The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1)

by Norrie Sinclair

  “What do you want?” said Augustus, failing to disguise the tremor in his voice.

  “Beirsdorf Klein is currently finalizing a large corporate finance project in Poland, close to Katowice in the south of the country. The parent company is Hungarian, a textile company, one of the largest private companies in Eastern Europe.”

  “Vass Textile Holdings. They’re building one of the most extensive textile production facilities in Europe. We’re leading a syndicate to provide a loan of just over two hundred million euros,” Augustus said. “What of it?”

  “I want you to pull the financing deal. I want them knocked out cold,” the man said.

  “Should we choose to walk away at this stage, no other finance house will touch them. They’ll become tainted goods overnight. Vass will have to file for bankruptcy as they’ve been financing the project through a temporary loan facility until the syndication was complete. The factory’s half finished. Their suppliers will tear them to pieces!”

  For the first time during the meeting, Augustus observed what appeared to be a genuine smile flicker across the other man’s face.

  “We’ll get sued,” was Augustus’s closing comment.

  “That’s your problem,” said the man, “but what you need to decide is do you want to piss off a client and fend off a lawsuit that will cost you personally very little, or would you rather spend the rest of your pitiful life in the pedophile wing of a maximum security prison. Wondering when you’ll find powdered glass in your Cornflakes, or a razor blade embedded in your soap?”

  The man, Augustus subsequently found out, was Jay Rivello, and when he’d put it like that, Augustus knew that he didn’t really have much choice.

  Chapter 9

  Today was undoubtedly the most important in Elisabeth Kennedy’s life. She applied a thin line of lipstick. A dab of blusher on each cheek and she was all set. The driver opened the door. She lifted her black, leather briefcase from the seat beside her and climbed from the limousine.

  “Thank you, Joe. You’ll be here when I return?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Kennedy, I ain’t going nowhere,” he replied.

  Elisabeth was fifty-seven years old. For a woman, she was tall at five-ten. An athletic build, not thin, but certainly not overweight. Bright blue piercing eyes were framed by attractive, although sometimes severe looking features that were amplified by the positioning of her long, fair hair in a tight bun. In Elisabeth’s position, it did not do to appear to be too feminine. The navy blue trouser suit and black Ballet court shoes completed the no-nonsense look that she had perfected over her thirty-five-year career.

  Stepping through the rear entrance of the White House was significantly less glamorous than strolling along the gradual sweeping path through the gardens on the other side of the building. As the security detail handed back her ID and Elisabeth emerged from the body scanner, the only thought passing through her mind was what she could possibly say to President Ian Gilmore.

  “Mrs. Kennedy, a great pleasure to see you again,” Juan Gonzalez, special assistant to the president, greeted her warmly, firmly shaking her hand. This time she did not flinch as she noted the rounded stump of his missing index finger. Juan and Elisabeth had met previously at an interdepartmental conference and his souvenir from Iraq had taken her by surprise.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Juan. Please feel free to lead the way,” Elisabeth stated, inwardly nervous at the meeting that lie ahead. Just because people believe you to be constantly composed and in control doesn’t mean you can’t be shaking like a leaf inside, she thought, noting a twinge of self-rapprochement at her schoolgirl nervousness.

  She followed Juan up the stairs to the first floor of the West Wing and was led to what Juan called the Treaty Room.

  “I’ll inform the president that you’re here. He has a tight schedule today, so please don’t be disappointed if the meeting lasts for no longer than thirty minutes.”

  “I am sure the president is a very busy man, Juan, but thank you for letting me know,” she replied.

  When Juan reappeared five minutes later, he smiled and beckoned to her with a nod of his head announcing her presence to President Ian Gilmore as she stepped across the threshold of the most famous room in the world.

  The president, tall, mid-sixties, yet with a full head of salt and pepper hair, sat in a straight-backed leather armchair facing the door. He stood as she entered the room.

  “Mrs. Kennedy, thank you for making the time. Join me,” the president offered as he gestured to the couch positioned at right angles to his own chair.

  They shook hands as he continued. “I’m surprised that we haven’t bumped into each other before, although I’m certainly familiar with your appearances on television,” he said with a faint smile on his face.

  Elisabeth wasn’t sure if this comment was back-handed criticism, genuine appreciation or merely an attempt at small talk.

  “Mr. President, it’s a great honor to meet you, please call me Elisabeth.” She lowered herself onto the couch, sinking into it.

  Although tall, she felt a full head smaller than the president and therefore slightly uncomfortable. She assumed that this was the purpose of the seating arrangement.

  “As Juan I’m sure told you, I have a busy schedule, so let’s get down to business. Bill Oakley’s due to finish his fourteen-year mandate as chairman of the Fed in July this year.” Elisabeth nodded. “While it’s possible for the chairman to have his term extended, Bill’s won’t be.”

  “I don’t fully understand,” said Elisabeth, “Bill’s one of the most successful Fed chairmen we’ve ever had.”

  “To a point. But he’s at least partly responsible for the fact that we may be about to enter the worst recession we’ve had since the Great Depression.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but, with all due respect, I have absolutely no idea why I’m sitting here.”

  Ian Gilmore leant in towards her, looking intently into her eyes.

  “I want you to be the next Fed chairman, Elisabeth. I have no doubt that your nomination will receive full Senate ratification. I need to know if you want the job.”

  It had been a long, long time since anyone had said something to Elisabeth that had left her completely speechless. It occurred to her that it had probably been when her husband had calmly told her that he had terminal cancer. She hoped that the shock that she felt was not visible and momentarily wished that she had applied more blusher to her cheeks in the back of the limo.

  To her great relief, the president broke the silence.

  “Before you say anything, please let me continue. You’re here because I have no doubt in my mind that I will spend the rest of my first term as president working very closely with the next Fed chairman. As I said, Elisabeth, it’s very likely that this person will be you. I need to know that we’ll be able to work together. You’re top of the list. Over the last eight years as his deputy, you have acted as a foil to some of his more, shall we say, ‘laissez faire’ tendencies. You appear to be a fan of curbing the market’s wilder impulses. If we don’t shore up the banks, we’ll be picking up the pieces for a long time to come.” The president nodded in Elisabeth’s direction.

  “I agree, Mr. President, of course. We need to recapitalize the banks before it’s too late. It may push us into recession, but if we continue to procrastinate in the vain hope that the markets will correct themselves, I hate to think of what might happen. What I’m trying to say, Mr. President, is that if you provide me with the tools, I’ll do all I can to fix the problem.”

  “I’ll make sure you get whatever you need. Your decision fills me with great confidence. There’s one final hurdle you’ll need to overcome before your appointment can be confirmed.”

  “And that would be …?” Elisabeth arched her eyebrows.

  “You’ve heard of the Bilderberg Group?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, “but I’ve never had any form of interaction with them. Although I’ve
wondered now and again to what degree the rumors were true.”

  “I’ll leave that up to you to decide when you meet them. Bilderberg doesn’t have as much power as some of the conspiracy theorists would have you believe. However, it does have considerable influence. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  Despite her awareness of the Group’s existence and some of the tales she had heard regarding its membership and powerbase, she was surprised to be having this discussion with the president.

  “You’ll be contacted by one of their membership in the next few days. His name is Augustus Goodfriend. He’ll invite you to be keynote speaker at the next Bilderberg Group annual conference. September fifth, the Kulm Hotel in Saint Moritz. You should be there.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, I’ll make appropriate arrangements.”

  “Thank you, Elisabeth. Once again,” the president said as he rose to a standing position, “it’s been a great pleasure to meet you. I look forward to seeing a lot more of you in the future.” This last as he accompanied her to the door and, with a relaxed smile, bade her farewell.

  Chapter 10

  No matter how much iron he pumped, no matter how well defined his pecs werewhen he looked in the mirror,which was admittedly a lot, Gregor McAllister could never shake the feeling of impending doom whenever he entered a large empty building. It didn’t even need to be that large. When he was a kid, although the oldest of three siblings, he was always the one who insisted to the point of hysterics on having the light kept on in the bedroom at night. He suspected that it was some kind of phobia, although it wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t control it. But he was definitely in the wrong job.

  Ralph insisted that the handovers took place at night in any one of five randomly rotated, disused buildings scattered around Manhattan. No guns. One buyer, one seller. This particular location on Beekman Street particularly freaked him out. The building had been abandoned and left to rot. The substantial atrium stretched upwards for five floors and at night had the feeling of a subterranean swimming pool, only a minimum of light penetrating from the street outside through the grime and dust caked windows.

  Gregor approached the building on the same side of the street. He had strapped the cocaine around his waist and across his abdomen. Carrying any kind of holdall at this time of night, it was ten forty-five, may well attract attention. He stopped and turned with his back to the first window that he came to, knowing that it should open easily. When he was sure that there was no one else in view, he pushed himself up onto the low hanging ledge, eased open the window and jumped onto the crumbling mosaic floor below.

  Immediately Gregor could feel the panic rising. Goose bumps erupting across his arms and legs. Unable to use a torch, he stood stock still for two minutes, listening for other sounds of habitation and accustomizing his eyes to the darkness within.

  Gradually the panic subsided. He was fifteen minutes early. He always arrived early, the thought of someone else being here before him filling him with dread. Gregor made his way slowly across the two-hundred-square-meter atrium floor to the bottom of the sweeping staircase that would take him to the first floor and climbed. On ascending to the fifth floor, Gregor moved across the inner balcony to a door-less anteroom inset against the wall, on the far side of the atrium from the stairwell, and waited. From here he would be able to see anyone entering the building and crossing the floor below.

  Eleven o’clock came and went, Gregor becoming more anxious with every moment. After twenty minutes his fear began to turn to anger. Gregor had been a conscientious user of steroids for over five years, impatient to develop a truly magnificent physique, and their frequent use had helped to turn a relatively placid young man into someone whose temper could flare up at the slightest provocation.

  Having had as much as he could take, Gregor was steeling himself to get up and make his way out of that god-awful place when he heard a sound below. Feet lightly hitting the atrium floor. He could see the dark outline of a slim figure padding across the mosaic tiles and then, when the figure reached the bottom of the stairs, the head turning upwards and round into the dim light.

  “Zeus,” the figure said.

  “Aphrodite,” replied Gregor, feeling foolish, at the same time relieved that his contact had arrived at last, but also surprised that the voice addressing him from the bottom of the stairs was female.

  Two minutes passed while she negotiated her way onto the fifth floor landing and across the balcony.

  “What took you so long; I’ve been waiting in this shithole for forty-five minutes!”

  “Listen, it’s the first time I’ve had to make a pickup in this place, so why don’t you give me a break?” she said flatly, without venom.

  “Let’s just get this done so we can get the hell out of here. I go first, you wait for ten and then leave,” he said.

  “Hey, you’re in a real hurry. What’s your problem, afraid of the dark?” she said, mild amusement in her tone.

  Gregor had by now removed his three-quarter-length duffel coat and, although fuming at her mocking of him, bit his tongue, unwinding the package from his torso. He didn’t notice the paraphernalia that she had started to remove from her handbag until she placed it on a small wooden table in the corner of the room.

  The sound of a test tube hitting a glass beaker made him look up.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” his anger growing again against this cocky, arrogant bitch.

  “You don’t think I’m going to hand over a bag full of money without testing this stuff, do you? My customers pay for the best and I give them the best. I’m not gonna palm them off with powder that’s been cut until it wouldn’t get a friggin’ dog high.”

  “That’s not the deal; we only deliver the best stuff. We screw you over and you never deal with us again. It’s always worked that way before. Keeps things simple and quick. Give me the fucking money and I give you the blow, I leave and you follow.” His nails were digging into the palms of his hands as he spoke, his knuckles white with tension.

  “No way, José, I ain’t paying two hundred fifty k for baking powder.”

  Gregor began to smell a setup. This wasn’t right. He had to get out. Now. He began to tie the bundle across his waist when she made a grab for it.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she said, as he swung the back of his hand across her right eye and cheekbone with all his formidable strength. Panic and fear had gripped him now. All he wanted to do was get out. To get away from this crazy bitch, whoever she was. Her hand let go of the bundle, but when she followed through with a very hard kick between his legs, so did his and as he doubled over in agony, ten kilos of the finest in Bolivian cocaine fell twenty-five meters and burst across the atrium floor, like snow falling from a rooftop in January, hitting the ground with a gratuitous thump.

  “Scared of the dark, and women, you pathetic fuckin’ freak. I guess you got some sweeping up to do,” she said, smirking.

  Gregor finally hit the line. Panic, anger and fear combined together to create a Neanderthal rage. He placed a strong hand around her throat and began to squeeze the life from her. He didn’t even feel the pummeling she was giving his ribs with her sharp fists, his leg positioned to block anymore blows below the belt. Her eyes began to bulge, but in his enraged mind he wanted to break her in two.

  “Not so fucking smart now, you fucking smart-assed bitch,” he hissed as he lifted her by her neck over the edge of the balcony.

  He looked into her bulging eyes once more, capillaries zigzagging furiously. As her bloodied eyes silently screamed for mercy, he opened his hand and grinned as her once agile body hammered onto the mosaic floor below.

  Chapter 11

  Ralph Kennedy was not a happy man. That fucking retard Gregor had just blown a quarter of a million dollar deal and Ralph could do nothing about it. It was his own fault. Gregor was a fucking idiot. An incompetent silver spooner who had fucked up his life more times than Ted Kennedy. It should have been
an easy score, ten kilos of good “powder” to a long time contact of Ralph’s who supplied half of Beirsdorf Klein.

  Ralph kept himself distant from the nuts and bolts of the operation. His old ivy school buddies who had joined the ranks of the great and the good, not to mention the rich, who populated the Wall Street investment banks, had provided him with an ever hungry supply of cocaine addicted, cash rich fools. He had started by supplying them directly, as he had done at Yale, but soon realized that to mitigate risk it made a lot more sense to use middlemen.

  He kicked back in his Clifton easy chair and took in the view of the ocean before him. The throbbing beat of Jay-Z interrupted him.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Mark. The meeting went well. The new business line will become operational within a few weeks. Our new friends are delighted with the service offering and want to begin distribution immediately.”

  “Good news, Mark, thank fuck not everyone I do business with is a moron,” Ralph snapped.

  “What do you mean?” said Mark

  “I mean that Gregor screwed up big time and we need to ensure that the idiot doesn’t deliver for us again. Arrange to pay him off and make sure he knows that we won’t be at all pleased if he opens his mouth.”

  “Okay, I’ll speak to him. Anything else?”

  “Nothing I can discuss in detail over the phone, but why don’t you let him tell you himself. I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to lie low for a while.”

  “Okay, I’ll be in touch,” said Mark.

  Ralph, his mood lifting at the thought of the possibilities opening up to him, lifted himself easily out of the chair and made his way over to the Jacuzzi.

  All he had to do was make sure that Gregor’s sheer fucking stupid, steroid fuelled bout of lunacy didn’t rock the boat. No one wanted to buy from someone who pulled the trigger on their own dealers.