The Day After Tomorrow

Joanna.

Three minutes later they were being shown into the Historical Apartments, the rich, ornate, private living quarters of Friedrich the First and his wife, Sophie-Charlotte. Scholl, suddenly acting like an excited theatrical producer, had Lybarger, Eric and Edward in a corner and was trying to locate a still photographer to take pictures.

Taking Joanna aside, Von Holden asked her to make certain Lybarger was taken to a room where he could rest until he was called.

“Something is wrong, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. I’ll be back,” he said quickly. Then, avoiding Scholl, he left by a side door and pushed his way through a corridor filled with serving personnel. Moving toward the main reception area, he turned into an alcove and tried to raise the Hotel Borggreve by radio. There was r no reply.

Snapping off the radio, he nodded to a security agent and went out through the main entrance where the others were beginning to arrive. He saw the exceedingly short, bearded Hans Dabritz step out of a limousine and extend his hand to a tall, exquisitely thin, black fashion model, thirty years his junior. Keeping in the shadows, he walked toward the street. Crossing the driveway, he glimpsed Konrad and Margarete Peiper in the backseat of a limousine as it passed him. Behind them was a solid line of limousines waiting to turn in through the main gate. If Von Holden called for his, it would be at least ten minutes before it arrived. And right now ten minutes was far too long to stand passively by waiting for a limousine. Across the street, he saw activist Gertrude Biermann get out of a taxi and cross determinedly toward him, her thick ankles all too visible beneath the loden green of her military overcoat. As she reached the main entrance, her plain, militant appearance caused a rush of security personnel. And she reacted in kind, baring her temper as well as her invitation. Across, the taxi she had arrived in was still by the curbside, waiting to pull out in traffic. Quickly Von Holden moved to it, opened the rear door and got in.

“Where do you want to go?” the taxi driver asked, staring over his shoulder at the river of oncoming headlights then abruptly accelerating off with a squeal of tires.

That afternoon after he’d made love to Joanna in her room at the house on Hauptstrasse, Von Holden had immediately fallen asleep. And even though it had been only for a few minutes, it had been long enough for the dream to come back. Overwhelmed by the horror, he’d awakened with a shout, soaked in sweat. Joanna had tried to comfort him but he’d pushed her aside and drenched himself in the rush of an ice-cold shower. The water and press of time revived him quickly and he blamed the whole episode on exhaustion. But it was a lie. The dream had been real. The “Vorahnung,” the premonition, had come back. It had been there again the moment he put his hand on the limousine telephone and felt the jolt of fear that there would be no answer when he dialed. That even before he called, he knew something had gone dreadfully wrong.

“I asked you where you wanted to go?” the driver said again. “Or should I drive around in circles while you make up your mind?”

Von Holden’s eyes went to the driver’s reflection in the mirror. He was young, twenty-two at most. Blond, smiling and chewing gum. How was he to know there was only one place his passenger could go?”

“The Hotel Borggreve,” Von Holden said.

116

LESS THAN ten minutes later the taxi turned onto Borggrevestrasse and immediately stopped. The street was blocked off by a police barricade with fire trucks, ambulances and police cars. In the distance, Von Holden could see flames reaching into the night sky. It was exactly what, he should have seen if everything had gone as planned. But with no communication with the operatives, there was no way to know for certain what had happened.

Suddenly Von Holden’s heart began to palpitate violently and he broke into a cold sweat. The palpitations increased. It felt as if someone were tying a knot inside his chest. Terrified, struggling to breathe, he put his hands out beside him for fear he would black out and fall over. Somewhere he thought he heard the taxi driver ask him where he wanted to go now, because the police were kicking everyone out of the area. Reaching up, he clawed at his collar, his fingers fumbling with his tie. Finally he tore it free and lay back, gasping for air.

“What’s the matter?” the driver turned around in his seat to look at him over his shoulder.

Just then an emergency vehicle pulled up beside them, its flashing lights skip-jacking like knives through his ocular nerves. Crying out, he threw up a hand and turned away trying to find darkness.

Then they came.

The monstrous candy-colored ribbons of green and red undulating up and down in perfect rhythm. Huge, demonic pistons shoving through the very center of his being. Von Holden’s eyes rolled back and his tongue caught in his throat as if to strangle him. Never had the dream come while he was awake. And never in so horrible a way.

Certain he would die if he didn’t get out of the cab, he lunged for the door. Flinging it open, he dragged himself across the seat and stepped out into the night air.

“Hey! Where are you going?” the driver yelled over the seat. “What the hell do you think this is, free service?” The smiling, gum-chewing kid was suddenly an angry capitalist. It was then Von Holden realized the driver was a- woman. With her hair tucked up under a cap and loose-fitting jacket, he hadn’t noticed at first.

Breathing deeply, Von Holden stared back. “Do you know Behrenstrasse?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Take me to number 45.”

Lights of oncoming traffic illuminated the men in the car. Schneider was driving with Remmer beside him. McVey and Osborn were in the back. McVey’s lower right cheek and most of his lower lip had been burned raw and had been covered with salve to protect them. The hair on Remmer’s head had been singed back to the scalp and his left hand had been broken in a number of places when part of the ceiling had come crashing down a split second after the explosion. Osborn had taken over for the paramedic at the scene and bandaged it tightly when Remmer insisted that as long as he could walk, the night was not yet over. To a man they remembered Noble as he was being put into the ambulance. Burned over two-thirds of his body, fluid drip-drip ping into his system from an IV held over his head, he should have been at the edge of death and out cold. Instead, he’d opened his eyes and looked up at them and in a hoarse voice, through an oxygen mask, managed—“Plastic explosive. Stupid bastards, aren’t we—” Then his voice grew strong and rose in anger. “Get them,” he said, and his eyes glistened. “Get them and break them.”

Remmer held on as Schneider wheeled the Audi through a sharp turn, then looked back at McVey. “We won’t surprise Scholl, you know. Security will let him know the moment we arrive.”

McVey was staring off and didn’t respond. Noble had been right. They were stupid bastards, the way they’d blundered into the trap. But they’d been anxious and they’d had the pressure of time, of getting to Cadoux before the group did. In retrospect, it was a situation where they should have gone in with marines, not policemen— or at least called in a Berlin P.D. swat team. But they hadn’t and of the four of them, it was Noble who had paid for it the worst of all. The slain German cops angered him too. But there was nothing any of them could do about that now. The only consolation, if there was one, was that four of the group’s people had gone down too. Hopefully, identification of the bodies would open new doors.

Remmer pressed. “Not only will security inform Scholl, they won’t want to let us inside. Our warrant is only for Scholl. Their position will be that it’s not for the premises. We can’t serve a warrant if we can’t get to him.”

McVey looked up. “Tell them that if they, attempt to delay us, we will have the fire minister close the building. That doesn’t work, use your imagination. You’re a cop, they’re only security.” Abruptly he turned to Osborn and leaned in close. His facial burns were ugly and painful but his eyes were alive and intent, and he spoke quickly and with determination. “Scholl may deny it or excuse it out of hand, but he’ll know who you are and that this whole thing got started because of your business with Albert Merriman in Paris. He will, assume Merriman told you about him and that you told me. What he won’t know, or at least I think he won’t know, is how much we’ve put together about the rest. Even if his security people alert him, he’ll still be surprised to see us because he’ll think we’re dead. He’s also arrogant enough to be upset that we’re interrupting his party. Which is