The Paris Directive - Softcover

Jay, Gerald

 
9780307947499: The Paris Directive
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0307947491 ISBN 13: 9780307947499
Verlag: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2013

Inhaltsangabe

In Berlin, two former French intelligence agents hire Klaus Reiner, a ruthlessly effective hit man, to eliminate an American industrialist vacationing in southwestern France. Reiner easily locates his target in the small village of Taziac, but the hit is compromised when three innocent people are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Enter Inspector Paul Mazarelle, formerly of Paris but now living in Taziac, charged with bringing his experience in the capital to bear on the gruesome quadruple homicide.

Both Mazarelle’s investigation and Reiner’s assignment become complicated when Molly Reece, a New York City district attorney and daughter of two of the victims, arrives and begins asking questions. Though all evidence points to a local handyman, Mazarelle and Molly have their doubts, forcing Reiner to return to ensure they see things as he has arranged them—and that no one suspects the international political motives behind the murder.

Die Inhaltsangabe kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

GERALD JAY is a nom de plume. He lives in New York City and is at work on a second Mazarelle novel.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

Berlin

May 1999

Reiner checked his watch as he waited by the elevator. Within the next sixty seconds, the elegant Frau Dr. Sachs, her chic shoulder-­length hair dyed the color of a concert grand, would leave her penthouse apartment for her office at number 18 on the fashionable Friedrichstrasse. Dr. Sachs was a creature of habit. That always made things easier.

The hallway had a thick, ice-­blue carpet and smelled of fresh paint. Reiner liked these new Potsdamer Platz buildings, where a penthouse apartment cost a small fortune. With the doctor’s specialty of blackmail, he supposed, she could afford it. He himself didn’t mind helping people with problems when the price was right. The distinguished Hanoverian judge Gerhard Tempelmann had confided that he was in desperate need of help. Tempelmann’s whole world was about to come crashing down.

The judge explained that three weeks ago he had driven to Berlin to accept an honorary degree from Humboldt, the university of Marx, Engels, and the brilliant Einstein. That night on the way back to his hotel after celebrating with old friends, he got lost driving the dark, narrow streets sandwiched between the university and the river. Confused and slightly tipsy, he failed to see the bicycle rider. In his rearview mirror, her mangled, lifeless body lay smeared across the road. He was quite certain that the young woman was dead. There was nothing he could do to help her. But Dr. Sachs, out walking her poodle, Schatzy, near the banks of the Spree, had witnessed the accident and seen his car racing away across the bridge.

When the first letter arrived in his mailbox postmarked Berlin, it asked for ten thousand marks. The judge knew there would be others. One careless second and everything good and meaningful in his life seemed about to be destroyed. “If there’s anything you could do,” he begged Reiner. There would be no questions, he promised, and money was no object. The next day the judge had fifty thousand marks ready for Reiner. It was a pleasure to work for such a man.

As the penthouse door opened, Reiner hit the elevator button and the light popped on. He ran his hand over his long blond hair, straightened his silk Hermès tie. In a case like this it was always important to make a good first impression.

Dr. Sachs was dressed all in black leather. Even the expensive Italian briefcase she carried was black leather, probably bought in the west on the Ku-­Damm at the sleek Mandarina Duck, the shop featuring specially treated calf leather, waterproof and scratch resistant. Utterly impervious to dangers of all sorts.

“Guten Morgen,” he said brightly.

“Morgen,” snapped Sachs. She had a busy day ahead of her. She banged the elevator button. “What’s keeping it?” She looked up at him and decided that she liked the young man’s tie, the directness of his gaze. He had the most compelling blue eyes she’d ever seen. He was worth a smile.

“Here we are,” said Reiner, as the door began to slide open. He motioned for her to go first, but Dr. Sachs hardly needed any prompting. She stepped forward and only at the last second saw the empty elevator shaft yawning at her feet. Frantic, she clawed the air and somehow managed to pull herself back.

“Scheisse!” she cried, struggling to catch her breath. “I almost fell in.”

A palm to the small of her back sent Sachs screaming down the shaft, her shrieks trailing after her like a torn parachute.

2

Élysée Palace, Paris

The great hall with its brilliant rows of crystal chandeliers, its gilded columns, its magnificent Gobelins tapestries and crimson drapes was empty. The reception for the African ambassadors wasn’t scheduled to begin for another hour. At the far end of the room, the French doors were flung open onto a garden laid out in tiered, semicircular rows, gradually ascending to a small pool with a fountain. Though still early for roses, the ordered arrangement of the plants usually did wonders for the president. Not this time.

Chirac angrily slammed down the receiver, nearly knocking the telephone off his desk. “The Chinese . . . they’ve just canceled their participation in the EU trade talks.”

The foreign minister, who had been conferring with the president when his telephone rang, asked, “Will you be making a statement?”

“I suppose I’ll have to.”

Chirac had feared something like this might happen as soon as he’d heard about the bombing of China’s embassy in Belgrade. The other day at his impromptu airport news conference in Helsinki, he’d called the bombing “unfortunate. A tragic blunder.” Hadn’t he, along with Clinton, Schröder, and the other NATO leaders, apologized? Yes, of course, of course he could understand the violent Chinese reaction, but what the hell did they want? Accidents happen.

Standing by the window of his sumptuous office in the palace, he gazed down at the sunlight dancing in the fountain and the gardener in blue overalls. He was reminded fleetingly of a painting by Monet at the Musée d’Orsay that he liked—­the deep emerald shadows, the shimmering evanescent light. A luminous, peaceful moment in the Parc Monceau snatched from the general mess and imprecision of things. He thought of how much he’d counted on the enormous Chinese market to bolster the lagging French economy. No wonder he was losing his hair. What lousy timing!

The president knew that the Chinese would eventually come around—­Jiang Zemin needed to be accepted by the World Trade Organization for his own survival—­but could he himself wait that long without having his own plans unravel? He tried to reevaluate his position, approach the situation as coolly as if it were no more than a theoretical problem.

“If only there were some way to change their minds . . .” Chirac leaned toward the window and tapped impatiently on the glass. Some way, he mused, to make Jiang realize that not all of us were as dumb as the Americans—­their CIA incapable of simply opening a 1999 Belgrade telephone book and seeing that they had targeted the Chinese embassy and not a damn Yugoslav arms factory. No doubt all intelligence services had their share of blockheads, even his own. Mitterrand hadn’t needed the Rainbow Warrior fiasco to realize he’d placed his trust in bunglers, fools, but it was a risk he had to take. Without those nuclear tests, France would have no M4 submarine missiles or tactical neutron bombs.

Though hardly a Socialist, Chirac too had his doubts about the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure. What his intelligence service needed were fewer thugs and ex-­cops, and more énarques—­bright, young, well-­educated professionals, experts who could think subtly, creatively. Burdened with mediocrities, how could he hope to deal with crises like these?

“If only . . .” he began. He ran his hand over his thinning hair the way he often did when faced with a particularly thorny problem. “If only there were some way—­unofficially, of course—­that we could discreetly let our Chinese friends know just how much we regretted what happened. Show them that we still could be helpful.”

The foreign minister, eager to be of help, pushed his chair closer.

Later, when he returned to the Quai d’Orsay, he reported the incident to his deputy, Simone Nortier. She had an idea for him.

3

Hotel Adlon, Berlin

His appointment was for 11:45 a.m. The arrangements...

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Verlag
Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2013
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0307947491
ISBN 13 
9780307947499
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
336
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
preigu
mail@preigu.de

Lengericher Landstr. 19
Osnabrück
49078
Deutschland

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