The Lure of the Pack (13 page)

“Various reports are coming in sir. The violence in Paris
has escalated somewhat, the gendarmes are using water cannon to break up what
seem to be clashes between white and ethnic youths. I think it could get worse.
There have been reports of gunshots in Rotterdam, I’m just waiting for more
info on that and over sixty arrests have been confirmed in London. Munich has
had a small amount of trouble, again with youths clashing and…that’s it!”

“Very well, thank you Jean-Paul,” the Commander switched off
the hands free set.

 “Ash, how are you feeling?” asked Jeanette.

“Better, thanks.” Each smiled at the other.

“Right, let’s get moving on a plan to get you into Von Kurst
Electronics Sergeant, that is, if you still want to meet Von Kurst face to
face.” There was a distinct look of foreboding in Charles Mann’s eyes and Piper
had noticed it. “Nick, pull out everything you can regarding this so called cocktail
evening at VKE’s headquarters on Thursday.”

“Yes sir.”

Nick was already leaving his chair as the Colonel continued,
“and don’t forget to run a thorough check on the flight plan for their Learjet.
I want to know every movement that plane makes.”

“Don’t worry Colonel, I’m onto it.”

Nick closed the door behind him as the Colonel turned to Tim
Winters. “Well Sergeant Winters, it’s time you knew the facts behind Sergeant
Piper joining CEATA and then we will discuss your return to Moscow.” Winters
nodded in acceptance as he looked at the clock on the wall.

It was 12.35 p.m.

“I must admit, I didn’t expect so many people to turn up for
this march, the sight below me is truly incredible.” Mathew Walsh was enjoying
every minute of his day as he hovered, just over one thousand metres above the
milling throng of protesters marching down London’s Bayswater Road. “The city
really has come to a standstill, the numbers of marchers now well exceeding
over one hundred and fifty thousand, all voicing their opinions to the British
Government regarding the immigration rules in this country. This is truly an
incredible sight!” Mathew pointed to the right of him, the Sky News cameraman
instantly adjusting his field of view to a scene just off Hyde Park where a
large group of youths were fighting and throwing stones. “As you can see down
below,” he continued, “there are some ugly scenes at the moment, the
Metropolitan police now confirming seventy three arrests, this figure seemingly
increasing by the minute. But right now let’s take you back to the studio,
where Jenny Crossman has several guests voicing their opinions on this March
Against Immigrants. This is Mathew Walsh, in the Sky News Helicopter, over Hyde
Park.”

Jean-Paul switched channels and sighed, a long deep sigh. Not
in sorrow, but in frustration. The BBC’s news channel flickered onto his screen
as a female reporter, this time in Rotterdam, talked quickly into her
microphone. In the background armed police milled around her as the Frenchman
sat back from his desk, with a large mug of coffee. On the screen, the reporter
told of an immigrant youth from Africa running amok with a sub machine gun,
killing four innocent people before he was shot dead by police marksmen.
“Apparently,” she continued, “the police were amazed at the weapon the
assailant used as it seemed to be a replica of a rare World War Two assault
rifle.” Jean Paul nearly choked on his coffee as he sat bolt upright and
reached out for the internal telephone.

It was 1.25 p.m.

“And don’t forget Terry, I want really first class, up front
photographs of Jonathon White when he’s up on the podium, I won’t accept
anything less, okay!”

“Yeah, sure Yvonne, leave it to me, we’ll do you proud,
it’ll be a great front page.”

Yvonne Lang, the Political Editor for the Guardian Newspaper
walked across her office to the large conference table, where nine senior
members of staff sat cheerfully talking to one another. For a Sunday, the
Guardian’s London Office was a relative hive of activity, but this was no
ordinary Sunday, for the British People were speaking as one voice and in
London itself, tensions were beginning to run high. “Schedules everyone, I want
tomorrow’s front page to be a real cracker, with plenty of clout.”

“That’s if I’m happy with the clarity of your lads’
reporting,” said Bob Bartley, the Guardian’s Editor in Chief.

“Come off it Bob, you know the guys will get in the thick of
it, they always do.” Yvonne smiled, a big cheesy grin, which always made her
colleagues smile as well.

“I know Yvonne,” Bob held his hands up in a mock gesture of
surrender, “I’m only joking.” Everyone laughed.

It was 1.30 p.m.

“Gun running, the bastards have been fucking gun running,
that’s what the shipments are for, sell the weapons onto various gangs,
immigrants, drug dealers, whoever…shit!” Ash Piper was angry, so was everyone
in Commander Hertschell’s office.

“We don’t know the full facts behind this report, all we can
do is contact the Dutch authorities to reconfirm what type of weapon the
assailant used.” Commander Hertschell did have a point thought Piper, but this
was once again, far too co-incidental.

“If Von Kurst and Oratz have been importing these weapons to
help start a war, who the hell has been selling them to the gangs?” asked Tim
Winters.

“I would have thought that was quite obvious,” Jeanette
interrupted, “I’ll bet a month’s salary it will be the grenadiers and their so
called, scharfuhrers. Think about it! They make contact with different gangs
from differing nationalities as they roam each city, each town. They probably
have contacts all over the place! It’s easy. Sell the weapons cheaply, then
make drops by unmarked VKE vehicles to each group. Of course, no mention would
be made of selling the weapons to anyone else. So the gangs are armed, ready
for war and ready for just about anything else, drug trafficking, robbery, you
name it! The war Von Kurst wants begins, the gangs join in the violence and
chaos ensues.”

“So Von Kurst and co are actually assisting the immigrants
in killing each other!” “Clever bastards,” Piper muttered.

“You could have a point Jeanette,” said the Commander, “and
if you’re right, these weapons could have been easily distributed over many
weeks, even months. They could be all over the damned place!”

“I’ll contact the Dutch authorities Commander, I’ll have the
info we require within half an hour.”

“Thank you Sergeant Piper. Very well everyone, the Colonel
and I need to quickly finish our meeting with Sergeant Winters, then we’ll move
back to the Communications Room. Give us thirty minutes. Dismissed!”

Ash Piper, Jeanette Descard and Nick Lucas walked briskly
out of the Commander’s office as Jeanette looked tersely at her watch.

It was 1.40 p.m.

“Yes!”

“My Fuhrer, all Scharfuhrers and Grenadiers are in position.
We are ready!”

Otto Von Kurst openly smiled at his reflection in the
bedroom mirror, a reflection that spoke of true cunning and prowess. He turned
around and looked at Helga, who was asleep, “excellent Untersturmfuhrer Kreutz,
give the codeword, it is time for war.”

Jochen Kreutz sat back in his chair in the New Totenkopf’s
Operations Centre, his heart beating excitedly, his eyes seemingly on fire as
he monitored the television screens around him. He had been given strict
instructions to monitor the Marches Against Immigrants and to keep his Fuhrer
up to date with the movements of the Grenadiers and their Scharfuhrers. “Of
course my Fuhrer, I will stay in contact.”

The phone line closed as Von Kurst returned his mobile to
his trouser pocket. He walked calmly, slowly over to his bedroom’s large
television screen and ran the fingers of his right hand over the image of the
marchers in London’s Bayswater Road. He growled softly then spoke, “do you
remember your nightmare lone one? I told you I want revenge…and now, I shall
have it!”

It was 1.49 p.m.

Yvonne Lang spoke hurriedly, giving her thoughts on the
front cover visuals for Monday morning’s Guardian, her arms moving frantically
in gestures of what she was viewing in her vivid imagination “…an eye-catching
show piece photograph of Jonathon White in the centre, headlines at the top,
smaller photographs at the sides giving views of the marchers. I want a
thorough, thought provoking front page, simple as that!” Everyone nodded their
heads in approval.

“Right everyone, let’s have your thoughts on the content of
the articles to be printed,” Bob Bartley turned his head slowly, viewing the
ever eager senior members of his editorial team. “This is an historic
occasion,” he continued, “so let’s make every word count.”

The phone rang suddenly on the side desk, next to the
conference table. Louise Sheard, sitting next to Yvonne, picked it up. “Hello,”
she said, putting one hand over her left ear, “HEY EVERYONE, I’M TRYING TO TALK
HERE!” The Guardian staff lowered their excited tones as Louise continued,
“yes…for Yvonne, hold on. Yvonne, it’s for you!”

“Oh, who is it?”

“I don’t know, it’s a man needing to speak to you, he says
it’s important, something to do with the March Against Immigrants.”

With a slight sigh of irritation, Yvonne wheeled her high
backed chair to the left and took the handset. “Yvonne Lang speaking, can I
help you?” Just for a second or two there was no reply, “hello, can I help
you?”

The voice was deep and conceivably threatening, “you mock
the immigrants and their religions. You mock all of us!”

An accent she thought, yes…possibly middle-eastern. Yvonne
Lang suddenly felt very cold.

“How dare the white peoples of Europe defile our name and
our religions, HOW DARE THEY!”

“Look, if this is some sort of sick joke, then it isn’t funny!”
The office fell silent as all around the conference table began sensing the
fear in their colleague’s voice.

The menacing intonation continued, “first you invade Iraq,
you kill thousands of innocent people, then you dare to insult ordinary people who
struggle for a living. THIS IS A MOCKERY!”

“WHO THE HELL IS THIS?”

“I speak on behalf of the European Muslim Freedom Fighters.
The time has come to destroy the wretched pestilence of Christian supremacy, to
smother the white people of Europe and to slowly slit their throats…”

“WHO IS THIS?”

“…to make you all choke on your own blood,” the frightening
voice continued, “so heed my warning, AND PREPARE FOR WAR!”

As the line closed, Yvonne looked around at her colleagues.
“Oh my god,” she whispered.

It was 1.55 p.m.

“He’s a smug little bastard isn’t he?” Metropolitan Police
Constable Richard Willsby looked around at his colleague, Woman Police
Constable Tracey Clarke. He smiled, “who’d have thought that pompous, over
righteous twerp would have brought so many of the British people together in
one march. It’ll certainly be interesting to hear his speech in the park.”

“I didn’t expect so many people to turn up, tensions are
running high.” Tracey looked around at the mass of people gathered on the
Bayswater Road, many of them unhappy looking ethnics watching the marchers, the
ever-present music, shouting and loud horns adding to Tracey’s consternation.
Worriedly, she noticed Jonathon White being interviewed again as he slowly
continued walking on. He had a big smile on his face. No wonder she thought,
the BNP have never had so much support. Tracey was nervous, her stomach
churning slightly at the thoughts of the recent wave of bombings by the
European Muslim Freedom Fighters. Things just haven’t been the same since those
dreadful attacks she thought, there was far too much racial tension, far too
many revenge attacks on innocent people.

“Here they come! ALRIGHT EVERYONE STAND BACK PLEASE, STAND
BACK!” PC Willsby and his colleagues stood by the now jeering crowds. It had
been the same all over the route for the march, jeering and taunting, the
feeling of hate growing by the hour. But the marchers themselves didn’t care,
for there were thousands of them. “YES, OKAY, PLEASE EVERYONE…JESUS BLOODY
CHRIST…”

The explosion came from a cafe, blowing fragments of glass,
brick, bone and blood into the crowds. There were screams, terrible
heart-rending screams. Then came the second explosion! Further down the
Bayswater Road, very loud, a considerable size.

“GET DOWN!” shouted PC Willsby, “EVERYONE, GET DOWN!” The
crowds panicked, confusion reigning supreme as people of many nationalities,
young and old alike ran for cover. The detonations were accurate, catching the
marchers and their audience completely by surprise.

Dear God, thought WPC Clarke, PLEASE GOD, NO!

“OH SHIT!” Nick Lucas sat open mouthed by his computer.

“THE BASTARDS!” shouted Piper.

“I WANT REPORTS FROM ALL LOCATIONS, IF THERE’S A DETONATION,
I WANT TO KNOW ABOUT IT!” Commander Hertschell ran back to his office, closely
followed by Colonel Mann.

“It’s started,” Jeanette Descard turned quickly to Piper and
Winters, “the war Von Kurst wants, and you know what will happen next?”

“Oh yes,” muttered Piper, “I know what’s coming next.
Further sporadic detonations, all spread throughout the grenadier’s target
zones, and then…”

Piper didn’t finish his sentence. Tim Winters did it for
him, “…retribution and conflict.”

“Oh no, look at this, all the marches have been hit, JUST
LOOK AT THIS!” Horrifying images were appearing on various CEATA monitors as
Jean-Paul openly shook his head in dismay.

 “God help us,” said Winters.

“We need more than God,” replied Piper, his face seething
with anger.

“Let Europe ignite!” Otto Von Kurst laughed aloud at the
image of carnage on his television screen. He was pleased, very pleased indeed.
Phase Four of Project Amen had commenced. As he leaned over Helga Zeist, he
smiled and kissed her voraciously. She returned the gesture, passionately,
their bodies embracing once again in wild celebration of the brutal destruction
that was about to engulf Europe.