The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: Norrie Sinclair
door.
The glass was strong. Not even a tremor as Michael smashed into the door with his fists. His mind didn’t register pain, the anger inside him overwhelming any instincts of self-control.
“BASTARD. You FUCKING BASTARD. BASTARD, BASTARD, BASTARD.”
He hammered on the glass until his throat was raw, fists bloodied. Blood mingled with dust, smearing the surface in a ruddy brown film.
As the urge to tear Lawrence Sharp apart evaporated, the fury that Michael had unleashed, he turned upon himself. As much as it depleted his strength, it sapped his will more. Michael sank to his knees, sloped forward, forehead thudding against the glass. A penitent man.
Chapter 8
The room buzzed like a giant slot machine parlor in a Vegas casino. The static murmur of hundreds of simultaneous phone conversations, from the trading floor, completely blocked out by inch-thick soundproofed glass. He stood facing away from the luxurious office suite he inhabited, marveling at the degree to which the investment banking world had changed in only thirty years. Now the world of finance revolved on electronic impulses whizzing round the world at the speed of light.
“Augustus,” the voice, sharp and authoritative, came from the comfortable brown leather couch right angled behind him, “if I may interrupt your musings for a moment, we really need to agree on the format for the next meeting.”
“Of course, Sir James, forgive me. I was just thinking things through.”
“Kennedy will be nominated on September the fifteenth. Our members would find it most enlightening to become aware of her views before her confirmation by the Senate,” said Sir James.
Augustus resisted the urge to bite at his thumbnail. As the European chairman of one of the world’s leading investment banks, it was usually he who made other’s squirm as though they were under a microscope. Sir James Hardcastle, past Beirsdorf chairman, largest individual shareholder, and a former British Foreign Secretary, had been Augustus’s late father’s oldest and dearest friend. Augustus knew what was coming.
“Listen, you great blubbering fool.” Attaining his seventy-eighth year had blunted none of Hardcastle’s tyrannical nature. “You need to snap to it. Our credibility’s on the line.”
“Yes, of course,” said Augustus, “I’ll approach Mrs. Kennedy immediately through Washington. I’m sure she will make herself available.”
“Not even Clinton was able to say no to us. Just get it done.”
“Of course. Don’t let me detain you any longer,” said Augustus, desperately trying to get the man out of his office.
Augustus watched the door close and once alone, despite his rather corpulent size, swiftly maneuvered himself behind his desk and accessed the Group’s secure and encrypted intranet system.
He sourced the appropriate contact details and dialed the number in Langley, Washington, DC.
“Douglas Speak,” the voice answered at the other end of the line. Augustus suppressed the schoolboy temptation to shout, “But my name’s not Douglas.” The deputy director of the CIA was not known for his sense of humor.
“Douglas, it’s Augustus. Sir James would like Elisabeth Kennedy to be at the September meeting. She’ll be making the keynote speech. Please take care of the invitation in whatever way you deem most appropriate and let me know as soon as you have confirmation.”
“Okay, Augustus, I’ll get back to you.” The line went dead.
Never one for small talk, Douglas . As he replaced the receiver in its cradle, his mobile rang.
“So what happened?”
“Oh, it’s you. How do you know anything has … happened?”
“My people saw Hardcastle leave. He looked pleased with himself, which is probably a first. So will Kennedy be there or not?” Rivello said.
“Well, we’ve invited her. It would be very unusual and certainly unwise for anyone to
The glass was strong. Not even a tremor as Michael smashed into the door with his fists. His mind didn’t register pain, the anger inside him overwhelming any instincts of self-control.
“BASTARD. You FUCKING BASTARD. BASTARD, BASTARD, BASTARD.”
He hammered on the glass until his throat was raw, fists bloodied. Blood mingled with dust, smearing the surface in a ruddy brown film.
As the urge to tear Lawrence Sharp apart evaporated, the fury that Michael had unleashed, he turned upon himself. As much as it depleted his strength, it sapped his will more. Michael sank to his knees, sloped forward, forehead thudding against the glass. A penitent man.
Chapter 8
The room buzzed like a giant slot machine parlor in a Vegas casino. The static murmur of hundreds of simultaneous phone conversations, from the trading floor, completely blocked out by inch-thick soundproofed glass. He stood facing away from the luxurious office suite he inhabited, marveling at the degree to which the investment banking world had changed in only thirty years. Now the world of finance revolved on electronic impulses whizzing round the world at the speed of light.
“Augustus,” the voice, sharp and authoritative, came from the comfortable brown leather couch right angled behind him, “if I may interrupt your musings for a moment, we really need to agree on the format for the next meeting.”
“Of course, Sir James, forgive me. I was just thinking things through.”
“Kennedy will be nominated on September the fifteenth. Our members would find it most enlightening to become aware of her views before her confirmation by the Senate,” said Sir James.
Augustus resisted the urge to bite at his thumbnail. As the European chairman of one of the world’s leading investment banks, it was usually he who made other’s squirm as though they were under a microscope. Sir James Hardcastle, past Beirsdorf chairman, largest individual shareholder, and a former British Foreign Secretary, had been Augustus’s late father’s oldest and dearest friend. Augustus knew what was coming.
“Listen, you great blubbering fool.” Attaining his seventy-eighth year had blunted none of Hardcastle’s tyrannical nature. “You need to snap to it. Our credibility’s on the line.”
“Yes, of course,” said Augustus, “I’ll approach Mrs. Kennedy immediately through Washington. I’m sure she will make herself available.”
“Not even Clinton was able to say no to us. Just get it done.”
“Of course. Don’t let me detain you any longer,” said Augustus, desperately trying to get the man out of his office.
Augustus watched the door close and once alone, despite his rather corpulent size, swiftly maneuvered himself behind his desk and accessed the Group’s secure and encrypted intranet system.
He sourced the appropriate contact details and dialed the number in Langley, Washington, DC.
“Douglas Speak,” the voice answered at the other end of the line. Augustus suppressed the schoolboy temptation to shout, “But my name’s not Douglas.” The deputy director of the CIA was not known for his sense of humor.
“Douglas, it’s Augustus. Sir James would like Elisabeth Kennedy to be at the September meeting. She’ll be making the keynote speech. Please take care of the invitation in whatever way you deem most appropriate and let me know as soon as you have confirmation.”
“Okay, Augustus, I’ll get back to you.” The line went dead.
Never one for small talk, Douglas . As he replaced the receiver in its cradle, his mobile rang.
“So what happened?”
“Oh, it’s you. How do you know anything has … happened?”
“My people saw Hardcastle leave. He looked pleased with himself, which is probably a first. So will Kennedy be there or not?” Rivello said.
“Well, we’ve invited her. It would be very unusual and certainly unwise for anyone to
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