The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1)

by Norrie Sinclair

Again she heard it. A pause for a few moments. Then a sound that she never wanted to hear again as long as she lived. It was a man screaming, that was for sure. A man suffering to such a degree of agony that the sound he emitted had lost any claim to being human. There was nothing in that gut-wrenching howl but a tortured animal’s excruciating unremitting pain and fear of imminent death.

  The agonized scream ceased abruptly. Tereza was jolted back to the reality of silent, black emptiness. She closed her eyes and prayed for sleep. Any desire she had felt to cry out and draw attention to herself had left her mind.

  Chapter 58

  Gut feel said she wouldn’t be there. They’d agreed to meet at the hotel after the diversion. Michael cast his eyes around the room. After profusely thanking Harry for removing him from the unrelenting suspicions of Detective Inspector Blunt and his impetuous sidekick, Michael had come straight back to the hotel. Her clothes were still in the wardrobe. There was a toothbrush by the sink in the bathroom. Her holdall was sitting on the other side of the single bed by the window. He looked out onto the busy West End Street from the fourth-floor window and thought through the implications of what had happened.

  The police told Harry that Tereza had vanished. This meant nothing in itself as there were a million ways to get lost in city as large and busy as London. That had been the plan. He called down to reception. No message. He picked up her clothes and holdall and went next door to his own room. Everything was as it should be. He scoured the room for a note. No note.

  He reached for the telephone book on the bedside table, and dialed the first of five numbers. Thirty minutes later, Michael was satisfied that Tereza had not been admitted to any of the main Central London hospitals.

  That left two options. Tereza would never walk away from Rivello. Particularly when, for all she knew, Augustus Goodfriend might have given Michael the key to finding the bastard. It was unlikely that she was tailing Rivello. More plausible for Rivello’s goons to have been following them both. They could’ve pulled her off the street.

  What the hell could he do now? There was nothing to go on. No leads. Goodfriend was dead. There was no other link to Rivello that he knew of. Unless Rivello’s people were still following him. If he was smart perhaps he could spot them and maneuver himself into a situation where he was able to track them to Rivello. It was a long shot, but he could think of no alternative. He only hoped that if they did have Tereza, that they’d found a reason to keep her alive.

  Michael showered, changed and removed his cash from the safe in the wardrobe. He had over forty thousand euros and a thousand pounds in cash. He changed back into his jeans and shirt, stuffing the suit and black shoes he had bought into his rucksack on top of the money. He checked that there was nothing in Tereza’s holdall that could identify her and went through the pockets of her jeans. He placed her belongings in the wardrobe. Before he left the hotel, he checked the word adoga on a PC in the hotel’s reception. A few hits. Meaningless. There was nothing to go on.

  Chapter 59

  Elisabeth was ushered through the door. President Gilmore’s demeanor was bleak. Not only did he not look pleased to see her, he looked older, lines on his face more pronounced, skin paler. Elisabeth was not the only one who’d been under pressure recently. As soon as they were seated and brief pleasantries attended to, he got straight down to business.

  “Elisabeth, you need to back us on this. If you don’t, there’ll be carnage. Is that what you want?”

  “Mr. President, the only interests Beirsdorf’s serves are its own and its shareholders. Bailing out investment banks like Beirsdorf Klein will only instill a greater degree of uncertainty in the markets. The Asians and the Europeans know that the Fed’s not a bottomless pit. We’ll be putting ourselves at their mercy. We need to show them that we’re strong.”

  Gilmore picked up his pen from the table. Irritated, he held the tip in his right hand tapping it like a gavel each time he made a point.

  “Mrs. Kennedy, playing politics is not an imperative of someone in your position. If your turnaround on our fiscal policy is due to some misguided notion that the Federal Reserve has a role to play in US foreign policy, then you’re wrong. This meeting’s at an end. I’m tremendously disappointed in you. I’ll see to it that Congress reverses your decision. I only hope it’s not too late. I promise you, though, if the worst happens, I’ll go to the ends of the Earth to ensure that you’re held accountable.” He flung his pen onto the table.

  The anger in his voice, the disappointment, the disgust reflected in his glaring eyes was too much. She couldn’t hold out any longer. If she couldn’t trust the president, then who could she trust?

  She couldn’t look him in the eye. Her gaze fell downwards, to the table.

  “Mr. President, there is something I …” she froze.

  He looked at her questioningly. MMVIII. The pen was identical. On the table in front of her. Something was wrong. The Bilderberg Group. He was somehow involved. She couldn’t risk telling him the truth.

  The president wearily pulled himself out of the chair, turned his back on her and made his way to the middle of three south facing windows. He stood looking out onto the Rose Garden. Elisabeth, inwardly devastated, confused, yet outwardly composed.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. President.” She forced herself to get up and made her way out through the northwest door.

  ---

  She waited until she was back in the sanctuary of her office. She was seated in the comfortable leather chair behind her desk. The door was locked. For the first time that she could remember as an adult, Elisabeth Kennedy hunched her shoulders, leant her head on the desk and cried as if she were a small child.

  Chapter 60

  Sir James Hardcastle lifted the bowl-shaped, lead crystal glass and cupped it under his nose, the powerful Louis Treize fumes dilating his nostrils as he inhaled deeply. He lowered the glass to his lips and took a gentle sip before allowing it to roll across his tongue and slide down his throat.

  “Gentlemen, we have a problem. Two problems. Unless we take action now, some of us and many of our members will lose everything they have. Secondly, not only is Elisabeth Kennedy imposing significant risk on Western economies, she is doing so at a time when Asia and particularly China is reaching to define itself as a major world power. We risk a severe change in the global balance of power.”

  Sir James surveyed the serious looking faces gathered around the table. All were over fifty-five. All were men. All had a significant financial or political stake in the scenario that was being played out around the table. Some, like Sir James, had both. The Management Board of the Bilderberg Group was assumed by many, even most of its one hundred thirty-three members, not to have executive powers in the true sense of the word. The Group, to the degree that it was able, influenced policy by a process of osmosis.

  Bilderberg’s membership comprised some of the most influential people in European and United States industry, politics and government. Members facilitated the development of political and economic concepts and ideas across international borders in a way that the United Nations was not able to. Theoretically, the innocuously named Steering Committee’s job was not to make executive decisions on behalf of the Group, but to manage the organization’s library, finances, relationships with affiliated organizations and to arrange the annual conference.

  Reality was somewhat different. Sir James was Bilderberg’s current chairman and had been nominated for the role by two of the Group’s founding members. Great Britain and the United States of America.

  The eight-man committee was gathered in a private lounge in Sir James’s London Club and had just finished dinner. They were enjoying liqueurs and coffee, with the exception of Douglas Speak who rarely drank alcohol. The Management Board never met in the same location twice.

  Sir James continued.

  “We need to take action immediately. We have three days at the most to find a solution to the Elisabeth Kennedy dilemma. I want to hear
your thoughts.”

  “We have to find a way to nail the bitch,” snarled Rick Delaney. ”The woman’s a bigoted hypocrite. She looks down her nose at us guys on Wall Street working our asses off to make a buck, and helping a lot of other people do the same. With her other face, she’s quite happy to smile and rake in the billions in taxes that we pay.”

  “Yes, Richard,” said Sir James, “but when you say ‘let’s nail the bitch,’ do you have anything concrete in mind, or are you merely letting off steam?”

  “Listen, Sir James, no, all of you, this woman is about to destroy my bank. My life goes down the toilet in three days, so I’d appreciate a little less sarcasm.”

  “In my business, we do a lot of hypothetical thinking.” Douglas Speak leaned forward and lifted his shoulders. “We have two options, each with a similar outcome. We get Kennedy removed from her post.”

  “Elaborate, Douglas, please,” said Sir James.

  “The temporary solution is to discredit her. We get her suspended. We’ll have no problem ensuring a friendly replacement is found on an interim basis.”

  “Interesting,” said the chairman, “and the second solution?”

  “The second solution is more permanent.” There was a pause as the other seven members looked quizzically at Speak. He held their gaze, aware that he may have overstepped the line. “If you get my meaning,” he said.

  “I don’t believe that we’re actually having this conversation, hypothesis or not.” All eyes turned to Pieter Van Valkenburgh, the former European commissioner.

  “You cannot seriously believe that liquidating the chairman of the United States Federal Reserve Bank is justifiable behavior, no matter what the situation. I also do not agree that discrediting her in order to have her suspended is a decision that we as the Steering Committee are in a position to make. Our organization has prided itself on indirect action and offering itself as a well-informed sounding board when our counsel has been sought.”

  “Pieter, with all due respect, you’re new to the Steering Committee. Bilderberg’s taken decisive action before in times of crisis. On most of those occasions our judgment proved to be correct,” said Sir James.

  “What about those occasions where your judgment harmed innocent people?” said Pieter.

  “We swallowed the bitter pill with dignity and moved on. Pieter, influencing our world is not for the faint hearted. Sometimes the unconscionable is justifiable, if it’s for the greater good. Kennedy’s stubbornness could ruin our economy, could ruin us for years to come. It’s a heavy price to pay for a faint heart.”

  “Agree, this is not a time to be weak. We need to be decisive. We need to move now before it’s too late,” said Johann Faust, the German foreign minister. “Our intelligence says that Mrs. Kennedy is under some duress. We are not sure exactly how, but we believe that she is somehow being blackmailed. The Russians or the Chinese. I have to say the Russians are less likely suspects. They have just as much too lose as the West if the global economy fails. If anything, they’re more paranoid of Chinese supremacy than we are.”

  “Thank you, Johann, very perceptive.” Douglas Speak did not want to be outdone on his own territory. “Her son is missing. Ralph. Has been for two weeks. No one had taken much notice of him before. Yale drop out, couple of misdemeanors for smoking pot. Homosexual inclinations. Nothing too serious. Now it turns out that he’s spent the last ten years building one of the biggest cocaine distribution operations in New York and New Jersey using a front in California. We’ve already pushed Elisabeth’s buttons on this, but she won’t give an inch. Tells us they don’t communicate often as he lives in San Francisco. Often disappears without telling her.”

  “So, where’s the problem?” said Rick Delaney.

  “The other people we’ve spoken to, friends, boyfriends, all say he’s sunk without a trace.”

  “What does she say?” from Hardcastle.

  “Non-committal. We assume that if she talks or moves in the wrong direction, then junior disappears permanently.”

  “Then there are only two alternatives. Get her out or put her down,” Delaney said, working hard to keep the smile from his face.

  Van Valkenburgh rose abruptly, pushing his chair out forcefully behind him.

  “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I cannot sit here and listen to this, this kangaroo court. I have to warn you that I have no choice but to inform my prime minister of the discussion we have had here this evening.” He strode towards the door, his back to the men gathered round the table. He laid his hand on the door handle.

  “Pieter!”

  Van Valkenburgh winced, turning to face the piercing eyes of Sir James Hardcastle staring him down.

  “Pieter, let me remind you, you have signed an oath. I will be very clear, to avoid any misunderstandings. Should you divulge anything that you have heard in this room, now or at any time in the future, it will be the last thing that you ever do. Now get out.”

  There was complete silence around the table while Van Valkenburgh hurriedly made his exit. Sir James took his seat.

  “Douglas,” Johann spoke, “I’m assuming that your organization is capable of engineering both of the solutions that have been proposed.”

  “Correct.”

  “And Ian Gilmore?”

  “He’ll be in a position to deny any knowledge of what we have discussed this evening.”

  “It’s getting late,” said Sir James, “we don’t have time to waste. I have a proposition for you gentlemen. We vote in our customary manner. Majority carries and we take action accordingly, or not. Van Valkenburgh has forfeited his right to vote. If there’s a tie, the chairman’s vote is final. My first proposal is that under the powers granted to us in the Bilderberg Charter of 1954, we authorize Mr. Speak to execute the measures necessary to have Elisabeth Kennedy discredited and removed from her post as chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank. Hands?”

  Six hands rose in unison.

  “Mr. Speak, we have unanimously placed a vote of confidence in your ability to get the job done.”

  Douglas Speak nodded in affirmation.

  “Now,” said Sir James, “a significantly more delicate decision to make. Can we get Kennedy out in three days, or do we need insurance? I propose we dedicate the resources to, as Douglas put it, finding a more permanent solution to the problem. A show of hands gentlemen, please.”

  Two hands rose. Four stayed on or under the table.

  “The no’s have it, gentlemen. The decision is final. The way forward is clear.”

  Speak and Delaney lowered their hands.

  “No fucking way. You’re all going soft. You’ll need a miracle to have that ball-busting bitch tossed off the board by Monday.”

  “The decision’s final, Rick,” said Johann. “If Douglas does his job properly, she’ll be suspended by Friday. You have at least until Monday to prop up your bank.”

  “Sure, Johann, easy to say, but we’re hanging by a thread. I have a meeting on Monday with Bank of America, JP Morgan and Citi. If the government doesn’t guarantee the funding, we’ll be forced to sell for cents on the dollar. And if we can’t sell, our market cap will be worth less than a bottle of that cognac that Sir James here has been swilling all night. I don’t have room for uncertainties. I want her out of the picture for good.”

  “There are no minutes for the meeting. I don’t have to remind you that you are all under an oath of secrecy. Johann, you’re closest to Pieter. A phone call may be appropriate, just to remind him of his obligations.”

  Sir James stood and strode forcefully towards the door. As he left, he said, without looking back, “Douglas, I trust we can leave everything in your capable hands. Good night and please keep me informed of your progress.”

  Chapter 61

  Michael signaled to the barman and ordered another vodka martini. His third. He’d wandered aimlessly across the center of London, wracking his brains for what to do next. An hour and a half later he’d found himself outside the Ri
tz on Piccadilly. The Rivoli Bar at the Ritz had been one of his favorite client entertainment haunts when he was building BOS. Although the nouveau styling was a little overstated, he liked the grand elegance of the place, the incredibly attentive, yet unobtrusive bar staff and most of all the Rivoli’s vodka martini. He was seated close to the window, blankly gazing out onto the street, tied up in thought. No matter how much he churned through everything he’d learnt from Tereza, his brief altercation with Augustus and the time spent with István, his mind wouldn’t grab hold of anything resembling a lead.

  He glanced down at the table in front of him. His third martini had arrived. It hadn’t registered. The third cocktail wasn’t going to help him find the girl. He took some notes from his wallet, dropped them on the table for the waiter. As he got up, he stood facing a shop front directly across the road. He was making his way out of the bar, but something in the window of the shop stopped him. His eye had picked up on something. He didn’t know what it was or why it had grabbed his attention.

  The shop was leased by Aeroflot, the Russian airline. Their rep office in London. He’d seen it many times before. It was a shop front. Nothing special. The AEROFLOT sign was the first thing that caught the eye. Big blue capital letters spread across the stonework above the doorway. Below this an expansive window, a doorway to the right. Occupying half of the window was a panoramic lake shot; blue sky, limitless, majestic water, billowing sails in the distance, a few birds feeding on the mudflats in the foreground. A surge of elation ran through him. Augustus Goodfriend’s last word wasn’t adoga. Superimposed along the bottom of the poster were the words “Lake Ladoga.” Perhaps Augustus had told him where Rivello was after all.

  Chapter 62

  Tatianna Sergeyevna Barshai crossed the stained, wooden parquet flooring of the narrow corridor leading from the bathroom to her sister’s bedroom. Being Moscow in mid-September, there was a chill to the outside air. However, the building’s communal heating system guaranteed that the apartment stayed at a constant twenty-five or more throughout the winter.