The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1)

by Norrie Sinclair

  “Wait here. There’s a telephone box over there,” he pointed in its direction. “I’ll call the police. Then we wait.”

  Tereza nodded.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, troubled by the way she was acting.

  “I’m sorry, I’m exhausted. I’m amazed that I’m still standing upright. Go to the phone, call the police. I’ll wait here.”

  She smiled at him and he immediately felt reassured. The smile was tired, but full of warmth. He crossed to the other side of the street.

  Chapter 101

  As soon as he entered the apartment, Rivello headed for the bathroom. As he emptied the clothing from Hardcastle’s leather holdall into the bath, his nostrils picked up the metallic coppery scent of blood. His father’s. He knew that by the time the American police had any inkling of who he was, he would be safely back in Eastern Europe. Nevertheless, he still cursed the old man for adding this unforeseen complication. The last thing he needed was trace DNA left lying around.

  The apartment was not registered under his name. It was owned by a Cayman Island investment company. Yet it added a link he could have done without. He’d burn the clothes. He had already disposed of the knife and informed the pilot that he’d changed his plans. The flight plan would switch from Miami to Moscow Sheremetyevo, flying out of La Guardia at five a.m. He wouldn’t return to Ladoga until he knew what was waiting for him there.

  Before taking care of the clothes, he walked from the bathroom into the spacious, minimally decorated living room. He’d kept the apartment after leaving Beirsdorf’s, using it as a bolt-hole on his frequent trips to Manhattan. Rivello strolled over to the black, art deco desk facing out onto the Park. He took a seat and fired up the computer. When the screen jumped into life, he input his password and waited. He clicked on the Bloomberg Professional icon, entered a second password and the Bloomberg logo filled the top of the screen.

  Having read the headlines in the New York Times earlier in the day, he expected his portfolio to have gained at least another five billion euros in value. The contagion had spread. This was despite the US president’s announcement that he would put a bill before Congress within days to guarantee funding for the country’s banks. Rivello reckoned he still had at least ten days before he’d need to start closing his positions.

  At first, he thought that he’d entered the wrong account. There had to be some mistake. A fault with the system. He accessed the trading log, gazed at it in astonishment. That morning, at eleven, while on his way to Pulkovo, someone had accessed his account.

  When the upper panel of the glass door exploded, it showered the terrace with tiny shards of glass. The computer was only stopped from falling ten floors to the sidewalk by the brick wall enclosure. Rivello grabbed the lip of the desk and overturned it. He lashed out at one of the legs with his foot, not stopping until it lay broken on the floor. There was a hammering on the door.

  ---

  Tereza waited until Michael had his back turned and was halfway across the junction, desperately dodging traffic, when she made her move. She felt bad about what she was about to do to him. But she had no time for guilt. Her need to avenge her father’s death came before all else. The courts would not satisfy her need for justice. She would die herself in trying, if that’s what it came down to. She would never rest while her step-brother still breathed.

  Tereza entered the building, crossed the lobby and took the elevator to the tenth floor. The carpeted corridor absorbed all sound as she made her way to apartment 1012. The solid wooden door was at the end of the corridor. It was at the corner of the building, the apartment facing onto the Park and West Seventy-Third Street. Tereza reached into the outside pocket of her jacket and cupped the blade of the knife in her right hand, handle hidden within the jacket’s cuff.

  She’d bought the knife earlier, while Michael waited in the taxi outside the Hemingway. She raised her fist and pummeled on the door.

  ---

  Michael reached the phone booth, stepped inside, dialed 911. After only two rings the phone was answered. His relief turned to disappointment when he was forced to listen to an electronic voice, asking him to hold. As he waited, he turned to check on Tereza. She’d gone. He swept his eyes across the street. She was nowhere to be seen. It hit him. All at once he knew why she had been unresponsive and sullen earlier. She was already in there. The phone spun, dangling by its cord. Michael was already halfway across the street.

  Chapter 102

  “Who is it?” his voice snarling, threatening.

  It did not cause her any fear. Tereza was beyond any feeling, prepared only to kill, or be killed.

  “A ghost from the past,” she said. “Open the door, we need to talk.”

  The door opened. Rivello’s eyes betrayed his shock at seeing her standing there.

  “It was you. How?”

  Tereza’s eyes burned into his. Right arm at her side, she slid the knife handle from her cuff and into her hand, exposing the blade.

  She smiled at him to throw him off guard. He looked as though he was about to hit her. She brought the knife up sharply, aiming straight for his gut. The image of her father’s blood-spattered head helping her to get over her own revulsion at committing such an act. Rivello was fast, reflexes kicking in and shifting his body sideways. Too late to stop the knife from penetrating. He cried out as the knife entered his midriff. She had no idea where. Not serious. He didn’t double over, instead punching her on the side of the head. She cried out as it cracked against the frame of the door. She felt dizzy, legs weak, but tried to stay upright. She was finished if she collapsed.

  Tereza thrust the knife towards him. Rivello was ready this time. He dodged the attack and slammed his fist down hard onto her forearm, her hand dropping the knife. Before she had time to pick it up, he’d stepped on it. Tereza noticed the bloody stain on his shirt above the waist. She tried to punch the wound, but wasn’t fast enough. Rivello grabbed her long black hair in a bunch and thrust her head down as he brought his knee up into her face. Lights out.

  ---

  Tereza couldn’t have been out for more than a minute. If she had, she’d already have been decorating the sidewalk below. The sound of a car horn had brought her round. The traffic sounded close. The pain in her face was excruciating. This concerned her less than the view as it came into focus from ten floors below her. A softly illuminated, tree-lined street, bordered on one side by empty blackness glimmering with occasional light. Panic flooded her senses. Her upper body was sprawled over a brick wall. Upward pressure on her thighs was forcing her upwards and further over the wall.

  All this happened in a split second and in the next she tried to grasp the top of the wall with her hands. A sharp stabbing pain as a nail split in her desperation to get some sort of hold. To no avail. She had one last chance before she plunged headlong over the edge. She kicked out hard. No use, legs were held tight. Tereza needed to look him in the eye one last time before she died. She needed him to see that if there was something afterwards, she would be there waiting for him and would stalk him in his dreams until he got there. She turned her head and was shocked to come face to face with Michael Berg.

  Chapter 103

  Michael knew in the back of his mind that he was a fool for not picking up on it earlier. She’d told him of her desire to kill Rivello. He’d sensed her hesitancy when he’d asked her what she thought of his intention to call the police. He hadn’t pursued it. It had been easier than asking the difficult questions. Inevitably, not trusting his instinct had forced Tereza to act on her own.

  These were the thoughts that raced through Michael’s mind as he jumped from the elevator and tore along the corridor to Rivello’s apartment. The door was fractionally open. Although he had no idea what was awaiting him in the apartment, he knew he had no time. The door was ajar. He kicked it open and rushed into the hallway. The sight that greeted Michael filled him with dread.

  He was looking out across a spacious, open plan room whose subd
ued lighting dimly illuminated two figures on a terrace surrounded by a waist-high enclosure. As Michael’s eyes adjusted to the lighting, he could make out Tereza, unmoving, being hoisted over the wall by Rivello, who was kneeling on the ground, arms tightly wrapped round her thighs, using his shoulder to push her upwards. Rivello appeared to be having difficulty. Maybe he’s hurt. Tereza’s upper abdomen already balanced on the lip of the wall.

  Michael had barely slowed his rush forward and was hurtling towards the terrace. There were no more than a few moments left before she would drop to her death. As he passed a low coffee table in the middle of the room, he grabbed at a heavy looking statue of a female nude, clenched the ornament’s neck with his right hand and raised it over his shoulder as he sprinted through the door.

  Tereza struggled. Her hands tried to latch onto the wall’s surface. She tried to shake Rivello but his grip was too tight.

  Rivello, intent on his murderous task, hadn’t seen Michael approach. Michael lifted the statue with both hands, swung it downwards, aiming squarely for Rivello’s head. Tereza turned to face him, terror written across her face.

  Distracted by the sudden movement, the statue missed its target and slammed into Rivello’s shoulder. The man let out a cry, released Tereza and rolled sideways. Rivello jumped to his feet and took three long quick strides to the terrace’s north wall. Michael slid his arm around Tereza’s waist and lowered her to the ground.

  “Behind me, in the corner,” he told her.

  Michael and Rivello faced each other, five meters separating them. Rivello reached into the outside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a knife, the blade glinting in the light.

  “You’re not getting out of here alive. You or my lovely sister.” Rivello, face twisted, mean, full of hatred, his thin lips spitting out the words, the venom in his voice unmistakable.

  “I’m going to slice you up so badly you’ll wish you’d had the chance to jump.”

  Rivello moved closer, reducing the distance between them. Michael knew that the other man was trying to intimidate him, goad him. Equally, Michael was aware that it would only take one good shot with the statue to take him out.

  The next time Rivello took a step forward, Michael did the same, simultaneously swinging the statue with his right hand at Rivello’s head. Rivello was expecting it and easily dodged the statue by pulling his head back swiftly and countered by lunging his whole body forward, the speed taking Michael by surprise. Michael pulled back reflexively, realizing a moment later that something was wrong.

  He felt the warm liquid running down his neck into his shirt before he felt an excruciating pain explode across the side of his face. Taking another step backwards, he put his hand to his left cheek and recoiled immediately, both in reaction to the pain and in horror at the long loose flap of skin that he found there.

  Rivello came in for another strike, taking advantage of Michael’s severely damaged face. Rivello’s eyes shone with lust for the kill. Michael had no doubt that the man knew exactly what he was doing. If Michael played this straight, he was dead, Tereza too.

  Rivello deftly swung the knife in the air in front of Michael, intent on distracting him. The movement caused the left front flap of his jacket to swing open. Michael saw blood. A large stain had spread across the man’s lower left side. Tereza did hurt him. Before Rivello could make another play for him, Michael swung the statue behind himself at waist level, then brought it forward at tremendous speed and launched it at the spreading stain on Rivello’s shirt.

  It hit the target head on and the other man erupted in an agonized cry, doubling over. Immediately Michael launched a kick that connected with Rivello’s head and sent him tumbling backwards against the wall. The wall was barely a meter high. The momentum and weight of Rivello’s upper body acted like a pendulum and pulled him over, his hands grasping anything that would stop him from falling. The knife had gone. Rivello’s hands had hooked themselves like claws onto the top of the wall. Michael moved towards him cautiously, wary of being tricked.

  “For God’s sake, what kind of man are you? Don’t leave me like this. Pull me up. Pull me up now.” Rivello’s voice more pleading than commanding.

  Michael looked down on him. Killing in self-defense was one thing. Allowing another human being to die needlessly was another. Rivello looked scared, the meanness gone from his face. Fear had done a good job of contorting his features. Michael felt her presence behind him. Now alongside. Either could have pulled him back from the brink. Neither made a move.

  “You fuckers, I’ll make sure you rot in hell.” His hands, white and weakened by his own loss of blood, sprung open, body silently falling through the air. He disappeared from sight in the ochre glimmer of the streetlights.

  Chapter 104

  The newspaper lay unopened. There was no need to turn the page. Everything of any relevance to President Ian Gilmore that morning covered the top half of the front page. Despite the New York Times’ generally conservative approach to splashing sensationalist headlines across its cover, Gilmore was taken aback by the headline glaring up at him from his desk.

  KENNEDY ASSASSINATION, GOVERNMENT INVOLVEMENT SUSPECTED

  “From a secret location in an exclusive interview with the New York Times, recently suspended Fed chairman, Elisabeth Kennedy, claims that an elitist and secretive group of powerbrokers, the Bilderberg Group, attempted to have her assassinated with the connivance of US Government agencies. Mrs. Kennedy claims that her refusal to provide bailout funding to US investment bank, Beirsdorf Klein, so enraged members of the US government that Bilderberg Group members, with vested interests in shoring up the financial services sector, were encouraged to ensure that she was replaced by a bailout friendly alternative.

  Mrs. Kennedy claims to have been the intended victim in the recently publicized wounding of FBI Director Grant Douglas. Her attempted murder at the hands of Douglas a direct result of his close association with Bilderberg. Kennedy’s son Ralph was kidnapped by international career criminal Jay Rivello, who subsequently blackmailed her into going against presidential demands for a soft landing for US banks. Kennedy claims that her refusal to sign up to a taxpayer funded bailout was tantamount to signing her own death warrant …”

  He stopped. It read worse the second time around. If that was possible. He’d received the copy at six fifteen a.m. Twenty minutes after the call from Ron Bailey. Bailey and Jerome Berger were on their way.

  ---

  Several minutes later, the three men shook hands, none certain of what was to follow. Gilmore sat down, too preoccupied in thought to offer seats to the others. Bailey and Berger tentatively took a seat on the couch simultaneously, both clutching copies of the New York Times.

  “Jerome, where do we stand on this? What do we need to do to keep this away from the White House?”

  Gilmore needed to ask the question, even if he already knew the answer.

  The attorney general was aware of the strong relationship that the US and other Western governments had with the Bilderberg Group. He’d made it a point, though, to remain as uninformed as possible.

  “That depends, Mr. President, on how close the connection is. The headline mentions government involvement. Is this true?” said Jerome.

  Gilmore looked at Bailey, Bailey at Gilmore and then both turned to face Jerome Berger.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Berger’s eyes rolled upwards.

  “Ron, you were on the board? While Bilderberg was trying to assassinate Elisabeth Kennedy?” said Gilmore.

  Bailey nodded slowly, grim-faced.

  “Ian, you’ll be lucky not to get impeached. You’re only hope is for Ron to carry the can, resign his position as chief of staff immediately and submit to the relevant authorities. Even then, there’s a strong chance that no one will believe that you weren’t involved.”

  Gilmore spoke. “Ron, I guess you know now what needs to be done. Don’t worry. I’ll see to it you don’t serve any jail time.”

 
“Speak’s also on the Executive Committee.” As Bailey spoke, he couldn’t hide the dismay in his voice on learning that his old friend was prepared to ditch him so quickly to save his own skin.

  “Dammit, Ian,” Berger said, “what the hell have you been running here? The deputy director of the CIA is part of this too? This is Watergate all over again. Nixon might have made us a laughing stock, but at least he didn’t try to sabotage our relationship with over half the world. I can’t be part of this. I’ve given you the best advice I can, but believe me, it’s nowhere near good enough.”

  At that, Jerome Berger, somber faced, flushed with anger and disappointment stood abruptly, and without bidding the two other men good-bye, strode from the room.

  Chapter 105

  It had been three days since Jay Rivello had fallen from the apartment building on Central Park West. Three days since America was rocked by the news that their government was implicated in a plot to assassinate Elisabeth Kennedy. A frenzy of media speculation and pressure had led to the arrest of five of the six remaining members of the Bilderberg Group Steering Committee in the US, Holland, Britain, France and Germany. Including Bailey and Speak.

  Rick Delaney was nowhere to be found. It was assumed by some who’d had the bad fortune to run into him in recent days that he’d fallen under a train with the help of a bottle of bourbon. The death of Sir James Hardcastle on the same evening as the death of Rivello provided the journalists and news anchors with their richest source of material since 9/11. There was no sign that it was going to die down anytime soon.