The Day After Tomorrow

84

OSBORN WAS hustled through the bar and out an exit onto the street. He’d tried to sign off with Vera, but McVey had reached in and cut off the phone with his hand.

“The girl, wasn’t it? Vera Monneray,” McVey said, pulling open the door to an unmarked Rover at the curb.

“Yes,” Osborn said. McVey had pushed into his private world and he didn’t like it.

“She with the Paris police?”

“No. The Secret Service.”

Doors slammed, and Noble’s driver pulled into traffic. Five minutes later they were rounding Piccadilly Circus and turning on Haymarket for Trafalgar Square.

“Unlisted number?” McVey said flatly, staring at the numbers Osborn had scrawled on his hand.

“What are you getting at?” Osborn said defensively, tucking his hands up under his armpits.

McVey stared at him. “I hope you didn’t kill her.”

Noble turned from his seat next to the driver. “Did you inquire about the telephone you were using or did you find it yourself?”

Osborn turned from McVey. “What difference does it snake?”

“Did you inquire about the telephone Or did you find it yourself?”

“The phones in the lobby were being used. I asked if there were any others.”

“And someone told you.”

“Obviously.”

“Anybody see you place the call? See what booth you went into?” McVey let Noble continue.

“No,” Osborn said quickly, then suddenly remembered.

“A hotel employee, an old black woman. She was vacuuming the hallway.”

“Not hard to trace a call from a public telephone,” Noble said. “Especially if you know which phone it is. Listed or unlisted, fifty pounds in the right hands will get you the number, the town, the street address and most likely what’s being served for dinner. All in the bat of an eyelash.”

Osborn sat for a long time in silence and watched as nighttime London flashed by. He didn’t like it, but Noble was right. He’d been foolish, stupid. But this wasn’t his world. Where every thought had to have a forethought, and everyone was under suspicion no matter who they were.

Finally he looked to McVey. “Who’s doing this? Who are they?”

McVey shook his head.

“Did you know the man you shot was a member of the Stasi,” Osborn said.

“She tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“She’s right.”

Osborn was incredulous. “You knew?”

McVey didn’t reply. Neither did Noble.

“Let me tell you, something you probably don’t know. The French prime minister has resigned his office. It’ll be announced in the morning. He was forced out by people in his own party because of his opposition to France’s part in the new European community. He thinks the Germans have too much power, they disagree.”

“Nothing new in that.” Noble shrugged and turned to say something to the driver.

“It’s new if he thinks they’d kill him if he didn’t. Or kill Vera as a point to him and his family.”

McVey and Noble exchanged glances.

“Is that what you think or what she said?” McVey asked.

Osborn glared at him. “She’s scared, all right? For a lot of reasons.”

“You didn’t help her any. Next time when I tell you to do something, you do it!” McVey turned to look out the window. After that, silence fell over the car, and there was only the hum of the tires against the road. Occasionally lights from oncoming traffic illuminated the men inside, but for the most part they sat in darkness.

Osborn leaned back. In his life he thought he’d never been so tired. Every limb ached. His lungs, as they lifted and fell with each breath, felt as if they were lead. Sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Absently he ran his hand along the roughness of his jaw and supposed that somewhere along the way he’d forgotten to shave. Looking at McVey, he saw the same weariness in him. Deep circles hung under his eyes and gray-white stubble showed on his chin. His clothes, fresh as they were, looked as if he might have been sleeping in them for a week. And Noble, sitting in front, looked no better.

The Rover slowed and turned into a narrow side street and a block later swung into an underground garage. Suddenly it occurred to Osborn to ask where they were going.

“Berlin.” McVey beat him to it.

“Berlin?”

Two uniformed policemen approached the car as it stopped and opened the doors.

“Right this way if you would, gentlemen.” The uniforms led the way down a corridor and then out a door leading onto the tarmac. They were at the far corner of a commercial airport. In the distance a twin-engine plane sat waiting, its interior lights on, a portable stairway leading up to an open door in the fuselage.

“The reason you’re coming along,” McVey said as they walked toward it, “is to give a deposition before a German judge. I want you to tell him what Albert Merriman said to you just before he was shot.”

“You’re talking about Scholl.”

McVey nodded.

Osborn could feel his pulse jump. “He’s in Berlin.”

“Yes.”

Ahead of them, Noble went up the steps and into the plane.

“My deposition is to help get a warrant for his arrest.”

“I want to talk to him.” McVey started up the stairs.

Osborn was euphoric. It was why he’d gambled meeting with McVey in the first place. To take him the next step, to help him get to Scholl.

“I want to be there when you do.”

“That’s what I assumed.” McVey disappeared inside the plane.