The Silent Majority

By John C De Groot

Three former leaders of some of the greatest nations on earth agree to form 'The Silent Majority' to right the wrongs they were unable to while they were in power.

Edward Carfax the narcissistic Chief Executive of a private bank launders money for criminal gangs and terrorists and is blackmailing both the Black Rose a hired assassin, and Peter Bench a former Prime Minister and member of The Silent Majoriry who is also secretly using the resources of The Silent Majority for a personal vendetta.

 

James Stanhope a hired assassin with a conscience, is thrown unsuspectingly into this fast-moving thriller when Peter Bench hires him to recover the incriminating evidence held by Carfax.

 

Special Branch are on the trail of The Silent Majority with three assassinations on their patch. And MI6 are looking for Pendragon a Russian spy active during Peter Bench's term of office.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John C De Groot
• Release date: Jan 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215862124

John C De Groot

Albert Einstein said that ‘it is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge’. That was certainly the case with my high school history teacher, who brought history alive and started my fascination in Ancient and Early Modern history. There are countless mysteries that still remain unsolved and I have a real suspicion that we have lost or forgotten more knowledge than we have ever gained. After a career in business, business support and as a trainer for Dale Carnegie, I did some consulting. It was a client who once said to me that ‘I was a useful man to have around’, based to some degree on my ability with the written word. When retirement loomed his words, my interest in history and a very patient and supportive wife encouraged me to ‘put pen to paper’ and with heart in hand resulted in my first book ‘The Quest for Eternal Life', the first in the ‘Last Librarian’ Series. That was several books ago in a growing portfolio.

Book preview

Introduction

The anticipation of having the power to change things, no matter one’s beliefs or politics, is a wonderful thing. For the majority of those having been elected to lead their country, their ambitions to some greater or lesser degree, revolve around making changes. Whether they are promised or planned we would hope they would bring justice, equality, fairness, openness, the lifting of oppression and improving the lot of the majority.

Once in office the realisation for those well-intentioned folk will often be very different from their anticipation.

Politics, self-interest, existing laws, officialdom, existing governmental structures and processes place often insurmountable barriers to change as people fight to retain the status quo. After all, change is painful. These barriers exist, even in the face of the will of the majority, whether they voted or not.

The cumulative effect on the leader will often be anger and frustration.

When their term of office is at an end they have choices. Retire peacefully accepting the accolades or condemnation of history, return to the humdrum of politics, charitable work or a commercial Board position with its immoral salary. Or for a few, taking action to achieve the results that were not possible when in office.

The members of ‘The Silent Majority’ chose to do the latter, in secret.

The challenge with secrets is that they always get out, sooner or later.

PART ONE – THE SILENT MAJORITY

Chapter One – Target Down

In the magnified image the man, who was over six feet tall, looked much shorter from this angle. He was very smart in his dark blue Armani suit and crisp white shirt open at the neck. The shirt showed off his tan earned on the deck of his yacht moored in the harbour at Monaco. Dark hair oiled and brushed straight back from his forehead. Even on this dull November morning, sunglasses were the order of the day. Brown lace-up shoes that were hand-made from a personal last kept with his name on it at a specialist and very exclusive shoemaker in London.

‘Never wear brown shoes with a blue suit’, thought the man looking at the magnified image, but the shoes went out of sight as the man approached the parked black Mercedes Benz limousine from the hotel entrance followed by two dark suited men also wearing sunglasses.

It was as if everything happened in slow motion. A gentle squeeze of the trigger, a recoil from the rifle, a hole appearing in the man’s forehead just above the bridge of the sunglasses. In the magnified image the 7.65mm steel jacketed bullet went straight through the man’s head. He seemed to be momentarily suspended before collapsing backwards onto the red carpeted hotel steps. The dark suited men reacted. One went to the fallen man and the other dropped to one knee drew a handgun and scanned the surrounding area.

‘Tut, tut, and there are the brown shoes’, he thought as one dark suited man dragged the fallen man back toward the hotel, the dead man’s heels bumping lifelessly up the steps. Taking a last look at the magnified image through the telescopic sight, the shooter carefully laid the Dragunov rifle beside the parapet, which moments before had supported the barrel. Removing the cotton cloth that had been under the barrel to catch any residue, he put the gun under a tarpaulin at his feet alongside a small pile of building tools, where he’d hidden it the night before.

Picking up his shovel and dragging a wide floor broom behind him to mask any footprints, he casually walked away into the bustling multi-storey building site where a pile-driver was rhythmically thumping away. The loud rhythmical thumping sound of a pile driver had been a useful way to hide the sound of the shot. He’d timed it perfectly.

It was only a matter of minutes before police cars and ambulances filled the street, their sirens and flashing lights bringing chaos to the quiet street. The noise attracted the site workers who streamed to the edge of the various unfinished floors of the building to see what was happening. Unknowingly, some rushed to the parapet from where the shot had been fired. Some even kicked the tarpaulin covering the gun. They did a perfect job of destroying any forensic evidence on the ground.

Later that morning the police found the gun. They interviewed everyone on the building site including the shooter, but made no arrests.

The shooter returned home that afternoon when the police closed the site down for their forensic teams to do their work.

Chapter Two – Scott Free

You’re home early. Lost your job again! the shrill voice of the shooters wife greeted him as he opened the front door of their small flat in Islington.

There was a shooting and they closed the site down, he responded.

That’s a likely bloody story, you’re just a lazy bastard.

The shooter turned on the TV and found the BBC news channel.

Come and have a look for yourself, he said angrily. He turned up the sound.

‘Good afternoon, there is breaking news in London this afternoon as the Metropolitan Police were called to a shooting outside the Plaza Hotel in central London. It has not yet been confirmed, but it is believed that one man was shot and killed as he left the hotel. He was taken away in an ambulance to the Wayside hospital from where our correspondent Anne Simmonds reports ..... ‘

See, what did I tell you. That was right opposite our building site.

Yeah, well I’m goin’ out. the front door slammed behind her a few seconds later.

Maybe I should have shot you instead; stupid bitch! he called after her, knowing she wouldn’t be able to hear. He turned back to the TV where an outside broadcast was in flow at the hospital and, in an overcoat and scarf, Anne Simmonds was braving the cold wind.

‘.... at around ten thirty this morning the shooting victim from outside the Plaza Hotel was brought here to the Wayside hospital. We have just received a joint announcement from the hospital and the police confirming that the victim was Jean Claude de Vere, the Chief Operating Officer of de Vere’s Finance House. De Vere’s collapsed earlier this month causing countless investors to lose their life savings. He was confirmed as dead-on-arrival from a single gunshot wound suffered at the scene.’

He switched off the TV and made a call from a disposable mobile phone. The number rang and was answered immediately. He said nothing and listened. An electronically generated voice said, Well done. Your money has been deposited in the bank accounts you designated. The call was terminated.

The shooter smiled to himself, put on his heavy parka jacket that he used to go to work and left the flat carrying a small backpack. Around the corner a café with steamed up window, offered good strong tea and a small bank of PC’s with internet access.

He checked the three accounts he’d provided details of and, sure enough, the money he’d been promised was there. After leaving the café he turned into a deserted alley where he lifted a sewer cover and dropped the disposable phone into the void. It was only a second before the splash and it joined the several hundred ruined mobile phones that end up in London’s sewers every year

Taking a taxi to Heathrow airport he bought a last-minute ticket for a flight to Istanbul. He wasn’t going to return to the flat in Islington, or his wife, ever.

As he waited for his departure gate to show on the electronic notice board, he checked again through his bag. With the money from the hit, he could now buy clothes, or almost anything else he wanted, but in addition to his passport, there were some personal things that he would not leave behind. He unzipped a small pocket inside the bag and took out two metal badges. They were small enough to fit into the palm of one of his large, work worn hands. Both the beret badge and the cap badge bore the words ‘who dares wins’. With a wistful smile, he zipped the SAS badges back into their pocket.

Chapter Three – Peter Bench

A slight, bald man with a high furrowed brow, sat alone in the luxurious oak panelled study of his home, on a large private estate in the Cotswold's. The gold buttoned navy blue double breasted blazer, crisp white shirt and club tie aptly suited to the surroundings. He reached towards a small box on his desk and disconnected the voice changer device he’d used for the call with the shooter. Using a secure code, he opened a spreadsheet on his PC from a remote data centre.

Running his eye down a list of people’s names he stopped at the entry for Jean Claude de Vere, whose name was highlighted in yellow. He changed the highlight to red, corresponding to an index at the top of the page indicating that red equalled terminated. He didn’t smile, or react in any way to the termination. He did notice that a couple of other names had been changed to red since he last accessed the file.

A dialogue box asked if he wanted to save the changes to the spreadsheet. He clicked on Yes, closed the spreadsheet, turned off the computer and screen and sat back in his chair. Only now did he allow his thin colourless lips to curl into a bitter smile. The smile didn’t reach his pale grey hooded eyes, as they continued to stare at the blank screen, but he allowed a long sigh of satisfaction to issue from the dilated nostrils of his hawkish nose. This, with high cheekbones and hollow cheeks, completed a cadaverous appearance.

He removed his rimless glasses and tossed them onto the blotter, massaged his forehead briefly as if to shake off some unwelcome thoughts, and rang for tea.

It was only when he pushed himself away from the desk that it became obvious he was wheelchair bound and an amputee, the empty legs of his grey flannel trousers folded neatly under his torso. He was strapped into the chair to give him leverage.

As he wheeled himself through the tall double mahogany doors of the study into the morning room, he passed an elegant glass cabinet with a number of objects and certificates inside. He didn’t glance at it, but another observer may have been surprised to see a Victoria Cross medal in a velvet lined case amongst a collection of lesser awards and commendations for long service and recognition. Above them, in a plain silver frame, his appointment letter from Queen Elizabeth II to the position of her Prime Minister. It was dated June 2010.

Peter, there you are, tea has just arrived! The greeting came from a tall impeccably presented woman. Nothing was out of place from her short dark auburn hair to her Jimmy Choo’s. She could have stepped straight from the page of a top fashion magazine. At forty-nine, she looked ten years younger, whereas her husband at fifty-five looked ten years older.

Excellent. Thank you, Sylvia. Bench’s public school baritone voice was strong and measured, at odds with his stature. Something he’d used to his advantage during his political career, capturing sometimes surprised audiences with his passionate vocal delivery which, at that stage when he was fully able-bodied, was matched with animated body language.

So, what have you been doing? she asked as she poured tea from a silver teapot into white china cups.

Oh, this and that, he answered vaguely.

Now Peter, that’s not like you. You’ve seemed a little pre-occupied lately. The care for her husband was evident in the tone of her cultured voice.

You don’t need to worry darling. I am playing my weekly game of squash, using the sport chair we received recently. Victor takes me out on the perimeter road every morning. And don’t forget, I am preparing for the meeting of the Organisation of Former Heads of State next week. All of these and the many other meetings I have, are in my diary as you know and which you keep so well. You have always been very good at keeping things organised for me and acting as my personal assistant since I left office.

Which reminds me, Peter she interjected, you have a meeting here at four this afternoon with Colonel Jeffreys from GCHQ. I think he wants to pick your brains about something. Oh, and I’ve packed your bag for your meeting in London with your old regiment.

Thank you darling. He looked thoughtful. You know the doctors say I am making good progress since my last operation, and can think about travelling more, which means I can become even more useful to others.

You will make sure you take Victor with you, won’t you? I do find him a little remote, you know, she said frowning slightly. It’s a shame you couldn’t have chosen a security officer who was a little friendlier.

He’s good at his job Sylvia, and we get on just fine. You can be confident that nothing untoward will happen. He was a well-respected SAS Colonel for a number of years.

Yes, I suppose so, she said, as she returned her empty cup to the tray and stood, smoothing down the front of her skirt. Well, I’m off to see Helen. I promised we’d go into Cheltenham this afternoon. She kissed him lightly on the forehead. He could smell her perfume, it was sweet, yet musky.

Ex-Prime Minister Peter Bench watched her shapely figure as she strode purposefully from the room. He regretted that since losing his legs their physical love making had stopped. He was sure that after nearly thirty years of marriage she still loved and cared for him, but his physical disability now added to the distance between them.

He compressed his lips, remembering the early days of their marriage when they were so close and had shared everything, and to some degree they still did. It had been one of the most important foundations of their relationship. Ever the social climber, Sylvia was highly intelligent and excelled at cultivating relationships with the ‘right’ people; many of whom had oiled the wheels of his progress, either through contacts or money.

‘Well,’ he thought, ‘she lacked for nothing material now. If only that was all that mattered in this life’.

His mind turned, as it often did when it was not fully occupied on other things, to that day six years ago. As the emotions welled up inside him, he clamped his teeth together tightly, the muscles of his jaw writhing in his face like small serpents. The blood suffused his cheeks turning his normally pale pallor an angry mottled red. His hands, now strong from pushing the wheels of his chair, gripped the armrests, the knuckles turning white.

Involuntarily he shut his eyes tightly and ducked his head as, in his mind’s eye he heard the explosion again and the absolute silence that followed. There was always that piece of paper, ‘Top Secret’ stamped in red capital letters that floated down through the haze in the silence, to within an inch of his nose, his cheek against the soft texture of the wool carpet. He’d been unable to touch it, his hands, in fact all of him, unable to move. He’d simply stared at that stupid piece of paper until he’d passed out the first time.

In the silence, as he'd surfaced into searingly painful consciousness, there’d been a sudden burst of sunshine as the fire fighters levered away the roof of the car with their jaws-of-life. Faces peering at him. Serious, focused, concerned faces of the professional response team. He could see them talking, but couldn’t hear them. He’d passed out for the second time. It had been three days, they’d said, before he regained consciousness again.

Bench was dragged back to the present by the crunch of gravel in the driveway as Sylvia accelerated the Range Rover away from the garages and down the driveway. He was holding the teacup, midway between the saucer and his mouth.

Now firmly back in the present, he drank the last of the tea and, as he looked up, a solidly built man appeared in the doorway from the front hallway. His military haircut and bearing marked him as the man called Victor.

Ah, Victor. Mrs Bench has gone out. Who do you think it is this afternoon eh? The artist fellow in the village, or whatshisname in Cheltenham? he smiled, but without humour.

David Cheney.

Yes, that’s his name.

I think the former Sir. Mrs Bench has to be back for her charity meeting at five and the village is much closer than Cheltenham. Victor’s voice was deep and measured and lacked neither humour nor criticism.

I think you’re right. Well, she has been discreet up to now.

Chapter Four – Special Branch

Two days later the Dragunov rifle, that had been used to kill Jean Claude de Vere, lay on Chief Inspector Alan Peel’s desk. His tall thin, loose limbed frame towered over it as he leaned on the desk with both hands. His deep set grey, intelligent eyes seemed to be targeted down his long narrow nose at the rifle.

He looked up and his gaze took in the members of the Special Branch team allocated to the shooting case, who were now gathered around the desk. Peel’s voice was serious and commanding.

This is the second Dragunov rifle that has found its way onto my desk in the past three months, he picked up the rifle and hefted it in both hands. And this is the second time that a Dragunov has been used in an execution in London, and again forensics have found nothing that has helped us identify the shooter. Now three of you have only just joined us, so you need to play catch-up fast. DI’s Stephens and myself have been in on the first shooting since November. What we have so far is in the files. Read them!

Peel looked across at a short young man with a shaved head, lazy eyes and a haughty expression, casually dressed in faded and worn blue jeans and a grey sweatshirt with a silhouette image of Che Guevara on the front. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

Sean, you are the communications and research expert, that right?

Yes Chief, Sean’s voice was pure Queen’s English, a product of an upper-class family and an education at Eton College, and was at odds with his appearance.

Check the files and then expand the search to see if there have been any other hits like this anywhere else, OK? Sean nodded.

Next to Sean stood one of the largest men that Peel had met on the force. He was six four and twenty stone and built like a brick wall. Crew-cut blond hair, over a pear-shaped face, sparkling hazel eyes that hinted at mischievousness, as did the permanent slight smile over a cleft chin. Rugged rather than handsome, Peel thought to himself, and he’d be a good man to have on your side in a fight.

Sergeant Jenkins.

Sir! came the immediate and crisp response, a little to Peel’s surprise.

You’re the armaments specialist, ex Para’s MP. Peel posed this as a statement rather than a question. "We’ve had a challenge trying to identify where these rifles