The Enigma Source

There was no shortage of desperate people having an anxiety attack concerning their funds. No one wanted to wait patiently in line for their money. The pushing and shoving continued to escalate within the line but did not quite reach the head of the line. Police were there to try and keep order, but most of them ended up joining the human tidal wave of desperation. This was just one frightened mob in one location in this small struggling country oppressed by debt. Some of the other banks in this small country had wisely refused to open until communication avenues with the panic stricken improved.

In this former thriving city, the military, which was really only a volunteer militia, was called out to assist when martial law was declared. Its lack of success in controlling the crowds added to the chaos. Comprised primarily of weekend warriors, the militia had never been trained to be a true peacekeeping force. Friends and family begged and cried to them for personal support efforts, and the militia members’ subsequently weakened resolve was like accelerant on the crazed population. The police began to exit once they received their funds, leaving only the privately hired mercenaries, politely called internal security, to protect the banking institutions.

Here inside the country’s central bank, Mathias wondered how long he and his directors would be safe behind the internal security force and bulletproof glass. The images from the outside cameras convinced him that trying to go out to his favorite restaurant for lunch would be insanely unwise. It occurred to him that if this mob scene couldn’t be brought under control, he and the other directors would be trapped here. He began to feel queasy at the thought of surviving on vending machine food until the mob was contained and under control, which might take days.

Mathias had a way of working with any group due to his ability to appear like those around him. He could be imposing if he rose to his nearly two meters and 90 kilograms, with his broad shoulders, squared facial structure and dark well-groomed hair. His suits were custom made in Hong Kong of the finest materials, which suited the part he was playing in this scenario. This experiment had failed! Not because the technology didn’t work, but because people believed they were being swindled out of their money. What Mathias and the other directors had failed to realize was that, in order for the regular population to make ends meet, they had to operate in or with the underground economy. To function in the underground economy, cynically called the EU, one needed hard currency for conducting business, which was highly mobile even if it was fiat money. Yes, several European governments had declared fiat money to be legal tender, but historically, money was backed by physical commodities such as gold and silver. They lacked understanding of the continual devaluation as those resources dwindled.

The sales pitch by Mathias, captured the ear of the authorities with his British accent, suggested that by shifting everything to digital currency, the government could put an end to the EU. Then they would finally get the tax revenue they’d been missing. The powers-that-be had completely missed the fact that the loss of mobile hard currency would simply drive the entire population, heavily dependent upon the EU, into a subterranean-subsistence level of poverty. The governments involved in this joint experiment had made the easily missed classical mistake of pushing the population into a position where they now had nothing left to lose. Now with the poorly trained but armed militia joining the frightened mob, and no police willing to defend the new world order, things could not have been blacker for the digital currency plan.

One of the larger well-fed directors meekly asked, “Did the specialty donuts get delivered this morning? Can you ask the private security persons if they are on their way up?”

At that same moment, gunfire cracked several corners of vertical glass panes in the directors’ meeting room. The eminent threat of the fractured glass walls was immediately on the minds of the directors at the table.

Alois Dutch, who was always addressed as Dutch, entered through the lavatory door adjacent to the boardroom. He was imposing in his loose suit which obviously concealed his holstered handgun. His gravelly voice barked, “The donuts are here, but the coffee is still brewing! Who wants to wait, and who wants to go? The chopper is on the roof, but there is only room for three!”

Mathias frowned and retrieved his own personal 9mm semi-automatic. He promptly made the selecting votes. All the frightened directors stared in shocked disbelief as Mathias shot them all in rapid succession. After one shot each to the head, Mathias turned to Dutch and calmly stated, “We now have room for the donuts, but let’s pick up coffee along the way. I would like to have room for the cream and sugar to be added.”

As a seasoned mercenary, Dutch wasn’t surprised at the efficiency of the meeting’s abrupt ending, so he responded, “Good by me. I’ve always thought the coffee here isn’t strong enough for my tastes.” Dutch was about the same size as Mathias, but with the blue eyes and blond hair which echoed his German heritage. The lines of his face, permanently turned down mouth and haphazard scars spoke to his uncompromised lifestyle filled with brutality.