Crystal Night

Crystal Night

Piers sat on the deck of the luxury yacht and watched the sunlight sparkle on the water. He liked it when it was like that, calm, but with that expectant edge of wonder.

The deal for the movement of the stock was going well. Durant had just emailed him to say some of the larger sums of money were beginning to move. The lawyers saw no real problems, other than the huge amount of paperwork, but Piers sorted it all out. With a trip to the London office of his law firm, he was followed by a troop of porters, borrowed from the hotel. The lawyers had been complaining about the bureaucracy surrounding their latest bonus scheme. Piers had decided that no employees of his, should be hampered by such worries. And although enough was said in barroom conversation, the lawyers thought it was no more than a boastful millionaire, placating the troops. So it was with complete surprise he descended on the London offices. He waited to see their faces light up when the porters placed the suitcases on all their desks.

Not one lawyer said a word about tax and the law when they opened their case. Every one of them shut the lid back down quickly and thought about ways to hide the money. From the taxmen; from the rest of their colleagues, and especial the rest of their families. Piers knew how the human mind worked and knew greed was a great motivator when it came to overcoming paperwork.

"We have a bigger problem," said Durrant on the phone. " It's best if I come over to talk to you about this one."

"Fine, I'll tell you what I'll do," said Pierse, realising the man was not joking. "Meet me at my home in London."

Pierse made the gesture to prove to Durrant that he was aware that they faced a serious dilemma. Rarely did Durrant appeal to him with a violent threat, and Pierse knew him to be a man that was not easily rattled.

The house was set in the heart of London. Not too fashionable, and not too near the celebrity hang-outs. Pierse hated the fashionable scene. Having paid a huge sum of money to keep his name out of the tabloids, the last thing he wanted was the paparazzi snapping him by default. Preferring museums to nightclubs, he rarely ventured out into the crowds. Certainly, he attended his fair share of celebrity functions, as he knew his wife secretly loved them, and although she did her best to disguise the fact, he took pleasure in seeing her happy. Catrina liked to meet new celebrities like that girl Natasha. She was once championed by that awful tabloid newspaper: The Brit. Pierse knew his firm had an interest in The Brit, but that did not make that nasty taste in his mouth any sweeter. He hated that view of the world, put forward by the Brit. It painted an over-simplistic saloon bar view of politics and world events. Wanting simple knee jerk reactions. Hanging; flogging, and several other forms of bestiality were championed by the paper. It was sexist racist and held a secret love of violence. Horrible; yes, but it sold in its millions and was the voice of the people. The model: Natasha was a perfect product of such a Frankenstein.

The Rolls Royce made its slow painful journey through the streets. Every year the city got dirtier, with a growing number of homeless. Every year he vowed to do something about it, and each time Pierse had to admit that he enjoyed making money too much to act like a humanitarian. Secretly he despised these people for being weak. Also, he secretly admired the ones who turned to crime to get what they wanted. He would never go out, hungry with a needle in his arm. Better to be gunned down outside a bank.

When Pierse arrived at their Mayfair address, he met Durrant in the study to find out what new threat challenged his empire.

"Let's have it straight," said Pierse, pouring them both a brandy in the oak-panelled room. "Might as well face it head-on."

"It's the British civil service again," said Durrant sheepishly. "Bloody department of Trade and Industry. They are asking some awkward questions about the export order."

"The tank thing?" asked Pierse sitting in a chair by the fire.

"Sure. They are not objecting to the asset stripping."

"Thank God," laughed Pierse.

"No, they never do. Thank you good old Maggie. This is a real pain in the arse. They are raising some silly questions about the paperwork."

"What?" said Pierse turning to him in the other seat. "Why the hell should they do that? How much are we paying the lawyers on this deal?"

"About a hundred million in fees."

"So how can it go wrong?"

"It seems it's down to just one man. A nasty little civil servant in Newcastle, who is raising some questions about what we are doing with the factory." Durrant wondered if Pierse would flare up at this petty problem, or see the wider implications.

"Now, why should he do that?" asked Pierse toying with his glass. "Why should one man stand in the way of a law firm, so well versed in corporate finance, that even the government ask their advice?"

"Seems it's that place in the East midlands. You remember the one, where we set the quality controls, so they could not win?"

"Yes, Cobol or something?"

"That's the one. Well, it seems that things are not quite what they seem. And this guy wants to make an issue out of the place." Durrant took a sip of brandy and handed him a report. "This was acquired from the desk of the investigating officer in his department in Newcastle. It seems security there is rubbish. We even used a trainee to break in there and get it."

"Good work," Pierse took the report and leafed through it.

"It seems this Cobol, is a real bear pit of a factory. The quality control fell to pieces in a week. One man seriously injured, and discipline breaking down on the spot."

"What sort of hell hole was this Cobol holdings?" laughed Pierse.

"A cross between a lunatic asylum and a girl's school. To cap it all, some of the men on the factory floor even won the Euro lottery."

"The what?"

"You remember, we put money into a big Swiss banking scheme last year? It was a cover for the Chinese trade scam?"

"Oh yeah, how could I forget that one. We had to sit through hours of boring speeches before that guy signed."

"That's the one. Well, these men won it and walked out."

"The point being?" asked Pierse, knowing this was going to be the catch.

"That they have attracted a lot of bad publicity for this Cobol place. Now they have the money, they are settling a lot of old scores. And things are not going well. The tabloids are having a field day. Sales of papers are actually up since they started covering it."

"Working-class heroes?" Pierse smiled into his brandy. "So let's see where we are on this one? A little bureaucrat wants to make trouble for us, and this lottery thing comes along at just the wrong time?"

"That's about the size of it," said Durrant. He knew his boss would find a solution, as this was nothing compared to handling the Russian Mafia.

"So we have to find out the true motivation behind this man, and why he had it in for us. Is it money?"

"Seems he can't be bribed." Durrant turned to his notes. "Last year he was a key witness at a fraud trial. A money-laundering scheme was being run through a football club. They offered him a bung, and he turned it down. So it's not that.

"Personal revenge?"

"He's just a little man, in a big organisation. Seems he likes being there."

"No political associations?" Pierse was searching now, concentrating on the rich carpet.

"No affiliations, and no apparent ambitions. None we could find." Durrant tried to conclude his finding on the report and looked at his boss for an answer. "If he is doing this to spite us, we can't find an angle."

"There's always an angle. Just because the lawyers couldn't find it, doesn't mean to say it isn't there. They think inside the box, we don't. I need to get a good look at this man, see what I'm up against."

"We could just go over his head and do a deal with his supervisors?" put in Durrant.

"No, this challenge has been set for us, for a reason. I need to know why."

"Who would want to slap us down? Who's left that could try?" Durrant looked around the room. At the great works of art, at the great treasure acquired by Pierse over the years, and wondered who would dare?

"Since September the 11th everything has changed." Pierse looked back on how they had ended up at this conclusion. "It was such a golden opportunity to get rid of our old rivals, you know I couldn't pass it up?"

"I know, and I'm not disagreeing. But we knocked them down so well. The Mafia, the CIA, they all played along. The old crime bosses are gone. As for the straight millionaires? Once Tiny Roland and Goldsmith were out the way, no one wanted to take their place." Durrant disliked this soul-searching. It smacked of weakness, uncharacteristic in Pierse, and spelt trouble for them all. If he ever once started talking about giving it all up and joining the church again, Durrant feared for his position. The world was such a dangerous place now, they needed people like Pierse. Someone who could run the world as an afterthought, and make money with ease. He did not even seem to care about the money.

"But someone or some organisation must be behind this man? Why else would he do it?"

"The law?" laughed Durrant.

"Come on! What for? We both know there's no real law left. I bet you there is a more sinister figure behind this. Find me the man, and I will find the power behind the throne. Who do we have in the DTI that could rig a meeting for us?"

"What for?" asked Durrant, smelling a cunning plan taking shape.

"Because we need an excuse to get him down here on our turf. Once I went on a Safari in South Africa. Just a tourist trip. The guide told me that a lion will circle his prey looking for a weakness. Get this civil servant on our hunting ground, and I will find a weakness."

With that, it was done.

The contacts in the department were so good, that when a bogus meeting was set up in a London hotel, no one suspected it. The people came down and were wined and dined at the hotel. Pierse made sure that minor figures were distracted in the evening with offers of casinos and dancing girls. Lap dancers and rolling dice never failed to pick off the weaker ones. But his real quarry stayed aloof. Even as he watched him through the hidden cameras in his room, Pierse wondered what sort of man he was.

The hotel was one leftover from the cold war. A private company, working for MI5 had used it to track Soviet agents. Their only conclusion being, that men like drink, gambling and sex. And once they were offered it in sufficient quantities, there was no secret people would not part with. The whole thing had been moved to Moscow now, and the good old days were gone. But they gladly agreed to work for Pierse, once Durrant had told them how much money they could make spying on the stock exchange. The Brit newspaper used it to blackmail celebrates sometimes.

Clearly, this little man was no fool. He realised he was up against the big guns, and even his own department would be manoeuvred against him. So he was playing a bigger game. For the greater good. But what?

He sat now, quietly eating in his room, watching a nature programme on the cable. Pierse secretly thought this man knew the meeting was a scam, but that did not stop him from going along with it. Maybe he was a good poker player, and was trying to crack his opponent? If that was the case, why was he playing such a dangerous game? More to the point, what the hell was he doing in the civil service? Why not the stock exchange where the real predators swam? No, to Pierse something was wrong.

He studies him all evening. As the others were busy being entertained at the tables, or rolling in bed with 17-year-olds from Poland, the little man watched TV. And Pierse watched him. The evening dragged on and monotony began to kick in. Pierse was not easily bored, as he had taught himself with years of practice in the world's trading rooms, to sit and observe events. There was no column of figures he would not study, and no man's mind he would not try and read. The civil servant too was a man of slow habits. The careful way he peeled the wrappers off the hotel chocolates, and the laborious way he laid out his tea things, all painted a picture of a man who thought things through.

By the end of the evening, Pierse realised he was not up against an ordinary opponent. And opponent he truly was. For at the end of the evening Pierse got a clue as to what it was all really about.

As the man switched off his TV and tidied away his cup and plate, he settled down to read a book in bed. Pierse pulled the camera in for a close-up and red the cover.

The ancient mystical order of the Rosy Cross.

That was it.

The man was a mason. Not just an ordinary mason, as Pierse had no trouble with them. Doing business with Masonic orders was no more complicated than it was for the Vatican bank. And since the media scandals, neither organisation liked its dirty linen aired in public. Pierse controlled large parts of the media and had learnt to come to an understanding. As long as he made money for them, they left him alone. Of course, they could never figure out, that it was he, that was bankrupting them in the first place, but that was why he was, where he was.

The old fashioned Masons were no more of a threat to him than a street gang. This, however, was a different matter. The Rose Temple Knights were a whole different sport. Pierse knew all about the organisation and what it wanted.

As the little man settled down with his book, and its rather hysterical tales of woe, Pierse rested a lot happier.

Now Pierse has led a strange and colourful life. Much of it was common knowledge, and much of it was the stuff of legend amongst his friends. But a great deal still remained secret, even to his closest friends, such as Durrant. This new development would have to fall into that category. It might work against him, this Pierse realised, but it was of such grave danger that he certainly took it seriously.

In fact, the gravity of the predicament was born out when Pierse decided to drive to Northumberland.

Very rarely did Pierse drive himself? He had an army of chauffeurs, and once in England, his bodyguards preferred him not to. Pierse dislike the nasty grabbing way British motorists hogged the road. Everyone was out to kill each other, and the quiet country lanes of his youth were a foreign country to him now. Nor did he take his beloved Rolls, preferring an ordinary saloon car, to make sure he did not stand out. That was not the only reason Pierse chose the car. He wanted to come to his opponents, humbly. To show he did not stand above them, and to prove he wanted to meet them on a level playing field. A show of strength would be a mistake now, and the people he was up against would see through any false display of aggrandisement.

That was the watchword now. Plain honesty. They had to see where both parties stood. Pierse had never made any announcement over his findings. Even after a heated meeting at the London office, overlooking the Thames, that morning, he gave nothing away.

"I hope you know what you are doing boss?" said Durrant as they walked along the embankment. It had been five o'clock in the morning, as Pierse had called a meeting of his most trusted Lieutenants.

"Trust me, this problem will be solved."

"The American banks are getting very nervous. They see this as a weakness." There was genuine fear in Durrant's eyes, as they both looked upon the muddy waters. "They might spot what we are doing, and not invest their money. Then the whole plan falls to pieces." Durrant remembered the roulette chips falling on the floor on the yacht, the night they told their plans to the Ambassador.

"The people we are up against now, are very old money," said Pierse.

"Older than the Vatican bank?"

"This is where the power really lies. Finally, we get to meet the people who rule the world. Not armies and politicians."

"We thought we solved that one with the Costranostra?" Durrant looked at his watch. He had to be at Heathrow soon.

"No, this goes much deeper."

"I wish you would tell me?" pleaded Durrant.

"I'm not entirely certain myself yet. But let's just say, that if even the Masons get to hear about this, we could lose a lot of money. It's not about money anymore, just power."

"We thought that when Maggie defeated the left-wing unions?"

"These people don't waste time with politics, or ideologies. They were around long before any of that business began." Pierse began to walk away.

"I wish you would at least let the security car tail you," added Durrant, knowing it was hopeless.

"They would spot it, and it might give the wrong impression. I have to appear naked and humble on this one."

"Special branch will want to know."

"Let them track me by satellite."

"Maybe our new opponents will be doing that anyway?" said Durrant.

"They already know I'm coming."

With that, he began his journey.

London was hell, but once he cleared the Midlands, driving became easier, and Pierse began to enjoy it once again. It reminded him of his student days, driving around in a battered old Cortina. Where did those days go?

Finally, he reached the county of Northumberland, and turned off the A1, to head out into the rolling countryside. It always held an air of the unexpected for him, and in a way it was. For a man who had scaled the Angel Falls in Venezuela; the foothills of the Hindi Kush, and even visited the Poles; this was new.

Pierse had financed expeditions to deep dark caves in Borneo, where he had stood as the first white man, and walked along the sandy beaches of Pacific Isles, only visited by seagulls. But this journey truly worried him. For here he was up against the unknown.

Northumberland and the Borders held no secrets for him in a tourist sense, as he had visited the area many times. A visit to Lindisfarne has even made him think seriously about giving up the world of high finance for the church. This had come at a particularly low point in his life when making money had become all too easy. There had to be more, and after brokering a deal with the Vatican bank, Pierse had looked deeply behind their motives.

As usual, he and Durrant had ruined the Vatican bank. They had manoeuvred them into a position where they exploited their natural greed and laid a trap. The bank had fallen in, and Pierse had to come to their rescue to save any embarrassment. They never knew it was Durrant who had laid the trap, and even after a bitter rival with a chip on his shoulder had threatened to expose the scam, the Vatican refused to believe it. It was a coup that sealed his reputation as a major player. And what with the deal over the Russian Mafia coming only a year earlier, and the oil fields being secured, the financial world was well and truly scared of him. Even Mossad gave him tips now.

The countryside took on an almost Scandinavian look as he toured through the wooded lanes. Foreign in parts, but all too English in others. The occasional houses still had that charm, and Pierse could almost believe he had travelled back in time. Of course, England could never go back to that. After all, it never had people like him, way back then. Things had changed, and this trip was all about that. He had changed, but the world around him now had not. Stuck in the past, it could never change.

As his car went through a particularly wooded area, it emerged in an enclosed little valley. The view led off to a cut in the hills, that was almost hidden to the outside world. Here was the place he had been looking for.

The drive to the house could have been to any number of old English Homes. Except it was not. By its very nature, no one knew about it. Pierse had only heard about it after attending an Oxford college dinner.