He sat at the window table of an up-market coffee shop on Broad Street. His constant focus on the main entrance of the building opposite such that the mineral water in the glass before him hadn’t been touched. He’d been settled in that same location since six p.m. It was now eight thirty. He had no intention of interrupting the proceedings in the board room on the tenth floor of the hotel. Before paying Sir James a visit, he did, though, want to ensure that Van Valkenburgh hadn’t set him up. Unfortunately, this necessitated that there was no unusual activity in the vicinity of the hotel on either side of the meeting.
Rivello was looking forward to seeing his old boss again.
Momentarily, Rivello’s attention flickered to Rykov. He’d tried to reach the Russian numerous times. Without success. Something was wrong. Rykov was most likely dead. Rivello was not so much bothered by the likelihood of Rykov’s demise, but by the question of who had been responsible for killing him.
He shifted his full focus back to the hotel. He would give it another hour. The meeting shouldn’t last much longer.
Chapter 92
The only audible sound was the ticking of the hotel standard, rustic, wooden framed clock, placed evenly between the two windows of the Habana Room. There were seven attendees gathered round an oval, recently lacquered table in the middle of the room. One chair lay empty. Van Valkenburgh was missing.
The deafening crash of toughened leather on lacquered wood had paralyzed them all. Silence reigned.
Sir James removed his shoe from the table. He glared at each of the faces around him menacingly and took his time in replacing the sturdy black brogue on his foot. Once finished, he sat ramrod straight in his chair, maintaining the disgruntled glower of a displeased headmaster.
“This, gentlemen, is ridiculous. Two hours sitting here squabbling like a bunch of school children and we have gotten absolutely nowhere. I see no alternative but, for one last time, to outline the facts, the potential consequences of inaction and put it to a final vote.
“Do we continue the pursuit of Mrs. Kennedy? If we fail, the Bilderberg Group will be dismantled and all hell will break loose. Investigators will pick through our past with unimaginable consequences. Unfortunately, to stop now is most likely too late. Kennedy has enough ammunition to sink us ten times over. Personally I don’t believe that we have a choice.”
“If I may, Sir James.” Ron Bailey, sitting to the left of an intoxicated Rick Delaney and facing Sir James, stood and, like all good lawyers, took the floor.
“Look, Grant Douglas failed to liquidate the woman, but he did give us the opportunity to discredit her. Our main objective has therefore been achieved. The banks will receive the government funding that they need to survive, albeit too late to save Beirsdorf Klein. As for Kennedy, I don’t believe we have a choice. Some of us certainly overstepped the mark when the order was given for her permanent removal,” he glanced at Speak, “but what’s done is done. We can’t go back. The price of failure is far too high. Within these four walls I can say that I have it on the highest authority that we cannot afford to give up now.”
“Hear, hear,” Delaney piped up, red eyes, stubble covered jaw and disheveled appearance a clue to his current state of mind.
“Richard,” Sir James addressed Delaney, “I’m withdrawing your vote. I am afraid to say that this Kennedy situation has become too personal, a vendetta, if you will.”
Delaney tried to object, but was not given the opportunity to speak.
“Either leave now or stay and accept the chairman’s decision. Your choice. This time,” Delaney was told.
Delaney puffed himself up and looked, momentarily, as though he was going to fling himself across the table at Sir James. Instead, he lowered his head, exhaled and sat back, eyes down towards the table.
“Gentlemen, the motion is to maintain our search for Elisabeth Kennedy and to ensure that she is no longer able to influence international affairs. May I have the ayes?” Five hands went up around the table.
“Five say yes, one abstention. I have no vote. The aye’s have it. Elisabeth Kennedy is to be terminated. There would indeed seem to be no alternative.” Sir James stood. “This meeting’s at an end. Mr. Speak, please keep us informed of progress. Good night, gentlemen.”
The other men at the table stood, shook hands with one another and made their way to the door.
“Richard.”
Delaney, the last to leave, was weaving his way out of the room. He turned to face Sir James.
“This is no time to fall apart,” the older man said. “Look at you, you’re a mess. I’m afraid I have no choice but to suspend you from the governing committee until you’ve straightened yourself out.”
Delaney managed to pull himself upright, reached into the left hand inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a rectangular gold hip flask. He unscrewed the top, put it to his lips and swallowed. When he’d finished, he replaced the flask and looked hard into Sir James’s eyes, face contorted into a sneer.
“Screw you, you uptight English faggot. Take your fucking committee and shove it up your public schoolboy ass.”
Delaney swung round, too quickly, and tumbled onto the deep pile carpet. Without looking back, he gathered himself, clumsily, and made for the door.
Sir James looked on in disgust. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to take care of Delaney. To be prudent, he would ask Douglas Speak to allocate someone to keep an eye on him.
Chapter 93
Michael glanced over at Tereza. Her dark eyes stared intently at the entrance to the hotel. The helicopter shuttle had gotten them to the heliport on East Thirty-Fourth Street in just under ten minutes. The taxi to Broad Street had taken twice as long. It was eight ten. They’d seen nothing of Rivello or István in the past hour. Tereza’s eyes turned to meet Michael’s.
“Keep watching, I’ll be back soon,” she said.
His eyes reverted to the hotel entrance as Tereza pushed open the door. “Where you going?” said Michael.
“Ladies room. Besides, we’ve been sitting in this cab for over two hours. If I don’t get out of here, I’ll go crazy.”
“Okay, but hurry, if he comes out I’ll have to follow.”
She was already out of the cab.
“I’ll be quick,” as she closed the door.
Michael had to admit the thick partition, that ran from roof to floor between the driver and passenger in your average New York taxi, didn’t make for great legroom. He stretched his legs across to the footwell on Tereza’s side of the car, momentarily buoyed by the knotted tension draining from the muscles in his legs.
“This gonna take much longer?”
The driver had changed the angle of the rearview mirror so that, as Michael briefly allowed his eyes to flicker to the front of the cab, he found himself looking into the man’s eyes. Not accusing, exasperated as far as Michael could tell. He shifted his gaze back to the hotel entrance.
“Look, I have no idea. It could be another five minutes. It could be two hours. I really don’t know. I said I’ll pay you double what’s on your meter when we’re finished, but let me know if it’s not enough and we’ll square up now.”
“Hey, no problem, pal, end of my shift and I wanna get home. I can wait a while more.”
Michael left it at that, his concentration heavily fixed on trying to identify Rivello from the variety of guests entering and leaving the hotel.
Fifteen minutes passed before Tereza returned.
“Sorry, I ended up having to buy a coffee in a place just so they’d let me use the bathroom.”
“It’s okay. Nothing to see. I’m beginning to think we might have missed him. He must have gone in before we arrived. It’s possible he’s already left.”
“No, he hasn’t,” Tereza said, her tone definite.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Look.” Tereza didn’t move her hands, but nodded her head towards the junction on the opposite side of Broad Street from the hotel. Twenty meters from th
e cab they were sitting in.
“Bloody hell. He must have walked straight past us,” whispered Michael, as though Rivello might hear him if he spoke any louder.
Rivello was dressed in a smart navy blue blazer and a neat pair of dark grey trousers. He looked alert and confident. As the green WALK lamp lit up, he looked to his left, then his right before crossing. Rivello stared straight at the cab. Michael froze, his breath held, until Rivello’s head swung back and he strode across to the other side of the street. He continued walking the one hundred or so meters to the hotel’s entrance and entered the revolving door. Michael half expected him to glance back to them at any moment. He didn’t.
Chapter 94
The receptionist was young, blond, pretty. Her name, according to the embossed, silver tag, was Anna.
“Hello, Anna,” said Rivello, “my name’s Pieter Van Valkenburgh. I’m here with the party in the Habana Room. I’m due to meet Sir James Hardcastle in his suite at nine, but I’ve forgotten his room number.”
“Sir, let me just call him on the house phone for you now and you can let him know you’re here.”
“That would be fine, Anna, but this guy’s my boss and he already tore a strip off me this evening.” Rivello crumpled his face and conveyed the air of someone who felt embarrassed and foolish.
“He’ll think I’m a complete idiot if I can’t remember a simple room number.”
The young woman hesitated. Then smiled.
“Hold on a minute, I’ll check.” She hit a couple of keys on the keyboard and examined the screen. No doubt confirming the names of the guests booked in to use the hotel’s board room that evening.
“Okay, sir, that’s fine. Sir James is in suite 1238. Twelfth floor.”
“Could you give him a call and let him know I’m on the way up?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Thanks,” said Rivello. “You may have just saved my job.” He thought it ironic that what she’d just done would most likely cost the girl her own.
Rivello waited until he was able to enter an elevator alone. When he exited on the twelfth floor, he turned to the right and made his way along the patterned red carpeting until he reached a double wooden door standing, grandly, at the end of the corridor. He pressed a switch, which he assumed was the buzzer, and stood back about half a meter. When the right hand door swung open, he readied himself.
He’d correctly assumed that Sir James would use the safety chain. Rivello slammed his right heel into the door. He heard Sir James cry out as the door swung open. Rivello instantaneously leapt into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. The old man, lying prostrate on the floor, looked a poor imitation of the arrogant, blustering bully Rivello had known close to twenty years before.
Rivello turned the security lock on the door. The man before him was moaning softly and appeared to be only semi-conscious. Rivello crossed the living room of the suite and checked to ensure that no one was in the bedroom or either of the bathrooms. Both sets of curtains were closed. He moved back to Sir James, bent forward and grasped both of the man’s hands, skin paper soft and wrinkled to the touch. He pulled him by his arms across the floor and, without difficulty, lifted him into a high-backed wooden chair that sat facing into the room. He took a roll of duct tape from the inside pocket of his jacket, wrapped it around the old man’s chest and the back of the chair. He then taped both wrists to the chair’s arms.
Rivello went into the bathroom, adjoining the living room, and ran a bath. Above the noise of the gushing water he heard a muted buzzing noise. There was somebody at the door.
Chapter 95
He observed his son talking to the blond receptionist. István stood his ground on the other side of the lobby window. Jay left the reception desk and walked towards the elevator bank. He watched as Jay stood back, allowing a group of four to take the first elevator to arrive. His son took the next elevator. István followed. He stood in front of the elevator doors taking note of the floor numbers, simultaneously pressing the call button.
Jay’s elevator car stopped on the twelfth floor. A few seconds later, István was on his way up. As he rode upwards, he felt light-headed. He was nervous and hadn’t thought this through. All he knew was he wanted this to end now. He would confront his son and beg him to stop. To leave the old man alone, to go home.
The sound made by the doors opening was drowned out by a crashing noise down the hallway to the right. As István stepped out of the elevator, he looked to his right to see a door slamming shut at the end of the corridor. He would have to move fast.
Chapter 96
At first she had refused to talk. Anyone could have been on the other side of the partly mirrored wall, observing her through the one-way glass. Listening to every word she said. She liked David Roth, but found herself unable to trust him fully. He sat opposite her now. Young, well, at least by her standards, about thirty-five years old and bookish in appearance. Small round glasses adorned sharp features and ears that noticeably stuck out more than they should have. He was tall, skinny, preppily dressed.
This was where first appearances were deceptive. Roth, from past experience, was not only an extremely gifted writer, but also a ferocious debater. His appearance belied a forceful, resonant voice that took his opponents by surprise. He gave no quarter to his foe and verbally destroyed anyone unlucky enough to cross his path who was not his equal.
To Elisabeth, however, Roth’s most important and redeeming quality was his absolute and irrevocable pursuit of the truth. He had a journalist’s nose for what was fiction and, compared to some in his profession, he was prepared to let the former stand in the way of a good story. That is why, from the dozen or so journalists that she knew, Elisabeth had called David Roth.
“Elisabeth, I need to record this interview. If you won’t allow me, I’ll have no proof that this conversation ever took place.” He leant towards her. The windowless room added to her feeling of discomfort. That was probably the point.
She glanced again towards the mirror.
“Elisabeth,” repeating her name again, a tool of the trade, “McLusky said there would be no one else present, in here or on the other side of that glass. He hasn’t broken his word to me in the ten years that I’ve known him. The precinct is at bursting point, there’s nowhere else to go. Unless you want to move into one of the cells.” He smiled.
It was the smile that did it. The disarming nature of his gesture touched her and, rightly or wrongly, she felt compelled to tell him everything. What other choice did she have?
Elisabeth spent the next six hours with Roth. She told him her story. Then, at his prompting, she told it three more times. He then pushed her through the story backwards until she felt more like a suspect than a victim. She was perspiring under the fluorescent lights, the air-conditioning ineffective. She could feel what little makeup that she had applied to her eyes running down her cheeks. She needed to breathe.
“Okay, Elisabeth, let’s go over your meeting in the restaurant one more time, with the man who kidnapped Ralph.”
She snapped. “What right do you think you have putting me through this? I’ve told you everything I know, Godammit. I called you, remember, and I’m giving you the best story of your damned career. Enough. I want to get out of here.”
As she finished the last sentence, her voiced trailed into nothing. Where would she go? She couldn’t go home. She couldn’t go anywhere. There was nowhere to go. If she set a foot outside the precinct building, there was a pretty good chance she would never be seen again. Elbow propped against the table, Elisabeth pressed her forehead into the cup of her upturned hand. She closed and rubbed her tired eyes.
“I’m sorry, Elisabeth. I can’t imagine how you feel right now, but remember, I’m now in this as much as you are. I know everything about Bilderberg that you know. Given that I’m a journalist, working for one of the most widely read newspapers in the country, I will probably have an even bigger target on my back than you do.”
Her face remained covered by her hand, but she was listening.
“We both know who you’re up against. You think this is tough. You think all I need to do is file a story tonight and when it hits the streets tomorrow they’ll lock the bad men up and throw away the key. The people who are going to be sitting in front of you tomorrow are going to make me look like a high school cub reporter. Me, I need to make sure that everything I write when I get home tonight is exactly as you say it is. If you’re not being honest with me, best case my career’s in the toilet, worst, I’m dead. I don’t see many other alternatives.”
Elisabeth lifted her head from her hand and sat upright, took a deep breath and told him for the fifth time about the afternoon she met the tall, well-dressed man with the ice cold eyes and the soulless smile.
Chapter 97
Whoever it was kept their finger on the buzzer. Not room service. Rivello turned off the tap. He took a knife from his trouser pocket, opened the blade and ensured that it had locked in place. The switchblade was light and easy to conceal, sharp and agile.
As he left the bathroom, he noted Sir James’s still unconscious state, chest gently rising and falling, otherwise motionless.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Jay. Open the door.”
Rivello had no choice. His father wasn’t going anywhere. To leave him standing in the corridor, demanding entrance, could only have unfortunate consequences.
He opened the door. His father’s portly physique greeting him, face flushed, anxiety ridden, sweating.
“Get in,” Rivello hissed, his own angular face taught and filled with anger.
Rivello pushed the door shut. The two men were only a couple of feet apart. István scanned the room. He tried to push past Rivello, further into the room.
The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1) Page 25
