The Paris Directive (2 page)

The cautious Reiner checked with his French sources to confirm the legitimacy of the new client. The more he learned, the more intrigued he became with Émile Pellerin. This might be the sort of meeting worth his time and perhaps, he thought, even a good deal more.

The majestic Hotel Adlon, which survived all the violence of World War II without a scratch, burned down soon after the fighting ended. Once Berlin’s most famous meeting place—situated no more than a block away from the Reichstag, the Brandenburg Gate, and the Nazi chancellery—it had played host to Hitler, Mussolini, and both Theodore and Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

The new Adlon, recently rebuilt on the same site, seemed quite elegant to Klaus Reiner as he strolled past its gleaming shopwindows showcasing Parisian silk scarves, Italian shoes, and fine antique jewelry. He stopped briefly to admire the sturdy German handbags and wallets. To Reiner, it seemed overnight that his world had changed, but actually it had been almost ten years now since the Wall collapsed and reunification began. Yet the East German supermarkets
with their well-stocked shelves, not to mention the Porsches and BMWs daily crisscrossing Alexanderplatz, still amazed him. Everything was available now in the new Germany. If you had the money.

In the hotel lobby, he glanced around at the giant vases filled with flowers. Without bothering to stop for information at the crowded front desk, he went directly to the elevators. His appointment was on the fifth floor.

As the elevator door began to close, a striking young woman joined him. She was wearing black stockings and a stylish black satin dress—Berlin high fashion; her raven hair cut severely in bangs, her irresistible perfume filling the elevator. As self-absorbed as a mannequin. She too had an appointment. On the third floor, he stepped aside to let the lady out, and her seductive smile was a totally unexpected reward, reminding him of Hanna Schygulla, one of his favorite actresses. Reiner wondered what she charged for a quick afternoon romp. But business before pleasure.

In front of the gilt-framed oval mirror on the fifth floor, he stopped to straighten his ascot, brush off the lapel of his custom-tailored double-breasted blazer. Swiftly locating the staircases and making sure no one was loitering in the hallway, he followed the sign to 501 at the end of the corridor. Reiner hesitated at the door. There was more than one voice coming from within but, even though his French was excellent (almost as good as his Russian and Arabic), it was impossible to make out what they were saying. He glanced at his watch and knocked. The conversation inside stopped abruptly. After a short wait, the door opened.

“Ah, monsieur. Right on time.
Entrez, entrez.
”

Émile Pellerin—the smaller of the two men—had the sharp, comic face of a Pierrot, but his pale eyes were calm, watchful. He introduced his associate, Blond, a burly fellow with a balding scalp and long strands of thinning gray hair combed across it. Reiner took his proffered hand and felt the blunt, powerful fingers of a meat cutter.

The large suite they occupied overlooked Unter den Linden. Reiner estimated that for this super deluxe double they were probably shelling out a bundle. He knew before he came that money would not be a deal breaker.

“A nice hotel,” Reiner said, glancing around the room.

Pellerin smiled at his smartly turned out visitor, a solid athletic six-footer who was somewhat younger and better looking—in a blond German sort of way—than he had expected. He invited him to sit down, have some coffee.

Reiner shook his head. “I don’t drink coffee. How can I help you?”

Pellerin approved of his visitor’s businesslike manner and reported that monsieur came highly recommended. What they required was a man with his special talents. Above all, his discretion, ingenuity, and ability to remove someone so quietly that the sole question raised by the family and friends was where to send the flowers. The accident would have to occur before the end of the month and arouse no suspicion. Most important of all, it had to be terminal. Was he interested in the job?

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Who it is and where I have to go.”

Pellerin glanced at his associate. Hubert Blond shrugged in annoyance, climbed heavily out of his chair, and lumbered into the bedroom, returning with a large manila envelope. He thrust it at Reiner, who noted that he seemed to be sweating. Reiner examined the enclosed papers with care and looked up. “A nice part of your country, I’m told.”

“Especially at this season of the year,” Émile said, with a touch of nostalgia. “You’ll have a wonderful time. The duck confit. The cabécou. And the truffles are always amazing. Then there’s the delectable way they do rabbit with Armagnac, vin rouge, cream, and the rich pruneaux d’Agen. I envy you.”

A real bullshit artist! Reiner thought. He charged people like that extra for insulting his intelligence. Whatever he was getting into, it wasn’t going to be a vacation. He knew a snow job when he heard one.

Reiner went over to the serving cart, which held a gleaming silver coffee urn. Taking a sugar cube from the tray, he unwrapped it, jotted down some numbers on the inside of the wrapper, and casually handed it to Pellerin. A bit of theater—it was in his genes—never hurt in these situations. Especially when there were as many zeroes as he decided to add on the spur of the moment.

Reiner had learned from his foreign informants that Pellerin and Blond were French agents. It was clear that they needed an outsider—a pro with no police record, no ties to the victim, and, above all, someone who wasn’t French. Despite what Pellerin had neglected to tell him, Reiner assumed it was a political job. He didn’t like that. Nor was he crazy about working in a foreign country, where you didn’t know all the pieces in the game. Besides, he didn’t trust these two. All of which went into his bill. What they wanted was risky from start to finish but, like good sex, it would have its moments.

“My price.” His voice had no more edge than a butter knife. “The money to be paid in American dollars to the Swiss bank at that numbered account I’ve noted. Two equal installments. One before, the rest upon completion. Agreed?”

Pellerin was amused by the flat, take-it-or-leave-it way the German did business and even more by his cautious cloak-and-dagger manner. But then he remembered that almost every room in the old Adlon had been wired by American agents, scores of tiny electronic ears listening in the walls. It was as if Reiner, though seemingly too young to have lived through it, felt that World War II was still going on. But Pellerin ceased to be amused when he saw how much money the German wanted. Dumbstruck, he nodded.

“A pleasure,” said Reiner, closing the deal with a stiff handshake.

After their guest had left—carrying with him a Paris phone number to be called as soon as he’d taken care of the matter—Émile turned with a worried look to his friend.

“What do you think of Herr Reiner?”

“He dresses well.”

“He can afford to on what he charges. He may be an
Ossi
, but he behaves like a capitalist.”

Blond sneered. “I’ll say …”

“Okay—but I think he’s the right man for the job. Time to call the Quai d’Orsay. We can let Simone know we’ve made all the arrangements. Keep her up to speed.”

“And the price?”

“What the hell! If he’s as good as they say he is, he’s worth every centime to our friends. We’ll know soon enough.”

4

L’ERMITAGE, TAZIAC

A
li Sedak was putting up another section of drywall, hammering away, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Startled, he whirled around. A big gray-haired guy in blazing red pajamas. He seemed pissed about the noise. It was the new renter of L’Ermitage who had arrived with his wife late last evening. Ali had awakened them. Too damn bad! It was almost eight o’clock! Who isn’t up by then except moneybags and pimps? Ali told him that he was doing work for the owner—turning the old barn into a guesthouse. “It’s a big job for one man,” he said. “Unless I get started early, I’ll still be working here by
La
Toussaint
.”

Ben Reece didn’t care if it took him till Kwanzaa. All he was asking Ali to do was start a little later in the morning and work a little later at night. Ben could feel the blood rush to his face as he raised his voice, trying to make this guy understand his French, though he was sure that he did. Their plane trip from New York had been stinko, and even in first class he couldn’t sleep. Let alone here last night on his bed’s thin, miserable mattress. It was worse than an exercise mat. Who needs a large eighteenth-century hilltop country house with a tower, a private swimming pool, and twelve exquisite woodland acres in the Dordogne if nobody can sleep? He and his friends were paying a helluva lot of money for this French vacation, goddamn it! So not until ten, he said. Okay?

Ali said nothing. He simply threw down his hammer in disgust, grabbed his T-shirt, and left.

Judy, looking out of their bedroom window in the main house, had been anxiously watching for her husband’s return. She knew
Ben’s temper. Then she saw the surly expression on the young man’s face as he came out the barn door. Naked from the waist up, he was well built—compact but not very tall. He had a blue bandanna tied around his forehead and looked like an Arab with his dark skin, his black Persian-lamb hair. She watched as he went quickly to the beat-up white VW parked behind their new rented Peugeot and got in. But where was her husband? “Ben?” she cried, her fear mounting. “Ben!”

The call from Montreal was Schuyler, Ben’s old roommate and friend from Dartmouth days. He and Ann Marie had been delayed. Business, of course. They’d be flying out to Paris on the Concorde and then down to the Dordogne. Be there that evening. He couldn’t wait. Love to them both.

Going into town was Judy’s idea. She was thinking of making a dinner for the Phillipses by way of welcoming them. Taziac was already bustling when they drove into the quaint, partially restored medieval village. The outdoor market was in back of the Gothic church. Judy, who loved to cook, decided on the thick white asparagus and a roast chicken for dinner. There would be a mushroom stuffing using the local cèpes, described in her Périgord cookbook as fungi royalty with an earthy smell that hinted at the woods where they grew. For the wines, Ben chose some good bottles of Sancerre and Médoc, and a straw-yellow Rosette from the vineyards of nearby Monbazillac, home of the great dessert wines.

As he picked up the bottles, Judy asked, “Can you manage all that?”

Ben had noticed lately his wife’s growing concern about his drinking. Preferring to avoid a hassle, he said, “What about bread?”

In search of a bakery, they walked by the old castle that was now the Taziac town hall. Posted outside were public bulletins. The one at the top was from the Ministère de l’Intérieur announcing that La Police Judiciaire wanted the Corsican guy in the picture. Presumed to be “
très dangereux et armé
.” And warning that he was not to be approached under any circumstances.

Ben said, “Good advice. Leave it to the pros. He looks like one tough cookie to me.”

“It’s only the haircut, dear. You wouldn’t look so good either if your barber used a machete.”

Her husband was not amused. “The man’s a murderer,” he pointed out.

Judy thought he had nice eyes.

Up the gravel road, there was a small
boulangerie-pâtisserie
surrounded by baskets of fuchsias, pansies, and pinks in a half-timbered English Tudor–style town house. As they opened the glass door, the sweet aroma was overwhelming. In front were a couple of small unoccupied tables, on one an empty coffee cup and a plate with a leftover piece of pastry. Nobody was behind the counter. Judy was contemplating a glorious caramelized tarte tatin when she heard what sounded like the explosive flushing of a toilet from somewhere deep inside the house. Suddenly out came a bear of a man with a great drooping mustache and eyebrows to match. Zipping up his fly, he seemed almost as surprised as they were.

Judy quickly asked for a pain de campagne and a baguette.

The big guy glanced around the shop, then, nodding, he took down the loaves and wrapped them up.

Ben hoped there was a sign in the bathroom reminding employees to wash their hands.

“Et ça aussi,”
Judy said, indicating the last tarte tatin in the display case, which he promptly took out and slipped into a box. He was tying it up, his big hands doing a surprisingly elegant job with a green ribbon, when the front door opened and Gabrielle, a pretty teenage girl, came rushing in. Straightening her apron and her blond ponytail, she said, “Oh—Monsieur Mazarelle …” She appeared flustered to see him serving the customers. She apologized for taking so long to deliver the bread and, winking at him as she snatched the pie out of his hands, asked Judy if she wanted anything else.

A smart kid, Paul Mazarelle thought. He was fond of Gaby but hoped she wasn’t too smart-ass for her own good, always
dans
la
lune
, caught up with boys and dreams the same way her mother had been. He scoffed up the last little piece of his luscious tartelette myrtille, pulled on his jacket, took out his pipe.
“Au revoir, chérie,”
Mazarelle called. Exchanging an amused smile with the customers, he trudged past them out the door. He’d already noted the expensive
sunglasses, the gray hair and sportif clothes, the accent—Americans, of course.

Ben watched him go. An odd walk with a little hitch in it. He may no longer be in playing shape, Ben thought, but he’s still got the size of a rugby player and a granite jaw to match.

Judy asked the young girl if that was her boss, and she had to laugh the way young people do at silliness. Her aunt, Madame Charpentier, owned the shop and was upstairs in bed with
le
rhumatisme
. That was Monsieur Mazarelle, she explained, the famous police inspector from Bergerac who lives here in town. He comes in almost every day for breakfast since his wife died. Everyone knows the inspector, she told them.
Il
est
très gentil.