The Day After Tomorrow

“McVey wouldn’t?” Remmer cut him off with a laugh, then took Osborn’s hand from his sleeve. “McVey brought you along for his purposes, Doctor Osborn. And for his purposes only. Don’t ever think he didn’t. Now do as I say, yes? Go back to Berlin. Take a room at our old campground, the Hotel Palace. I will contact you there.”

Opening the door, Remmer brushed past the station-master and went back into the station. Osborn followed, but not closely. In the distance he could see Remmer with the gathering of Frankfurt police, then saw him step aside to talk briefly with the three witnesses and the black counterman. And then they dispersed. All of them. Faceless-people filled the place where they’d been, and it was as if it had all never happened. And like that, Osborn found himself alone in the Frankfurt railroad station. He could have been a tourist passing through with nothing more on his mind than that day’s schedule. Except that he wasn’t.

Von Holden and the woman with him—it was not Vera, Osborn decided, it was someone else, maybe someone with black hair who resembled her, but it was not Vera—were on their way to either France or Switzerland. And then where?

What was worse? That Remmer’s dragnet failed and they got away, or that it didn’t? No matter what Lybarger’s nurse knew or didn’t know, assuming they would find her, it Was Von Holden who was the last of the Organization, the last direct connection to his father’s death. If the police closed in, Von Holden would fight. And in doing so, he would be killed. And that would be the end of everything.

Go back to Berlin Remmer told him. Go there and wait. He’d already waited thirty years. He wasn’t going to do it again.

Suddenly Osborn realized he’d been walking across the station the whole time and was nearly to a door leading to the street. Then something caught his eye and he saw the black counterman walking quickly in his direction. He was looking over his shoulder, as if someone might be following him, and at the same time tearing off his white work apron. Reaching the door, he gave a final glance back, then, tossing the apron into a trash receptacle, pushed through to the street. For a moment Osborn wondered what was going on. Then it hit.

“The son of a bitch was lying!”

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 cafes. 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.

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