The Paris Directive (3 page)

On the way out of the store, Judy whispered, “In Taziac
everyone
knows the inspector.”

“He’s hard to miss.”

5

FRANKFURT

K
ring in Frankfurt had just what Reiner wanted. He was a good businessman, had proven dependable in the past, and knew how to keep his mouth shut. Reiner telephoned and made an appointment to see him the next morning.

Reiner’s small cramped apartment in the old East Berlin working-class district of Prenzlauer Berg was drafty regardless of the season but especially just before sunrise. Even so, he preferred living inconspicuously in this neighborhood, with its hippies, artists, and outcasts, while working in Berlin. He knew the area well and no one bothered him.

He moved around a lot in his business, and having a few different places to operate from made life easier.

Rolling over on his bed, Reiner waited a few minutes before throwing off the covers. In the austere bathroom—his bare feet accustomed to the cold cement floor—he removed a small can from a paper bag, shook it well, and sprayed its contents carefully over his hair, turning it from blond to anthracite black. As long as he didn’t wash the black out and refreshed the temporary color from time to time, his hair would pass muster. He rummaged through the few neatly hung suits and jackets in his closet for something to put on. Hurrying because he was running a little late. Any time he went out of town, if only for a day, he made certain to leave the apartment immaculate. In his business you couldn’t be too careful. An hour later when he left for the airport, he was wearing paint-stained jeans, an old weathered leather jacket, and a red Bayern München cap—its concave peak pulled low on his forehead.

The flight from Berlin to Frankfurt was little more than an hour, and when he arrived at Kring’s place of business, it was not yet 9 a.m. The store looked closed, but the flashing red lightbulbs spelled out
HOME SEXY
(OPEN 24-7)
. Inside were long tables full of adult videocassettes and a couple of gray-faced early-bird browsers bent over them. They paid no attention to the new customer. Walking to the doorway at the back of the store, Reiner ignored the
Eintritt
verboten
sign and brushed aside the curtains.

Kring, a fat man in a wrinkled gray vest, turned from the closed-circuit screen where he had been watching him.
“Ach! Bitte, mein Herr.”
He pointed to the chair next to his. “Good to see you again.”

“So, you have something for me, Herr Kring?”

Holding his back, Kring, a chronic sufferer, slowly got up. He smelled of licorice, cough drops, and menthol. “A minute.”

When he returned from the back room, Kring emptied the envelope he was carrying and produced a French passport,
carte
d’identité
, and driver’s license. They had belonged to Pierre Barmeyer, a thirty-seven-year-old French schoolteacher from Strasbourg. Reiner closely studied the three documents and the attached photos under the desk lamp. An interesting choice, he thought. He’d gotten so used to the name Klaus Reiner that he’d almost forgotten his real name. But he was nothing if not adaptable. Barmeyer was near the same age as he was, grew up in an Alsatian city on the border of Germany—which would help to explain the faint accent in his French—and even bore a slight resemblance to him.

Kring saw it too. “He could be your brother.”

“Alive or dead?”

Kring hesitated.

“I told you that I wanted the owner dead.”

“He could be, I think he may be. But I’m not sure. His papers were ‘found’ in a hotel room in Gstaad.”

Dead was always better as far as Reiner was concerned. Less chance of his papers having been reported stolen to the authorities.

“How much?” he asked.

A smile flickered at the corners of Kring’s cracked, puffy lips. Replacing the three documents in the envelope, he handed them to his visitor. “For you,
mein
Herr
, seven hundred marks.”

Reiner wasn’t pleased. “I could get high-quality fakes for less.”

“
Ja
, but not like these. The same signature on each one and each of them still valid for another year or more. A matching set and, as you see, the real thing in mint condition.” But Reiner refused to budge.

“Okay, okay.” Kring’s hands fell helplessly to his sides in defeat. “Let’s not argue over pfennigs.
Ich
gebe
auf!
Have it your way. Five twenty-five for the lot.”

Though mildly amused, Reiner knew that he wasn’t likely to do better elsewhere, and he didn’t have time to shop around. He handed the money to Kring with a warning. “No one must know of my visit. Understood?”

“
Jawohl, mein Herr! Natürlich.
You have my word, as always.”

“If not,” Reiner tucked the envelope under his arm, “I’ll have your eyeballs for breakfast.”

The photographs, of course, would have to be replaced. In the taxi on his way across town, Reiner eyed the steel and glass boxes they passed, struck once again by how boring this banking and industrial center seemed every time he visited. A gray city on a humid gray day. The one building that he liked was the new Commerzbank headquarters, the tallest building in Europe, thrusting high above the old cathedral spire, its soaring tower the spirit of the new Germany. Anything was possible nowadays to ambitious young men and women with exciting dreams.

Scheffler Photographie was on a quiet, winding back street opposite a mustard-colored three-story stucco apartment house. The sign in the window promised photographs for all occasions—births, weddings, anniversaries—and passport pictures while you wait. Reiner, announced by a tinny bell, entered the shop. On the wall behind the counter were large photographs of smiling bridal couples and an apple-cheeked young girl with blond braids, her hands clasped in prayer.

From the studio inside, a worried-looking Turk with a stubby black beard appeared and greeted him. His eyes—big, dark, expressive—were those of a silent film actor.

“Where’s Scheffler?”

“Herr Scheffler has retired. He lives in Brazil now. Can I be of help?”

“It still says Scheffler outside.”

“The name Scheffler is well-known in this neighborhood. My customers don’t like change.”

“And who are you?”

“Kara. Akin Kara. I’m the new owner. What sort of work are you looking for,
mein
Herr
?”

Reiner hesitated, sized him up. Kara might be okay, but could the Turk keep his mouth shut? “I need some official photographs. Scheffler did special things for me. Do you handle custom jobs?”

Kara understood perfectly. Assuring him that he did, he invited the customer inside to his private office. Kara’s studio was little more than a metal chair for the sitter, a white curtain for backdrop, a few tripods with cameras, and an umbrella light. In the corner, a small wooden table and chairs—his office.

“Bitte,”
said Kara. Reiner sat down and emptied his envelope on the table. The photographer examined each document with the care of a jeweler. Then taking out a package of Wests, he offered one to Reiner, who wasn’t interested, and lit up.

“Well?” Reiner asked impatiently.

“The expiration dates are all different, which is good, but that means two of the three pictures will require retouching for a slightly different look.”

“Exactly.”

“No problem. All together you’ll need three three-and-a-half-by-four-and-a-half-centimeter black-and-white photos. Full face. Let’s get started. I have an appointment in half an hour.” The photographer went over and turned on his lights. “First we’ll take some with the jacket on and then without. Take off your hat,
bitte
.”

The picture taking lasted about twenty minutes. Kara used an old Hasselblad rather than a Polaroid, explaining that he preferred the Swedish camera for special quality work. He chain-smoked nervously throughout the photo session. Though he asked the sitter if he was from Frankfurt, and one or two other questions to pass the time as he adjusted his camera and lighting, Reiner ignored him. He was a little too inquisitive for his own good. Once Kara was interrupted by the telephone. When he came back, he seemed even more upset
than he had been. Perhaps it was the fixed, unsmiling expression of his customer that was rattling him.

“How long will it take to develop them?” Reiner asked, after he’d finished.

“Not long.” Kara showed him the darkroom, which was right behind the studio. When he opened the door, the smell of vinegar was strong.

“What’s that?”

“Fixative. Acetic acid. It’s used in the developing process.”

“Be careful with that cigarette.”

“Oh no.” The photographer laughed. “It’s only a weak ten-percent solution.”

“I don’t like the smell. I’ll wait outside.”

“Look,” Kara explained, afraid that his strange customer was going to be difficult. “This will take some time. It’s not only the developing and printing that has to be done. On two of the pictures I’ve got to touch up your chin with stubble and, most difficult of all, reproduce the official stamps that must be placed in the corners. That means I’m going to need at least an hour after closing to finish the work. When you come back at six, knock hard on the front door in case I’m in the back. Rest assured, everything will be ready for you.”

Reiner stared at him and saw a flicker of fear in Kara’s eyes. “Don’t fail me. And remember … not a word about this to anyone or I can guarantee this will not be the happiest day of your life. By the way, how much do I owe you?”

“Not now,
bitte
. We’ll talk about that when you return and see how well you like my work.”

Reiner didn’t trust a man who hesitated to name his price. The fact that the Turk had his picture only complicated matters. He was worried that his visit to Herr Kara might end badly if he wasn’t prepared to take measures, should measures be necessary. Later in the main reading room of the municipal library, Reiner found exactly the information that he was looking for. At 6 p.m., he was back pounding on the photographer’s door despite the sign in the window that said
CLOSED
.

Fumbling with the lock, Kara let him in. He appeared flustered
but announced that everything was in order for Herr Barmeyer. Motioning for him to follow, he led the way into the darkroom. This time Reiner said nothing about the smell.

On the light box, which Kara switched on, the three documents were displayed like rare books. Reiner examined the passport picture first because it was the most important and most difficult to insert. Kara, puffing nervously on his cigarette, stood at his side and watched. It was excellent work, good enough to get by even a more than casual scrutiny. Then the other two photographs. The unshaven cheeks and scruffiness made him look like an artist. Reiner liked that.

Kara said, “I thought you’d be satisfied.” It was then that he told him how much it would cost.

Reiner glared at him. “Scheffler never charged me that much.” Picking up his three documents, Reiner put them away in his pocket.

The photographer, his voice shaking, quickly explained that it was a more difficult job than he’d anticipated, that it had taken longer, that he had to cancel his last appointment in order to finish it on time.

“Now, if you please, the negatives.”

“Ja, ja!”
From the drawer under the counter, Kara quickly produced the negatives and, avoiding Herr Barmeyer’s eyes, handed them to him.

Reiner counted nine and his face twitched with annoyance. “
All
of them! There were ten photographs taken.”

Surprised that he noticed, Kara had a ready answer for him. “I keep a negative on file to make copies in case you need more. It’s merely a convenience for my customers. Here … here, take it back. Do you think I’m a blackmailer?”

It had always seemed to Reiner that you could tell a great deal about people by their attitude toward money. Kring, for example, enjoyed the game. There was some humor in his buying and selling, but a deal was a deal to him. Kring was reliable; you got what you paid for. Herr Kara, on the other hand, reminded him of people he’d known in the East. Sullen, mingy. If they couldn’t get a hand in your pocket, they’d steal your shoelaces. Whatever they could squeeze out
of you. Though the Turk was an artist, he was a sneak thief at heart. Such men, Reiner knew, were dangerous.

He took out his wallet and on top of the light box counted out what he owed him. Kara watched with a look of amazement. Dazzled by the bills, never expecting that he would get all that he’d asked for. As Kara reached for the money, his pleased expression morphed in an instant to a puzzled, wide-eyed, voiceless shriek of alarm.

From behind, Reiner had delivered a crushing blow to the base of his neck, a blow powerful enough to snap Kara’s spine in two. The Turk pitched forward, hit the counter, and sank down to the floor in sections like a marionette. Reiner, wasting no time, collected his money and returned it to his wallet. He glanced down at the body just to make sure that the photographer was dead. His movements after that were calm, quick, purposeful, as if they had all been planned in advance.

From the inside pocket of his jacket, he removed the bottle of glacial acetic acid he had purchased, unscrewed the cap, and poured three-quarters of the pure acid into the weak solution in the fixative tray, producing a combustible mixture. He pulled out his handkerchief, covered his nose. The vinegar smell was overpowering in the windowless room. Searching the floor for the burning cigarette, he found it next to Kara’s foot. Reiner had warned him about smoking. Emptying what was left in the bottle over the body, he tossed the lit cigarette into the tray. Before long the darkroom was engulfed in roiling black smoke and crackling flames. The heat was intense. In seconds, Reiner was through the front of the shop and out the door, slamming it closed behind him. It felt good to breathe again.