The Tavernier Stones (7 page)

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Authors: Stephen Parrish

BOOK: The Tavernier Stones
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Another typical day in the valiant battle against bad guys. The world wasn’t any safer, Pfeffer realized grimly, than when he joined the Polizei a quarter of a century ago. The notion that the human species was prey to no predator on earth was a silly one, after all; every gun-toting hood was a predator, one who served a purpose not unlike that of a lion in the Serengeti.
Pfeffer looked at the man in the mirror looking back. He knew he fit the mold of an old cop: a barrel-shaped torso, the lower end spilling over a narrow belt. A gruff voice that got little exercise except when speaking tenderly to his cat. An insolent stare, aimed most accurately at stupid subordinates.
A cheating wife.
He had been subconsciously ducking signals for months, but it was his wine cellar, oddly enough, that had tipped him off. The two of them—his wife and “Mr. Dick”—sampled from the collection routinely while doing it in his home, without the least bit of consideration for the value and rarity of the wines. If not for the latter, Pfeffer might have forgiven them the “it.”
No, that wasn’t true. The affair hurt him deeply, more deeply than anything ever had before. He had Mr. Dick’s license plate number, because he’d arrived home one day just in time to see the man drive off in a Saab. A simple phone call would get him a name and address. If he wished.
The question was, what would he do with them when he got them?
To his way of thinking, there was only one honorable way to treat a man who entered his home, drank his wine, and soiled his wife. But there was an obstacle to Pfeffer’s way of thinking, and it wasn’t ethics. It was the German judicial system, with which he was all too familiar.
Every time he thought of the two of them together and imagined what they did to each other, he got so upset he struggled to calm his breathing. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. His wife was the love of his life, and he had assumed the feelings were mutual. He could see the man’s hands reaching under her skirt. He could imagine her unbuckling his pants . . .
He snatched up the phone and dialed a München-Pullach number from memory.
“
Bundesnachrichtendienst
.”
“Reinhard? Is that you?”
“Gerd? Long time. Haven’t they given you a gold watch?”
“Not quite yet. Listen, I’ll be needing some sensitive materials squirreled my way.”
“Gerd, I’d do anything for you, even help you find the goddamn lost Tavernier stones. But I can’t give you anything that’s not on the register. What are you after?”
“The goddamn lost Tavernier stones.”
After a few seconds of static, Pfeffer continued: “And if you help me, all the notes I have on what your son Lucien did last year while vacationing on the North Sea coast . . . will disappear.”
The intelligence agent cleared his throat. “What is it exactly that you want?”
“Everything your people come up with.”
“And what Lucien did …”
“The world will never know.”
 
One of the houses on Rosenstockstrasse in Mainz, Germany, a Queen Anne with a hipped roof and asymmetrical cross gables, had delicately turned spindle work on its wrapped porch that was finally the shade of cornflower blue the owner wanted: the painters had gotten it right on the fourth try.
The owner, Frieda Blumenfeld, was just finishing her breakfast and beginning the long, impatient wait for her husband to leave. She shouldn’t have held her breath, however, because he discovered the newspaper under the dishes where she had tucked it and poured himself another cup of coffee.
No matter. She would gaze out the window until he was gone, pretending to be lost in thought.
She had a clear view of the house across the street, a Victorian that hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in five years. A VW sat shamelessly in the driveway. She smiled; at least one neighbor’s finances were even more precarious than her own.
The houses on Rosenstockstrasse were old money mansions, vine-encroached trophies of an earlier generation, most of them ageing gracefully in the shade of large plane trees. Greek columns were common, as were full-width porches, balustraded balconies, and real working window shutters. The architectural styles were mixed but could be summarized as “eclectic stubborn dignity.”
Frieda Blumenfeld, the most eclectic, stubborn, and dignified resident of Rosenstockstrasse, felt that her most distinctive physical feature was her hair. It had grayed to the value of soft graphite and was highlighted with needle-length streaks of frost. She had long refrained from either dyeing or cutting it, and now it fell to her lower back in a ponytail bound in three places. She knew she was supposed to shorten it or shape it into a bun or otherwise act like an old lady. But she couldn’t bring herself to discard the one remaining vestige of girlhood.
The feature she didn’t like, and considered shortening, was her nose.
She fought to keep her chin from doubling and her butt from expanding, but the unforgiving cycle of seasons was winning the contest. In fact, her hair, nose, and cheerlessly pale blue eyes were combining to make her look like a witch.
A banker by trade, she had inherited a respectable sum of old money from her mother, from whom she had also inherited exquisite tastes. The money wasn’t enough to place her and her husband at the top of Mainz society, but it was enough to place them within its bosom.
Old money wore so much better than new money. People with old money grew up wearing it, whereas those who came upon it later in life never seemed to be able to make it fit. Nevertheless, some of the new-money people were flaunting the staggering size of their portfolios, pushing the blue bloods lower down on the guest lists.
In an effort to catch up to them, Blumenfeld had invested her inheritance, all of it, in a sure-bet commodities venture: chicken futures. Trouble was, the chickens had no futures. When the price of feed soared during a drought, farmers all over Europe massacred their chicks rather than raise them with feed that was more expensive than the price they, the chickens, would bring at maturity.
For nine agonizing days, Blumenfeld watched her commodity go limit down and her fortune erode. She suffered nightmares of hungry baby chicks chasing her around the bedroom, peeping incessantly, pecking at her with their nasty beaks. The consummate blow came when she was arrested for having embezzled her bank clients to meet a preposterous margin call and led out of her office in handcuffs.
The worst thing about prison was the food. She got used to the noise—to mentally ill inmates wailing all night long—but despite two years of training her palate, she never got used to the food.
The best thing about prison was the sex. She was a lesbian married for the sake of convenience, the greater part of which was appearance. She had long come to think of males as superfluous to the planet.
She was still able to support the façade of wealth, but only because she owed no money on either the house or the car. The furniture was getting a little hairy, though. When one of her society friends recently suggested she splurge on a new living room arrangement, even giving her the name of a favorite interior decorator, Blumenfeld slipped and answered that she didn’t care to spend her money so frivolously. The society friend only stared back, her expression blank, her eyes blinking.
The car, a BMW that had cost as much as a small airplane, was three years old now, and everyone knew it. In another year or so, it would become a downright embarrassment.
Like her husband.
Finally …
finally
… he put the newspaper down, stretched and yawned, and stood up from the table. Moments later, he donned his hat and left the house.
Herr Blumenfeld had taken a job as a retail clerk in an art supply store downtown, and it was only a matter of time before one of their acquaintances discovered this tidbit and realized how bad off they were. “It’s just a hobby of his” wasn’t going to fly: Herr Blumenfeld was color blind and couldn’t draw a decent stick figure. The job was necessary, though, to pay for certain can’t-dowithouts such as maid service.
Frieda Blumenfeld required her husband to leave the house each morning through the back door and to instruct anyone who asked that he was out and about doing volunteer work— something perfectly acceptable for a wealthy, middle-aged man to do. But it was just a matter of time.
As soon as he was gone, she picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“Gebhardt.”
“Hallo, Mannfred.
Ich bin
’
s.
I have just read a most fascinating article in the
Frankfurter Allgemeine.
”
“I know which one you mean. I read it too.”
“Then you know why I’m calling.”
There was a long pause at the other end. “If you mean to ask whether I’m willing to devote my spare time to an enterprise that will almost certainly result in more frustration than satisfaction, more pain than profit … one that will toe the line of the law, cross the line, leave the line far behind … one that might even get me shot at … then yes, I think I know why you’re calling—again.”
“My dear Mannfred, you exaggerate.”
“Do I?”
“Perhaps you should have one of your morning drinks to relax you. It’s past noon somewhere in the world.”
“I’ve already had two.”
“Then a walk, perhaps.”
“To Switzerland?”
“
Touché
. You do pay attention, after all. There’s a partial reproduction of Cellarius’s last map on the back page of the features section. Did you notice anything odd about it? In particular, the runes decorating its margin?”
She heard the rustling of newspaper pages in the background.
“That one must have gotten past me,” Gebhardt said.
“Well, the world will soon notice, and it won’t be long before somebody figures out what they mean. By the way, it may not be obvious to you, but I
am
waiting for an answer.”
“You’ve already predicted what my answer will be, otherwise you wouldn’t have called.”
“That’s what I like about you, Mannfred. You know me almost as well as I know you.”
“When do you want to start?”
“Today. We begin by collecting information. And I shouldn’t have to say this, but I will anyway: don’t speak to anyone.”
“This will blow over in a week or so, you know. The press will tire of it, and everyone will forget.”
“Not everyone. Drop by this afternoon. I’ll have a list of tasks for you.”
“I have a job now, remember?”
“Quit.”
“
And
an opportunity to go straight. Today is Wednesday. I’ll come by Saturday and we’ll talk. If I like what I hear, we’ll talk some more. Now, if you don’t mind, I still have time for another beer before I go to work.”
“You owe me.”
Gebhardt remained silent.
“You owe me,” Blumenfeld repeated, “and I want the debt repaid. I need a complete facsimile of the map that appears in the newspaper. A partial won’t do. I’ll give you until Saturday, if you insist, but I cannot wait longer.”
After another lengthy silence, Gebhardt said, “I have a feeling I’m going to wish they’d burned him and scattered his ashes rather than stabbed him and buried him in a bog.”
“Nonsense. Have another beer. See you on Saturday.
Auf Wiederhören
.”
“
Tschüs
.”
Gebhardt had once told Blumenfeld that everything men did to improve themselves, they did to improve their chances of acquiring women, and thus spread their genes as widely as possible. Blumenfeld had a different opinion. She had a different opinion about most things, as a matter of habit, but this time it was a direct result of experience: she had served as Gebhardt’s alibi in defense of a brutal sexual assault.
That was the debt he owed her. And that was the danger he posed.
Following her release from prison, Blumenfeld had set out to restore her estate. Together with a partner, she involved herself in an elaborate sting, raising capital of her own by begging and borrowing from former business associates. The target was a wealthy Dutchman who would put up most of the money for the purchase of shipping containers in Bremerhaven. Containers she, Blumenfeld, and her new partner didn’t intend to buy.

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