Very new black Mercedes cruises silently down wide Communist boulevard. The apartment blocks of even height form a minatory canyon. Our viewpoint shifts inevitably to the interior.
Passing over the anonymous chauffeur, broad shouldered, lips sealed, black leather gloves, ears listening discreetly, pseudo-military great coat, wool, grey/blue, hat, you can imagine it.
In the backseat, a man bears a black briefcase on his lap. He has white hair, but of course, you knew that already. He wears dark glasses. He is INSCRUTABLE. His tan does not match his accent, which is north Europe, when he speaks.
Fritz- no, it’s nothing.
Delicate hands, something sadistic in those pianists fingers. Black suit, white shirt, black tie. A frictionless aspect that breathes money. Paths smoothed. The best table at the restaurant is always available. Head turns to watch, with detached curiosity, the street unreeling behind tinted glass. Fingers drum a curt tattoo on the leather briefcase. Is this impatience? A tension behind the smooth façade? Cut.
A checkpoint. A barrier is lifted, with the minimum of fuss. Don’t keep this man waiting.
Fritz is opening the door of the Mercedes. Look how it glides, the weighting of it, the oiled hinge. Behind him two men stand ready to meet The Passenger. Handshakes simulate warmth How good to see you.
Body language reverts to business-like. Serious men. IMPORTANT MATTERS. Shall we watch them, clipped walk, leather soled shoes, heels clicking, into the atrium, huge potted plants, attractive secretary greeted with familiarity, security guard nods, hover overhead in the well-appointed lift, gold light settling gently on three scalps, brass panelling, note the button pressed, or cut
Shorter man opens door, ushers the others in with a brisk but not ungracious sweep of the arm