The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1)

by Norrie Sinclair

  She turned to Grant. “Thank you for saying that, Grant. Are all FBI safe houses in such beautiful locations?”

  Grant smiled. “Well, that depends on who we’re safe housing.” He let the remark hang in the air.

  There was silence between them for some time. Elisabeth took in the beauty around her. It had been a long time since she had last driven up this way. She had forgotten how beautiful the countryside could be. Her focus on career meant that she often found herself replacing her office on Constitution Avenue with her office in Glover Park at weekends. She seldom ventured out past the Beltway, other than to reach Dulles.

  Elisabeth dipped into her handbag, pulled out her cell phone and started dialing.

  “Jesus, Elisabeth, what the hell are you doing?” shouted Grant. “Turn it off. Now.”

  Alarmed at the panic in his voice, she immediately hit disconnect. He turned towards her, brow furrowed, lips taught.

  “Forget about the phone. They can pinpoint your location within a few hundred meters.”

  “Sorry.” Elisabeth was surprised at Grant’s sudden show of anger. She felt like mentioning to him that as he ran the FBI, perhaps he should have said something before. She turned the phone off.

  “How much longer?”

  “Not far to go now,” he said, his demeanor once more calm and considerate. “It’s crucial that absolutely no one knows you’re here.”

  The car made a right-hand turn, off the side road and onto nothing more than a track.

  “When you people say safe, you really mean safe.” Elisabeth had always been under the impression, admittedly from crime shows on TV, that safe houses were usually set up in innocuous suburbs, enabling the protected person to blend in with their surroundings.

  The big Buick halted in the middle of the track.

  “Elisabeth, we need to talk.” Grant was facing her. She looked down. The smooth grey barrel of a pistol was pointed straight at her stomach.

  “Grant, what in God’s name are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve no choice. This really is not up to me. Get out.”

  Elisabeth did as she was told. He got out, walked around the car, and stood facing her.

  “Into the forest. Slowly.”

  Elisabeth, fleetingly grateful that she was wearing a pair of court shoes, stepped cautiously onto the multicolored carpet of leaves that graced the forest floor.

  “I don’t understand. What’s happening? You’re going to kill me, here? We’ve known each other for thirty years. You’re the head of the fucking FBI, for Christ’s sake.”

  She never swore. Well, not like that anyway. Usually she felt guilty enough using the Lord’s name in vain. She mustn’t panic. If she panicked she was dead. What mattered now was not why he wanted to kill her, but to get away from him. Keep him talking. Seize the moment.

  “Yesterday, the people who shot at the cab. Were they yours?”

  “Nothing to do with us. Completely random. Might have been better for both of us, though, if you’d died in the crash. The driver was a dealer. He’d been encroaching on a rival gang’s territory, using the cab as cover. Competition didn’t like it. The cops know who they are. They’ll be scooped up and hauled out with the rest of the trash in a couple of days.”

  “Then why this, now?” said Elisabeth.

  “You know too much about Bilderberg, about what we can do. You sat in my office and told me yourself. We can’t let you live, it might destroy us.”

  “My word against yours. No one would believe me over you.”

  “In normal circumstances, you’d be right. Too much has happened recently for us to take that risk. We have a leak. Someone called you and warned you about us. It’s too late to go back. I’m sorry this has to happen. You’re a wonderful woman, Elisabeth, but Bilderberg’s too important to be broken up and abandoned to save one life. No matter who that person is. We’re able to do things that mere governments can’t. And I’m not talking about the odd assassination here and there. We build bridges where nations can only envisage destruction.”

  They were thirty meters into the forest. She figured time was running out. She had to do something soon or she was finished. They had come to a narrow river bed. It was dry. Too wide to jump. She would have to step into it and climb out of the other side. So would Grant. There was a heavy looking branch lying close to the edge on the opposite side.

  “Wait.”

  She stood hovering on the edge of the stream bed. She pulled her right foot backwards, steadying herself. Oh God, she thought, not now, not here. He’s going to kill me here. She readied herself to run. Futile, perhaps, but at least she wouldn’t be a sitting duck.

  “Keep moving. I thought I heard something.”

  Elisabeth breathed a sigh of relief. She had to keep him talking, distracted.

  “Grant, you sound as though you’ve been brainwashed.”

  She wasn’t listening to his reply. She took two steps down onto the leaf covered, hardened mud and stony surface of the stream bed and took one pace across to the other side. As she stepped halfway up the opposite bank, she could hear him right behind her. She tripped and fell onto her chest, arms stretched out above her. She cried out.

  “My ankle, Grant, I’ve hurt my damned ankle.”

  Grant’s attention would be on her legs, assessing any real damage. Her right hand scratched around, reaching over the lip of the small ridge. She had it, could feel the grain of the bark with her fingertips. A little more. Her hand clutched the end of the fallen branch. She prayed that it wasn’t rotten.

  “Get up or I’ll shoot.”

  She used all her strength and weight to pivot her body, swinging her arm as hard as she could to where she imagined Grant’s head to be. The branch connected heavily with his right temple. He stood. A statue. Eyes wide in shock, mouth open, as though about to speak. He dropped to the ground. A dead weight.

  She didn’t waste a moment. He’d gone limp, dropped the gun. It took a few moments of scrabbling around in the leaves before she found what she was looking for, picked it up and made sure the safety was off. Like many single women who lived alone in Central Washington, Elisabeth knew how to handle a gun. Hers was locked in the bedside cabinet at home.

  She knew what came next, but had difficulty bringing herself to do it. She held the gun in her left hand, pointed at his head, while she rifled his pockets. First the jacket. Nothing inside or out. Deciding this was no time to be squeamish, Elisabeth jammed her hand into the right hand pocket of his trousers. Relief overtook her as her fingers felt the weighty plastic of a key fob. She pulled it out, examined it and made to stand up. Before she did so, she took a last look at Grant, face bloodied, eyes shut, breathing uneven. She stood and took a step up the bank, back towards the car.

  She felt something latch onto her leg and looked down. His hand was wrapped round her ankle. She looked up to see him trying to lift himself, grotesquely grimacing up at her, his other hand trying to reach the gun. She brought the heavy steel butt down on top of his head. The sound sickened her. He collapsed. Elisabeth started to run. Less than a minute later she was safely cocooned in the Buick, doors locked, engine running. She had nowhere to go. If Grant could have done this to her, then no one, nowhere was safe.

  Chapter 76

  He leant back into the leather Chesterfield, and casually surveyed the Births, Marriages and Deaths section of the London Times. At seventy-five years of age, Sir James had gotten used to seeing one of his contemporaries pop up now and again in the latter column. Admittedly, over the past three or four years it had become more than occasional. He took succor in the fact that both of his parents had passed away in their late nineties.

  Sir James frequented the Club on Tuesdays and Thursdays, nodding to an occasional acquaintance over dinner. During the summer months he took the same seat, beside the window, overlooking the terraced garden. He was now comfortably ensconced in the day room, deserted at this time in the evening. He turned to the front of the news
paper and scanned the one headline that dominated that day’s copy.

  US BANKING SYSTEM FACING MELTDOWN

  Sir James was under no illusion. Their failure to stop Elisabeth Kennedy from scuppering Beirsdorf Klein would accelerate the decay that had been evident in the financial sector for the past two years. In a matter of days it wouldn’t only be the US banking system that was in crisis. He should have known that to have had her suspended within such a short period of time was impossible. He’d now have to convene an emergency meeting of the Committee and solicit agreement for her permanent removal. Unless the woman either resigned or agreed to follow the president’s line on supporting the banks. The latter he doubted.

  There was a stifled cough from alongside the armchair. Sir James turned and looked into the eyes of Chambers. Chambers had been a servant at the Club for as long as Sir James had been a member.

  “Telephone call, Sir James,” the white-haired manservant held the cordless instrument out to him on a silver tray.

  Sir James, without acknowledging the man, took the phone. “Yes.”

  “It’s me. I’ve been trying to reach you for the last two hours.”

  “Oh bloody hell, can’t a man enjoy his dinner without being interrupted? I’ll call you back. One minute.”

  He replaced the telephone, took out his mobile and dialed the number in Washington. Neither of them would use names during the call. Although all voice transmissions at either end were encrypted, it was impossible to know what modern technology was capable of.

  Douglas Speak answered.

  “Go on,” said Sir James.

  “We couldn’t execute on A. We’ve gone down the other route. Our friend at the bureau’s undertaking the task personally.”

  “He’s doing what?” exclaimed Sir James, hardly believing what he’d just heard.

  “You told us to take all necessary steps to solve the problem.”

  “We voted to have her suspended, not to knock her off.” Sir James cut himself short, realizing that he’d said too much.

  “We don’t know where they are. That’s why I’m calling. I’m five hours behind you. It’s four here. We’ve heard nothing since just before twelve thirty. I’m concerned,” said Speak.

  “Jesus Christ, you Americans. Constantly jumping in with both feet. You all think you’re John bloody Wayne. You’d better hope that this doesn’t end in disaster. There’s nothing we can do until we hear from him. In the meantime, would you be so good as to set up an emergency meeting. Tomorrow evening. We’ll meet in New York. Location three.”

  Chapter 77

  It was his favorite time of day. Usually. Gilmore had taken a leaf out of Reagan’s book. He delegated as much as possible, tried to grab twenty minutes of shut-eye not too long after lunch and made it a rule that daily business ceased at five in the afternoon. This allowed him a couple of hours R&R before the evening program began. Unless something urgent came up. It had. He drained the glass of bourbon, laid the tumbler on the table and positioned himself in the chair on the far side of the coffee table from the North West door. His staff knew that if he was standing to greet them, when they entered the room, they were in for a gentle time.

  At five o’clock on the nail, President Gilmore’s chief of staff, Ron Bailey, closely followed by Edgar Lindstrom and Jerome Berger, the attorney general, were shown into the Oval Office. Berger, who’d been briefed by Lindstrom before the meeting, had a rough idea of what was coming up and would much rather have been somewhere else. The president remained seated and motioned the other men to do the same.

  “Let’s skip the small talk. Ron, brief them.”

  Ron Bailey had made politics his career. Widely credited as the man who put Gilmore in the White House, he was well known on both sides of the house as the president’s attack dog when things got rough. One of the chief of staff’s key responsibilities was to protect the interests of the president. Also, to act as the president’s point man with Congress and the Executive Branch. Bailey was five feet six inches tall, mostly bald and had a slight frame. It was therefore natural that others underestimate him. He usually used this as much to his advantage as possible before he went in for the kill.

  “Mr. President, Edgar, Jerome. The Beirsdorf problem. It’s not going to go away. It’s spreading faster than a wildfire.”

  “Thank you, Ron, I’ve been avidly watching CNBC all day,” Lindstrom smiled sarcastically, “why don’t you tell me something we don’t know.”

  “Okay, Edgar. You want it, you got it. I’ll cut the preamble. This afternoon, Grant Douglas attempted to murder Elisabeth Kennedy.”

  The sarcastic smile on Lindstrom’s face was gone. Berger still hadn’t got it.

  “I have a busy afternoon, fellas. Why don’t you go fool around somewhere else and I’ll get back to work.” Berger, half seriously, made to get up from his chair.

  “Jerome,” said Gilmore, “this isn’t a joke. I wish it was. Shortly before noon, Grant Douglas drove Elisabeth Kennedy to an isolated spot in the Appalachian’s and tried to put a bullet in her. Somehow she got the jump on him. Douglas was picked up an hour ago. He’s been taken to Walter Reed with a severe concussion and contusions to his head. Skull’s likely fractured in at least one place.”

  “If you’ll excuse my language, Mr. President, this is un-fucking-believable. What the hell is going on?” Berger said incredulously. “One minute we’re here to discuss the firesale of one of our most revered investment banks and the next you calmly tell me the head of the FBI just tried to assassinate the chairman of the Federal fucking Reserve.”

  “Jerome,” said Gilmore, “we go back a long way, but be careful.”

  Berger said nothing. He pushed himself back into his chair defensively, unapologetic.

  “It would appear that a group of enlightened people decided to take matters into their own hands,” Gilmore continued. “Kennedy’s turned herself into a target.”

  It was Lindstrom’s turn. “Mr. President, which group are you talking about? You make it sound like the Mafia. Who or what exactly are you referring to?”

  Bailey jumped in. “Bilderberg.”

  Lindstrom’s frown deepened. “Jesus Christ. I don’t believe this. What the hell are they doing? Bilderberg’s a talking shop for has-been elitists pretending they still have a voice.”

  “In which case,” Bailey said, “your assumption would appear to be wrong.”

  “You knew about this?” Lindstrom glaring at Gilmore accusingly.

  “The president knows nothing about any of this. Edgar, you’ve been invited to the Bilderberg annual conference. You’ve met the key people. The people who run the show.”

  Lindstrom nodded curtly.

  The phone on Gilmore’s desk momentarily distracted the men from the intensity of their discussion. Bailey leapt across the room and picked up the receiver.

  “They’ve found Douglas’s car. Empty, engine cold. Probably ditched at least a couple of hours ago.”

  “Where?” said Berger.

  “Philly,” said Bailey. “Means she could be just about anywhere on the East Coast, north of Richmond. Here included.”

  “Gentlemen.” Bailey glanced at the two men. Berger and Lindstrom were shell-shocked.

  “Gentlemen!” he shouted. It had the desired affect.

  “The president and I have discussed the situation at length. We’re on a knife edge. We can’t allow one person to put our entire financial system at risk. With Kennedy temporarily out of action, we’re able to appoint an interim replacement. That person will enable government support for stricken institutions immediately. Kennedy’s a loaded gun. When she surfaces she can blow us all out of the water, sink the current government, turn Russia and China against us. We believe it’s better not to intervene.”

  “I don’t understand where you’re going with this,” said Lindstrom, “what are you trying to say?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Edgar,” Bailey’s face was uncharacteristically crimson, “can’
t you read between the lines?”

  Gilmore brushed the top of Bailey’s forearm with the palm of his hand. Then he took over.

  “Look, Edgar, the Bilderberg Group isn’t only an advice shop for the great and the good. Think back. Think about all those seemingly miraculous, against all the odds breakthroughs that have been chalked up since World War Two ended. The Cuban Missile Crisis, the Cold War, Northern Ireland. I could go on. If we’d relied on grandstanding politicians with elections to fight, none of these stalemates would have ended peacefully. You think there’d be an EU if we’d let the Europeans do it themselves? Hell, they’d still be arguing about which country should hold the first presidency. There’s always been something else in the background, pulling strings, banging heads together, oiling the rusty wheels of human political interaction. Bilderberg was set up within ten years of World War Two. You think that was a coincidence? Bilderberg allows us to cut through bureaucracy, transcend self-serving national interests and ...”

  “And assassinate the chairman of the US Federal Reserve.” Lindstrom finished the sentence for him.

  Silence.

  “And you want us to stand by and let it happen,” said Berger, an accusation, not a question.

  “We don’t have a choice. If Kennedy get’s her story out to the media, she’ll not only sink us, and by the way, by us I mean the four people sitting round this table, but it’ll take US foreign relations back to the sixties. With China breathing down our necks, that’s a scenario that I don’t want to contemplate. So we sit back, try and minimise the fallout from this financial nightmare, and wait.”

  “Oh, and Edgar, Jerome,” Bailey looked each man in the eye as he said their respective names, “one goes down, we all go down. All for one, one for all. Okay?”

  President Gilmore rose. The three others followed.

  “We’ve been with each other a long time, guys. You’re in this room for a reason. We need to keep things together,” Gilmore said.