The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1) (28 page)

Chapter 88

  István listened to the check-in clerk standing behind the desk at D8, calling the American Airlines two thirty p.m. flight from La Guardia, New York, to Miami. Rivello and his father had landed one hour earlier in the area reserved for private aircraft and parted company. István sat, deeply in thought, as dozens of cheerful holiday makers crowded round the departure gate.

 
He had always felt a great deal of affection for Tereza. Even so, he had underestimated how deeply it would affect him were she to die. Particularly as he had done nothing to prevent her death. He’d never questioned his own loyalty to his son until he’d returned from St. Petersburg earlier in the day to find that Jay had ordered her to be killed. István knew that he was in no position to play the innocent. He had slept with his best friend’s wife and fathered the man’s son whose identity he had then kept secret.

  István had
turned a blind eye while he watched his son kill Attila Vass and steal his company. Zsuzsa died as a consequence. Since Tereza’s death, he had felt numb, a deepening gloom wrapped around him, a thick fog which slowed him down and removed any conscious interest in what was going on around him.

  István
looked up. The last of the holiday makers was boarding the plane. He got up, took two steps toward the boarding gate, stopped, turned around and slowly, deliberately, made his way to the terminal exit.

Chapter 89

  Elisabeth was not unfamiliar with occasional appearances on financial news channels. CNBC, for example. It was part of the job. Her experience in the studio did nothing to prepare her for the shock of her headlining the early morning national news as one of the FBI’s most wanted criminals.

 
According to the story, her son had been kidnapped. The FBI, fearing that it was part of a plot to destabilize the financial system at a time of crisis by an unscrupulous criminal gang, had then taken Elisabeth into protective custody and had removed her to a safe house for her own protection. Because of the sensitivity of the situation, her old friend Grant Douglas, the bureau’s director, had personally escorted Elisabeth to the safe house. Location was not given.

 
Grant Douglas had been found, viciously bludgeoned and close to death the previous evening and was now in an induced coma at a hospital in an undisclosed location. It was feared initially that the criminal gang had located Elisabeth and her protector, beaten him and taken her. It was now believed that Elisabeth had been the one to attack Grant Douglas, and that she had most likely killed her own son who had never been kidnapped in the first place. Elisabeth had been the one who originally called in her son’s disappearance. An interim chairman of the US Federal Reserve Bank would be appointed until a suitably elected replacement could be found.

 
It didn’t take Elisabeth long to work out what was going on. It was clear that they wanted her dead. Now her face had been splashed across the morning television news and was no doubt gracing the front pages of many of this morning’s newspapers. It would not be long before they found her.

 
Her cell rang. David’s number. She picked up immediately.
  “Have you told them that you’ve spoken to me?”

  “
No. If anyone knows how news can be distorted, it’s me. This whole thing sounds crazy. You need to tell me what in God’s name is going on.”

 
She told him. It didn’t take long. He was blown away with her story. Particularly when she told him that her son was being flown back to Washington the following day by none other than the US government.

  “
Who fed you people this nonsense, David? Where did the story come from?”

  “
It first appeared in the
Wall Street Journal
online edition late yesterday evening. Not the whole story, only the part about your son being kidnapped. We monitored it closely and tried to get verification from our own sources. I’m sure all the other major news outlets did the same. Then around midnight, an update was posted on the
Journal
’s site with the story about Grant Douglas and the fake kidnapping of your son. At that point everyone let loose. Our sources verified that your son had indeed gone missing and that Grant Douglas was in the hospital suffering from traumatic injuries.”

 
Elisabeth knew that Bilderberg had highly placed members in the world of business, including the media industry. What David said did not surprise her.

  “
Listen, Elisabeth. For what it’s worth, I believe you. Your story is incredible, but who would ever have heard the name Bob Woodward if he hadn’t taken the call from Deep Throat? You need to get out of there now. They’ll almost certainly be triangulating the signal from your cell phone. Where are you?”

  “
Jackson Heights, a motel.”

  “
Go,” said David, “go now. Don’t pack. Make your way down to the station on Roosevelt Avenue. I’ll meet you there in half an hour. Disguise yourself. I’ll be bringing someone with me. A captain in New York’s finest. We go back more than ten years.”

  “
David, after everything I’ve told you, you can’t possibly bring in the police.”

  “
Elisabeth, I understand how frightened you are, but you have to trust someone. If not, you’ll be thrown to the wolves. It doesn’t matter to them that your son will fly back into Dulles tomorrow afternoon. The most important thing to them is that you are taken care of as soon as possible. Then their secret goes to the grave, literally.”

 
Elisabeth knew that Roth was right. She relented, agreed to meet him and turned off her cell. She pulled on her coat and lifted the collar up around her neck and put her head down. Then she took the pins from her hair and let it fall past her shoulders. It wouldn’t fool anyone who compared her directly with her photograph, but would have to suffice with the limited time and resources available.

 
Elisabeth stepped out of the motel doorway. She turned right onto Roosevelt and began the fifteen-minute walk to the station. After she had gone three blocks, she heard the squealing of tires behind her. She looked back up the street. Two cars had pulled up outside the motel. At least three, maybe four men had jumped from each car, doors hanging open, and were pushing their way through the motel’s entrance.

Chapter 90

 
Four booths down Tereza was waved through.

  “
Mr. Berg, why are you visiting the United States?” the well-built young man’s gaze didn’t flicker from Michael’s face.

Having been to the States on a number of occasions
, Michael knew this was normal practice. Yet he felt his breathing tighten, a vein in his neck pulsing.

  “
For pleasure. I’m spending a few days in New York and then moving onto Washington.”

  “
Where are you staying, sir?” the politeness feigned, part of the training.

  “
I’m not sure yet. There are so many good deals at the moment I thought I’d see what I could get last minute.” Michael smiled, the official didn’t return it.

  “
Do you have money to stay in a hotel in New York, Mr. Berg?”

Michael withdrew his wallet and prayed the man wouldn’t ask to see a credit card. He opened the wallet and showed him the hundred dollar bills neatly stacked inside.

  “Well, if I max my cards, I’ve still got this to tide me over.”

 
The official looked at Michael, not sure if he was making fun of him or not. Michael stood his ground and stared straight back, raised his eyebrows as though to dare the younger man to haul him off for questioning.

  “
Okay, sir, you can go.”

  “
Thank you.” Michael walked away from the desk, careful not to display the extraordinary sense of relief that he was feeling.

 
They’d landed at Terminal Three. He glanced at the clock at the top of the arrivals board. Six ten. They’d be lucky to make it to the hotel by seven thirty never mind seven o’clock. They’d be travelling into the city during rush hour. It could be nearer eight. Later, if the traffic was bad. He spotted Tereza waiting for him at the exit and strode over to meet her.

  “
What happened to you? I was worried,” she said.

  “
Just an overenthusiastic immigration official. I’m more worried about how we’re going to get to Wall Street in only forty-five minutes. It’s rush hour. We’ll never make it by taxi and the subway will take at least an hour. That is if we don’t get lost.”

  “
We don’t have much choice.”

  “
Yes, we do. C’mon, follow me.”

 
Tereza sprinted after Michael as he set off running, back into the terminal building.

Chapter 91

 
Manhattan never ceased to fascinate him. Nowhere else put the reality of human existence into truer perspective than Manhattan. Hundreds of thousands of people scurrying along manufactured, cookie cutter streets, scratching whatever living they could, packed into cubicles, horizontally stacked within synthetic tower blocks. At least, Rivello thought, ants aren’t consciously aware of the futility of their own existence.

 
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.