Lottery Dreams Ch. 21: Night of the Demon

"And who told you to ruin them? To expose them so?" Pierse knew they were coming to an important point now.

"That's my business," snapped Douglas.

"Well, I'm making it mine," replied Pierse. "Who told you?"

"The same people who told me to do you over." Douglas was flowing with hate now.

"Did they mention the factory and the tank deal?"

"They said you had to be brought down to earth, and that The Brit was the paper to do it."

"So there we have it." Pierse laid his hands plainly on the table now. "Finally the truth has come out. Here we stand in the light, no hiding now."

"You better believe it's the truth, and if you aren't scared of them, then you know nothing."

"Oh I'm scared of them alright," said Pierse with a grave tone in his voice. "Very scared."

"Then what the hell did you do to my paper this morning?" Douglas wanted to know.

"Let me explain. You see, this organisation, which we both fear, has entrusted me with a task."

"What task?" sneered Douglas.

"The task of finding out who is leaking important information. Exposing the true nature of the organisation. What it really does. Who they really are."

"You don't tell me what to do. I'll tell you." Douglas was not backing down.

"In a way, you are right. They wanted to test me. To see if I would do a simple task. See if I was worthy of taking over the reins of their empire." Pierse looked closely at the little man now.

"You? Why the hell would they let a working class oik like you, take over?" Douglas laughed, more to himself.

But Pierse stayed calm.

"Yes, me. Because you see, I've found the source of the leak and I'm prepared to deal with it. To eliminate that problem, and show the organisation the respect it deserves."

"What the hell are you going to do about it?"

With that, Pierse pulled open a desk drawer. In one brisk stroke, Pierse took out a pistol and aimed it across the room.

Douglas stood open-mouthed at the gun.

"Oh God no!"

In another swift movement, he swung his arm across and shot Catrina squarely in the chest. The shot echoed around the room as the smoke drifted in the air. Catrina slumped in her chair, the look of suspense frozen on her face, as the blood trickled down her chest.

"Oh Christ, what have you done?" cried Douglas. "Your own wife?"

"She was the mole. It has to be stopped, and this was the only way. The organisation wanted a sacrifice and nothing else would do. They had to be shown respect." Pierse put down the gun.

"Go and tell them, we mean business." Durrant took the little man by the arm and pushed him through the door.

Nothing happened for a few days.

The paper kept on printing, as before, but with some lame story about Nigel T and a waitress who claimed to be the mother of his child.

Pierse heard nothing from either the paper or the Rose Temple Knights, but he knew it would come.

Finally, he decided to travel back up north to meet them. This time he took his full team. In the four cars were Durrant and their bodyguards.

They drove to the house, where he had met the man once before, and waited.

"Do we sit out here like tourists all day?" asked Durrant as they watched from the car. The windows had been wound down to let in the fresh air of the countryside, despite the protests of their chief of security. Several well-armed, and body-armoured men patrolled around the cars, parked on the side of the road. All waiting for a sign.

It came in the form of a single man, walking from the house to meet one of the guards. He stopped him before he could reach the cars, and pointed the machine gun. Since they were allowed to carry private side arms, Pierse had taken up the offer to be included with the official armed forces of the country. After all, they were all ex-servicemen.

The guard listened to what the man had to say and reported back to Pierse in the armoured Rolls Royce.

"They want to meet in the house," said the guard. "Shall we surround it?"

"Just close off the road," said Pierse, getting out of the car. "But don't go shooting anyone just yet. We don't want any trouble, and I don't think they'll give us any."

"What if they are lying in ambush in there?" protested the man. "We can't protect you?"

"Then good luck to you in your new employment," smiled Pierse standing on the side of the road. "You are a good man, but if this is going to happen, then so be it. You can't lock me in a tank forever."

With a guard leading the way, Pierse and Durrant walked up the path to the house. It seemed very over the top, to have the armed men marching across the lawn, but Pierse decided it was time for a show of strength.

"I thought machine guns of that sort were only legally carried by the army?" said the man Sanders, as Pierse approached him sitting on his patio.

"They are, but since the Defence Minister has passed a secret law, allowing us to hold firearms licences, we can do as we please." Pierse sat beside him, with Durrant standing behind.

"So are you here to execute me, as you did your wife?" said Sanders, laying down his paper on the table.

"No," replied Pierse. "We are here to show you that we have found the true source of the leak." Pierse smiled in the sunshine. These were the moments he loved. The end game.

"What leak?" asked Sanders.

"The leak in your organisation which would have proved a disaster for us all. That is if I had not stamped it out. It wasn't just this business with the Cobol lottery winner?" Or our scheme to make money on the tank deal? It's everything."

"Why should those things matter?" said Sanders. "You have enough money?"

"So does everyone else. And that's what I want to stop. If they all have as much as me, they are equal to me, and that won't do. We have to be more powerful than anyone else, that's the only way we can run the world. Not with equal shares for all."

"You are quite the statesman now. And the King." Sanders just smiled, content that things were going as planned.

"These leaks would have ruined us. Maybe the people we swindled could have found out it was us that had stolen their money?"

"So you shot your own wife?" asked Sanders. "A little dramatic wasn't it? Did you not consider what her father might think?"

"That's why I did it." Suddenly Pierse turned and looked out across the lawn. "Oh, could Catrina use your loo? It's been such a long journey?"

Sander's mouth dropped open, as the woman walked across the grass towards them. The woman who was reportedly shot dead, was here now, for all to see, and standing before him.

"Hello there." She stood and smiled before the man on the patio. "Could I be a bother and use your toilet, only I hate service stations? Through here is it?"

With that she disappeared inside, leaving the open-mouthed Sanders to fathom out what was going on.

"She's alive?"

"Very much so," smiled Pierse. "You seriously think I would shoot a lovely girl like that? Just for a nasty little paper like The Brit?"

"Douglas seemed convinced you did it?"

"So he should be,' said Durrant. "That set-up was from our special effects department in Borehamwood. Millions have been poured into the film industry to perfect the art of being shot. It has to be convincing for Hollywood."

"She was all too willing to do it," said Pierse. "So was her father. He hates the Brit."

"What's this got to do with the Brit?" asked Sanders.

"Because that's the true source of the leak. They put out the stories of our financial dealings. Stories about the lottery winners. I suspect they even had a hand in rigging the winning ticket. So those clowns in Rutland would win it. What are the chances of someone winning the lottery and being involved in one of our companies? The odds are just too fantastic, and that does not happen." Pierse sat back and watched the other man.

"The Brit, or rather Douglas. They did it?" added Durrant.

"He's got to go. He insulted us and threw down the gauntlet. Actually challenged me to a duel, to see who had the most power."

"I thought you would rise above such trivia?" said Sanders.

"I will, but the world is watching now. If we are seen as being weak over this, then we will be weak in everything else. No one will respect us. Douglas has to be made an example of."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Leave it to us, we'll handle it our way."

"Not just an assassination, or a car bomb," said Durrant. "That would be too small time. Making us look like a bunch of gangsters."

"No, this has to be big. And I mean big!" Pierse was not smiling now, deadly serious.

"I shall leave all that to you," said Sanders.

"This is the only way." Pierse leaned forward and looked into his eyes. "If I don't do this, then how can I command your respect, and how can I take on the crown? The one you have carried so well for all these years? It would have all been a trifle. A little quarrel in a distant field."

"So be it."

"That charge left a bruise on me," said Catrina as they travelled back in the car. The countryside flew past.

"You played it well," smiled Pierse as he looked at his wife in the back of the car. "We all believed it. Didn't we?"

"Certainly," added Durrant. "In fact, I was wondering if we had switched the blanks in the gun. When the shot went off, and the blood spurted out, my heart was in my mouth."

"Well, it will be a long time before I play the dead woman," pointed out Catrina. "Father thought it was hilarious."

"Shall we go straight to the airfield?" Durrant handed Pierse the file he had compiled on the next part of the plan.

"Yes, does the pilot know what to do?"

"He knows he's been asked to do a run up the Thames estuary, to do a survey with a new type of digital camera."

"The firm that supplied the bomb? Do they know why we want it?" asked Pierse.

"They know it's a military weapon, but that's all. Our weapons experts have programmed it for detonation on The Brit newspaper headquarters."

"I hope we won't be murdering any innocents?" Catrina was adamant about that. "Just that little shit Douglas?"

"Trust me, it's all been taken care of." Pierse handed her a letter that had been sent to all union staff at the print offices. "We've told all six unions to walk out, over pay and conditions. They should be doing it, just as our cruise missile reaches the building."

"Does it cover everyone?" she asked.

"Printers; writers; journalists; copy staff; computer operators; electricians; cleaners; canteen staff; security; window cleaners; pest control; gardeners, even the workers in the creche will be cleared out. What that doesn't cover, the fire drill will." Durrant allowed himself a smug smile at his hard work.

"So why not hit him and not the building?" asked Catrina. "It's a little over the top?"

"We have to make an example of the gutter press." Pierse had worked this out in his mind so many times. "We want it, and the people of Britain certainly want it. This can't go on. This man Douglas, and his rotten crew are plotting God know what and have no regard for anything. They are a bigger threat than the left-wing organisations they deride. Plus they show us no respect."

"After The Brit is out of the way, we will have control over everything?" asked Catrina.

"The Rose Temple Knights will grant us full permission to run the world. As for everybody else....." He trailed off in his own thoughts.

"There won't be anyone else," smiled Durrant. "We will run it all."

"What will we do with all that money?" said Catrina.

"Run the world, or carry on running it. We will not be the true rulers, just caretakers. So one day our grandchildren will have to ask themselves the same questions, that face us now." Pierse looked out at the countryside, unchanged since the war. Maybe since Victorian times, except for the motorway.

"Will they want it?" put in Catrina. "A world like this?"

"Things are changing. Once it was only property which dictated wealth. Now it's information. Or the passing of information. Maybe in a hundred years, people will only exist in electronic form? Bytes inside cyberspace."

"There will be no soul left in the world," Catrina felt emotional about this. "I'm not sure they will want a heartless world inside a computer. What about all this?" She pointed out the window. What of the world? What becomes of it?"

"It carries on," added Durrant. "With or without us."

The car pulled up at the small airfield in Suffolk. Once a bomber base for American B-17s, it was now a private airstrip for a firm making digital maps for websites. They flew a Lear-type jet. Fast and manoeuvrable, it could fly over any area using the special camera pods fitted beneath, to scan and record the world below.

The pilot stood beside the aircraft now waiting for the cars to pull up. Durrant walked over to the man and talked to him.

"Remember, this is an experimental machine, so if your instruments give you the slightest sign of putting the aircraft in danger, don't hesitate to abort the pod."

"I would feel bad about losing millions of pounds worth of equipment?" said the pilot.

"It's only a machine," said Pierse, standing by the aircraft. "Don't put your lives in danger."

"What if we have to drop it over a populated area? People beneath?"

"Make sure you are over the Thames when you switch it on," said Durrant. "Everything will be OK, I'm sure of it."

"You're paying the bills," said the pilot, and with that joined the other two engineers to climb onboard.

They lifted into the sky and headed out over the Thames estuary.

No sooner had they begun to turn over the grey waves, and switched on the machine, when the engineer reported a fault. The red lights flashed, and his computer panel told of terrible dangers if they carried on.

So the pilot ordered an abort.

The switch was thrown and the pod jettisoned. It fell from beneath the sleek white aircraft to drop into the waves beneath.

Or that was what they thought.

In fact, the Tomahawk Cruise missile activated itself and sprang to life. Not only was it a new design of missile, but it was also a leap in stealth technology too. The crew of the aircraft never saw the weapon fall away, and not one radar operator in the whole London region picked it up. For one thing, it was too low, but the cruise was designed to slip through the defences of any early warning system, on the lookout for a suicide bomber coming into London for this very purpose.

No one even suspected the Lear jet had anything to do with the events of that day. The police and MI5 cleared the crew of the aircraft, and the staff at the airfield, of any suspicious involvement.

So the Tomahawk Cruise carried on.

It carried on up the Thames, past the historical landmarks into Canary Warf. In the tracks of the Luftwaffe who had taken this very same route, years before, it came on.

Onto the building, and onto its target.

The Brit headquarters was one of the more uninspiring office blocks. But the cruise knew where it was. It had been programmed and updated by satellite navigation, which could be fitted to a family saloon car.

Douglas just happened to rise from his seat and glance out of the window. The last thing he said was: "What the fuck's that?"

The missile was programmed to impact in through the windows of the building and detonate just before it hit the central concrete walls.

It went off with an enormous bang. But not too much that it might shower the striking people outside. They had been kept well off the property by security, for insurance purposes. They all watched now as their building went up.

A white fireball grew to orange, and the shock wave blew the glass out across the river. In the next second, the blast went upwards and melted the concrete supports of the building. Lifted like a child's toy, the headquarters of The Brit was sent up into the air. To land in a shower of dust. The impact of which was so strong, it went through the basement car park and collapsed part of the London underground system below.

The train had been mysteriously stopped minutes before.

When the clap of thunder from the bang died down, and the dust began to settle, people started to notice the alarms going off across the city. It was at this moment, that the wonder of the event left them, and they remembered to be frightened. Screaming and crying hysterically.

Pierse; Durrant and Catrina watched it all on television. BBC News 24 had been doing live coverage of the opening of a new clothes shop, not far away. Durrant had made sure they were not so close, the dust blocked the camera angles, but the coverage of the event was a marvel. No Hollywood director could have planned it in more detail, and everyone watched as the footage was shown a thousand times. No one ever tired of watching The Brit go up, but everyone said what a terrible tragedy it was.

Pierse had rented a house in Norfolk to get away from London and its troubles. "The traffic will be murder now this has gone off," he said to Catrina handing him a drink.

"Where did you find this place?" she asked looking around the house. "Not House and Country? You would never get it so easily."

"One of our new magazines: Home and Country lifestyle. They were doing a feature on rental properties, and I thought how perfect it would be to hide in, whilst all this nonsense was going on." Pierse pointed to the TV set to illustrate his point. The screen was filled with police cars now.

"You realise there will be a right-wing backlash now?" Catrina watched the screen. "All those poor people getting the blame just because of the colour of their skin?"

"It won't last long," said Pierse. "Who can remember the IRA? And it had to happen, sooner or later."

"But we did it?"

"Sure. But the government needed a scapegoat, and it fitted in nicely with our little project. I certainly won't shed any tears over the loss of the Brit."

The press went wild, once the shock had worn off.

Terrorist hell!

Most of them rose to the occasion and condemned the evil doers (whoever they were) for this terrible attack on press freedom. Of course, no one dwelled on the fact that The Brit had campaigned for the restriction of the press and government control of the censor. But everyone was suitably reverential on this sad occasion, and never let their true feeling show.

A few people who had been ruined in the high court celebrated with bottles of champagne, but on the whole, people joined in with the hysteria, and the truth never came out.