The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1)

by Norrie Sinclair

  The man sitting opposite her smiled. His hair was cropped short and was beginning to grey at the temples. He wore a tailored suit and when he shot his monogrammed cuffs as he sat down at the table she’d noticed an expensive pair of Bulgari cufflinks. His English was accented. She couldn’t place where from. Not quite the stereotypical, slightly stuffy, scruffy old fossil she’d been expecting to meet. Intriguing, attractive. A little too ostentatious.

  “Hmmm, I think you’ll find, Elisabeth, that you’ve got the wrong end of the stick.” He smiled again. She pushed herself back into the chair.

  “I don’t understand,” Elisabeth said.

  His smile twisted into a sneer.

  “I don’t care how busy you are. Sit still, shut up and listen. I’ll tell you when it’s time to leave. That is, of course, if you want your son to live.”

  She froze. Dumbstruck with what the man had said.

  “Good, that’s better. I’ll make this very simple for you. First, though, let me explain the rules. You tell anyone about this meeting and Ralphy boy is dead meat. Let me tell you why.” At that moment Rivello paused while the waiter stooped to refill Elisabeth’s glass, then his own. Rivello leaned in towards the waiter.

  “Waiter, Ms. Kennedy and I don’t want to be disturbed again until you bring the check. I’ll pay for everything we’ve ordered, but leave it in the kitchen. I’ll let you know when we want to leave.”

  The waiter didn’t blink an eye. “Of course, sir.” He straightened, crisply turned and walked away.

  The man in front of Elisabeth leaned in towards her. She tried to concentrate on the bridge of his nose, his eyes fierce and piercing.

  “Your son’s a drug dealer. A good one. Not only does he supply most of the Manhattan party set with the finest in Bolivian cocaine, but recently he’s arranged for the distribution of his product to just about every high school in the Bronx, Queens and Brooklyn.”

  There was a point where she’d have to stand up and ask someone to call 911. She never got to it. She’d known all along. About Ralph. Underneath. Underneath all the pretence and the stories. She knew her son had a secret. This man was going to tell her what it was. The only thing she was sure of now was that the man’s name was not Stephen Riblaw.

  “Nine days ago, two men were killed in the Bronx. Shakespeare Avenue. They worked for your son. One of the men, Gregor McAllister, screwed up a drug deal a couple of months back. He killed a courier. It cost your son hundreds of thousands of dollars in profit. And one of his best clients ended up in the morgue. Your son’s responsible. It doesn’t take a genius to work out motive. There’s evidence. I’m the only person stopping that evidence from reaching the desk of the New York Police Department.” The man gently placed his napkin onto the table.

  Elisabeth knew she’d maintained a calm and unemotional demeanor on the outside. On the inside her mind was doing cartwheels trying to make sense of it all.

  “What’s your real name?” she said with a confidence that she didn’t feel.

  “That, you don’t need to know,” he replied. “Look, you’re a smart lady. You’re going to try and put me on my back foot, find out who I am and then work out what my motivation is for doing this. Let’s save some time and move straight to the motivation part. Beirsdorf Klein’s going to request help from the government. Soon. Specifically from the Treasury Department, from the president and from the US Federal Reserve. You’re going to refuse the bank’s plea for financial assistance. You will not cave into the president or to the Treasury. Beirsdorf Klein will not get the Fed backed guarantees it’ll need to stay afloat. Push them under. Do what I ask, you’ll never hear from me again. If not, Ralph get’s the chair. Maybe the rest of his life in a jail cell. If he’s lucky.”

  “What if you’re lying?”

  “About what?”

  “Everything.”

  “Go see your son. If he manages to convince you otherwise, ask him about this.” Rivello lifted his napkin, placed it in front of her.

  “I’m sure you know where the owner’s ring and some other odds and ends can be found. I’ll get the check on the way out. Until next time.”

  He rose, turned his back on her, confidently strolled over to their original waiter, thrust some bills into his hand and exited the restaurant.

  Elisabeth’s hand shook a little as she pulled back the white cotton flap. Fortunately she had no lunch to bring up. The finger had been removed below the knuckle. A flesh pink hue was still identifiable, although the finger had blackened over time. She quickly covered it and swept the napkin into her handbag.

  A large brandy arrived at her table two minutes later.

  Chapter 39

  The rich baritone carried through the house, swept into the garden.

  “Do you always get La Traviata before lunch?” said Michael, amused. The rambling climb down from the monastery had calmed him.

  “Before lunch and sometimes afterwards too, depending on how good the wine is. Fiddler on the Roof usually accompanies dinner.” Tereza laughed.

  When István finished cooking, they helped him bring the dishes to the table. Traditional Hungarian kolbasz sausage, pickled gherkin, an assortment of paprika and freshly boiled potatoes. Michael said little while he ate. Tereza and István the same. The energetic climb had done its work well. The bottle of red that István produced went down better than he thought it would.

  He’d had time to think on the way down. Things still didn’t make sense.

  “What was Tereza doing in Katowice?” he shifted his gaze to Tereza. “How did you know what was going on?”

  “I wasn’t part of it. Not in the way that you mean,” she said.

  “I know that, you were there to kill him. But how did you know he’d be there? How did you know about me?”

  “Max,” said István.

  Michael looked a bit confused for a moment. “Max is what?”

  “You mean Max is who,” Tereza responded.

  “It’s not getting any clearer.”

  “An old friend of Tereza’s,” István began.

  “Computer whiz kid. He built his own information recovery business, retrieving data from all types of hardware and software that companies and people believe they may have lost. He also contracts for different governments.”

  “I’m very pleased for your friend’s success, but that doesn’t tell me very much. What does he …?”

  “He found Rivello. Or, rather, he traced his e-mail account.”

  “How?” Michael couldn’t shake the feeling he was being set up.

  “He used a spider. Using spyware to pick up on Rivello’s passwords took longer. But he got us in.” She said it without missing a beat.

  “Rivello didn’t encrypt his e-mail?” said Michael.

  “Of course, but it was basic encryption software. Simple for someone like Max to break. After Katowice, Rivello cancelled his account. We think he guessed he was being hacked into,” said Tereza.

  “How were you going to kill him?” Michael asked.

  “She had no plan,” István chided. “I’d have stopped her if I’d known.”

  “What would you have done? I’d see that man in hell for what he did to my family. I went there to kill him. Somehow. I couldn’t get close enough. Too many people.”

  “Do you know where he is now?” said Michael.

  “We don’t know for sure,” Tereza said. “Max logged into Rivello’s computer through a server based in Moscow, but he said the server in Russia feeds into another, which could be anywhere in the world.”

  “He could be just about anywhere?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s why you need me?”

  “Yes,” said Tereza.

  “I have to admire your determination, but I don’t like the idea of being the bait at the end of a hook. Why don’t you go after Goodfriend?”

  István and Tereza looked at Michael quizzically.

  “I thought it was obvious.”

  “What’
s obvious?” she was irritated. “I can’t think of any reason why Beirsdorf Klein would get mixed up with someone like Rivello.”

  “I didn’t say they. I said he,” Michael said.

  “Goodfriend?” said István.

  “Yes, Goodfriend. Rivello’s a thief. He set us both up. The bank loan being pulled was how he got to your father. No loan, no leverage. Rivello used Goodfriend to pull the loan.”

  “Goodfriend and Rivello working together? That’s not possible,” said Tereza.

  “You’re right,” said Michael, “but I didn’t say they were working together. Everyone has secrets. Maybe Rivello has something on him, insider trading, some other skeleton in the closet. Look, I know Beirsdorf Klein and I know Goodfriend. The odd hundred million euros is small change for those people. Why would Goodfriend get personally involved with Vass Holdings when the man spends his days dealing in billions? The whole thing only makes sense if Goodfriend is somehow personally involved.”

  “Tereza. He’s right. It makes sense,” István said.

  Tereza hesitated, then said, “What do we do now?”

  “Well,” said Michael, “we have no idea where to find Rivello. I know where to find Goodfriend, though. At least Monday to Friday.”

  “And then what. Confront him?” said Tereza.

  “What else can we do? Seize the advantage. Rivello’s been in complete control so far while we’ve been running around in circles. We need to find the connection between them, flush out Goodfriend and get him to lead us to Rivello.”

  Chapter 40

  Perched on the edge of the couch, overlooking the bay, she couldn’t believe anything the man had told her about Ralph.

  “Mom, it’s been great catching up. Let’s go grab some lunch at the Sea Food Shack on Thirty-Nine?”

  Elisabeth pushed the thought aside and turned her attention back to her son. He looked well, fit and athletic. Fair hair a bit too long, fringe brushing the tops of his eyebrows. His deep blue eyes reminded her of John, his father. Ralph had the same lopsided grin. Particularly when he knew he’d done something wrong. He certainly didn’t fit the stereotype of a red-eyed, strung out drug dealer, or whatever he was meant to be.

  This was it. In at the deep end.

  “Not yet Ralph. I need to ask you something.”

  He met her eyes. Gave her his lopsided grin.

  “I met someone the other day. I can’t tell you who.” Jesus, how the hell was she going to say this? “He told me things about you. I don’t believe him, but I have to ask.”

  The grin had gone.

  Straight out with it, Elisabeth.

  “Ralph, this person told me that you were involved in drugs. Not taking them, selling them. He told me that you killed two men.”

  Silence. Before it became uncomfortable he broke it.

  He laughed. Not a light nervous laugh. An out loud, in your face, top o’ the world kind of laugh.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. You flew all the way down here because some whacko told you I was California’s modern day Al Capone. What the hell has gotten into you? You’re the most down to earth solid person I know. I can’t believe you’re saying this to me.”

  His flippant denial meant nothing. She’d listened to the same ironic laugh and casual disclaimer often when he was a boy.

  “You’re my son and I love you. No matter what you do I always will. I’m your mother. If you’re hiding something, you need to tell me. If you don’t stop whatever it is that you’re doing, you’ll spend the rest of your life in jail. Or worse.”

  Ralph gazed flatly into her eyes. He was silent, pensive. Elisabeth said nothing. Waited. His face sagged. He knew there was no going back.

  “I didn’t kill them. The two men. I don’t know who did. It was nothing to do with me.”

  She crumpled inside. While in the last forty-eight hours she had conceded that what she’d been told about her son might impossibly be true, she had not, for one moment, believed that it was. The man had been right. About the drugs, at least.

  “You make a living selling drugs to children?”

  She was numb. It was pathetic. This grown man sitting in front of her, acting exactly the same way as he’d done when he was ten. He’d been caught red-handed, stealing money from their neighbor’s kitchen table. Ralph had climbed over the adjoining fence, snuck in through the terrace window and, just as he’d stuffed the money into his pocket, Clem had walked through the door. Elisabeth confronted him. Little Ralph sat for a full five minutes sulking with a hurt look on his face, as though he was the victim. He’d driven her crazy.

  “Ralph,” she hadn’t raised her voice to him in years. “You’re not ten years old anymore. Talk to me. You have no idea what this could mean. It’s not just about you.”

  His face became strained. His jaw tightened, fists clenched. She held her breath. She was about to see who he really was, for the first time. Then his head dropped, eyes searching the floor.

  He told her everything. Even about his recent foray into the youth market. By the time he had filled her in on the last ten years of his life, she was surprised to find that her initial feelings of shock and disgust had all but disappeared. Guilt overcame her. She’d failed him. How could it have come to this? How could a normal, well-educated, polite little boy, with everything going for him, turn into this? How could she not have known? Was her son really a murderer? The questions flew through her mind faster than she could even try to answer them.

  “Did you kill the men in New York?”

  “No, I’ve told you everything. They worked for me. I knew they were killed. Shot. I thought it was a rival gang trying to scare me from our new market.”

  “How can you refer to selling drugs to school children as a new market? You’re killing children and making it sound like you’re running Coca Cola. Your friend’s finger was handed to me in a napkin, for Christ’s sake.”

  She swiped her hand through the air in a dismissive gesture, refusing to get into a discussion that would only dismay, disgust and disappoint her.

  “I need some air.” Elisabeth gestured to the terrace.

  They walked outside. She stood close to the edge, ushered him towards her. When he was near, she put her hands on his shoulders and pulled him to her, speaking within an inch of his ear, voice barely above a whisper.

  “You’re in great danger. You need to disappear until whatever is happening blows over.”

  Ralph had been shaken by their conversation. His cocky thirty-something swagger had vanished. He’d begun fidgeting. Repeatedly brushing his fingers across his face. She wondered if whatever had been in his bloodstream when she’d arrived was wearing off.

  “Are you capable of doing that?” she couldn’t help the sarcasm.

  “I have plans. In case anything ever went wrong. Didn’t ever see it coming like this.”

  “Get away. Get out of America, not the country, the continent. Don’t contact me. Don’t tell me where you’re going. These people are dangerous and I’m sure they’re more than capable of listening to other peoples’ conversations.” She nodded towards the penthouse. “Make sure you’re not being followed. Go today, go now. Contact me in six months through my office. Don’t use my home or cell numbers.”

  He looked at her, nodded his understanding.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’ve let you down. I can’t …”

  “Don’t,” she said, “it’s too late for that. If we ever get out of this we’ll talk. I’m going now. You need to do the same.”

  She turned, tears forming in her eyes. She had to keep walking. The only way she was going to get them out of this was to be strong.

  “Mom, wait. Please.”

  She had to keep going. She did.

  Chapter 41

  After their long, late lunch, István and Michael stayed put, relaxing in the sun, finished off a second bottle of wine. Tereza had gone for a walk.

  “What about Tereza, her family? Brothers? Sisters? She must have someone
.”

  “No, no one. Her father was an only child. Her mother had a sister, Edit, but she never married. Died a long time ago.” He paused. “Tereza did have a brother. Gusztav. She has no real memory of him. She was six when he died.”

  “That’s awful. It sounds like her family’s cursed. How did he die?”

  “Car accident. You English call it a hit and run.”

  Istvan’s shoulders slouched and his face took on a careworn expression. His hands dropped to his lap. He looked up at Michael.

  “When the boy died, part of the family died with him. Tereza was the only thing that kept her parents together. That and Vass Holdings. After Gusztav’s death, Attila rarely spent less than sixteen hours a day working. He and Zsuzsa, Tereza’s mother, rarely had time to argue. The spare time he did find he spent with Tereza. They never found the driver of the car. That, at least, would have been something.” István leant forward and placed his hand on Michael’s wrist, grasped it firmly.

  “You’re both in great danger. Tereza thinks that by keeping things from me she’s making it easier. I beg of you, please don’t encourage her to pursue this man Rivello. She’s the only person I care about. If she gets close to him again, he’ll kill her. The keys to my car are on the table in the kitchen. If you care for her at all, take it. Now. Leave.”

  He was taken aback by the old man’s request. A voice rang out behind him.

  “Hey Pisti, why so sad? What has Michael been telling you?”

  “Nothing, my dear girl.” He removed his hand from Michael’s wrist. “Your presence is the only thing we’ve missed. As soon as you left we had no choice but to start drowning our sorrows.” He held the second bottle upside down, empty, for effect. “In any case, for a man of my age, I’ve had more than enough wine. To bed I go. I’ll leave you young people to talk.”

  István stood, a little unsteadily, drained the last drop from his glass, lifted some of the dishes from the table, swayed more than once as he made his way to the kitchen.