The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1) (7 page)

Chapter 22

  Michael opened the door leading from the stairwell to the reception area. He heard a scraping noise followed by the sound of something hitting the floor. Someone had climbed through the window below.

  “
Shit,” he said, a bit louder than he meant to.

His tail from Warsaw? He couldn’t hang around to find out. His first thought was to get back up the stairs and find somewhere to hide, but he knew that with no elevator the stairs were the only way up or down. If there were two of them
, one of his pursuers could search the building floor by floor while the other stood guard over the stairwell.

 
Michael backed up through the doorway, gently closed the door and took the stairs two at a time on the balls of his feet, to minimize any noise. If he was going to jump, it would have to be from the first floor. Would have to be fast. Even then it was a four-meter drop. If he lowered himself with his hands he could reduce it to almost two. He came out of the stairwell onto the first floor. Where was the best place to jump from? From the rear, where he wouldn’t be seen by workers in adjacent offices. Where would he go? Into the forest and they would most likely catch him, particularly if he hurt himself in the fall. He might not even make it that far. He could sprint for one of the other buildings, but his pursuers would certainly see him. They had obviously tired of merely observing and now had something else in mind.

 
There was only one option. If he failed he was a dead man. Michael sprinted down the open corridor between the banks of desks towards the windows at the rear. As he ran he tore off his jacket. He was relieved to see the floor plan was identical to that on the third floor. As he reached the end of the corridor, in front of the window, he hoisted a computer from the nearest desk, swung it over his head and threw it with everything he had straight at the center of the window.

Chapter 23

  Konstantin Rykov followed Revnik through the broken window on the ground floor. They covered the three empty rooms and made their way to the stairwell, first activating the STOP button on each elevator.

  “
If he’s still here, this won’t be difficult,” Revnik said.

  “
Let’s make it quick then,” said Rykov, dropping his left hand to his outside jacket pocket, satisfying himself that his knife was where it should be. “Let’s go. I’ll clear each floor. You cover the stairs.”

 
They climbed. There was the distant crash of something breaking. Glass.

  “
Outside now, he’s jumped,” Rykov bellowed. ”I’ll follow him.”

 
Revnik swung around and charged back down into the stairwell while Rykov leapt up the remaining stairs leading to the first floor. When he burst through the door, he instinctively swung from left to right, searching for the exit point. It took him a split second to notice the black leather jacket left hanging across the windowsill at the far end of the room. It took him approximately eight seconds to reach the broken window. He knew that Berg would have had time either to make it into the cover of the forest or make it out onto the road in front of the building.

 
Rykov hadn’t stopped moving while these thoughts were running through his head. In one fluid movement, he had gone from a sprint into a dive, his hands grabbing onto the jacket covered window ledge and, having slowed his own momentum, he dropped to the ground in a parachutist’s roll, successfully absorbing most of the impact. He came up fast and ran the ten meters to the edge of the forest, crouching on the way to pick up a black object sitting in the grass. At the edge of the forest line he stopped, completely still, barely breathing. He listened. Not a sound. He looked down at the object in his hand. He opened the black wallet. Five thousand dollars cash. He slid a laminated card from the card holder to find Berg’s face looking back at him. Driving License.
Not as much of a desk bound mummy’s boy as you look
. It irritated him that he had underestimated Michael Berg twice now. To have done so went against all his Spetsnaz training.

 
I am the one who has become soft
. He had been away from real action for too long. Berg’s time would come though. Now or later, and when it did he would make sure he took his time and enjoyed it. This had become personal.

 
The Russians spent more than two hours searching the forest. It would be impossible to cover the whole area without either significantly more time or more men. The sky was darkening. There was no way Berg could have gotten past both him and Revnik, or hidden within the radius they’d both covered. Rykov didn’t believe that Berg could have made it to the next building in the time that it had taken him to exit, although he couldn’t be sure. The location of the wallet indicated heavily that Berg had run for the cover of the trees. And vanished.

 
With no other option, he ordered the pilot to return. Rykov was not a man to scare easily. In fact, he was not even sure that he had ever in all truth felt that emotion, fear. At that moment, on conceding defeat for the second time, he believed that he was feeling the closest thing to it. A hefty penalty would be imposed for this dismal failure.

---

  The creature crawled across the back of his hand and onto his wrist. He had no way of knowing how long it had been sitting on his hand in the first place. Michael couldn’t lift his arm to look at his watch. He reckoned he had been under the maintenance hatch for maybe four hours. It felt like a lifetime. Two thoughts had occupied his mind. Both were amplified by the clawing darkness and unbearable silence surrounding him. If he breathed too loudly, or made any movement, he would only have moments to live. The second. What if he wasn’t able to release himself from this self-constructed tomb? How long would it take to die? How painful would it be? Perhaps he should give himself up and get it over with. His fear of a slow death was outweighed by the inevitability of an immediate and agonizing one. In four hours, he had barely moved an inch.

 
It stirred. Little legs making their way across his wrist. Not a rat or a mouse. Too small, too light. A spider, maybe a beetle. A big one.
Are spiders poisonous in this part of the world?
He had no idea. The creature’s legs rustled the hairs on his arm, slipping under the cuff of his shirt, now inside the sleeve. This last indignity, the hours of pitch black confinement in a living coffin and the constant fear of being discovered, combined to tense every muscle in his body. Enough.

 
Michael curled his fists and slammed them into the metal cover that lay over him. It didn’t move. The trough was so shallow he couldn’t move his right hand across his body to squash whatever was now squirming on the skin of his left forearm. Spurred by the fear of being buried alive, he tried again, this time using his right shoulder to provide additional leverage. The lock snapped. The metal door sprung open. He brought his hand down sharply on his upper left arm. Three times for good measure. He pulled himself up and out of the maintenance hatch, opened his shirt and shook out the remains of the dead insect. Michael didn’t look too carefully to see what it was.

 
Night had fallen. All was in darkness. He could make out the illuminated positioning of the hands on his watch. Michael had been under the air-conditioning maintenance hatch for close to four hours. They must have stopped looking for him by now. He’d heard the helicopter return and leave again at least two hours previously, maybe more. At the time he couldn’t be sure if it hadn’t been bringing in reinforcements, so he’d stayed put, excruciating though it had been.

 
Michael looked around, eyes well accustomed to the darkness. He moved back along the corridor and got onto his hands and knees, finding his way beneath the bank of desks where he’d flung the backpack four hours earlier. He found it, opened the cord and checked the contents. His spare clothing was there, most importantly so was the money, less five thousand euros. An empty wallet would not have proved very convincing. He wouldn’t be needing his driving license. He had his passport if necessary. When he’d crawled back out from under the desk, he took the slip of paper that he’d copied the file contents onto and stored it safely on the inside of the backpack. It had to mean something. It was all he had.

 
He walked over to the shattered window, retrieved his jacket, slung it over his shoulder and cautiously made his way to the stairs.

Chapter 24

  The Kulm Hotel, like most things in St. Moritz, is luxurious yet discreet. The hotel straddles the slopes on the uppermost northern fringe of the famous ski resort, with astounding views of the Engadine Valley below. Hulking over the town of St. Moritz itself, bordering the small but extraordinarily picturesque Sankt Moritzersee lake, is the famous town’s raison d’être, the three-thousand-meter Piz Nair. In February, as the worst of the winter weather lifts and the sun glistens on the distant snows, the mountains themselves appear to be too perfectly framed by the startling blue sky, as if an immaculately painted backdrop. In May, the view wasn’t quite so spectacular, as the snows had gradually melted from all but the highest peaks. However, it was undoubtedly an acceptable location for the Fifty-Fourth Annual Conference of the Bilderberg Group.
  Augustus, his attention diverted by the sound of the buzzer, pulled himself away from the exhilarating panorama, tipped his cigarette into the ashtray and lifted himself from the rattan chair in which he had been attempting to relax. Until relatively recently, he hadn’t touched a cigarette for at least ten years. He blamed his current re-acquaintance with the habit on a combination of having to do the dirty work for a blackmailing, low-life scumbag and the deepening financial crisis which in the last two weeks had reduced the value of his bank by almost twenty percent. His own personal investments were also suffering, some of them extremely badly. He would get some release from his current frustrations during his next trip to Moscow. Unfortunately that was three weeks away. Entering his suite from the terrace, he lifted his shoulders, pulled in his protuberant stomach and strode across the living room area of his suite to the door.

 
Facing him was a tall, slender woman, with sharp, handsome features. Perhaps mid-fifties. He was familiar with her photograph. Elisabeth Kennedy was widely expected to be nominated as the next chairman of the Fed. She looked the part, he would certainly give her that. Immediate presence, strong forceful features and a look that said “take me seriously or else.” Her chic but business-like attire transmitted a similar message.

  “
It’s my pleasure to welcome you to Bilderberg, Mrs. Kennedy. I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Goodfriend,
the journey was most pleasant and your staff very helpful.” Elisabeth smiled, “I must admit, this is the first time I’ve had the pleasure of staying in Switzerland. Even more spectacular than I had imagined.”

Augustus, taken aback by the woman’s warmth
, smiled in turn and offered her a seat.

  “
Please make yourself comfortable,” gesturing her towards the couch on the other side of the room, “and do please call me Augustus. Room service will be arriving shortly. I took the liberty of ordering tea, coffee, some sandwiches.”

  “
Is it likely that I’ll be meeting President Gilmore while I’m here?”

 
Augustus smiled, understanding her concern. “When the Group was founded, it was agreed that no serving US president would attend a Bilderberg conference. It would simply have been seen as another lever used by the Americans to pursue their own interests.”

 
He decided it was time to move on.

  “
May I ask,” said Augustus, “what precisely will be the theme of your speech?”

  “
Well,” answered Elisabeth, “I don’t want to spoil my own thunder. Let’s just say I have for some time now held a strong view that the global financial industry is out of control. No one knows how much exposure the largest financial institutions have to a global derivatives market that’s wound tighter than a spring. Not even the lunatics who are running the asylum.” Augustus winced, tongue protruding, wetting thick lips.

  “
The evidence points to a complete market collapse with implications we can’t begin to contemplate. The nearest comparison is America in the thirties. That was America. Now we’re talking the whole world.”

  Augustus sighed. “
I agree that the markets have been tough on the banks recently, but I hardly think ‘we lunatics’ are quite as incapable as you seem to think,” said Augustus, a shrill quality entering his voice.

  “This is
my opinion. I didn’t come here to tiptoe softly over people’s egos. No matter who they are. You’ve invited me to speak. I have to assume that the audience is of a caliber that will want to hear what I think, not some sanitized claptrap.”

Augustus reminded himself that he had an additional objective to be achieved duri
ng this meeting.

“Of course, you’re absolutely right. You may find, though, that your audience is more receptive to your message if you rethink referring to them as lunatics.”

  “
You can be rest assured that I won’t upset any of the members of your audience more than they deserve to be.”

It occurred to Augustus that the Group’s invitation to Elisabeth Kennedy may have been a little premature.

  “I’m sure you will, Elisabeth. I mean, I’m sure you won’t.” He felt his cheeks flush. He needed to move on. Move on before completely missing the opportunity. It hadn’t been his intention to alienate her. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “I
t’s important that you say exactly what you think. Your audience will expect nothing less.”

  “
Thank you. I’ll do my best not to disappoint.”

  “
One last thing, a personal favor to an old friend of mine. Please feel under no obligation, you are perfectly entitled to refuse.”

  “
I can’t make that decision until you tell me what’s on your mind.” Elisabeth smiled, warmth again returning to her voice.

  “
Stephen Riblaw, an old friend, we studied at Oxford together. An admirer of yours for some time. Built quite a formidable reputation for himself as a Keynesian scholar. Spent most of his career at Balliol. He’ll be in Washington on the seventh and eighth of July. Would love to meet you.”

  “
Why, I don’t think that’s too much to ask, I’m sure I’d find your friend stimulating company. Ask him to call me as soon as the conference is over. We’ll fix something up.”

  “
That would be exceptionally good of you. I’ll let him know immediately. He will be as delighted as I am grateful,” said Augustus, genuine appreciation in his voice.

  “
Now I mustn’t keep you. You’ve travelled a long way today. I’m sorry about the sandwiches; one would expect that in a hotel such as this the service would be a little sharper. I’ll have a word with someone.”

 
Augustus stood up, smiled and waited for Elisabeth to do the same. He showed her to the door. ”I look forward to seeing you in the morning. We should meet at eight thirty.”

  “
Thank you for the warm welcome. Until tomorrow.”

Augustus held open the door.

---

 
Room service would not arrive. Augustus had wanted to appear to be taking care of his guest, but had not wanted a drawn out discussion over tea and sandwiches. His distaste at what he was contriving to do was only superseded by fear of the repercussions should he be caught.

 
He made his way onto the terrace. Dialed Rivello’s number.

  “S
he agreed to meet Riblaw, on the seventh or eighth of July. Call her on this number to arrange the meeting.” Augustus read out the ten digit number.

  “
Very good, Augustus, I just remembered why I keep you around. What about the keynote?”

  “
The only reason I let you keep me around is because you have my balls in a vice,” retorted Augustus with unusual bravery.

He pulled the phone from his ear, laughter barreling down the line.

  “Yes, Augustus, an apt reminder of what will happen to you if fuck this up. Now, about the keynote address?”

  “A
s you anticipated. Pump as much money into the banks as they need to stay afloat. Completely against a survival of the fittest strategy. Believes the world will end, or something like that.”

  “
Good news for you, Augustus, I hear you guys are pretty leveraged up at the moment.”

 
Augustus didn’t comment.
  “That’s it,” Rivello said. “For your sake, I hope she gets the nomination.” The line went dead. Augustus replaced the phone in his pocket. Time to sample the minibar.