A Plague Of Dissent E-Book

Nic Taylor

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In a world where media companies hack into personal communications at will, Adam and Isobel are pursued by faceless, unknown men.

Riots and civil unrest have turned  the country upside down. Meanwhile, a mysterious group of insiders is attempting to use the spreading anarchy to further their own agenda. Crooked practices operate within the police force, and government contracts are bought and sold by those who have the Prime Minister's ear.

Dragged into this nightmare scenario, Adam and Isobel face two choices: try to escape... or stand their ground and fight for their future.

Leseprobe

A PLAGUE OF DISSENT

A Political Thriller

NIC TAYLOR

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2012 Nic Taylor

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Jim Wright, Miika Hannila

Cover art by Cormar Covers

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

This book is dedicated to all those that have put up with me over the years, but in particular to my three beautiful children, Adam, Dan and Shakira.

Chapter1

Rosie sat all night alone in the dark, not daring to turn on a light and far too frightened to sleep. Fear crept through every pore of her body. How could she sleep when she knew that there were men outside who were waiting for her to leave the house. Knowledge of that terrified her. The men banged on the front door, shouting through her letterbox and checking every accessible window.

All night she’d huddled up on the couch, fearful of every sound outside. Each creak of the old house filled her with panic.

Had the men somehow got inside?

She saw them arrive outside the front of her apartment, only minutes after arriving home. She’d parked her car in the car park just around the corner, rather than outside the apartment. She didn’t want to advertise her presence. She was uncertain if they knew she was home, but convinced they wouldn’t leave until they’d found her.

Rosie’s heartbeat pounded in her ears; her breath caught in her throat, acid rose in her stomach, and the urge to be sick consumed her. She needed to focus and clear her mind, but the fear of being captured overshadowed all her thoughts.

The events of the past week churned through her mind. How had they discovered what she’d done? Everything had been arranged by text. No one could have overheard a thing, but evidently someone had. And the news of that; how had it spread so quickly? One second she was committing the act, and the next these men were everywhere.

Over the past hour, her thoughts gradually turned from fear to the desperate need to escape. Weighing her options, he paced her small living room in an attempt to calm her thoughts. The front door was out of the question. She could climb out of her bathroom window, sneak out through the rear garden of the apartment below and into the back lane, and then get to her car before it got light. That was her best option. No, it was her only option. Dawn was an hour away, and she was nearly out of time. It was now or never. She had to make a decision.

She slipped on a pair of trainers and packed a small bag. Necessities only, her car keys, a pair of pants, and the cash she’d frantically scraped out of a drawer, her passport and credit cards were the only items she carried in the bag. Her only coherent thought was to get the hell out of town before the shit truly hit the fan.

Opening the bathroom window she slid out with her bag in tow, and dropped the few feet into the garden, trembling as she did. It was dark, very dark, and what little light the moon would have provided was soaked up by the thick black rain clouds that hung overhead. Cautiously, she made her way down the garden path, taking care not to kick one of the numerous potted plants that lined it, towards the gate and the back lane.

She checked; the lane was clear, and she could see the car where she had left it the night before. None of the men were in sight.

It’s now or never.

They would spot her soon enough, and the chase would begin.

With all the strength, she could muster Rosie took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she had to do before she slowly eased open the gate, hoping it didn’t creak and give her escape away. She entered the lane. The street lights at each end of the short lane, normally welcome, would tonight spotlight her to anybody at either end. She took her first steps as two men appeared under the street light at the far end. Too late now, they’d seen her. The shout went up

“There she is! She’s going for the car park.”

These words were quickly replaced by the sounds of running feet, as close to a dozen men appeared around the corner, illuminated under the street light.

She had no choice now, running was her only option. Rosie froze, but only for a moment. Then she ran.

Only three hundred meters to the car park. Get into the car, and get away.

I can do this.

Rosie ran, heedless of the numerous potholes brimming with water from the overnight rain that contrived to bring her to her knees, and dodged the randomly placed waste collection bins overflowing with rubbish. She crossed the road at the end; the car park and her car was close now, just on the other side of the road. She could hear her pursuers’ feet splash through the puddles, getting closer with every second. Venturing a glance over her shoulder, she could see they were gaining on her. She saw the double-decker bus when it was far too late.

When she turned her head back, the bus was on top of her, the shock on the driver’s face clearly visible as he tried to brake and steer away. Rosie screamed. The scream was followed by a sickening crunch, as the number six bus flung her ten meters through the air, to crumple like a rag doll onto a parked car.

Rosie lay over the front of the car, crumpled and broken on this wet forlorn morning, with her dying thoughts.

Why?

The seduction that started it had been going on from the moment she first began to temp in his office. Yes, of course she had known Alex Great was married, but his power and all that money he controlled as Chief Secretary to the Treasury seriously pressed her buttons. After all, all the politicians did it, didn’t they? The more senior they were, the more they slept around, and the office temps seemed to be the nature of the game. At least that was what her friend Jonathan had told her.

For the past five years, ever since her divorce, she’d had a succession of temp jobs. The first, in the International’s office, where she had met and had a brief fling with Jonathan Mason, and then one Fleet Street office or another followed. None being quite what she truly wanted; all of them left her unfulfilled, her true worth never recognised. The men she worked for saw only one thing, her stunning figure, which if truth be told, she’d always displayed and used to her advantage. But she craved more, much more; one day the right job or man, perhaps both, would come along, but until then she would make the most of her situation and her assets.

When she ran into Jonathan at a party, she’d told him quite innocently of her new job and the attentions she was getting from her new boss. She’d jumped at the offer Jonathan had made.

For several weeks, the Chief Secretary had been pleading with Rosie to have dinner with him. Following Jonathan’s suggestions she had capitulated, accepting an invitation to dine at the penthouse he kept at the Soho Hotel. He didn’t want to be seen out in public with her, she assumed. The thoughts of the eventual, generous pay day that Jonathan had promised removed any residual doubt she might have had.

That fateful night, Rosie knew she looked exceptionally good, she always did. Her office attire was revealing enough, but the dress she wore tonight, was little more than a spray- on. A sheath of red, clinging to her every ample curve, revealing more than it concealed. She’d expected that they would eat before she got her clothes off, but it hadn’t happened that way. No sooner was the door closed, than Alex began to pull off that tantalising dress, quickly revealing her stupendous body.

Later, lying back on the bed, she thought that, for an old, fat and balding guy, he was quite an attentive lover. It had been far better sex than she had anticipated. He certainly talked a lot in the office, and she had just discovered that his tongue was quite skilled in several other things as well.

There was a knock on the suite door.

“Room service.”

Alex opened the door and invited in the waiter with a service trolley.

"Over there," he said.

Ah yes, the hotel does like to look after their distinguished guests; I wonder what they have sent me?

The waiter pushed the trolley through the doors and into the center of the lounge of the hotel suite, and then proceeded to remove one of the silver domed lids covering the plates.

As he did so, it struck against a metallic object underneath, and the sound of metal upon metal caught Alex’s attention. As the lid cleared the plate, Alex was perplexed to see not a plate of food, but a camera. This the waiter-playing paparazzi quickly picked up, shooting five frames per second before he even had his eye to the viewfinder. It captured the balding, fat politician wrapped only in a towel, with his pretty blonde temp in bed behind him, clearly visible through the wide open double bedroom doors.

“What do you think, ah..?”

As soon as the paparazzi had picked up the camera, Alex Great raised his hands to try to cover his face, letting go of the towel around his waist, which had quickly slipped to the floor. The final shots captured Alex naked, red faced and screaming obscenities.

“No, stop! Get out, get out!”

It was over before they knew what had hit them; a precursor of the double-decker bus that would take her life twelve hours later. The paparazzi was gone within a minute, his memory card full and containing over a hundred compromising shots of them. It undoubtedly was far too late to panic, but that is precisely what the politician had done. He was still screaming obscenities at Rosie, accusing her of setting him up; that his career was over and his life in ruins.

It had all seemed like such a brilliant idea at the start. The plan, as suggested to her by Jonathan, had been exceedingly simple. Sleep with him for a few months and get something on him which Jonathan could use. The affair in itself would probably be enough; she would also be amply rewarded, the five figure sum Jonathan mentioned would have been very useful indeed.

She hadn’t bothered to think what Jonathan was getting out of the arrangement, or why he was prepared to pay so much for it. She’d worked with Jonathan as his secretary at the International, and should have been aware of his unorthodox methods. Unfortunately, like most dead certainties, it really wasn’t turning out the way she expected, although this was precisely what Jonathan had planned. It never crossed her mind he wanted the dirt on Alex Great now, not in a few months.

Rosie hadn’t anticipated this result at all. Lying in bed with a hysterical and profusely sweating politician, who was standing naked in front of her screaming obscenities at her, was not what she’d had in mind. Definitely this was the time to leave town for a while. One thing was for sure, he was not going to be a minister much longer, and he was no use to her anymore.

Grabbing her things, she’d slipped back into her dress. It wasn’t the sort of thing she would wear underwear with, so there was no need to search for them. Then she’d run as fast as she possibly could, pulling on her shoes as she ran down the hotel corridor and arrived home minutes before the hordes of press arrived at her door.

The bus driver had not seen the men chasing Rosie, and so hadn’t realised quite how the accident had happened. Nor did it occur to him to think how the press had arrived so quickly.

Rosie was splayed and motionless over the bonnet of the parked car, her head sagging down over the front, her neck broken. She was clearly dead, having taken the full impact of the bus as it accelerated away from the bus stop.

The driver immediately phoned for an ambulance before jumping out of his cab, and then checked for a pulse, which he felt sure was not going to be there. He grimaced as he did, trying to look away. Streams of blood ran down the bonnet and over the front of the car, pooling on the street. The tips of her long blonde hair, already beginning to stain the color of her blood, nestled in the widening red pool.

Her eyes were wide open and her crimson blood ran from both her mouth and nose, clearly illuminated by the cameras’ flashes. The paparazzi had arrived.

The first two, surprisingly, did not go for their cameras immediately, but as the rest arrived with their flashes blazing, Carl turned to his associate Fred and said:

“Stupid bitch! We might as well get something for our trouble”.

They, too, pulled up their cameras and recorded the scene, in all its gore.

Chapter2

Several hours after Rosie’s death, Carl and Fred were in their office at The International’s HQ, or what used to be their office until recently. The office was hardly recognisable to what it had been only a week before. The four interconnecting rooms that made up the office space had been crammed with electronic monitoring equipment. It looked more like mission control for a space flight than a typical media office. Banks of flat screen computer monitors lined each workspace and a touch screen commanded the majority of most desks, with more monitors hung from a metal lattice work attached to the ceiling.

There wasn’t a communication device, computer or data network in the UK, even those that didn’t officially exist, that couldn’t have been accessed from here. Now all that remained was the metal framework hung from the ceiling, along with a few desks and hundreds of cables that sprouted from every conceivable point or coiled up upon the remaining desks.

A TV on in the corner of one of these rooms, the boss’s office, showed the Secretary of the Treasury getting out of his limo, outside No 10. The scene was a complete free for all; every TV crew in the western world seemed to be there, all jostling for the best position to record the action. They had only one theme to their shouted questions.

“Did he have any comments on the news stories that morning? Did he think the girl had committed suicide by running in front of the bus? And had he been summoned to No 10 to hand in his resignation?”

Carl, Fred and their boss Jonathan sat in his office, watching the breaking news. Through the glazed wall at the rear of the office, in an adjacent suite of rooms, three others could be seen packing the last of their delicate and expensive equipment away. When the breaking news bulletin finished, Jonathan turned to Fred and angrily spat:

“What the hell went wrong?”

“I sent the two of you to get the damn photos, not to instigate this shit fest. What were you doing?”

He certainly hadn’t intended it to be all over the airwaves that day, if ever. Carl handed over the shots on the memory card to his boss. They were even better than expected, the last few he’d taken captured the politician naked, the dropped towel at his feet, his hands attempting to cover his face, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Look, I’m sorry, boss, the guy just wouldn’t shut up; he screamed louder than my teenage daughter does when I say no. I was no sooner out the damn door before every fucker on the floor was poking his head around the door to see what was going on. The security guys were there in seconds, and I thought they worked for us. It’ll be one of those bastards that sold the story to that lot.” Carl explained whilst pointing at the TV, still on in the corner.

“They’ve all got it, every bloody one of them”, he added, referring to the International’s competitor news networks.

This certainly did not please Jonathan; he had plans for the Chief Secretary of the Treasury, Alex Great. Or more to the point, his private clients, Roseau and De Costa, had plans and were willing to pay a great deal of money to ensure they came to fruition. The pair had approached him a little over a year ago and, on the surface, both seemed like successful businessmen, although they seemed prepared to do whatever it took to keep ahead of the competition.

Their business was that of contract services, and they now wished to acquire government contracts. Jonathan could easily help with that, with the right introductions and a little insider information. He had so far supplied everything they asked for and more, doing exceptionally well out of it himself. But there was something about them that worried him. It was nothing that he could actually put his finger on, but he was now beginning to suspect they were involved in organised crime. Not that it bothered Jonathan, their money was as good as anyone else’s, but he would need to tread carefully with them.

It wasn’t so much the business with the Treasury Secretary; he could easily understand how they might fit him into their plans, but there were two other pieces of information that he had supplied as requested, without considering what they were to be used for. One was on a company CEO involved in an insider trading scam. He had committed suicide by taking a swan dive from the roof of the bank where he was CEO into Canary Wharf, within a week of this info being delivered. Another was the name of a gun-runner who’d been in the witness protection scheme. He was about to provide evidence on the people he worked for, and then, he had just disappeared.

Considering the business he was in, Jonathan knew that it was wise to take precautions and had always done so. His insurance policy was a list of all those he had business transactions with, including names, dates, amounts of money paid and information supplied. And, as a consequence of his suspicions, he was also in the process of trying to discover more about these particular clients, both as further insurance and as a potential future revenue generator.

He would need to find another way of gaining the leverage Roseau and De Costa wanted. Jonathan prided himself on always delivering, and this business with Alex Great would be no different. Fortunately, he and his colleagues were the best in the business, and Roseau and De Costa were well aware of it. He had demonstrated that, with the information, his informants had supplied about the gun-runner, information that could only have come from high up within the Metropolitan Police Force.

For over four years, Jonathan had been running a project for Dandelion, the International’s owner. Their brief was to collect data, every conceivable piece of data they could obtain, from every source open to them, legality notwithstanding. Initially this was limited to data that they could intercept electronically, but was soon expanded to include information supplied by the police and public officials, at a hefty price.

Dubious methods of information gathering had always been employed within news organisations. They needed to obtain information for their stories from somewhere. Now, with the prevalence of electronic communications these days, that’s where the bulk of information came from. Dandelion, always wanting to be one step ahead of the game, centralised those that knew how to get this and provided them with all the tools available to excel at it. This created an immensely powerful information gathering machine. A tool Dandelion wanted total control of, hence the reason to run it from the International Building.

Jonathan and his five colleagues supplied phone intercepts, text messages, voice mail, e-mails and computer files as well as the human intelligence to reporters and TV crews of the International group on anybody of interest. From Prime Ministers to murder victims, if it was in an electronic form or on the airwaves and they wanted it, they had everything they needed at their disposal right here in these rooms to gather it. For several years, they built this capability with state of the art equipment and employed the best in the business to run it.

That was until public scrutiny began to examine how media organisations, particularly the International Group, obtained their information.

The scrutiny their methods were now receiving made it necessary for Dandelion to be able to deny all knowledge of his enterprise. Therefore, as of two years ago, to all intents and purposes Jonathan and the group were no longer employed by the International Group although, in reality, they continued with their work from the same office space, just as they had done before. The costs of the project, including all the wages, had gone down in the International’s budget as entertainment, which in some sense of the word it was. It certainly entertained the general public, every day.

Really, they had been too good at their job, and the International Group was now under intense investigation. For years, the International’s editions published story after story, exposing which footballer had yet again been caught with his pants down, which public officials had been taking bribes, which pop star had been caught taking drugs or caught soliciting for sex in public toilets or which actress had confided intimate sexual details to a friend. Many complained about the International’s tactics, but all too often, these complaints fell on deaf ears.

Then, two years ago, official complaints were made by Buckingham Palace. It was claimed that stories containing private conversations between Prince William and his girlfriend, and between him and his brother Prince Harry, had been published by the International. The content of these conversations could only have been known through the interception of their texts. The police had no choice but to investigate these claims. So far only one reporter had been charged and convicted, but that was about to change.

The police investigations revealed the editor at the royal desk had intercepted these messages with the help of a private investigator; both were prosecuted and eventually jailed. Or that was the official story. In truth, the information had been supplied by Jonathan and his group. The private investigator had been implicated by Jonathan hacking into his computer and planting incriminating evidence for the police to find. Both the editor and the investigator were paid handsomely by Dandelion for their silence.

For a year or so, with the help of certain police officers, that ruse had held. But politicians, footballers and show business celebrities began to make claims that they had been targeted by eavesdroppers. That their phones were being bugged and their texts intercepted, as stories appeared about them in the International’s papers and news channels. The police investigation resumed, and a government appointed committee had been formed to investigate the claims.

Jonathan was aware of the investigations, and that the committee appointed by the Prime Minister would soon be calling the owner of the International Group, Dandelion, or Dandy as they all called him behind his back, to testify. Naturally, Dandelion was also aware of this, and decided it would be wise to cover the tracks.

The Surveillance Group, as he called them, and all their equipment needed to be removed from the International Building. He instructed the only two others that actually knew of the project, his two vice presidents; print and electronic media, who had disseminated the information throughout his news network, to get the Surveillance Group dismantled and covered up.

Although many at the International knew the information from texts and e-mails were being collected, none knew the specific details or the extent of it, other than nine of them. Those were the six members of the Surveillance Group, Carl and Fred, who looked after the physical surveillance, the eyes on stuff, and the three electronics experts, Jonathan and Dandelion of course, along with his two VPs.

The members of the Surveillance Group were given exceedingly generous bonuses, told their services were no longer required, and that they had two weeks to get out of the building. This was nearly two weeks ago, and today they were packing up the last of their equipment.

The fact that Dandelion wanted to distance himself from their operation came as no surprise to Jonathan. He had always suspected that there was a finite time limit on how long they could remain secreted away within a news group before drawing attention to themselves. But more importantly, he had for some time wanted to expand their enterprise, and herein came the opportunity. Thus far, whilst based at the International, he had been unable to do that for other than his single very private group of clients, and this was the perfect opportunity. He had already acquired the premises that they needed; all their equipment was being packed away, ready to be moved through a series of cut-outs so it couldn’t be traced. It would be installed not five miles away from the present location.

Once the installation was complete, in about a week, he would be ready to begin again, but this time their endeavors would be far more profitable. Blackmail and corporate espionage paid much better than news stories. Perhaps his last voyage into that field hadn’t gone exactly as planned, but he had got the girl into the Treasury Secretary’s bed, and he had got the photos he wanted. If the stupid man hadn’t screamed the place down, it all would have gone as planned. He would have kept the evidence to himself and his clients. It was a shame about Rosie, but now she couldn’t say anything to incriminate him and there were plenty more around like her.

As Jonathan and his team packed away the remainder of their equipment, the rest of the International Media Group were experiencing an unusually busy news day. On top of the drama occurring around Alex Great, another demonstration had erupted. This one, an impromptu affair, was likely to have the same side effects as the other demonstrations earlier in the year.

Certain groups were hijacking the demonstrations to further their own ends. Their goals had not been revealed, but their methods were clear. Small bands were using the peaceful demonstrations to conduct riots and lootings in several large cities around the UK, whilst the police were distracted at the demonstrations.

It was also the first day of the committee hearing, with Dandelion the first to be brought before them. With this flurry of activity in the news rooms, nobody would notice what was going on in their remote corner of the International building.

Before Jonathan had his team up and running in their new offices, he had two problems to deal with. His private clients wouldn’t be happy with the way the business with the Secretary of the Treasury had turned out. He had received an e-mail from them, saying that they would be back in London in a few days and wanted to have a meeting. Then there was a problem of a more private nature to deal with: his wife.

Chapter3

“Will there be any other guests accompanying us today, sir?” She said with her radiant smile.

“No,” he replied, “Just get this thing off the ground and bring me some coffee”.

The stewardess hoped that coffee would be all he wanted on this flight to London today; some of his demands on previous flights that the agency has sent her on, had been far more onerous.

With all that he had achieved, one would have expected Dandelion to be a happy man; today, he wasn’t. Within minutes of him settling into his seat, the G5 took off. The wheels left the tarmac and rotated into their bays, his coffee arrived and he began ranting to himself.

“How dare they summon me like this? It was me who put them into power in the first place. If I hadn’t shifted my support from the Labour Party to the Conservatives four weeks before the election, Labour would still be in power, and the Conservatives would still be the opposition. Perhaps some compromises had to be made, but that‘s no reason to humiliate me like this.”

In Dandelion’s opinion, the compromises were the real reason he was being summoned to the House of Commons, to be grilled by this damnable Robertson Inquiry committee.

“Blain should be kissing my arse, not humiliating me; it was Blain’s policies that were in place, not that of Labour or the bloody Liberal Democrats.”

Dandelion knew the Robertson Inquiry was toothless, nothing more than a political maneuver so he would deny all knowledge, keep it limited to a rogue reporter, and it would all blow over. But the audacity of having called him in to testify would be remembered, along with those who had done it.

“They will pay for this, every one of them.”

Dandelion had been in the news business all his working life. At the age of 16, he joined his uncle’s newspaper. He had worked his way up through assistant editor to where he was now, the sole owner of one of the largest and probably most powerful media companies, and had built this empire on the knowledge that information and how it was disseminated or not, was the key to everything. Any slant could be put on any story and made to convey precisely what you wanted it to.

“Sir, would you like some more coffee?”

Disturbed from his thoughts by the stewardess, Dandelion noted that he had already been in the air for over three hours.

“No.

What do you want? Leave me alone, can’t you see I’m busy?”

Dandelion settled back into his plush leather seat of his G5, contemplating the questions he would be asked by the inquiry panel and the answers he would give, but events upon the ground in London were taking a turn that even he could never have anticipated.

Over the past year, there had been four large demonstrations and numerous smaller ones across the UK, many of which had turned into riots. The reasons for the peaceful strikes and demonstrations were multi-faceted; much of the dissent had been in response to the present government’s policies of fiscal control. There was hardly a segment of the population that hadn’t been adversely affected and wasn’t extremely unhappy with what the Government was doing, and yet more segments of society that would take full advantage of the fire that was beginning to rage amongst the populace. For each peaceful demonstrator, another had joined in, and some were simply looking for either the short term gain they could achieve by looting shops or for the enjoyment they seemed to derive from it, but there were others that were far more organised.

The demonstrations and particularly, the riots, created great headline for Dandelion’s media companies, but it was also creating problems, one of which was about to get right into his face. About half an hour out from Heathrow, his musings were again interrupted by the stewardess,

“Excuse me, sir, but we are half an hour out of Heathrow and the pilot asked me to tell you that there is a demonstration happening in the center of London, around Oxford Street. He says it shouldn’t affect your drive in, but he wanted you to know.”

“The shooting, no doubt.”

“Yes sir, more of what happened yesterday.”

Unperturbed by this news, he decided it was time to get ready for the hearing, due to take place at the Palace of Westminster in two hours or so. He was exiting the bathroom just as the stewardess announced they were landing. Within ten minutes of touching down, he was exiting his private jet past the smiling stewardess.

Thank you, God, for getting me through another flight with him without him touching me, and I hope he runs straight into the riots.

Minutes later, Dandelion was in his limo, passing through security gates at the airport and toward the M5. Near the M5 approach road, the driver said through the intercom:

“Sir, the demonstration has escalated into a riot and has spread through the center of London, toward Piccadilly and Green Park. I have the radio on, sir, do you want to listen?”

“No, I don’t, just don’t get stuck in traffic.”

The day before, after the shooting of the young man, several small, seemingly insignificant incidents happened around the UK, all of which petered out quite quickly. But that morning, following the start of the demonstration at Broad Water Farm, they took hold again, all in the form of looting. Not in the immediate areas of the day before where the police still had a large presence, but a few miles down the road.

This feat of instant and secure communications had taken a lot to achieve but had worked spectacularly, both in its reaction to the first event of the killing and then anticipating the events that would follow. Those that had achieved this act now had control of large bunches of mostly men but quite a few women as well, from no particular affiliation, which could be organised into a mindless horde, intent on larceny and destruction and with only a few hours’ notice.

One such element had been sent to Oxford Street, the shopping heart of London’s West End, believing it would make an excellent target. They worked on the knowledge that there would be large numbers of police required at Broad Water Farm, thus depleting the West End of London. Their game plan was to split the several large groups along the route that they intended to loot.

Groups of up to a dozen strong gang members, all wearing dark clothing with their faces covered in ski masks and armed with pepper spray and baseball bats, stormed into shops and department stores. What appeared random on the surface was far from that; each store had been identified in advance, and each group had been supplied with a sketch of the positions of the tills and counters, displaying goods they were targeting.

As the gangs entered each store, the first reaction of shoppers and the staff was that of incredulity, but that quickly changed to panic as shop employees were savagely beaten to open their tills, display counters smashed with baseball bats with their contents shoveled into bags and any that the gang encountered were sprayed with pepper spray.

“Two minutes, one minute, thirty. One minute, thirty seconds. Go.”

Working with military-like precession, two of the gang members remained by the main doors through which they entered, one of whom held a stopwatch shouting out to the others what remained of the time each store had been allotted. The other sprayed any shopper or store employee that came near with pepper spray, forcing shoppers toward the back of the shop rather than blocking the entrance and the gang’s means of escape.

Within thirty seconds, they were gone, and on to the next set of targets. Within another thirty, the panicked shoppers who had for the most part kept relatively quiet during the robbery, huddled in the back, now ran for the exit. As they did so, display stands of goods were knocked over, glass cabinets broken, and the shops’ remaining merchandise spread all over the floor.

As the rest followed the initial exodus, some slipped on the glass or fell as their feet became entangled by clothes on the floor, and were then being trampled by others still trying to escape the chaos.

Within five minutes of the start of each robbery, each store was almost deserted. Of those that remained inside most were injured in the flight, some remained to help the injured but most now milled about in the streets, in shock. The buses and taxis that were allowed to drive along this stretch of Oxford Street were soon brought to a standstill, blocking the roads and any immediate possible police response.

This tsunami of destruction rolled along Oxford Street and down Regent Street before turning right along Piccadilly, allowing fresh rioters to enter the fray from the Mayfair direction, where they had initially gathered. As fresh rioters joined in, others left with their spoils moving toward the Strand and the Embankment and to the minibuses that had been laid on to aid their escape.

The entire process had taken this particular crew only ninety minutes from the start of the looting spree in Oxford Street, where they hit a high-end jeweler, the first of many stores robbed that day, to sitting on a minibus. The minibus, driven by the leader, had picked them up on the Mall. They were now nearly over the river and into South London. Home was no more than an hour away.

“Joe, come here; have a look what Simon has.”

“Yeah, that jewelry store we hit first was the best of the lot, thanks Mr. Wayne or whatever it was. You two must have got something good, let’s have a look?”

“No! You keep your hands to yourself.”

“Fucking shut up, you lot, there’s flashing blue lights on the bridge. I ain’t going that way. I’m going straight on, Lambeth Bridge it is boys.”

The driver of the minibus accelerated through the junction and looked left over his shoulder toward the police car stationary on the bridge, and crashed straight into the back of Dandelion’s limo as it slowed to go through St Stevens Gate and into the Houses Of Parliament on his way to sit before the inquiry.

The impact spun the limo. As the back end came around it clipped a man, Charlie Parker, who was just passing St Stevens Gate to access the pedestrian gate a few meters further along. Flinging him through the air to collide with one of the concrete barriers, the car completed a 360, coming to rest a few feet from Charlie. The minibus, now stationary at an acute angle over the two carriageways of St Margaret’s, its bonnet knocked open during the impact and now clouds of steam erupted from under it, hissing as it escaped.

The young men, who a few minutes before were jubilant, already taking stock of their stolen goods and estimating what they would fetch once they got home, now exited the bus like a pack of rabid dogs, on the hunt for whomever they could take vengeance on.

The first six, spotting the driver’s door of the limo open, charged toward it, screaming. They grabbed the driver, dragged him out of the car and knocked him to the ground, raining in kicks and punches. The driver never had a chance. Within two minutes, he was unconscious, and from this he would never regain.

As the six men put in the last of their kicks to the driver’s limp body, the remainder were exiting the bus. Some bleeding from head wounds gained in the crash; they looked about for others to punish. Spying Dandelion in the rear of the limo, they moved toward the right hand side rear door.

Fortunately for Dandelion, the spin the limo took during the collision had pushed both the front and rear against the concrete bollards, blocking off the left hand side passenger door. That forced the men to try to drag Dandelion out of the car to the right and over the vacant rear passenger seat.

Hauling the door open, one of the men dived into the back seat, punching Dandelion in the face as he grabbed his collar to pull him out of the car. Just as a shocked and now panicking Dandelion felt himself being dragged out of the car, the man stopped and jumped back out, hearing his friend’s shouts.

“Police! Run!”

As the man stood up he saw several officers from the Palace of Westminster division of the Met that were trapped by the car at the gates, begin to climb over the back of the limo. Conscious that it is now time to leave, he began to run toward Abingdon St Gardens after his accomplices.

As he came level with the front of the car, he saw Charlie who was trying to make it up onto his knees. Sidestepping left the man attempted to kick Charlie, aiming at his head with all his might. At the last second, Charlie looked up, saw the man coming at him and dived to the right with the man’s lower leg and foot hitting his chest and shoulder.

Instead of Charlie’s head snapping back with the kick and allowing him to keep on running, the impact found him tumbling over Charlie, to collide head first into one of the concrete barriers. That was enough to stun him, but he was soon rising to his feet, alternating between looking at Charlie and at his avenue of escape.

Before he had time to make up his mind whether to kill the old fool or run, he was tackled by three officers and once more knocked to the ground. This time with two large policemen sitting on his back and the third fitting him to handcuffs.

Within minutes, more police arrived, then the ambulances. As the paramedics attended the driver and Charlie, police officers helped Dandelion from the car. Because of the confines of the back of it, even a limo, it is not easy to get a powerful punch in. As a result, although Dandelion’s face was going to swell, there was no real physical damage, but he was certainly in shock.

The unconscious driver was rushed to the hospital, but would never regain consciousness. Apart from several broken bones, he had massive internal injuries and was pronounced dead upon reaching hospital.

Another team of paramedics worked on Charlie. In reality he had been lucky with the car, it had spun from the collision to the rear and had only clipped Charlie’s right calf, removing large chunks of skin but not breaking anything. The impact with the concrete barrier had broken several ribs and severely concussed him, but his worst injury had come from the kick, which had shattered his collar bone. If that had connected with his head as intended, his neck would surely have been broken.

The inevitable media crews arrived very quickly, having already been present in the vicinity as they normally were during the days when something was going down at the palace.

So they were in plenty of time to capture footage of Charlie and the driver being put into ambulances, the arrested man put into the back of a police car, and Dandelion helped through the adjacent gate, as St Stevens was still being blocked by the limo. They took their cameras into the wrecked minibus, revealing most of the stolen goods strewn over the floor. It didn’t take them long to piece the visible facts together and begin broadcasting the story live from outside the Houses of Parliament.

No one was certain, but there seemed to be about a dozen men in the minibus at the time of the accident. All had made their escape before the police officers could get to them with the exception of the man arrested after kicking Charlie. This man would eventually provide limited information to the police, in that his crew had received messages over the Blackberry Messenger service early that morning, directing them to Mayfair and Hyde Park where they would assemble before the riot and looting spree. He told them that they had been given specific targets to hit and had also been supplied with the minibus to make good their escape. Although he didn’t know whom these instructions and arrangements had come from, he did supply the names of four of his companions who would eventually be arrested.

Over the next few days, several more would be arrested, some charged with the murder of the driver and others with a variety of offences. Their identities would come to light after the police appealed for videos taken by the public witnessing the events that day, many of which were appearing on social networking sites, only minutes after each incident.

Officers of the Palace Division had helped Dandelion out of the battered limo, who despite his ordeal and bruised face was keen to get away from the spectacle. Media may have been the backbone of his business empire, but he didn’t like being under the spotlight of it, particularly now as he was being dragged in front of a committee investigating his misdoings. With two officers guiding him, Dandelion was soon through the pedestrian gate into the courtyard in front of the palace. They left him with a paramedic, saying that they would soon return for his statement.

The paramedic examined him and after a minute or two, said:

“You may have a mild concussion; I’d suggest you go to a hospital, so they can have a better look at you and do something for that bruising.”

Dandelion, forever the strategist, decided that he could get mileage from the incident. Firstly, he wanted to get the testimony over with, and secondly, realising that should he say something now which was later contradicted, he could blame the concussion for his mistake.

“I think I will be okay. I really don’t want to be late. I will be fine for now, and perhaps go later.”

Dandelion turned, and before hurrying off, added:

“I know the way; I will be fine. Could you tell the officers I’ve gone to the Chambers? If they return, that is.”

He was gone before the officers could return and delay him further.

The ambulance carrying Charlie arrived at St Thomas hospital some ten minutes after the one carrying the driver, and Charlie was quickly ushered through for treatment.

It was not many minutes later that TV crews began to arrive, although they hadn’t actually witnessed the crash, only the following mayhem. They had pieced a story together of how a long term employee at the palace and former paratrooper Charlie had foiled a murderous attack on Dandelion, receiving severe wounds in the process.

The story, being broadcast live from outside the hospital, went on to describe the hero, Charlie. He was employed as chief engineer at the palace and was on his way into work as the incident unfolded around him. And, how he intervened as men intent on killing Dandelion were dragging him from the car.

They hadn’t actually gotten the facts right, not mentioning that he was first knocked down by Dandelion’s limo, but that didn’t seem to matter. They had a terrific story here and would milk every ounce from it. It wouldn’t be until the next day the whole story would become clear.

Charlie had, in fact, had been the chief engineer at the palace for over 20 years, until two years ago, and was about to retire at the end of next year. He had loved his job keeping everything running there. He knew more about the building than anyone else alive, and because of that he had been kept on to assist and familiarise the new contractors with the vast building.

Up until that point, all maintenance work had been carried out in-house. Then some bright spark within the government had an idea. That, as the palace was an asset to the country, bringing in hundreds of thousands of tourists every year, why not expand on that concept and open up areas within the palace as hirable function rooms, to offset the running costs?

As this was a departure from how the palace had been used and run for hundreds of years, the PM had decided that this service should be independently run. The reason given for this was that the company, who would take on this contract, would pay for the refurbishment themselves, which was estimated at running into millions.

On the surface, this seemed like a sensible suggestion. In reality, it was just another political stunt. The company awarded with the contract expected to make a great deal of money out of it, and just happened to be owned by a businessman who had contributed a large sum of money to the Conservative Party. It was nothing more than the privatization of another economic asset, just as profitable sections of the NHS were being privatised.

Charlie was now little more than a guide to these new contractors, but he did know far more about the building than anyone else. Still, Charlie had a job and was thankful for that, which was more than could be said for the majority that had looked after the building up until that point. Most of them had lost their jobs in the government’s cost-cutting measures and the awarding of these new contracts.

Although Charlie was relegated to a guide and wasn’t particularly friendly with the contractors who tended to keep to themselves, he couldn’t complain about the work that was getting done. It was all of the highest quality, many of the antiquated systems had been upgraded or totally replaced, with each discipline having its own workshops in the cavernous underground bowels of the building.

As these events were being televised around the world, two men sitting in Charles De Gaulle Airport on the outskirts of Paris were paying particular attention. They were immediately responsible for many of the organised elements of the riots, and were extremely happy with most of the results.

The fact that some of the attention surrounded the Palace of Westminster had them a little concerned. Nevertheless, the majority of the news centered upon the riots, particularly those happening in the West End of London, and with that they couldn’t be more pleased.

Chapter4

“No, don’t do that,” came the voice through the fog, and a little later, “No, leave that alone.”

As his senses gradually returned, Adam felt the mask being removed and his drugged stupor gradually subsiding. His first coherent thoughts were how much he hated coming out of a general anesthetic, unable to think clearly, unable to move. He really ought to make sure this was the last time. He has been in this situation far too often for such a fit young man, with the vast majority of the occasions of his own making.

The problem had started early, or at least made itself known early the previous evening. As he walked off the pitch after a two hour training session, the pain was already creeping up his abdomen, which was really nothing unusual. The core sessions he did as part of his daily workout routine in the gym always left him a little, sore as they should. No Pain, No Gain being the gym rats’ universal by-line. On top of that, his brother Dan always managed to get some decent punches into his ribs during their rucks and mauls, so he thought nothing of it.

That evening’s events went on much as usual. After they had showered and removed the mud, it was down to the Barbican. The Barbican, the hub of the entertainment area of Plymouth was always busy during the summer months with its numerous pubs and restaurants along the harbor walls, perhaps too busy for hungry, thirsty rugby players after training. But winter was perfect: plenty of space for something to eat and a couple of beers with the squad.

The brothers had almost been inseparable since Adam’s return to England a few months earlier. Dan had convinced the head coach at Albion that he would recover from his knee injury that had plagued him for the last year far quicker, if Adam was allowed to train with them. Nobody ever said no to Dan; his nickname was Bear, but it wasn’t just the 120 kilos of muscle which was daunting in itself. He had a way of charming everyone around him and always got his own way. Ever since he was a baby, all he had to do was look at you with his big brown eyes and that cheeky grin, to get exactly what he wanted or get away with whatever he had done this time. One look and girls lost their knickers in every country he had played in during his international career as a wing forward for England; at home in Plymouth he was legendary.

Adam hadn’t initially been sure that training with Albion would be a smart idea, but had allowed himself to be talked into it. It wasn’t that he too hadn’t been a very talented rugby player, but he hadn’t played seriously for several years since the boys were at university together. And then it hadn’t been with a Premiership winning team. As a ninety kilo winger, having a pack of forwards topping a thousand kilos running at you was a daunting experience.

The boys, or men as they were by now, were the product of an English father and a Singaporean mother. Nobody was sure where the size came from. Many of the couples’ friends joked that they must have uncommonly large milkmen in Singapore. Their mother was tiny, with classic South-East Asian looks which the boys had inherited; their father a marine biologist, by no means small, had topped out at a fraction under 6 foot. And had been exceptionally fit until the day that bomb took both their lives.

Ironically, it was the terrorist bombings in Bali where they lived until the boys’ early teens that had brought them back to the UK, only for their parents to get on a tube train in London a few years later and run into another suicide bomber.

Dan’s team mates at Albion had heard all about his brother. In fact, he was famous for his exploits throughout the local rugby community, mostly through Dan’s tales. So he was very welcome within the group both on and off the pitch, and constantly harassed for more stories. A particular favorite was one of Jamaica.

Dan had gone to Jamaica to visit Adam, and after a nights’ drinking at Pier One, Adam had suggested they go and score some weed from some friends of his that lived on a beach in a ramshackle hotel beside the airport.

It was situated just outside Montego Bay, on an old road that was no longer used since the building of a new one at the other side of the airport. After being dropped off by a bewildered taxi driver, who had tried to tell them the place was closed, Dan was led along the beach to a series of tented cabanas.

It was a classic Jamaican evening with a light breeze blowing off the sea; the enormous full moon hanging so low in the sky it appeared to touch the water, with the sound of waves gently breaking over the white sand beach. A setting from paradise, with a surprise Dan was not expecting.

As they got closer, they could hear voices and music playing softly. Pulling the billowing curtains aside, Adam ushered Dan through to where he witnessed four stunning girls, three dark skinned and the fourth fair with long blonde hair. The girls, upon seeing Adam, rushed forward to plaster him with kisses.

What Adam hadn’t told his brother was that his friends, these four girls, were the most exclusive escorts in Jamaica. They had bought this place as their private retreat when it had closed down as a place to relax and meet with friends when they weren’t out working. Adam, being a good friend of the girls, regularly visited them after a night’s partying in Montego Bay. He had told them of his brother’s forthcoming visit, prearranging the evening many days before.

Dan could never remember if he was given their names or not. He did remember being led away by two of the girls, the leggy blonde, and a small exquisite dark skinned girl, to a more secluded part of the cabana arrangement, which he realised at some point during the night was made from parachutes.

The brothers spent the rest of the night there, eventually kissing their goodbyes as the sun rose, to head off for an ackee and salt fish breakfast. Of course, nobody ever believed this story; nevertheless it was greatly enjoyed by all the players with frequent requests for retelling by those that hadn’t heard it firsthand.

Part way through the second beer that evening, Adam decided to go home. By then they had the company of several pretty girls, but he wasn’t interested. In fact, he had recently met a girl whom he was very interested in. And his abs were seriously hurting by now, so it really was time to go home. Bidding goodnight to his brother, he got a cab and headed home.

They lived together in a house in Wembury, a couple of miles from Plymouth, which their parents had left them. His dad had built it years before, just outside the village, on the headland overlooking the sea.

So typical of his dad, it wasn’t quite finished, and the brothers had left it that way. Not through being lazy or lack of money, neither of the boys had to work, the IP’s their dad had created left them very well off. But this way, it reminded them of their dad.

The house was a large, modern-looking structure with full height windows on both floors and a terrace on the first floor extending the full width of the house. With its unfinished garages and workshops behind, the house sat alone on the rocky headland with breathtaking views out to sea and across Wembury Bay itself.

As the taxi approached the house, the first signs of the coming storm were in the air. Lightning flickered out to sea. The trees beside the unfinished workshop swayed in the wind, their overgrown branches scraping along the roof.

The weather reflected the general talk that winter, which was gloomy, of a severe cold winter ahead, stock market declines, unemployment, the looming general strike and a triple-dip recession in the air. It was all the news channels talked about at the moment.

Getting out of the cab, Adam walked around to the front of the house, noticing the gravel drive already covered in dead leaves from the early autumn. His mood was dropping. Thinking of his dad, Adam sat on a bench beside the porch, looking out over the leaden grey sea, the crest of the waves flecked in white, illuminated by the lightning as they broke upon the rocky shore. The storm was going to be a big one; rain was coming in at 45 degrees already, and the wind was picking up.