The Day After Tomorrow

136

IN FORTY-FIVE minutes Osborn would be in Bern, and he needed to think about what he was going to do when he got there. He could have shortened the distance between himself and Von Holden mightily, but still there was a thirty-four-minute overlay. Von Holden knew where he was going; Osborn didn’t. What he had to do was put himself in Von Holden’s place. Where and what had he come from, where was he going and why?

Bern, he’d learned in Frankfurt when he was trying to find the fastest way to get there, had a small airport that was serviced from London, Paris, Nice, Venice and Lugano. But flights were infrequent. Daily, not hourly. And a small airport could easily be watched. Von Holden would think about that. On the plus side were civil aircraft. He could have a plane waiting.

There was a roar as a train passed in the opposite direction. Then it was gone and in its place was green farmland and behind it steep hills covered with thick forest. For a moment Osborn was lost in the beauty of the land, the clarity of blue sky against radiant green, sunlight that seemed to dance off every leaf. A small town passed, and then the train rounded a sweeping bend and on a distant hill Osborn saw the dominating silhouette of a huge medieval castle. He knew he wanted to come back here.

Suddenly he found comfort in his conviction that it was not Vera but some other woman who was with Von Holden. Vera, he was certain, had been released from jail legitimately and was, at this moment, on her way back to Paris. Thinking of her that way, picturing her safely back in her apartment, living the life she had before all this happened, a longing fell over him that was painful and beautiful at the same time. It was for them and a life together. Against the Swiss countryside he saw children and heard laughter and saw Vera’s face and felt the touch of her cheek against his. He saw them smiling and holding hands and—

“Fahrkarte, bitte.” Osborn looked up. A young ticket collector was standing beside him, a black leather ticket case slung from his shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I don’t—”

The ticket collector smiled. “Your ticket, please.”

“Yes.” Osborn reached in his jacket and gave the ticket collector his ticket. Then he had a thought. “Excuse, me. I’m meeting a man in Bern. He’s coming in on the train from Frankfurt that’s due in at twelve twelve. He—ah, doesn’t know I’m coming, it’s going to be a—surprise.”

“Do you know where in Bern he will be staying?”

“No, I—” That was it right there. Von Holden couldn’t have planned Bern as a final destination either; his main thought would have been to get out of the country as quickly as possible following the shootings. If that was so, the idea that he might have a plane waiting was wrong.

“I think he’s taking another train. Maybe to—” Where would he go? Not back to Germany. Not to an eastern country; there would be too much disruption there. “France maybe. Or Italy. He’s a—salesman.”

The ticket collector stared at him. “Just what is it you are asking me?”

“I—” Osborn grinned sheepishly. The ticket collector had helped clarify his thinking, but he was right, what did Osborn expect him to do? “I guess I was just trying to figure my next step if I missed him. You know, if he’s already gone and not there, waiting for another train.”

“My best suggestion is that you take a Eurail schedule and look over the trains that have left Bern between twelve twelve when he gets there and twelve forty-four, when you do. May I also suggest you have him paged once you get to the station.”

“Paged?”

“Yes, sir.” With that the ticket collector nodded, handed Osborn a train schedule and moved on.

Osborn looked off—“Paged.”

Von Holden waited outside a pastry shop within the depths of the Bern rail station. Vera had gone into the women’s room directly across from him. She was exhausted and had said little on the entire trip but he knew ‘ she’d been thinking of Osborn. And because of that; because she was certain he was taking her to him, he had no doubt she would return to him as she had promised.

The first hour of the trip from Frankfurt to Bern had been his greatest concern. If the black counterman had been less intimidated than he’d seemed when Von Holden had taken him aside and threatened him that skinheads would show up at his door if he didn’t do exactly as he was told, and instead revealed to the police what train he was really on— they would have stopped the train in no time with a battery of police. That hadn’t happened. Nor had he seen any more than the usual station security when they’d reached Bern.

At seven minutes to one, Vera came out of the women’s room and went with him while he purchased two multiday passes on the Eurail system. They were good for travel anywhere on the continent. It would give them flexibility of movement, he told her. What he didn’t tell her was that he could suddenly put them on any train at all without her knowing where it was going.

“Achtung! Herr Von Holden, Telefon anruf, bitte. Herr Von Holden, Telefon, bitte.” Von Holden started. He was being paged over the public address system. What was going on? Who could possibly know he was there?

“Achtung! Herr Von Holden, Telefon anruf, bitte.”

Osborn stood at a bank of phones, his back against the wall. From there he could see most of the station. The ticket windows, shops, restaurants, the foreign money exchange. If Von Holden was in the station at all -which was a long shot, since from the time Von Holden had arrived until now, at least thirteen trains had left Bern, six for cities within Switzerland, one for Amsterdam and the rest for Italy—but if he was there and moved to answer a courtesy telephone, there was every chance Osborn would see him. The other possibility was that he could be waiting for a train on one of the upstairs platforms. Osborn had counted at least eight tracks as they’d come in from Zurich.

“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Von Holden does not answer,” the operator said in English.

“Would you please try once more, it’s very important.”

The page came again and Von Holden took Vera by the arm! and moved her quickly away from the ticket windows and into the corridor leading to the tracks.

“Who is it? Who’s calling you?”

“I don’t know.” Von Holden looked over his shoulder. He saw no one he recognized. They turned a corner and started up the stairs toward the tracks. Then they were at the top of the stairs and onto the platform. At the far end of the station a train was waiting.

Osborn hung up and headed for the tracks. If Von Holden had been in the station he hadn’t answered the page, nor had Osborn seen him in the crowds going toward the tracks. If he was there, the only thing left was that he was already on the platform, either on a train or waiting to board one.

Now Osborn was in the corridor leading to the trains. Stairs went up to his left and right, and he had to choose between at least four platforms. He went for the third, knowing it would put him on a platform somewhere toward the middle of the station.

His heart was pounding as he reached the top of the stairs. He expected to see the station filled with people, as it had been when he’d arrived. To his amazement it was all but deserted. Then he saw a train at the far end of the station, two tracks away. A man and a woman were walking rapidly toward it. He could see neither clearly, but he could tell that the man had a pack of some kind thrown over his shoulder. Osborn ran down the platform he was on. He didn’t dare jump the track because he was afraid that if it had a third rail he would be electrocuted. Now, ‘the couple were almost to the train; both had their backs to him. Osborn was running as fast as he could and very nearly coming abreast of them. He saw them reach the train and the man help the woman on, then the man turned back and looked across. As he did, Osborn slid to a stop. For the briefest moment they stared at each other, then the man pulled himself up and disappeared inside the train. A moment later the train gave a lurch and “started forward. Then it picked up speed and pulled out of the station.

Osborn stood frozen where he was. The face that had stared back at him from the train was the face that had stared back at him that night in the Tiergarten. The same face that glared out of the video enhancement taken at the house on Hauptstrasse. It was Von Holden.

The woman he’d only glimpsed for a second as she boarded the train. But in that instant his world and everything in it was destroyed. There was no question who it had been. No question at all.

Vera.