His first thought was that he must be mistaken. He was so sure that he was about to be run into the ground that his mind would not let him think otherwise. This was why it took him a full five seconds to begin waving his arms frantically in the air, even when his brain had registered the fact that he was gawping at an illuminated taxi sign. As the car slowed, Michael peered through the rear window. The driver of the dilapidated Mercedes was alone. Michael opened the passenger door. The driver was mustachioed in traditional style, cropped grey hair, unsmiling. Michael pulled out a one–hundred-euro note.
“Krakow,” proffering the money to the driver.
“Nie,” the driver shrugged, the expression on his face unchanging.
Michael called the driver’s bluff and turned to walk away. Not smart. This was the only car, never mind taxi, he’d seen in the last half an hour. He was dead on his feet and there were at least two people in relatively close proximity that would rather see him under the wheels of a car than sitting in one.
He turned around, pulled out another hundred, held open his hands and shrugged his shoulders.
“Krakow.”
The driver’s mouth stretched into a broad grin, the sight of his less than perfect teeth signaling acceptance of the arrangement. The driver took the money, placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket, opened the window, lit a cigarette and moved off. Michael sank into the worn leather seat, springs creaking, inhaling the musty smell of a car well beyond its use by date. The old man performed a u-turn. They headed back out towards the city limits and the motorway. The driver turned to Michael, smiled, tapped himself on the chest.
“Piotr.”
Piotr reached below his seat. Metal clanged against metal. Michael had got to the point where he didn’t care what might happen next.
He didn’t know whether the driver had taken pity on him because of the downtrodden way that he looked or whether the old man was keen to celebrate his unexpected windfall. When the half-full bottle of vodka was thrust into his hand, Michael took a long, slow slug. The harsh liquid spread its warmth to his mouth, throat and stomach. He thanked the driver without thinking too hard about why the bottle was only half full. His eyelids drooped, soothed by the deep, steady rumbling of the old car’s engine.
Chapter 27
He chose the computer closest to the door. He was alone, most of the guests still enjoying breakfast. Michael pulled Google up onto the screen and keyed in: aksim lajvih allun tah cnimrah zit tah cloyn to ygen. Google wasn’t very helpful.
No standard web pages containing all your search terms were found.
Your search - aksim lajvih allun tah cnimrah zit tah cloyn to ygen - did not match any documents.
Suggestions:
- Make sure all words are spelled correctly.
- Try different keywords.
- Try more general keywords.
- Try fewer keywords.
He tried Google translate, hoping that it would give him some clue as to what language this was. If indeed it was meaningful in any sense at all.
He drew a complete blank. He took each of the first, the third, the fifth letters, guessing that this might be some kind of code. Then the second letter followed by the other even numbered letters. Dead end.
Aksim sounded Arabic and indeed when he Googled the word on its own it appeared to be an Arabic or Muslim first name. Google translate came up with nothing when he looked for an English language translation. He tried the rest of the words individually, feeling that he might be getting somewhere, although he could not see where there could possibly be a Middle Eastern or Islamic connection.
Lajvih, as far as he could see, meant nothing. But Allun was clearly an alternative spelling of Allan.
Aksim, Allan. Were these the people responsible? Well, if they were, it was a huge leap forward, but only if he or the police could track them down. He tried the other letters, hope overcoming logic.
Tah didn’t get him anywhere. The word had thirteen million entries. Nothing on the first five pages of hits stood out.
When he entered cnimrah and clicked on the first entry, his eyes widened.
Numbers 32:1–36:13
The Tribes Settling East of the Jordan
32 Now the children of Reuben and the children of Gad had a very great multitude of livestock; and when they saw the land of Jazer and the land of Gilead, that indeed the region was a place for livestock, the children of Gad and the children of Reuben came and spoke to Moses, to Eleazar the priest, and to the leaders of the congregation, saying, “Ataroth, Dibon, Jazer, cNimrah, Heshbon, Elealeh, Shebam, Nebo, and Beon, the Country which the Lord defeated before the congregation of Israel, is a land for livestock, and your servants have livestock.” Therefore they said, “If we have found favor in your sight, let this land be given to your servants as a possession. Do not take us over the Jordan.”
The passage from the bible specifically referred to the return of the tribes of Israel to the Promised Land after spending forty years in the wilderness. Nimrah was a leader of one of the tribes. The c in cnimrah was a reference which when clicked on referred specifically to the passages in Numbers 32 to 36 where God gives the Israelites the Kingdom of the Amorites, the Kingdom of Og and the Kingdom of Bashan. These kingdoms lay on the opposite side of the Jordan River from modern day Israel. It was after establishing themselves in these two kingdoms that the Israelites crossed the Jordan and were commanded by God to:
“drive out all the inhabitants of the land from before you, destroy all their engraved stones, destroy all their molded images, and demolish all their high places; you shall dispossess the inhabitants of the land and dwell in it, for I have given you the land to possess.”
Michael couldn’t discount a Middle East connection. Aksim was a Middle Eastern name. Some of the references to Tah seemed to have Arabic connotations. And then there was the reference to cNimrah. Was it plausible that the stolen money was being used to support Hamas or Hezbollah? Michael moved on to the final three words.
The first twenty pages of almost fourteen million hits for zit referenced everything you wanted to know about teenage acne. He moved onto Cloyn. Cloyn appeared to be another name of Irish origin. Was there an Irish connection? Ties between Middle Eastern terrorist organizations and the Irish Republican Army, the IRA, were well documented.
With twenty-five billion hits on the word “to” he quickly moved on to “ygen.” The dozens of entries he glanced at all referred either to power generation or, in most cases, referenced websites being used by companies and individuals all trying to jump onto the y generation bandwagon.
His mood had sunk from rising elation that he was about to discover something that would reveal an international terrorist conspiracy, to mild disappointment that the last three words had yielded nothing.
He sat back and gazed unseeingly at the framed print hanging before him on the wall. He waited for five minutes, letting his mind clear. He decided to go back through the words on Google to see if he had missed anything. He saw nothing unusual or especially interesting until again he got to cnimrah.
The word had fewer than forty hits and at least half of them pointed to websites with a domain name ending in .hu. A quick search revealed that .hu was a suffix for websites registered in Hungary. Yet when he used Google Translate to get the Hungarian to English for cnimrah he drew a blank. He’d run out of ideas.
A thought occurred to him. It was simplistic, but why not apply the same simple trick that he used with his own passwords?
He reversed cnimrah. Harminc. He hit Translate.
Thirty
He straightened in his chair. Coincidence? Probably. He tried another word, again reversed, translating from Hungarian into English.
Four
When Michael had finished, he couldn’t believe that he’d made something relatively simple, so ridiculously complicated. He pumped all the words in backwards with the exception of Miska which apparently was a Hungarian diminutive for Michael. He’d been hun
ched over the computer for more than three hours. The green shaded reading lamp rocked as his hand slammed onto the table, adrenalin pumping into his system. He was looking at a message very specifically meant for him.
Mike call me 0630106854
He couldn’t make the call from the hotel. He had no idea who might be watching him. The same went for the woman who had left Michael the message. Someone might be tracking her calls. Why else write with such secrecy?
He picked up some coins from the receptionist and strolled out into the market square. It would be dumb to call from his hotel.
He crossed to the far side of the square which, because of its large size, took a full ten minutes. He stopped by a bank of public telephones and stepped into one of the booths.
He removed the hotel notepaper from his pocket and looked down at the number. Anxiety flooded through him. Who was she? Why leave a message? What would he say to her when she answered? What if it was a man’s voice on the other end of the phone? He grinned to himself. Your life’s hanging in the balance and you’re acting like a teenager asking a girl out on a first date.
He dialed the number. It rang. Kept ringing. Then it cut out. No voice mail. He tried again. The same thing happened. He had no choice but to keep trying. He hit the keys and waited.
Chapter 28
A sense of euphoria flowed through her. Everything will be all right. Always. They were ahead of her. Not far. Trailing through the long grass. Her mother and Gusztav, hand in hand, laughing at something Papa had said. They were like giants to her, Papa particularly. His broad shoulders and tall, formidable build offering security and protection she was lucky to have.
Gusztav let go of her mother’s hand and ran off into the trees. Chasing a bird. She called out for them to wait. They stopped. Playing a familiar game. They would stand like statues until she touched them.
She ran to her parents, jumping in between them, clutching both of their hands at the same time, looking up to see their statuesque faces coming to life. She tilted her head upwards. Her mother’s face shocking white, unsmiling, dead. In horror she turned towards her father for reassurance. One eye stared blankly back at her from the remains of his skull, face ripped apart.
The scream tore through her. At the end, always the scream. Seconds passed. It had come from her own lips. The thumping of her heart began to ebb. Tears streamed down her cheeks, the deep chasm between the happiness of her childhood and the reality of the last two years impossible to bear. She turned over. The pillow damp with perspiration.
It was difficult to breathe. She couldn’t lift herself from the bed. Her thoughts were dark, dull, never let in the light. It could last for hours, days at a time. She had been so close. Missed her chance to kill him. Nowhere else to go. The trail was cold. She had given it her best. Nothing to be done.
She flinched, the noise flipping her out of the dark funk that had swallowed her. It had taken her by surprise. Rarely did the phone ever ring.
Chapter 29
The caller was persistent. She’d let the phone ring out twice. Barely a moment later it rang again. In her current state of mind, she couldn’t face talking to anyone. Too much of an effort. She reached out to the bedside table on which the phone rested, picked it up and looked at the screen. Unidentified number. She let her hand drop to the bed while the call died. It rang again. This is ridiculous. I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman, lying in bed at two in the afternoon and I can’t even answer a stupid telephone. She lifted herself upright against the headboard, hit call accept and put the phone to her ear. Silence, and then …
“My name’s Michael Berg. You left me a message. Took a while to figure it out.”
It was him. She had forgotten about the message. Why had he waited so long to call?
“You took your time,” she said, instantly regretting the harshness in her voice. “Don’t tell me where you are. Call this number when you get here. I can help you.” She hung up.
A call could easily be traced. They knew where she lived, but she couldn’t put his life in any more danger than it already was. Not yet. She needed Michael Berg to help her to fit the last pieces of the puzzle together.
She dialed Pisti’s number.
“He called me, he’s coming here,” she said when he answered.
“Who called you?” her uncle replied. “Slow down, Tesz, I can’t keep up with you.”
“Michael Berg. He’ll call when he gets here.”
“You told him over the phone that he should come to Budapest?”
“No, no, Uncle, of course I didn’t. He called a Hungarian number. Where else would he think I am?”
“You’re right. Did you ask where he was calling from?”
“No, Uncle. Really, you must think I’m stupid.”
“You know that’s the last thing I think you are,” he replied, “but it’s important they don’t find him before us. What will you do when he gets here?”
“I don’t know. I’ll need to meet him somewhere we can’t be seen. Not in the city, somewhere outside where I can make sure we’re not followed. I need to think.”
“Meet him at Visegrad. You can see everything from there. There will be tourists. They won’t try anything out in the open.”
“I’ll let you know when he calls. Take care.”
“And you, my dear.”
As Tereza slipped the phone into her pocket, she felt a tremendous debt to the old man. She had died four short months after Papa. Zsuzsa, her mother. A heart attack. It left Tereza devastated. Pisti had dragged her back from the edge.
Chapter 30
The autumn had been kind. Many of the trees still clung to their leaves, albeit most now were yellowing. One more week or so and the landscape would accelerate towards the desolation of winter. Rivello took in the view, beyond the warmth of the room. He looked forward to his meeting with Kennedy. After all, who’d be crazy enough to place a bet on an outcome that they weren’t certain of in the first place. Particularly a one-billion-euro bet. His main concern now was Rykov.
The man was one of the best. At least he had been. Konstantin Rykov had been making too many mistakes recently and that was inexcusable. He needed to teach Rykov a lesson. He did not want to lose someone so talented from his team, but the man needed re-motivating. It would leave no doubt as to what any further screwups would mean.
The rhythmic tap of approaching footsteps reached him across the vaulted floor of the entrance hall. The footsteps halted, the door handle turned and the two men came towards him. He didn’t turn to greet them. Sat where he was. Motionless. Waiting. Gaze still directed towards the lake, he’d ceased to admire the view. How could these two cretins begin to pretend they’d spent even five minutes with Spetsnaz? They could cost him everything. Rivello didn’t move a muscle. The legs of the two chairs scraped across the floor.
“So what the fuck happened?” his back to them still.
“He blindsided us. He’s smart. We did everything we were trained to do, but he got away,” said Rykov.
“Where the hell is he? What does he know?”
Anatoli slammed his fist onto the desktop.
“Berg’s a dead man. He’s been lucky. There’s no problem. Calm down, Rivello.”
Rivello objected to being asked to calm down. Particularly by an incompetent moron. A burst of adrenalin rushed through him, senses sharpening, energy seeking a way out.
As Rivello pivoted in the chair, he stretched out his left arm, grabbing Anatoli round the back of his neck and pulled the man’s head towards him. Simultaneously he lifted his right hand, tightly gripped the amber hilted paper knife, and drove it with all his force through the man’s temple and into his brain. The blade sunk halfway in. He slid it out then rammed it back in up to the hilt, grinding it around and around the small bloody hole that he’d made in Anatoli’s head. The other man struggled. Then his body spasmed and went limp. Rivello allowed his left hand to slide from behind Anatoli. He pulled the knife. The man’s head thumped onto the
desk like a lump of lead.
No movement. Rivello turned to Rykov.
“Should’ve been you and you know it. Get rid of him. Then tell me how you’re going to fix this mess.”
Chapter 31
“Yes?”
“I’m here. Where can I meet you?”
“Call me back in twenty minutes.”
Berg would be irritated, but he had no idea who he was up against. She would enlighten him when they met. He might be a little less casual about things.
She sat down in front of her Apple Mac. Exactly twenty minutes later the phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Look, I spent the last twelve hours on a bloody train from Krakow to meet you and all you can do is cut me off. What the hell’s going on?”
“Don’t get so angry. Go to the river, to the Pier at Vigado Square. Get on the twelve o’clock boat. After three hours, you’ll get off at Visegrad. I’ll be in the castle. Wear a red baseball cap. I need to be able to find you.”
She hung up, exhilarated to at last be doing something. Even something that may turn out to be completely futile.
She dialed Pisti. She told him.
“Be careful,” he said, “they could be following him. I know that’s what you want, but it could be dangerous if they’re close.”
“I like it that you’re worrying about me, but you don’t need to. I’ll make sure no one’s watching. As you said, it’s a great place to observe your surroundings.”
“Okay, call me and let me know that you’re safe.”
“As soon as I can. Bye.”
---
Her father used the glasses for hunting deer and wild boar. He’d swear they were better after twenty years than they were when he’d bought them. She’d teased him that it had more to do with old age than with miracles.
The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1) Page 7
