Lottery Dreams Ch. 21: Night of the Demon

Chapter 21: Night of the Demon

Pierse knew that ruining the Lottery syndicate would not be easy. He had ruined people before, where money was concerned, and remembered very trying times.

Times when people clung to their money. The ones from the bottom were the worst. Working-class people tended to fight hard for something they have striven all their lives to achieve. Once a dream was fulfilled, it was seen as always half full, not half empty.

So wiping out people's bank accounts, and selling them dodgy investments was not easy. However, greed could be found in the heart of every man, and working-class lottery syndicates had more than their fair share of soft spots.

In many ways, the Cobol people were too easy.

"The only tough cookie is this guy Charley," said Durrant on the day they sat in the London office to discuss the plan. "The rest are a piece of cake. Dead meat. You want them done over here, or something more colourful?"

"China," was all Pierse said, watching the boats travel up the Thames. "Everyone wants to make money out of it. Even the tabloids think it's the next gold rush. It shouldn't be too difficult to trap a few greedy factory workers into throwing their winnings away down there."

"Even a few of the big players have had their fingers burnt there," Durrant pointed out, sitting at the computer.

"Make it simple, nice and plain, not too much side spin. We don't want any evangelical writers from the liberal left press picking up on the story."

"Why should they?" asked Durrant.

"Because these clowns have attacked a lot of copy in the press. Look at the TV last night? Still, running those stories about their sex lives? Jesus, they must be a tribe of rams up there in Rutland?"

"It'll burn itself out," laughed Durrant.

"Sure. But you always get someone who takes the side of the underdog. Why are they being judged for something they do naturally? Or, is this not something society has made them? You know the sort of thing? Misguided."

"I've contacted a fund manager to go and have a word with their broker. At least they put the money in the bank, and not in an old sock at the end of the bed." Durrant made some notes to contact a firm handling these deals for them.

"Fifty million is a lot to hide," said Pierse almost to himself.

"Yeah, I can remember the first time we saw that much money in cash, in front of us. Remember that?" Durrant took them back to happier times.

"Then I thought it was all the money in the world," replied Pierse, remembering exactly.

"We haven't touched on the real problem," pointed out Durrant, looking over his desk at the other man. "What are we to make of your new friends in the North?"

Pierse knew precisely what he was referring to, and gathered his thoughts. This new alignment over the past few days had been a thorn in their sides and was eating further in. "We overcame the P2 thing? and Roberto Calvi. A little before our time, but we had to pick up the pieces with New Scotland Yard. The Vatican bank wouldn't touch it."

"Yes I know Pierse," said Durrant, trying not to sound short-tempered and childish. "But this is a whole new ballgame. For these people to get under your skin like this, means I take them very seriously. So what's to be done?"

"Simple. They want the Cobol Lottery syndicate ruined and wiped off the board. Once we do that, we can get down to business. I know what you are going to say, and don't worry I've worked out a plan which will solve everything."

"You usually do," smiled Durrant.

Things changed.

Piers's wife: Catrina breezed into their London house and dumped her bags of new clothes on the seats in the hall. The servants would tidy them away for her. Once she would have done it herself. All neat and tidy, with everything in its place. But Pierse pointed out that the more housework she did, the less there was to do for them. Loathed to let people go for lack of work, Pierse liked to keep a full staff, especially in London, where they had to entertain a great deal.

"Pierse; we are invited to the opening of a new bookshop, say you will come this time? Oh please?" She ran into his office with girlish excitement, to show she really meant this one.

"Alright, but don't expect me to be interested in those awful books they sell." He looked up from the computer to see the sparkle in her eyes.

"You know the Fortran prize is only given to the best writers?" She sat at the desk with him, to see what he was working on.

"They are all the same to me. Booker; Whitbread, and now this Fortran thing. Do you know the prizes for writing are the kiss of death? They never follow it up with another good book."

"This one is different," said Catrina. "These are very good writers. The best in the business, and the favourites of the publishing world. They put together this prize to cream off the best writers, to make it a world standard. The Fortran foundation is recognised around the world now. After all, it's one of your companies, and I sit on the board."

"Arh, now we get down to it," laughed Pierse. "And I suppose it has nothing to do with the fact that there will be celebrities at the party?"

"There might be."

"So they will be roped in by the agencies. All the pop stars and TV faces. All there to sell their little book or DVD?"

"They have to make a living Pierse." she pointed out.

"If it were the world of genuine writers I might stand it. But not these awful people that are ruining the channels every night. Makeovers and watching paint dry. They are ruining the culture. There are even programmes about buying houses for God's sake."

"You buy property?" she added.

"Durrant and I, buy whole cities, but we don't make a programme about it. No one's interested, even other people who do the same."

"I just thought it might be a bit of fun for us," she looked away to show she was upset.

"Alright, if it will make you happy, we'll go."

"Great!" Catrina clapped her hands in excitement. "I've brought a new outfit, and had your suit sent to the cleaners."

"Who's doing the presentation?" asked Pierse.

"Some pop star, I've never even heard of him."

"No, I mean who's handling the agency side of it? You said it was one of our firms, but I can't remember who's taking charge of it."

"Oh, that guy from the Brit newspaper group. Douglas."

"Oh God I can't stand him!" cried Pierse, in alarm.

"Does he work for you?" she asked.

"Does he hell! We would have wasted him years ago. So would your father, think about that? He's the guy Durrant had that big row with, back in New York. Remember?"

"Oh yeah!" Catrina looked around the lavish study, to think of a way out. "Do you want me to cancel?"

"No," said Pierse. "Once you have said it, we have to go through with it. Anyway, it fits in with something else I've got planned. You know our little matter of the trip to the North? Well, the Brit is involved. Or it will be."

"Have you talked this over with Durrant?" she asked. "Or my father?"

"Not yet." Pierse leant over to look into her eyes, to show he thought this moment was important. "I wanted to discuss this with you first before I put it to the others. If you say no, then we call it off, but if you can see it working, then we go ahead, and so do they."

"All this concerns Douglas at the Brit? How?" She was almost pale with worry, knowing Pierse never made false threats.

"There is a leak," was all he said.

"In the organisation?" Catrina looked at the floor.

"Right inside. Someone right at the top. If we don't root this out, we might as well go back to trading shares in the city mile, and travelling on the tube every day. Now, do you seriously want that?"

"Of course not!" She shot him a cutting glance.

"You remember the last time we faced this problem? Your family was almost ruined?"

"How can I forget? Father was distraught. We nearly had to sell the house in Buckinghamshire. The one that has been in the family for two hundred years. Terrible time."

"Right. So you would agree that we have to root this out, right away?"

"I don't care what it takes. You have my full support, you know that." The woman changed now. No longer the frivolous school girl, but the hard businesswoman. Someone used to making a decision that would turn millions.

"Good. This is what I want to do. We have to set a trap to flush this bastard out into the open. Once we have them, we can do what we like with them. But they have to go. You do realise that don't you? No doing of deals, or compromising?"

"If you feel it's the only way," said Catrina.

"I do, and so will your father. We can't let these people run riot across the Earth. We would be seen as weak, and the people I've just met up North would see that as a sign to get rid of us."

"Father knew you were the right man to take over."

"Sometimes I wonder," said Pierse, looking out of the window at the garden. "I do agree with him as to the running of the firm."

"You get a free hand in everything."

"Yes, and the people in the North, they want to hand it all over to me, too. But we have to do this their way. We have to ruin this Cobol Lottery syndicate, and we have to root out our mole."

"I've no arguments with you about those lottery winners. Never has such a crass group of individuals got hold of so much money. And used it so unwisely."

"We are agreed on that," said Pierse. "Now this party with the guy from the Brit? It plays an important part in the scheme. You set it up, and I will tell Durrant, we are going ahead. but before that, this is what I want you to do."

So he told her.

The party was a lavish affair.

Everyone was there, as it was the night to be seen by the rich and famous; amongst the rich and famous. The Television camera was there, along with the Paparazzi, lining the red carpet on its way from the limousines to the doormen.

As Pierse sat in the back of the Rolls Royce, he could see the flashing bulbs of the waiting vultures around the door and knew they would be blinded by the dazzle as soon as they stepped from the car.

"I hope these guys remember who they are working for?" said Pierse, as he and Catrina stepped from the black car.

He need not have worried. For as soon as the valet opened their door, the security guard had already sent the word out on his mobile, and everyone knew what to do. No cameras clicked, as the couple walked up the red aisle. Every lens was turned away, even as the party music played on, loud and bold.

Inside, things were calmer. Pierse made a mental note to thank security for the good job they did that night. He paid a great of money to make sure his name was never in the tabloids, and that their organisation should never be exposed.

There were exceptions.

The worst threat to their organisation in years was The Brit, and its editor: Douglas. He was the sort of man you took an instant dislike to. Short and fat, he had come up through the ranks of the newspaper world but had learned little. His face was a permanent sneer as if he was playing out a practical joke against the whole world. Contemptuous of everything, and respectful of nothing. Douglas had been warned several times not to knock the big organisations but took little notice. No matter how powerful the figures were, Douglas chose to lampoon them.

There were threats of legal action, and there had been some spectacular court cases, but up till now, he had survived.

Pierse had locked swords with the nasty little man on several occasions, and each time tempers had flared. There was a certain fine line that Pierse knew he must never cross, and up till now, Durrant was the only person who had ever seen him truly angry. Psychotic angry. The sort of anger where you would go on a killing spree and spare no one. If you were that way inclined. But Pierse was not.

He was angry at himself for letting the nasty little newspaperman get under his skin. Pierse prided himself on being bigger than that and hated it when he snapped at people, who were too stupid to know any better.

Douglas was one of those people.

"Hi Pierse," said Douglas standing at the entrance to the building. "Come to visit this little affair?"

"Good evening," was all Pierse was prepared to say for now.

"Come to buy a few books?" the man continued. "Or maybe buy a few writers?" Douglas gave his sniggering little laugh and tried to share the joke with some of the journalists.

"We are here to help launch the new bookshop," said Catrina, trying to jolly the evening along. She knew her husband disliked being buttonholed like this and could see the evening turning out badly.

"He's got so much money, he could buy us all a book." Douglas found this crass joke particularly funny and prompted the journalists to laugh.

Pierse just smiled and followed his wife into the shop. There were all there. A television crew had been squeezed into the shop to film the celebrities, and there was another crew making a documentary about them.

Everyone followed each other. Stars from the stage and screen filled the shop. All had a product to sell, and all had an axe to grind. If it was not the environment, it was some left-wing cause, so radical, that not even the pop star holding the CD believed it could possibly work.

Pierse recognised some of the younger stars from other celebrity bashes like this or board meetings where one of his companies had to handle their affairs. The older ones were easier to put a name to the face. Recovering from drink or drug problems, or just the pressure of not being able to cope with modern life, they lined up and looked on in hope. What the drink did not squeeze out of them the tax man certainly did, and Pierse found himself wondering what ordinary people did without a tax haven.

Everyone was an individual, promoting films; record albums; books and shows. They all tried to stand out, and they all had one thing in common. The fact that they would all be swallowed up by big companies like his.

Pierse nodded to a few familiar faces in the crowd. Other businessmen, were dragged here by their wives because their company handled the affairs of a celebrity, and the agency had got free tickets. They looked just as bored as he. It reminded Pierse of a trade show he had attended in Norfolk. A countryside affair, it centred mostly on farmyard animals and what they fed them on. This was just such a scenario. Here were the chickens, and this was the feed.

Pierse was just thinking of sneaking back to the Rolls when Durrant came in.

"Thank God you are here," said Durrant. "I thought we would be stuck here on our own." He stood beside his wife: Sheena, a quiet Home counties girl, who loved the glamour of such events but dreaded the limelight. She had married Durrant, mostly for his money and power, but also because she believed they shared a common interest in getting on in life. Feathering their nest was one thing, but she realised you had to attend these events once in a while.

"Has Douglas had a word with you?" Pierse sipped the wine he had been handed and looked around the room.

"Said something facetious on the way in, but trying to get a rise out of us." Durrant also looked around, knowing they were never really off duty and had to be on their guard.

"He means to have a go at us tonight, I can feel it. This might be it."

Durrant needed no more prompting, as to what Pierse was referring to and swallowed a mouthful of wine.

"Shall we see what Mr Douglas has to say? Here he comes with his lackeys."

Sure enough, Douglas shuffled over with one of his celebrates.

"This is Nigel? Nigel T. You must have heard of him? No? Even an old fart like you Pierse, must watch Top of the Pops once in a while? Not even to watch those little girls? said Douglas mockingly.

"I don't get a lot of time for television," replied Pierse.

"Not even to watch little boys?" Douglas and the celebrity sniggered at this.

"Why are you doing this?" asked Pierse standing before him.

"Doing what?" asked Douglas with a sneer.

"Trying to embarrass me in front of my wife?"

"It's only you that feels embarrassed old son," laughed Douglas. "Smile for the camera." Just then a TV crew came over and the camera lens was thrust into Pierse's face.

"We will talk on this tomorrow," was all Pierse would say.

"I'm thinking of doing a new rich list," said Douglas, grinning at the camera. "My friend Nigel here will be up in the top ten. I wonder where you will be Pierse? You can't be richer than someone like Nigel? How many number one's is it Nigel?"

"Can't remember," grunted Nigel T, the pop sensation.

"Pierse here is richer than the Queen, or so he thinks. Isn't that so, Mr Morel? Why don't you tell our camera here, just how much money you really have? Or is it a big secret?" Douglas never stopped sneering and looked straight at the other man.

"This is a mistake," said Durrant. "Back off Douglas."

"Come on Pierse, why not boast to the world how much you are worth? Richer than those blokes that won the Euro Lottery?"

Still, Pierse was silent.

Catrina clutched her glass so tightly, that the stem snapped. The tension broke for a moment, as worried waitresses cleaned up and fussed over the woman.

"Nigel T here, wants some money to make a film about his rise to fame? Why don't you put the money up for him? You have got plenty?" Douglas continued in his goading of the man. "How about it Nigel?"

"You what?" said Nigel, missing the finer points of raising risk capital. "My head hurts."

"My lawyers will be in touch tomorrow to arrange a meeting. Please attend." With that, Pierse left.

Catrina ran after him, and after failing to persuade Douglas to make an apology on the spot (to which he just laughed) Durrant and his wife left too.

The next day brought a very different change of scene.

The Brit was used to having legal challenges thrown at it, and Douglas spent most of his time arguing with barristers over the finer points of litigation. But the big guns which Pierse brought to bear that morning, were big indeed.

Everything stopped at the newspaper offices in Canary Warf. The printing stopped; the computers stopped; the canteen stopped; and even the electricity was under threat at one point.

Finally, Douglas stormed into Piece's office, to find the billionaire staring at the flowing Thames through his picture window.

"Good morning, so glad you could join us." Pierse turned with a jolly smile and showed him a chair.

The little man had lost the confidence and composure of the previous evening and was now fuming mad.

"I'll ruin you!" he shouted across the desk. "You're fucking life won't be worth living once I've finished with you! You cunt! How dare you try and shut down the free press! How fucking dare you!"

"My, my!" laughed Pierse. "There are ladies present!" Pierse pointed to his wife Catrina, sitting in the corner.

"You kiss your mother with that dirty mouth?" she laughed.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?" shouted Douglas, the sneer wiped permanently from his face now, to be replaced with a snarl.

"I said you went too far?" Durrant had joined them in the room now and closed the door. "You were warned."

"I'll make sure The Brit does everything in its power to ruin you, mister. This is war! You and your Mafia pals. Oh yes, I know all about your secret contacts. And your special association with the masons. You see if I don't. You think you are a big man, hey? Well, I can tell you, that you are nothing compared to us. You are just a big fish in a little pond. You are messing with the big boys now."

"We are all impressed," laughed Pierse, relaxing behind the desk.

"I'll wipe that smile off your face boy!" Douglas stormed about the room.

"Will you ruin me, as you have the Cobol Lottery winner?" asked Pierse.

"You are going to wish you had never even seen a copy of our newspaper."