The Day After Tomorrow

135

MC VEY LAY on his back and stared at the ceiling. Remmer was gone. Osborn was gone. And nobody had told him a thing. It was five minutes to ten in the morning and all he had in his hospital room was the newspaper and Berlin television. A guaze bandage covered a good third of his face and he was still sick to his stomach from cyanide poisoning, but other than that he was fine. Except that he didn’t know anything and nobody would tell him anything.

Suddenly he wondered where his things were. He could see his suit hanging in the closet and his shoes on the floor beneath it. Across the room was a small chest of drawers next to a chair for visitors. His briefcase with his case notes and passport and suitcase should still be in the hotel where he’d left them. But where the hell was his wallet and I.D.s? where the hell was his gun?

Throwing back the covers, he slid his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He felt a little shaky and stood still for a moment to make sure he had his balance.

Three uneven steps later, he’d crossed to the chest of drawers. In the top drawer were his boxer shorts, his undershirt and socks. In the next were his house keys, his comb, his glasses and his wallet. But no gun. Maybe they’d locked it up, or maybe Remmer had it. Closing the drawer, he started back for the bed, then stopped. Something wasn’t right. Turning back, he jerked open the second drawer, took out his wallet and opened it. His badge and his letter of introduction from Interpol were gone.

“Osborn!” he said out loud. “Goddammit!”

No Remmer. No McVey. No police. Osborn sat back as Swissair flight 533 taxied out onto the tarmac and waited for takeoff clearance. He’d done what he could picture McVey doing, called Swissair and asked for the chief of I security. When he got him, he explained that he was a Los Angeles homicide detective working in conjunction with Interpol. He was in hot pursuit of a prime suspect in the fire-bombing of Charlottenburg Palace. The man had arrived in Frankfurt by train from Berlin and escaped again, murdering three Frankfurt policemen in the process, and I was on his way to Switzerland. It was urgent he be on the ten-ten flight to Zurich. Was there any way he could be helped through check-in?

At three minutes past ten, Osborn was met at the Swissair gate at Frankfurt International Airport by the captain of flight 533. Osborn identified himself as Detective William McVey, Los Angeles Police Department. He’d presented his .38 revolver, his badge and his letter of introduction from Interpol, and that was it—everything else, his LAPD I.D. and his passport had been left in his hotel in the rush out of Berlin. The one other thing he did have It was the photo of the suspect, a man called Von Holden. The captain studied the photo and looked over the Interpol letter, then he looked up at the man calling himself a Los Angeles police officer Detective McVey was definitely American and the bags under his eyes and stubble beard said he’d definitely been up for a long time. It was now ten-six, four minutes before they were scheduled to pull back from the gate.

“Detective—” The captain was staring him straight in the eye.

“Yes sir.” What’s he thinking? That I’m lying? That maybe I’m the fugitive and somehow got hold of McVey’s badge and gun? If he accuses you, deny it. Hold your ground. You’re in the right here no matter what and you don’t have time to argue about it.

“Guns make me nervous—”

“Me, too.”

“Then if you don’t mind, I’ll keep it in the cockpit until we land.”

And that had been it. The captain went on board, Osborn paid for his ticket in Deutschmarks, then took a seat in coach class just behind the bulkhead. Closing his eyes, he waited for the whine of engines and the thrust back into his seat that would tell him he’d made it, that the captain wouldn’t reconsider or that McVey had found his things missing and alerted the police. Suddenly the engines revved and the thrust came. Thirty seconds later they were airborne.

Osborn watched the German countryside fade as they climbed into a thin cloud deck. Then they were up and in bright sunshine with the sky deep blue against the white of the cloud tops.

“Sir?” Osborn looked up. A stewardess was smiling at him. “Our flight is not full. The captain has invited you to the first-class cabin.”

“Thank you very much.” Osborn smiled gratefully and got up. The flight was short, just over an hour, but in first class he could sit back and maybe sleep for forty minutes or so. And in first-class lavatories they might provide a razor and shaving cream. It would be a chance to freshen up.

The captain must have been a fan of either law enforcement or L.A. cops because, besides the star treatment, he also gave Osborn something else and of infinitely greater value when they landed, an introduction to Swiss airport police—personally vouching for who he was and why he was there without passport, and stressing the essence of time in his pursuit of the suspected perpetrator of the Charlottenburg holocaust. This was followed immediately by a hasty police chaperon through Swiss immigration and a hearty good-luck wish.

Outside, the captain returned the gun and asked where he was going and if he could drop him along the way.

“Thank you, no,” Osborn said, greatly relieved but purposefully not revealing his destination.

“Be well, then.”

Osborn smiled and took his hand. “If you’re ever in Los Angeles, look me up. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I will.”

It was then 11:20, Saturday morning, October 15. By 11:35, Osborn was on the EuroCity express out of Zurich. At 12:45 it would arrive in Bern, thirty-four minutes after Von Holden’s train had arrived from Frankfurt. By now Remmer would have scoured the Strasbourg and Geneva trains and come up empty. And with egg on his face. He’d have to turn somewhere, but where?

Then the thought came to Osborn that if the black man had lied to Remmer, why couldn’t he have done the same to him? Was he coming into Bern thinking he’d cut the odds “of catching Von Holden from nothing to little more than thirty minutes or would he end up the same way Remmer had, with nothing? Nothing at all—again.