Wise Eyed Open - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Helter Skelter', 'Power Grab' & 'Rust' - books 7, 8, & 9 in the series

Chapter 1

The PM

"They're insane, I tell you," said the PM.

The flight from Rotterdam, two further hours, two whisky sours and a cigar had done nothing for his mood.

"If it wasn't degrading enough, they had the nerve to communicate via bloody TV screens. Couldn't see their faces just crosses, and flowers and other stuff, one of them had bones and a skull, like some bloody pirate."

"Aah, the Skull and Bones," murmured Blackmore, "and was there a rose? If so it was probably depicting Rosicrucianism. These icons are representations of the various societies..."

The PM looked at him: Sir Phillip Blackmore, a baronet, peer of the realm, old money and even older attitudes. Supercilious, aloof and highly intelligent.

"I know all about that, Blackmore, but it was needlessly melodramatic. The whole room was blacked out, like some stupid University initiation thing." He paused then added, the whisky thickening his voice, "You won't believe how they spoke to the President."

"Unfortunately, Prime Minister, blowing the island out of the water was not the agreement and it did not have the desired effect. These people do not forgive and forget."

"What do you know about them, Blackmore?" demanded the PM., "If you've been keeping information from me, so help me...."

Blackmore kept his back to the agitated PM, staring out of the window at the view that sustained him. He was deeply angry, not least at being berated with another man in the room. And Sir Digby Chalfont at that. It was undignified and as such, unforgivable.

Blackmore detested Chalfont, regarded him as a jumped up Johnny, who'd done nothing to deserve the knighthood he had recently acquired.

On top of that, Sir Digby always looked fit and tanned, and irritatingly capable. Blackmore had watched him arrive that morning, wheeling a customised Brompton; one of those ludicrously expensive bikes that fold up for City travel. He'd bent down athletically to pull off his Giro-prolight road shoes and quickly replaced them with navy Church's brogues that had magically appeared from a grey Ortlieb day sack.

When he took off his helmet it was to reveal a full head of dark hair, greying in an interesting way at the temples. He had shrugged out of his white Proviz - Reflect 360 jacket and there he stood, resplendent in a French blue, wool Gieves and Hawke's suit with a stark white, slim-fit Turnbull and Asser shirt, mother of pearl buttons, double cuff complete with navy silk tie. Ready for action and all set to infuriate Blackmore with every word he spoke.

The PM was aware of none of this as he asked acerbically, "So tell me, Blackmore....."

"The New World Order," offered Blackmore, a mere murmur.

"Well, yes, obviously," said the PM testily, "but surely that doesn't allow them to talk like that to the leader of the Western world? What price the rest of us if that's the case?"

"Supreme wealth does appear to enable them to do more or less as they please," said Blackmore, thinking, where have you been you stupid man, but his words were non-judgemental, "I'm rather afraid money is the passport to a better life and the more money you have, the better that life."

Cholmondeley couldn't help the happy thought that even Blackmore's superior breeding would count for little in that august company, then remembered with sour resentment that this breeding was accompanied by hundreds of acres of land in some prime countryside not to mention the Pimlico apartment block, and serious holdings in the Antibes.

He was unable to keep the resentment in check, saying bitterly, "Oh, well, I suppose you'll be alright then."

Blackmore turned to look at the man. He wished once again that he didn't need him, didn't need his easy charm with the public, the fruity voice and elegant frame producing an instant impact, an urbane and charismatic presence that Blackmore lacked.

Women wanted Cholmondeley, most men wanted to be him. Blackmore, not one of those men, was simply saddled with him.

Cholmondeley was whining now, "You weren't there, Blackmore, you didn't hear what Stone said to me."

"Of course, Prime Minister," said Blackmore, tiring of the effort to lift him, "it is undeniable that if these people want you gone then it's just a formality."

There was a small silence, during which time the PM seemed to shrink into himself.

Blackmore clarified, "I meant to say, if that's what they really wanted, then you would be dead already."

"He's right, Prime Minister," said Sir Digby, breaking his self-imposed silence, "you're perfectly safe."

Blackmore's spine stiffened, but his face betrayed nothing of his loathing.

The PM spoke sternly to the younger man, "I hold you responsible, Chalfont. If I go down, I'll take you down with me."

"No need for anyone to go down," said Blackmore, pacifically, "as long as they get what they want."

"Which is what, exactly?" demanded the PM.

"At the moment it appears to be nothing," said Blackmore, "from what you told us, they have their sights set on the US so we can relax for the moment."

"But for how long?" asked Cholmondeley, trying not to whimper but not wholly succeeding, "It's alright for you to say. You're not the one in the firing line."

"He has a point, Sir Phillip," Chalfont said, making an effort at sympathy, and acknowledging his own part in the mismanaged plot. "If they're really after the breakup of the U.S, what does that mean for us? Have they made a deal with the Russians? The Chinese?"

"My god," said the PM, burying his head in his hands, "if they have, we're finished."

Blackmore eased himself into the chair opposite the PM; this was going to be a long conversation and he might as well make himself comfortable.

"We will survive, whatever the circumstances," he said, pushing strength into his voice, needing the PM functioning and resilient. "Even if their plan is the collapse of every major power in the world leaving only wealthy families in place."

He paused, trying for words that would have the ring of truth yet leaving room for hope, "We can work with these families, they will need people like us to help them to retain control. They'll want to run things like the localised regions of monarchs of old."

"You've given this some thought," Cholmondeley said drily, head coming up, surveying Blackmore with grudging respect.

"Who are these families?" asked Chalfont, irritated. He'd not long got his knighthood, dammit, worked bloody hard for it and he wanted to keep it.

The PM was rallying, anger displacing the fear, "Good point, Digby. I'm all for returning wealth and power to the rightful families of the aristocracy, but I'll be damned if I'm going to kowtow to these bastards. A bunch of merchants and bankers for Christ' sake."

"What's your thinking, Blackmore?" asked Chalfont.

Blackmore addressed the PM. "The New World Order is a good thing as far as it goes," he said, his voice a soothing remedy for Cholmondeley's bruised ego, "the question is, how far should it be allowed to go?"

"That's it, Blackmore," said the PM, "we don't want the collapse of the US, we'd be next, mark my words."

"How would they rule?" asked Blackmore, more to himself than to the PM, thinking aloud. Cholmondeley felt almost privileged to witness his mind working. "If they really want the collapse of every major power.... how would they keep things going?"

"With their wealth, I expect," said the PM.

"Can they rule the world without a major power behind them? How can they be certain of maintaining control of those areas?"

"Perhaps they know things won't change," Chalfont tossed in, with a shrug.

"Exactly, Digby," said Blackmore, rounding on him, eyes bright, "and for that to be the case they would have to control all the world's monetary wealth, and all its natural resources and be able to strike anyone, anywhere, with impunity."

"They already own the world's finances," said Chalfont feeling himself to have said something clever.

"And with the collapse of the Middle East they have control of the oil fields," said the PM, not to be outdone.

"So what replaces America's might?" mused Blackmore.

"A new weapon?" offered Cholmondeley, thinking 'I'm the PM I should be running this show', but Blackmore had the better mind; he had no choice.

"Mmm, a new weapon, yes, something the Americans have been working on..."

"But how does that help?" asked Chalfont, "I mean that still leaves them dependent on American muscle which won't exist if America fractures into god knows how many countries...."

"But if one of those countries has a sort of super weapon," mused Blackmore, "then it won't matter..."

"How do we find out?" asked Chalfont.

"I don't think my usual contacts would tell me," said Blackmore, hating to admit it but knowing it to be true, "if this one is to come out, it has to come from the top."

"Stone?"

"Well, you said he wasn't happy having to orchestrate the collapse of the US," said Chalfont.

"Well, yes, but whether that means he'll tell me about their latest secret weapon......"

"You can't speak over the phone, Prime Minister," said Blackmore, "face to face only."

The PM was outraged, "Are our bloody phones encrypted? Are they listening to us now?"

"Who knows what they can do these days," said Blackmore, "they listen, we block, they change tack, we try to block again but who knows if they can hear or could ever hear, all we know is that they're trying to listen in."

"We can't risk it...they'll have to meet," said Chalfont.

"We can't just meet," said the PM, "we need a reason."

Blackmore nodded, "We need an incident."



News


He looked into the camera, dark eyes calm, hair gelled into a black sheen, his manner urbane and assured.

His expensive looking, dark grey suit was moulded to his shoulders, the shirt beneath gleamed white, a match for his perfect teeth, a foil for the olive skin.

In a voice as mellifluous as his manner, he said, "Breaking news from the trial of Simpson v Ballard." He turned his head slightly, expert in his presentation, "This from our outside reporter, Gloria Carnegie who is at the Old Bailey this morning."

The screen filled to show a busy London Street and a wind-blown woman standing on the steps of the ancient building.

She pushed her hair from her face and said, "Indeed, Darbinder, Judge Gideon Price said in his summing up that Mr and Mrs Simpson had shown contemptible prejudice when dealing with Mr and Mr Ballard. He explained that Mr and Mr Ballard had booked a room in the 'Seascape B&B' like any other paying customers and had the right to be treated fairly. Further, that when the Simpsons cancelled their reservation they were breaking a legally binding contract. "

She read from the paper in her hand, "He said that Mr Simpson appeared to be the main culprit, encouraging his wife in her anti 'same-sex marriage' histrionics. The defence claim that homosexuality was against their religious beliefs has been denied as spurious."

She looked up at the camera, saying with grave authority, "It is intended that this case will act as a demonstration to others that this egregious offence will not be tolerated."

She left a slight pause, then came in with the punch line, "Judge Price sentenced Mr Simpson to 10 years and Mrs Simpson to 8 years, to be served in a maximum security prison. Now, back to you, Darbinder, in the studio."



Living it Large



The Mulsanne Speed glided to an effortless halt on the thick gravel.

The investment had been worth the sacrifice and he felt proud to settle her alongside the old money, muddy Land Rovers and the ancient Rolls Silver Cloud. He clocked the orange Ferrari California, incongruously new and bright, with surprise and some envy.

A tall, slim man, late-twenties, over-dressed for the country in his dark navy 3-piece suit. He knew he should have dispensed with the waistcoat, or put the jacket with corduroy trousers. His shoes, Loake brown leather-soled brogues, would have worked either way. However the need to flaunt his money and dress to match the elegance of the Mulsanne had overcome his common sense.

He crunched across the gravel to the pillared entrance, paused to check his watch, ostensibly to note the time but really to make sure the Patek Philippe was still where it should be, and pulled on the bell.

A black-garbed maid with a white frilled cap opened the door immediately as if she'd been waiting behind it to do just that.

A voice boomed out from inside the house, "Come on through, Jim." This was his host, Colonel Sir Maximilian 'call me Max' Ashington Bledley-Smythe, "We're all in here."

Jim preferred James but was not about to remind the Colonel of that fact. For his own part he studiously ignored the affable standing instructions to drop the title. As far as he was concerned, if you had one, military or otherwise, you should be so addressed.

He tweaked his sleeve to ensure the watch could be seen, no point spending £15k on an accessory for it not to be noticed, crossed the entrance hall, ignoring the demoralising impression of a space larger than his entire apartment, and made his way into the drawing room, attracted by the sound of clinking porcelain.

On entering the room, Jacobean, all dark panelling and haughty ancestors looking down their aristocratic noses, he took note of the number of people present in the room, disappointingly less than promised, and quickly calculated the financial worth of the absentees.

His host, a ruddy-faced, thick set man, moved forward and shook his hand. His casual attire, a white and pink cotton check shirt over fawn corduroy trousers, served to make James feel even more over-dressed.

The Colonel then began the introductions, "My wife, Lady Augustine, you've met already."

James nodded to the thin, horsey-faced woman, with unkempt hair, and glanced at the rheumy-eyed dog of indeterminate age and breed at her feet.

He resolved to avoid looking at her again, her faded twin-set and dog-hair embossed tweed skirt screamed old money and rendered him completely gauche.

"And this is my daughter, Wilhelmina."

James was briefly aware of a flash of attraction towards this fresh faced girl, who looked like she'd just dismounted and was ready to go again, then he pulled his attention to the rest of the family as the Colonel continued introductions.



"My parents and cousins, and the others," indicating the 'too numerous to name' assorted family members with an airy wave of his hand, finishing with, "Philly and Co couldn't make it."

Philomena, the Colonel's older sister, headed up a whole other branch of the family, the airily described 'and Co', a host of sundry folk, each of whom carried significant portfolios.

James was more than a little put out; he had spent several weeks working on the entire family's investments.

He had wanted to wrap it all up in one meet. Now he would need to arrange another.

Ashington Bledley-Smythe muttered 'get on with it', and took his seat next to his wife.

James removed several portfolios from his Bottega Veneta briefcase, irritated now by its status symbol newness, and passed them round to what he hoped were the relevant people, struggling to place them all based on the information he'd been given, relying on them to pass them to the right person when he made a mistake.

Thankfully they took it all in good part.

"As you will see," he began, when each person held something on their lap, "there has been substantial growth in the last quarter but from our recent projections this is set to taper off and so a series of adjustments need to be made."

There was a general clearing of throats as family members studied the figures. James knew that this was mostly for show and that their agreement depended on Ashington-Bledley-Smythe; as head of the combined family, once he acquiesced the rest would fall into line.

James spoke as if they all understood what they were looking at, but was careful to explain it at the same time. "You will note a decline in dividend value for all UK companies who have retained factories in mainland Britain. For that reason we have recommended increased investment in the BRIC companies, Brazil, Russia, India and China."

"I say, Jim, are you sure that's the best option?" asked Ashington Bledley-Smythe, "Brazil and India maybe, but bloody hell's bells, surely we don't want to help out the commies?"

James stifled a sigh, "Russian and Chinese markets are good investments. Having said that, most of the companies I've recommended are British and American run."

"Why invest with foreigners at all?" asked Augustine, her voice an irritant to James' ears, high and disdainful, "I think we should focus on our UK investments."

"With respect, Lady Augustine," murmured James, feeling anything but, "British factories simply aren't cost effective anymore."

"They need to pay a decent wage, you mean," said Wilhelmina, with a loud snort, "and provide healthy working conditions."

"Be quiet, Wilhelmina," said her father.

Jim glanced at her, wondering briefly how two such awful people could have produced this gorgeous, strapping girl.

"With all this unrest around, darling," interjected Lady Augustine, addressing her husband, her voice sharp in admonition, "we would do well to take heed of what Wilhelmina's saying. We won't last long if the masses start to look too enviously at what we've got."

A cough and splutter from the large sofa by the fire heralded an interruption from Lord Geoffrey Bledley-Smythe. "Have to take care of the masses, my boy. Give 'em just enough, that's my motto. Always worked for me, what?"

His wife, Lady Lavinia, of the Suffolk Ashington's, nodded energetically, clasping and unclasping her hands in mute support. The rest of the group affected not to have heard his Lordship's interruption.

James looked perplexed. He was trying to help these people, what was the matter with them?

"Let me assure you on that point," he said, "the people working in these factories are perfectly happy to be earning a wage."

"It's alright Jim," said his host, amiably, "the ladies are just blowing off steam, that's all."

"We are not blowing off steam," snapped Wilhelmina, "are we, Mummy?"

Lady Augustine smiled then, acknowledging her husband's look of rebuke, signalled for Wilhelmina to cease.

"Mummy!" Wilhelmina tossed her hair in irritation.

James' mouth went suddenly dry. She was stunning.

"Later dear," said Lady Augustine.

"It looks like you're keeping most of the blue ribbon investments," said Ashington Bledley-Smythe, "but I'm not overly comfortable putting 60% of the portfolio in foreign hands."

"The boys in the backroom have calculated a 20% increase in your returns," said James, confidence re-emerging, "which, if you check out the projections, equals £1.5 billion, approximately."

"20% increase?" questioned Lady Augustine.

She was viewing James with something like respect in her eyes; annoyingly he felt more important as a result.

He spoke again, "Increase, on top of the already projected profits."

"Ooh, super," said Wilhelmina, clasping her hands together, "I can get that flat in Paris now, can't I, Mummy?"

Ashington Bledley-Smythe cut across his wife, "Of course you can, my darling girl," he said beaming at his daughter.

"You spoil her, Smythie," said Lady Augustine, her use of the pet name an indication of her general agreement.

James relaxed; the hard bit was over. But he'd never understand these people.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun