The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1)

by Norrie Sinclair

  She squeezed her eyes closed to the tears that started forming at the vividness of the memory. She forced herself to focus on the boat that was boarding two hundred meters below her, basking in the bright midday sunshine, at the pier off Vigado Square.

  She caught him. He approached across the tram tracks, past the casino. He stopped. Glanced around. The red baseball did its job well. He didn’t look very comfortable wearing it. She smiled at the thought. The first smile that had crossed her lips in quite some time. He strolled down the gangplank.

  Tereza tucked the eye glasses into her backpack. The engine burst into a low rumble. She held her breath as the acrid smoke from the bike’s exhaust drifted into her.

  Chapter 32

  Michael gasped as he reached the top of the steep, dusty path. He sat on the brow of the hill, breathing heavily. She must already be here. He got up, brushed down his jeans and trudged toward the castle entrance in the baking heat.

  He’d recognize her when he saw her. There were few tourists. Not a big place. How long could it take? He walked around the grassy open square under the battlements. He entered the museum and a couple of tourist shops. No sign of her. He took the cracked stone steps to the higher levels. With the exception of a covered section, perched at the top, everything was open to the elements.

  Michael cleared the second level, too impatient to even take in the castle’s surroundings. No sign of her. He climbed the steps to the top. In front of him stood a small square with a flagstone base, surrounded by a low wall. At the far side of the square, a few meters from where he was standing, was an ornately decorated building. Long past its best, but with its roof intact, miniature gargoyles fiercely guarded each corner. There was no door. Michael walked over and looked inside. The room was shrouded in darkness. He swept his eyes across it, saw nothing, decided he’d had enough.

  He turned to leave. Then froze.

  “Wait.”

  It was her. The echo in the empty room distorted her voice. It didn’t matter. It was her. Michael turned around. There was movement in the corner of the room. She was wearing dark jeans and a black leather jacket. The clothes, her dark hair rendered her near invisible.

  “Take a look outside. Make sure we’re alone,” she said.

  At first he was so taken aback by her sudden appearance that the instruction didn’t penetrate. He crossed to the entrance, surveying the small square and the steps leading up to it. The only people visible were milling around down in the courtyard below the battlements and in and around the shops and museum.

  He stepped back inside, stopping a few feet from her, looked her straight in the eye. She hadn’t moved and was standing with one hand in her jacket pocket, the other holding an antiquated pair of binoculars.

  “I can understand the need for caution, but you’ve been leading me a merry little dance since I first managed to decipher the note. Now I’m here, you owe me some answers.”

  Her posture hardened. He’d heard that Hungarians had a reputation for being direct. He wasn’t disappointed.

  “Michael, if I may call you Michael, this is not some kind of a game. This is not England where the worst thing that can happen to someone like you is a man breaks into your house or throws a few punches at you outside a bar. These people want you dead. In this part of the world, this can happen easily and cheaply. You may want to get yourself killed, but I don’t. I have my own battles to fight. If you want to know who stole your money, then do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”

  He had no choice. All he needed was the information and then he was out of there.

  “Just tell me who the hell I’m up against?”

  She loosened up. The mid-afternoon sun fell across the doorway, illuminated her body. She was tall, and probably of slim build, difficult to tell while she was wearing the jacket. Why on earth would anyone wear a leather jacket on a day like this? Even now it must be thirty degrees or more.

  “The man who’s after you killed my parents. He’s powerful and extremely dangerous. You’re lucky to be here. You should be dead.”

  It made sense, confirmed his own thoughts about Katowice.

  “Why did he kill them? How am I tied into it all?”

  “I don’t want to go into these things. What I will tell you is his name. Jay Rivello.”

  “And your name.”

  “That’s not important.”

  “It is to me. Don’t you think you’ve kept me in the dark for long enough?”

  She looked away. Made a decision.

  “Tereza. My name’s Tereza.”

  The sun’s piercing light illuminated her face, reminded him of the electricity he’d felt between them in Katowice. Completely at odds with her blunt manner and unwillingness to be open with him now. She moved her head sideways to get the glare away from her eyes. He was seeing things. Two jagged holes punched into the wall where her head had been.

  In the milliseconds that it took for him to realize that the sharp pain stinging his face was caused by wall fragments dislodged by the bullets, he felt a hand grab onto his. He was pulled into a darkened corner of the room and, barely maintaining his balance, through a narrow doorway. There was a heavy footfall somewhere behind him.

  “Follow me,” Tereza whispered, “not a sound.”

  She kept his hand in hers. Just as well, it was pitch black and he couldn’t see a thing. He was pulled to the ground, jarring his knees, a draught of cool air on his face. She let go of his hand and vanished.

  There was nowhere to go. The footsteps behind him had slowed, moving towards him.

  “Follow me, I said,” her voice a distant echo.

  He threw his arm out in the direction of the draft of cool air and pressed down with his hand. Emptiness. Where the floor should have been. Footsteps alongside him. He swung his legs over the gap in the floor, nothing beneath them. He grimaced; let his arms drag along the cool stone until the weight of his body dragged him over the edge.

  Chapter 33

  Well here he was, drinking in the company of life’s bums and degenerates. Mark couldn’t even turn up on time. He had a corner table, as far from the bar as possible. The smell of puke and bleach hung in the air, residue from the lunchtime rush. It was eight. If he was lucky he’d be able to get out before he needed to take a leak. The old man at the next table hunched over a beer. A shot glass kept it company. Welfare check day. He stank. The old man. Not just his clothes. The grime on his face and neck looked well lived in.

  He froze as something slammed into his shoulder. He flinched, head jerking round, heart thumping.

  “You fuckin’ faggot, I can’t believe you just did that.” He was tempted to shove his fist into his friend’s beaming grin.

  “Losing your touch. That’s what happens when you’ve been out of the game for a while.”

  Painful, but true. Cut out ever since the courier took a dive. Stupid bitch.

  “So what’ll you be havin’?” Gregor stood up.

  “Large bourbon, straight up,” Mark said.

  “You’d better watch it or you’ll end up like my friend, old Mr. Boozehound over there.”

  The old man hadn’t made it to the bottom of the glass. Lay sprawled across the bench.

  Gregor returned with the drinks. Glanced towards the door.

  “So what the fuck has he got us meeting a customer in a dump like this for?”

  “Bronx big shot. Runs the neighborhood. Wants to go up-market and start supplying quality to the clubs downtown.”

  He was back in the game. It was good to be here. Even in this dive. He’d missed the life, the wheeling and dealing, Mark, his friend.

  A glass shattered on the other side of the room. The whole place went silent. A big man, bald head, Hell’s Angel denims, dived across the table. He grabbed another around the neck and began to throttle him. The other man, equally big, younger, hammered on the Angel’s back, hands locked together. A crashing noise. The table collapsed into firewood. Bystanders dove out the way. The young
er man was underneath. Face crimson. The Angel’s hands squeezing his neck.

  The noise rocked the whole place. The baseball bat had come down hard. Swiped half an inch past the Angel’s ear. Just about lifted the younger man from the floor.

  The guy in the apron lifted the bat over his shoulder, ready to strike again.

  “Hector! You an’ your boyfriend there pick yourselves up off my floor and get the fuck out of here. You consentin’ adults can do what you like, but not in my bar. Get the hell out.”

  The Angel and the other man stood up, dusted themselves off. One clung to the other as they staggered for the door.

  “Jesus,” said Gregor, “what this place lacks in ambience it sure makes up for in entertainment value.”

  “You can say that again. Another beer? Doesn’t look like this dude’s going to show. I’m in no hurry.”

  “Sure, keep ’em coming,” said Gregor, “my social diary’s not exactly full.”

  ---

  Gregor stumbled through the exit. Mark was behind him. His friend grabbed the neck of his jacket. Pulled him upright just in time. It was after midnight.

  Beer assisted euphoria kicked in, helped him onto a high. Okay, so the contact hadn’t shown up, but he was back in again. Mark seemed to think so too.

  Down Shakespeare, to One Hundred Sixty-Ninth. Mark steered him onto the Edward L. Grant Highway, a much likelier place to get a cab this time of night. A car slowed behind them. Gregor stopped, Mark on his outside, tried to focus on the car. A door opened, the rear door. No one got out. A subdued crack in the air. Mark’s body slammed into his. Another. He fell backwards, head smashing onto the pavement. Mark’s full weight crunched on top of him.

  Deadweight. He would play the same. If he moved he was dead. Gregor didn’t move, couldn’t move. Eyes straining to stay open, unblinking. Fixed to a point of light in the sky.

  The engine idled. Jesus Christ, if I ever get out of here I’m getting out of this life.

  A silhouette blocked the yellow glow from the streetlamp. A shadow crept over him. He opened his mouth. A hollow cry. Burning pain exploded inside him.

  ---

  The killer bent forward, lifted Gregor’s left arm and twisted it palm up. With a gloved hand he unclipped the Monaco and slipped it into a bag. The man then reached down, raised his own trouser leg about eight inches and removed a knife from its sheath. He switched hands, holding Gregor’s wrist so that the palm of the hand was facing downwards. He held the little finger apart from the rest of the hand. The sharpened edge glistened in the lamplight. It took less than a second. The finger was carved from the bone. He cupped it in his palm, studying it.

  Chapter 34

  There was no time to prepare for the drop. He landed sharply on a hard, uneven surface. Rock. His right ankle took most of his weight, gave way beneath him. A sharp, jarring jolt of pain shot through his leg. If he stopped here he was finished.

  A hand came out of the darkness and grabbed hold of his, pulling him up. It was Tereza, her hand smaller than his, but strong and urgent. He pushed himself up with his left leg, gritting his teeth as he used his right leg to balance. He followed, limping. She held his hand in hers. He may as well have been blind. His arms lightly brushed walls on either side of him. They were in a tunnel.

  Something hit the ground behind them. Not far behind. Michael looked back. He caught a brief glimpse of a huge form caught in the glare of a point of flickering light. They turned a corner and the dim light vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  Tereza came to a dead stop. Michael almost tripped over her, regaining his balance at the last moment. He heard her twisting, rattling something, straining backwards as she did so.

  “Help me,” she said under her breath.

  For a moment he didn’t understand.

  “The door. Now,” she said forcefully.

  He let go of her hand, stepped forward and put his right hand out, found hers and grasped the iron handle.

  “Pull,” he said, the echoing of the footsteps getting louder. Their pursuer had turned the corner and would be on them in a matter of seconds. He pushed the handle down and pulled on the iron bar with everything he had. The door gave slightly.

  “Again. Now.” He could feel her body strain against his as she pulled backwards. He let his right hand take all of his weight. The door swung inwards, blinding light disorienting him. For a split second he lost his footing before righting himself again. He ran through the open wooden door, grabbing Tereza’s hand and pulling her with him. Michael let her go, swung round and pulled the door shut. He heard an almighty crash as the big man behind them hit the door at a full run. Michael knelt at the door, his right shoulder a few inches below the handle. He grabbed the handle and pushed upwards with as much force as he could. Strong downward pressure from the other side of the door. The handle shifted downwards.

  He got his bearings. He needed help. The doorway they had just exited was part of a convex stone fusillade built into the hillside. He was crouching on a flagstone floor about five meters square. About twenty meters away was a sign signaling that the summit of the toboggan had been reached. A series of green, amber and red lights strung between two poles indicated when it was time to release the brake.

  Tereza was running for crest of the hill. How the hell could she do this to him? After getting him into this mess she was going to ditch him to face this killer alone. He watched in disbelief as she disappeared from view. The downward pressure of the steel handle had stopped the blood flowing into his fingers. Hands were in agony, sheet white, numb. Need to run for it.

  Michael sensed someone behind him. Flinched, expecting pain. A large wooden post was thrust under his jaw, but instead of connecting with him, it was jammed under the door handle.

  “Push it up. Hard.”

  Michael drove his body upwards, legs like pistons, the iron handle shifting. Tereza kicked the bottom of the post so that it jammed the handle in its most upright position, ensuring that the door stayed tight shut.

  “Follow me.”

  They took off across the top of the hill. Wood splintered behind him. They reached the lip of the hill. Three toboggans waited for a green light. The boy in the first toboggan too busy concentrating to notice them.

  “Jump on,” Michael shouted to Tereza as he grabbed the boy round the waist and pulled him off the steel machine.

  The boy looked up at him, eyes wide in confusion and surprise. There was little he could do. Tereza jumped on the back and wrapped her arms around Michael’s waist. A jolt of electricity shot through him. Not a good time for romance. He ignored the red light and slammed down the brake lever with his hands. The machine shot forward.

  He glanced over his shoulder. A gigantic man, dark clothing, raced across the hilltop. Michael turned and focused on taking the first corner, eased on the brake at the last minute as the toboggan shook on the bend’s apex.

  He looked again. The giant had jumped onto the next machine. The gun in his right hand had helped him take the toboggan from the young couple now running in the opposite direction.

  There was a loud crack. Two more in close succession. Pressure as her fingers clutched his abdomen more tightly. The ride would last for another minute, maximum. If he didn’t think of something soon, this was most likely how long they both had to live.

  Michael took three more corners. Their pursuer was no more than fifteen meters behind them. One more corner to go and then a final short stretch to the end of the track. The rail turned back on itself around a wooden hut and wound its way back up the hill.

  “We’ll stop suddenly. When I say jump, jump.”

  “My bike’s over there,” she pointed to the car park, a short distance from the bottom of the run.

  Michael removed the thick leather belt from his jeans and quickly looped it under a steel bar on the front of the toboggan. He wound it round the bottom of the brake lever and gently lifted the lever to slow their momentum. He glanced back. The other man was ten me
ters away and closing. Michael would have to time this exactly right for it to work. He hoped the thug behind them would keep his bullets for the end of the run where he thought they’d be sitting ducks.

  He slammed on the brake.

  “Jump!”

  The toboggan shuddered to a halt. He yanked hard on the belt, locking it into place, jumped off the steel sled and into a rolling position. He heard her gasp as she hit the slope. A split second afterwards he felt a sharp pain in his chest as the air was forced from his lungs. Complete loss of control as his body spun downhill. He pushed his elbows out to slow the fall and came to a stop a few seconds later. An almighty crash. He lifted his head to see a human projectile hurtling through the air, chased by a silver steel toboggan. A shudder of elation shot through him.

  “Michael, hurry.” She was up and running downhill towards the car park. Michael picked himself up. The thug cried out in pain as he smashed into the ground. Michael watched as the toboggan slammed down on top of him.

  He could hear the sharp, snarling pitch of a motorbike engine being aggressively revved. He ran for the bike. She turned to him, smiled and, one handed, threw a black helmet towards him. “Let’s go.”

  He knew now why she’d been wearing a black leather jacket in this heat. She gunned the engine and shot forward, rear wheel spiraling gravel up into the air.

  Chapter 35

  He observed the diners at the other tables much like a wolf setting his gaze on a herd of sheep. Mostly men in suits, dark grey, navy blue, black. The occasional woman, dressed in similar shades to the men, serious or boisterous, depending on the tone of the lunch. Busy people doing busy things; doing deals, exchanging gossip, talking shop, making money, making friends. All of them caught up in a world that they enjoyed, deserved, took for granted.