The Day After Tomorrow

106

OSBORN WAS not the only distraught man in Berlin.

Waiting for Von Holden in his office at the Sophie-Charlottenstrasse apartment, Cadoux was an anxious wreck. He’d spent two very troubled hours complaining to anyone who would listen—about German coffee, about a why he couldn’t get a French-language newspaper, about nothing at all; every bit of it disguising his growing concern over Avril Rocard. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since she should have completed her assignment at the farmhouse outside Nancy and reported back to him, I yet he had had no word.

Four times he’d called her apartment in Paris and four times there’d been no answer. After a sleepless night he’d telephoned Air France to see if she had checked in for her early flight from Paris to Berlin. When that proved negative, he started to fall apart. Trained terrorist, murderer and professional policeman; from his position within Interpol, the man assigned to coordinate security for Erwin Scholl anywhere he traveled in the world—and had for more than thirty years—inside, Cadoux was a prisoner of the heart. Avril Rocard was his life.

He finally risked a phone trace and made contact with an operative inside the French Secret Service who confirmed three Secret Service agents and a woman had been found dead at the Nancy farmhouse, but more detail was not available. Literally frantic, Cadoux tried the one last, and in retrospect, perhaps his most obvious, option. He telephoned the Hotel Kempinski.

To his enormous relief, Avril Rocard had checked in at 7:15 that morning, arriving by a cab from Bahnhof Zoo, Berlin’s main railway station. Hanging up, Cadoux reached for a cigarette. Blowing out the smoke, he smiled, he beamed, he pounded on the desk with his fist. Then, thirty seconds later, at 10:59 exactly, and with Von Holden still in his meeting with Scholl, Cadoux picked up the phone and placed a call to Avril Rocard’s room at the Hotel Kempinski. As luck would have it, the line was busy.

McVey was using it to call Scholl. The first part of their ‘conversation had been formal and polite. They discussed their mutual friendship with Cardinal O’Connel, the Berlin weather compared to Southern California, and the irony of being in the city at the same time. Then they got ground to the reason for McVey’s call.

“It’s something I’d rather discuss in person, Mr. Scholl. I wouldn’t want it to be misinterpreted.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“Let’s just say, it’s personal.”

“Detective, my calendar for the day is full. Isn’t this something that could wait until my return to Los Angeles?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“How much time do you think it will require?”

“Half hour, forty minutes.”

“I see—”

“I do know you’re busy, and I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Scholl. I understand you’ll be at the Charlottenburg Palace for a reception this evening. Why don’t we meet there beforehand? How is about sev—”

“I will meet you promptly at five o’clock at number 72 Hauptstrasse, in the Friedenau district. It’s a private residence. I’m sure you will be able to find it. Good morning, Detective.”

There was a click on the other end as Scholl hung up and looked at Louis Goetz and then to Von Holden, as both hung up extensions.

“That was what you wanted?”

“That was what I wanted,” Von Holden said.