The Day After Tomorrow

129

BAERBEL BRACHER, her small dog tugging at his leash, Stood talking to homicide inspectors from Polizeipräsidium, Berlin’s central police station. Baerbel Bracher was eighty-seven and it was 12:35 in the morning. Her dog, Heinz, was sixteen and had bladder problems. She walked him as often as four times a night. Sometimes five or more on a bad night. Tonight had been a bad night; she’d been out for the sixth time when she’d seen the police cars and then the policemen and teenagers gathered around the parked taxi.

“Yes, I saw him. He was young and handsome and wearing a tuxedo.” She stopped as the coroner’s van arrived and the coroner and white-coated assistants got out and approached the cab. “At the time I thought it strange a good-looking man in a tuxedo should be getting out of a taxi, throwing the keys inside and walking away.” She watched them bring over a gurney and body bag, then open the trunk and lift out the body of the young taxi driver, put her in the bag and then zip it closed over her head.

“But then, it’s none of my business, is it? He had a big white case over his shoulder, too. Something else I thought strange, a young man in a tuxedo, lugging an awkward-looking box like that. But anything can happen these days. I don’t think about anything anymore. I have no opinions.”

The tuxedo was the thing that connected him to Charlottenburg, and by 1:00 A.M. Baerbel Bracher was at police headquarters looking at photographs. Because of the Charlottenburg connection, the BKA was notified. Immediately, Bad Godesberg contacted Remmer.

“Mix in the still picture of Scholl’s director of security made from the videotape taken outside the house on Hauptstrasse,” he said from his hospital room. “Don’t make a point of it. Just put it in with the others.”

Twenty minutes later, Bad Godesberg called back with an affirmative. That meant a member of what Dr. Salettl had called the “Organization” had escaped the Charlottenburg fire and was at large. Instantly an all-points bulletin was issued, and Remmer requested an international arrest warrant for a murder suspect known as Pascal Von Holden, an Argentine national carrying a Swiss passport.

Within the hour a judge in Bad Godesberg issued the warrant. Moments later, Von Holden’s photograph was electronically circulated to all police agencies in Europe, the United Kingdom and North and South America. The circulation was a code “Red”—arrest and detain. Subheading: should be considered armed and extremely dangerous.

“How do you feel?” It was after two when Remmer came into Osborn’s room.

“I’m all right.” Osborn had drifted off but woke as Remmer came in. “How’s your wrist?”

Remmer held up his left arm. “Temporary cast.”

“McVey?”

“Sleeping.”

Remmer came closer, and Osborn could see the intensity in his eyes.

“You’ve found Lybarger’s nurse!”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“Noble’s Spetsnaz soldier, the same man you encountered in the Tiergarten, escaped the fire.”

Osborn started. Another thread still dangling. “Von Holden?”

“A man matching his description was seen boarding the 10:48 train to Frankfurt. We’re not certain it’s him, but I’m going there anyway. It’s too foggy to fly. There are no trains. I’m going to drive.”

“I’m going with you.”

Remmer grinned. “I know.”

Ten minutes later, a dark gray Mercedes left Berlin on the autobahn. The car was a six-liter V-8 police model. Its top speed was classified, but it was rumored to be nearly two hundred miles per hour on a straightaway.

“I have to know if you get carsick,” Remmer looked at Osborn purposefully.

“Why?”

“The Berlin train gets in at four minutes past seven. It’s now a little after two. A fast driver on the autobahn can make Berlin to Frankfurt in five and half hours. I’m a fast driver. I’m also a cop.”

“What’s the record?”

“There is no record.”

Osborn smiled. “Make one.”