The Day After Tomorrow

134

BRIGHT, HAZY sunlight hit Osborn like a wall, and for a moment he was blinded by it. Shading his eyes, he tried to find the man in the traffic in front of the station but couldn’t. Then he saw him dart across the street and turn a popper. Osborn went after him.

Turning the same corner, he saw him halfway down the block on the far side of the street, walking quickly along a maze of curio shops and storefront cafés. Osborn crossed to the same side of the street and picked up his pace. Suddenly it was Paris again and instead of a black man it was Albert Merriman, or Henri Kanarack, as he’d called himself. Kanarack had fled into the subway system and vanished. It had taken three days to find him again. Can’t let that happen this time, Osborn thought. In three days Von Holden arid whoever’s with him will be on the far side of the earth.

Osborn started to run. At the same time the man looked back and saw him. He started to run himself. Twenty paces later, he cut into an alley.

Knocking a bag of groceries from a middle-aged woman in glasses, Osborn turned into the same alley, ignoring her angry shouts. Down the block, the man vaulted a fence. Osborn did the same. On the far side was a courtyard and the back door to a restaurant. The door was just swinging closed as Osborn hit the ground.

A moment later be was inside. A short hallway, a pantry, then a small kitchen. Three kitchen workers looked up as he came in. The only other door led directly into the restaurant. Osborn slammed through it and into a businessmen’s breakfast. The speaker stopped and stared. Osborn turned on his heel and went back into the kitchen.

“A black man came in here. Where the hell is he?” Osborn snapped. The kitchen workers looked at each other.

“What do you want?” the fat, sweaty chef in a smeared apron asked in German. Taking a step toward Osborn, he picked up a meat cleaver.

Osborn glanced to his right, back down the hallway he’d come in.

“Sorry—” he said to the chef and started for the back door. Halfway down the hallway he suddenly stopped and shoved on the pantry door. It banged open and he stepped inside. The pantry was empty. He turned to go out, then suddenly lunged sideways. The black man tried to scramble out from behind a stack of flour bags but Osborn had him by the collar. Jerking him around hard, he pulled him face to face.

The black man turned away and threw up a hand to protect himself. “Don’t hurt!” he yelled in English.

“You speak English?” Osborn said, his eyes boring in on his captive.

“little—Don’t hurt.”

“The man and the woman in the station. What train did they take?”

“Two track.” He shrugged and tried to smile. “Don’t know. Don’t see!”

Osborn flared. “You lied to the police. Don’t lie to me! Or I’ll call them and you’ll go to prison. Understand?”

The man stared, then finally nodded. “Odder man he say, he get skinheads if I tell. They beat me. My family.”

“He threatened you? He didn’t pay you?”

The man shook his head violently. “No, no pay. Say skinheads. Come hurt. Again.”

“No skinheads will come,” Osborn said quietly, then relaxed his grip and reached into his pocket. The man cried out and tried to scramble away but Osborn grabbed him again. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Osborn held up a fifty Deutschmark bill. “What train did they take? What destination?”

The man stared at the money, then looked at Osborn.

“No hurt. Pay,” Osborn said.

The man’s lower lip quivered and Osborn could see he was still afraid.

“Please, it’s very important. To my family. Do you understand?”

Slowly the man’s eyes came up to Osborn’s.

“Bern.”

Osborn released his grip.