With no other option, he ordered the pilot to return. Rykov was not a man to scare easily. In fact, he was not even sure that he had ever in all truth felt that emotion, fear. At that moment, on conceding defeat for the second time, he believed that he was feeling the closest thing to it. A hefty penalty would be imposed for this dismal failure.
---
The creature crawled across the back of his hand and onto his wrist. He had no way of knowing how long it had been sitting on his hand in the first place. Michael couldn’t lift his arm to look at his watch. He reckoned he had been under the maintenance hatch for maybe four hours. It felt like a lifetime. Two thoughts had occupied his mind. Both were amplified by the clawing darkness and unbearable silence surrounding him. If he breathed too loudly, or made any movement, he would only have moments to live. The second. What if he wasn’t able to release himself from this self-constructed tomb? How long would it take to die? How painful would it be? Perhaps he should give himself up and get it over with. His fear of a slow death was outweighed by the inevitability of an immediate and agonizing one. In four hours, he had barely moved an inch.
It stirred. Little legs making their way across his wrist. Not a rat or a mouse. Too small, too light. A spider, maybe a beetle. A big one. Are spiders poisonous in this part of the world? He had no idea. The creature’s legs rustled the hairs on his arm, slipping under the cuff of his shirt, now inside the sleeve. This last indignity, the hours of pitch black confinement in a living coffin and the constant fear of being discovered, combined to tense every muscle in his body. Enough.
Michael curled his fists and slammed them into the metal cover that lay over him. It didn’t move. The trough was so shallow he couldn’t move his right hand across his body to squash whatever was now squirming on the skin of his left forearm. Spurred by the fear of being buried alive, he tried again, this time using his right shoulder to provide additional leverage. The lock snapped. The metal door sprung open. He brought his hand down sharply on his upper left arm. Three times for good measure. He pulled himself up and out of the maintenance hatch, opened his shirt and shook out the remains of the dead insect. Michael didn’t look too carefully to see what it was.
Night had fallen. All was in darkness. He could make out the illuminated positioning of the hands on his watch. Michael had been under the air-conditioning maintenance hatch for close to four hours. They must have stopped looking for him by now. He’d heard the helicopter return and leave again at least two hours previously, maybe more. At the time he couldn’t be sure if it hadn’t been bringing in reinforcements, so he’d stayed put, excruciating though it had been.
Michael looked around, eyes well accustomed to the darkness. He moved back along the corridor and got onto his hands and knees, finding his way beneath the bank of desks where he’d flung the backpack four hours earlier. He found it, opened the cord and checked the contents. His spare clothing was there, most importantly so was the money, less five thousand euros. An empty wallet would not have proved very convincing. He wouldn’t be needing his driving license. He had his passport if necessary. When he’d crawled back out from under the desk, he took the slip of paper that he’d copied the file contents onto and stored it safely on the inside of the backpack. It had to mean something. It was all he had.
He walked over to the shattered window, retrieved his jacket, slung it over his shoulder and cautiously made his way to the stairs.
Chapter 24
The Kulm Hotel, like most things in St. Moritz, is luxurious yet discreet. The hotel straddles the slopes on the uppermost northern fringe of the famous ski resort, with astounding views of the Engadine Valley below. Hulking over the town of St. Moritz itself, bordering the small but extraordinarily picturesque Sankt Moritzersee lake, is the famous town’s raison d’être, the three-thousand-meter Piz Nair. In February, as the worst of the winter weather lifts and the sun glistens on the distant snows, the mountains themselves appear to be too perfectly framed by the startling blue sky, as if an immaculately painted backdrop. In May, the view wasn’t quite so spectacular, as the snows had gradually melted from all but the highest peaks. However, it was undoubtedly an acceptable location for the Fifty-Fourth Annual Conference of the Bilderberg Group.
Augustus, his attention diverted by the sound of the buzzer, pulled himself away from the exhilarating panorama, tipped his cigarette into the ashtray and lifted himself from the rattan chair in which he had been attempting to relax. Until relatively recently, he hadn’t touched a cigarette for at least ten years. He blamed his current re-acquaintance with the habit on a combination of having to do the dirty work for a blackmailing, low-life scumbag and the deepening financial crisis which in the last two weeks had reduced the value of his bank by almost twenty percent. His own personal investments were also suffering, some of them extremely badly. He would get some release from his current frustrations during his next trip to Moscow. Unfortunately that was three weeks away. Entering his suite from the terrace, he lifted his shoulders, pulled in his protuberant stomach and strode across the living room area of his suite to the door.
Facing him was a tall, slender woman, with sharp, handsome features. Perhaps mid-fifties. He was familiar with her photograph. Elisabeth Kennedy was widely expected to be nominated as the next chairman of the Fed. She looked the part, he would certainly give her that. Immediate presence, strong forceful features and a look that said “take me seriously or else.” Her chic but business-like attire transmitted a similar message.
“It’s my pleasure to welcome you to Bilderberg, Mrs. Kennedy. I hope you had a pleasant journey.”
“Thank you, Mr. Goodfriend, the journey was most pleasant and your staff very helpful.” Elisabeth smiled, “I must admit, this is the first time I’ve had the pleasure of staying in Switzerland. Even more spectacular than I had imagined.”
Augustus, taken aback by the woman’s warmth, smiled in turn and offered her a seat.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” gesturing her towards the couch on the other side of the room, “and do please call me Augustus. Room service will be arriving shortly. I took the liberty of ordering tea, coffee, some sandwiches.”
“Is it likely that I’ll be meeting President Gilmore while I’m here?”
Augustus smiled, understanding her concern. “When the Group was founded, it was agreed that no serving US president would attend a Bilderberg conference. It would simply have been seen as another lever used by the Americans to pursue their own interests.”
He decided it was time to move on.
“May I ask,” said Augustus, “what precisely will be the theme of your speech?”
“Well,” answered Elisabeth, “I don’t want to spoil my own thunder. Let’s just say I have for some time now held a strong view that the global financial industry is out of control. No one knows how much exposure the largest financial institutions have to a global derivatives market that’s wound tighter than a spring. Not even the lunatics who are running the asylum.” Augustus winced, tongue protruding, wetting thick lips.
“The evidence points to a complete market collapse with implications we can’t begin to contemplate. The nearest comparison is America in the thirties. That was America. Now we’re talking the whole world.”
Augustus sighed. “I agree that the markets have been tough on the banks recently, but I hardly think ‘we lunatics’ are quite as incapable as you seem to think,” said Augustus, a shrill quality entering his voice.
“This is my opinion. I didn’t come here to tiptoe softly over people’s egos. No matter who they are. You’ve invited me to speak. I have to assume that the audience is of a caliber that will want to hear what I think, not some sanitized claptrap.”
Augustus reminded himself that he had an additional objective to be achieved during this meeting.
“Of course, you’re absolutely right. You may find, though, that your audience is more receptive to your message if you rethink referring to them as lunatics.”
&nbs
p; “You can be rest assured that I won’t upset any of the members of your audience more than they deserve to be.”
It occurred to Augustus that the Group’s invitation to Elisabeth Kennedy may have been a little premature.
“I’m sure you will, Elisabeth. I mean, I’m sure you won’t.” He felt his cheeks flush. He needed to move on. Move on before completely missing the opportunity. It hadn’t been his intention to alienate her. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“It’s important that you say exactly what you think. Your audience will expect nothing less.”
“Thank you. I’ll do my best not to disappoint.”
“One last thing, a personal favor to an old friend of mine. Please feel under no obligation, you are perfectly entitled to refuse.”
“I can’t make that decision until you tell me what’s on your mind.” Elisabeth smiled, warmth again returning to her voice.
“Stephen Riblaw, an old friend, we studied at Oxford together. An admirer of yours for some time. Built quite a formidable reputation for himself as a Keynesian scholar. Spent most of his career at Balliol. He’ll be in Washington on the seventh and eighth of July. Would love to meet you.”
“Why, I don’t think that’s too much to ask, I’m sure I’d find your friend stimulating company. Ask him to call me as soon as the conference is over. We’ll fix something up.”
“That would be exceptionally good of you. I’ll let him know immediately. He will be as delighted as I am grateful,” said Augustus, genuine appreciation in his voice.
“Now I mustn’t keep you. You’ve travelled a long way today. I’m sorry about the sandwiches; one would expect that in a hotel such as this the service would be a little sharper. I’ll have a word with someone.”
Augustus stood up, smiled and waited for Elisabeth to do the same. He showed her to the door. ”I look forward to seeing you in the morning. We should meet at eight thirty.”
“Thank you for the warm welcome. Until tomorrow.”
Augustus held open the door.
---
Room service would not arrive. Augustus had wanted to appear to be taking care of his guest, but had not wanted a drawn out discussion over tea and sandwiches. His distaste at what he was contriving to do was only superseded by fear of the repercussions should he be caught.
He made his way onto the terrace. Dialed Rivello’s number.
“She agreed to meet Riblaw, on the seventh or eighth of July. Call her on this number to arrange the meeting.” Augustus read out the ten digit number.
“Very good, Augustus, I just remembered why I keep you around. What about the keynote?”
“The only reason I let you keep me around is because you have my balls in a vice,” retorted Augustus with unusual bravery.
He pulled the phone from his ear, laughter barreling down the line.
“Yes, Augustus, an apt reminder of what will happen to you if fuck this up. Now, about the keynote address?”
“As you anticipated. Pump as much money into the banks as they need to stay afloat. Completely against a survival of the fittest strategy. Believes the world will end, or something like that.”
“Good news for you, Augustus, I hear you guys are pretty leveraged up at the moment.”
Augustus didn’t comment.
“That’s it,” Rivello said. “For your sake, I hope she gets the nomination.” The line went dead. Augustus replaced the phone in his pocket. Time to sample the minibar.
Chapter 25
Seventeen tables. Each covered with two crisp, linen tablecloths, eight sets of silver cutlery and a delicate garland of white lilies as a centerpiece. White jacketed waiters with dark, heavily creased trousers dotted among the tables, one-handedly balancing silver trays, pouring coffee, tea and delivering freshly prepared bacon and eggs, salmon, eggs Benedict and pastries from the kitchen to the well-heeled guests. The early morning sun, having crested the mountains on the other side of the valley, flooded the ornately decorated room with light.
Something sparkled. The reflection of light from an object placed on the porcelain in front of her. It was difficult to mistake the white star that adorned the silver cap. The pen was striking. Not in its complexity of design, but rather in its clean cut simplicity and elegance. MMVIII had been engraved into the casing. A subtle reference to this year’s conference. Elisabeth read the copperplate inscription on the inside of the accompanying card. Dear Elisabeth, welcome to Bilderberg. MMVIII.
“So, Mrs. Kennedy, is this just a blip or are we in for a rollercoaster ride?” Ludovic Verstraeten, Belgium’s prime minister, raised his eyebrows, accentuating the seriousness of his question. All eyes at the table turned to her.
“All in good time, Mr. Verstraeten. If you can wait a few more minutes, no doubt you’ll hear my answer to that particular question, and a good many more.”
As if on cue, Augustus Goodfriend appeared alongside the raised podium and deftly knocked a fork against his water glass.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the hour has arrived. I warmly welcome you to the Fifty-Fourth Annual Meeting of the Bilderberg Group. Never before have the services of this esteemed group of people been needed so much by the world at large. Whatever is decided in this room in the next two days could well define the fate of hundreds of millions, in fact billions of people, over coming decades. The cracks started to appear some time ago and the dam is about to break. I do not have the answers, but perhaps you do. On that note, let me introduce our keynote speaker. The deputy chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank of the United States of America, Elisabeth Kennedy.” Goodfriend burst into a round of applause which was reciprocated by all.
Elisabeth stood and confidently climbed the three steps to the podium. Goodfriend shook her hand and stood down. Tradition dictated a simple address. There were too many titles to recant.
“Ladies and gentlemen …”
---
She glanced at the watch on the podium. Twenty minutes had passed. Time to wrap up. Elisabeth looked her audience in the eye and drove home her message. Success would be marked if she noted fear in their eyes.
“Within six months there will be a cataclysmic financial event. It could be a bank. It may be a sovereign state. It will be cataclysmic because it will drag everything else down with it. Many of you have known, for two, three years, that global financial markets were out of control.” She paused, they needed to hear the truth. “You might have stopped it then. You could have stopped it then. Not now. It’s too late. You’re still dancing, waiting for the music to play out.”
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t like it and I’m sure you don’t like it, but this is the last dance. There’s only one thing we can do to avoid total collapse. Flood the system with money. I have to say I find it distasteful. Distasteful to provide a backstop to the people we should be relying on to look after our money. People, who decided instead, to bet their customers’ money like chips on a gigantic roulette table. There is no choice. Liquidity will be provided. If not, the consequences are too painful, too damaging, too costly to contemplate.”
There was silence. Elisabeth took a step back. The applause began. It wasn’t fear that she sensed. The opposite. The chairmen of several global banks appeared most relieved, happy, including her friend Augustus. No wonder. To have their financial institutions bailed out by the taxpayer, and hang on to their well-paid jobs was significantly preferable to being stripped, tarred, feathered and put in the stocks. Two hundred years before, the story would have had a different ending.
Chapter 26
It was after midnight. He had lost his way twice. They would be watching the train station. Probably the airport. The most logical way for him to leave the city. Michael needed to get to a computer with an Internet connection. He was unlikely to find that in Katowice at one o’clock in the morning. It would take another hour to get into the center of the city. He was shattered, hadn’t slept well since leaving Zurich. Didn’t smell too good either. With each step, he walked towards t
he people he at all costs needed to avoid.
There was no alternative. He walked, wincing at the irritating ache of blisters chafing against the heels of his shoes. Rows of multi-storied, concrete apartment buildings stretched as far as he could see. The sulphuric yellow of the streetlamps bathed the road in a dingy, nicotine hazed glow. The backpack, although not particularly heavy, straps digging into his shoulders, was wearing him down. A symptom of exhaustion other than anything else.
Walking always helped him think things through. It had to be Sharp. Sharp wanted him dead. He’d been lucky. Sharp was afraid that Michael was getting close to the truth. Michael wished he had the man’s faith. All he had was a scrap of paper scrawled with unintelligible nonsense.
The low hum of a car’s engine on the road behind him. Damn. Of course they’d be trawling the streets looking for him. He glanced backwards, as subtly as possible, swiveled his eyes sideways until they hurt. His heart pounded, the exhaustion that had plagued him moments before evaporated in a spurt of fear- fueled adrenalin. His legs, although moving at a casual lope, were ready to spring him forward into a fast run at any moment. He knew the route he would take. He hadn’t been completely ambivalent to the risks of walking along an open road. To the left, one hundred meters ahead of him, was the entrance to the nearest apartment block. Behind it there were others, separated by stretches of open land where someone at sometime had thoughtfully planted a good number of trees. He knew this because he saw no reason why the pattern he’d been observing for the last twenty minutes would change. No shortage of cover. The buildings have multiple exits. He would have some kind of a chance.
The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1) Page 6
