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.
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—
“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
