His appointment was for 11:45 a.m. The arrangements made the usual way—a message with a name and a number to call. The difference this time was the luxurious meeting place and the French name. Reiner fancied himself an independent contractor. He felt no need to advertise, for there were always clients in want of his services: good people being blackmailed, wealthy couples facing excruciating divorces, successful businessmen desperate to dissolve a partnership, eager legatees with no patience.
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.”