised you worked that one out,” said Mick. “The public doesn’t have a clue.”

  “What is their ultimate aim?” asked Phoenix. “We can’t believe they think an all-out war against ISIS is the way forward.”

  “To understand that, you need to identify which power group is behind this campaign,” whispered Mick. “Are they on the extreme right or extreme left?”

  “I’ve no idea,” answered Phoenix truthfully. “I don’t profess to understand the difference anymore,”

  “This crowd are as far-right as you can get. You might describe the group as an elitist faction with racist tendencies. In the past five years, they’ve expanded but have never shown their hand in any local or bye-elections. They may have councillors and even MP’s in high positions, but they never adopted a party name to identify them to the electorate. That will happen at the June General Election. They plan for us to be at war with ISIS by that time. Can you imagine what this country would be like if they ever got into power?”