“Fire?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When did it happen?”
“Last night, sir.”
Last night. The same as Charlottenburg.
“Thank you.” Osborn continued on. Unless it was some great coincidence, what happened there, happened here. Meaning whatever had been destroyed there had been destroyed here, too. But Von Holden wouldn’t have known that or he wouldn’t have come, unless it was to meet someone. Suddenly something made Osborn look up. Vera and Von Holden stood at the end of the corridor bathed in the eerie blue light created by the ice. They looked at him a half second more, then abruptly turned down the corridor and vanished.
Osborn’s heart felt as if it was trying to pound through his ears. Gathering himself, he turned to the guide.
“Down there,” he pointed to where the two had stood. “Where does that lead?”
“Outside to the ski school and the dogsled area. But of course they are closed now for the day.”
“Thank you.” Osborn’s voice was barely a whisper. His feet were like stone, as if they had frozen to the ice beneath them. His hand slid into his jacket and took hold of the .38. The ice walls glistened cobalt blue and he could see his breath. Grasping the hand rail he moved cautiously ahead until he reached the turn in the tunnel where Von Holden and Vera had vanished.
The corridor ahead was empty, and at the end was a door. A sign for the ski school pointed toward it. There was another for dogsled rides.
You want me to follow you, don’t you? Osborn’s mind raced. That’s the idea. Through that door. Outside. Away from other people. Go out there! You do that, he’s got you. You won’t come in again. Von Holden will take what’s left of you and throw you over the side someplace. Into some deep crevasse. They won’t find you till spring. They may never find you.
“What are you doing? Where are you taking me?” Vera and Von Holden entered a small, claustrophobic room of ice in a passageway off the main corridor. He had held her arm going down the passage and stopped her the moment they’d seen Osborn. Purposely he waited until he felt her about to call out, then he’d pulled her around and they’d gone quickly back, turning into a side tunnel and then into the room.
“The fire was set. They are here, waiting for us. For you, for the documents I have.”
“Paul—”
“Perhaps he is one of them as well.”
“No. Never! He escaped somehow—”
“Did he?”
“He had to have—” Suddenly Vera flashed on the men posing as Frankfurt police moments before Von Holden shot them. “Where is the female officer? The policewoman?” they had asked.
“There is none,” Von Holden answered. “There was no time.”
It hadn’t been another fugitive that concerned them, it had been
“We have to find out about Osborn, or neither of us will leave here alive.” Von Holden’s breath hung in the air and he smiled gently as he came toward her. The nylon rucksack was over his left shoulder, his right hand at his waist. His manner was easy, relaxed, the same as it had been when he faced the men on the train. The same as Avril Rocard’s had been when she gunned down the French Secret Service agents at the Nancy farmhouse.
In that instant Vera understood—the thing that had troubled her since they’d left Interlaken, the thing she’d been too emotionally overwhelmed and exhausted to grasp beforehand, the thing that had been there all along. Yes, Von Holden had had all the right answers, but it was for a different reason. The men on the train
146
OSBORN WALKED quickly back the way he had come. Now he saw the railroaders loading into the elevator at the far end of the Ice Palace. Walking even faster, he caught up with them just as the door was closing. Stopping it with his hand, he squeezed in among them.
“Sorry . . . ,” he lied, smiling.
The door closed and the elevator rose. What to do now? Osborn could feel the pump of blood through his carotid arteries. The
“What’re you doin’ now?” Connie was walking beside him. Osborn looked at her and then started as a sudden gust of wind rattled across the windows.
“Doing?” Osborn’s eyes nervously swept the room as they followed the others toward the food service line. “I thought maybe I’d have a—cup of coffee.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Why would anything be the matter?”
“You in trouble or something? The police after you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“Then why’re you so nervous? You’re skitty as a newborn colt.”
Now they were at the food counter. Osborn looked back at the room. Some of the railroaders were already sitting down, pulling up chairs between two tables nearby. The family he’d seen at the souvenir shop was at another table, with the father pointing off toward the restrooms and the young boy in the Chicago Bulls jacket heading toward it. Two young men sat at a table near the door, smoking cigarettes and chatting earnestly.
“Sit over here with me and drink this.” They were already through the cashier and Connie was leading him to a table away from the railroaders.
“What is it?” Osborn looked at the glass Connie had set In front of him.
“Coffee with cognac. Now be a good guy and drink it.”
Osborn looked at her, then picked up the cup and drank. What to do? He thought. They’re here, in the building or outside it. I didn’t go after them. Which means they’ll come after me.
“Are you Doctor Osborn?”
Osborn looked up. The boy in the Chicago Bulls jacket was right there.
“Yes.”
“A man said to tell you he’s waiting outside.”
“By the dogsled run.”
“Clifford, what are you doin’? I thought you were goin’ to the lavatory.” The boy’s father was taking him by the hand. “Sorry,” he said to Osborn. “What’re you doin’ bothering those folks, huh?” he said to his son as they walked off.
Osborn saw his father on the sidewalk. Primal fear in his eyes. Terrified. His hand reaching up for his son to ease him into death. Suddenly he got up. Without looking at Connie, he stepped around the table and started for the door.
