The Paper Factory (Michael Berg Book 1) by Norrie Sinclair

stretches of open land where someone at sometime had thoughtfully planted a good number of trees. He knew this because he saw no reason why the pattern he’d been observing for the last twenty minutes would change. No shortage of cover. The buildings have multiple exits. He would have some kind of a chance.
      His first thought was that he must be mistaken. He was so sure that he was about to be run into the ground that his mind would not let him think otherwise. This was why it took him a full five seconds to begin waving his arms frantically in the air, even when his brain had registered the fact that he was gawping at an illuminated taxi sign. As the car slowed, Michael peered through the rear window. The driver of the dilapidated Mercedes was alone. Michael opened the passenger door. The driver was mustachioed in traditional style, cropped grey hair, unsmiling. Michael pulled out a one–hundred-euro note.
      “Krakow,” proffering the money to the driver.
      “ Nie,” the driver shrugged, the expression on his face unchanging.
  Michael called the driver’s bluff and turned to walk away. Not smart . This was the only car, never mind taxi, he’d seen in the last half an hour. He was dead on his feet and there were at least two people in relatively close proximity that would rather see him under the wheels of a car than sitting in one.
    He turned around, pulled out another hundred, held open his hands and shrugged his shoulders.
  “Krakow.”
      The driver’s mouth stretched into a broad grin, the sight of his less than perfect teeth signaling acceptance of the arrangement. The driver took the money, placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket, opened the window, lit a cigarette and moved off. Michael sank into the worn leather seat, springs creaking, inhaling the musty smell of a car well beyond its use by date. The old man performed a u-turn. They headed back out towards the city limits and the motorway. The driver turned to Michael, smiled, tapped himself on the chest.
      “ Piotr.”
      Piotr reached below his seat. Metal clanged against metal. Michael had got to the point where he didn’t care what might happen next.
      He didn’t know whether the driver had taken pity on him because of the downtrodden way that he looked or whether the old man was keen to celebrate his unexpected windfall. When the half-full bottle of vodka was thrust into his hand, Michael took a long, slow slug. The harsh liquid spread its warmth to his mouth, throat and stomach. He thanked the driver without thinking too hard about why the bottle was only half full. His eyelids drooped, soothed by the deep, steady rumbling of the old car’s engine.

 
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 27
     
      He chose the computer closest to the door. He was alone, most of the guests still enjoying breakfast. Michael pulled Google up onto the screen and keyed in: aksim lajvih allun tah cnimrah zit tah cloyn to ygen. Google wasn’t very helpful.
    No standard web pages containing all your search terms were found.
    Your search - aksim lajvih allun tah cnimrah zit tah cloyn to ygen - did not match any documents.              
    Suggestions:
    - Make sure all words are spelled correctly.
    - Try different keywords.
    - Try more general keywords.
    - Try fewer keywords.
     
     
      He tried Google translate, hoping that it would give him some clue as to what language this was. If indeed it was meaningful in any sense at all.
      He drew a complete blank. He took each of the first, the third, the fifth letters, guessing that this might be some kind of code. Then the second letter followed by the other even numbered letters. Dead end.
      Aksim sounded Arabic and indeed when he Googled the word on its own it appeared to be an Arabic or Muslim first name. Google translate came up with nothing when he looked for an English language translation. He tried the rest of the words individually, feeling that he might be getting somewhere, although he