then a final boarding call came for McVey’s plane. Telling Grossman he had to run, he hung up.
A few minutes later, McVey buckled his seat belt and his Air Europe jet backed away from the gate. Glancing again at Agnes Demblon’s name on the back of the boarding pass envelope, he let out a sigh and sat back, feeling the bump of the plane as it moved out onto the taxiway.
Glancing out the window, McVey could see a succession of rainclouds rolling across the French countryside. The wet made him think of the red mud on Osborn’s shoes. Then they were up and in the clouds.
A flight attendant asked him if he wanted a newspaper and he took it but didn’t open it. What caught his eye was the date. Friday, October 7. It was only this morning that Lebrun had been notified by Interpol, Lyon, that the fingerprint had even been made legible. And Lebrun himself had traced it to Albert Merriman while McVey stood there. Yet a request to the New York police for the Merriman file had come from Interpol, Washington, on Thursday. That meant that Interpol, Lyon, had sourced the print, uncovered Merriman and asked for data on him a full day earlier. Maybe that was Interpol procedure, but it seemed a little odd that Lyon would have a complete folder long before giving the investigating officer any information at all. But why did he think it made any difference anyway? Interpol’s internal procedure was none of his business. Still, it was something that needed to be brought to light if for no other reason than to relieve his discomfort with it. But before bringing it up either to assignment director Cadoux at Interpol, Lyon, or cluing Lebrun, he’d better have his facts straight. He decided the simplest way was to backtrack from the time of day Thursday the Interpol, Washington, request had been made to the NYPD. For that he’d have to call Benny Grossman when he got to London.
Abruptly bright sunlight hit him in the face and he realized they’d cleared the cloud deck and were moving out over the English Channel. It was the first sun he’d seen in almost a week. He glanced at his watch.
It was 2:40 in the afternoon.
33
FIFTEEN MINUTES later, in Paris, Paul Osborn turned off the television in his hotel room and slipped the three succinylcholine-filled syringes into the righthand pocket of his jacket. He’d just pulled on the jacket and was turning for the door when the phone rang. He jumped, his heart suddenly racing. His reaction made him realize he was even more keyed up than he thought, and he didn’t like it.
The phone continued to ring. He looked at his watch. It was 2:57. Who was trying to reach him? The police? No. He’d already called Detective Barras and Barras had assured him his passport would be waiting for him at the Air France counter when he checked in for his flight tomorrow afternoon. Barras had been pleasant, even to joking about the lousy weather, so it wasn’t the police, unless they were toying with him or McVey had another question. And right now he had no interest in talking to McVey or anyone else.
Then the phone stopped. Whoever was calling had hung up. Maybe it was a wrong number. Or Vera. Yes, Vera. He’d planned to call her later, when it was over, but not beforehand when she might hear something in his voice, or for some other reason insist on coming over.
He looked at his watch again. By now it was almost 3:05.
Turning out the light, he touched his pocket to double-check the syringes, then turned the knob and started to open the door. Suddenly it slammed backward in his face. The force knocked him sideways and into a corner area between the bathroom door and the bedroom. Before he could recover, a man in light blue overalls stepped in from the hallway and closed the door behind him. It was Henri Kanarack. A gun was in hand.
“Say one word and I’ll shoot you right there,” he said in English.
Osborn had been taken completely by surprise. This close, Kanarack was darker and more solidly built than he remembered. His eyes were fierce, and the gun, like an extension of the man, was pointed straight between his eyes. Osborn had no doubt at all that he’d do exactly as he threatened.
Turning the lock on the door behind him, Kanarack stepped forward. “Who sent you?” he said.
Osborn felt the dryness in his throat and tried to swallow. “Nobody,” he said.
The next happened so quickly Osborn had almost no recollection of it. One minute he was standing there, then he was on the floor with his head jammed up against a wall and the barrel of Kanarack’s gun pressed up under his nose.
“Who do you work for?” Kanarack said quietly.
“I’m a doctor. I don’t work for anybody.” Osborn’s heart was thundering so wildly he was afraid he might literally have a coronary.
“Doctor?” Kanarack seemed surprised.
“Yes,” Osborn said.
“Then what do you want with me?”
A trickle of sweat ran down the side of Osborn’s face. The whole thing was a blur and he was having a lot of trouble with reality. Then he heard himself say what he never should have said. “I know who you are.”
As he said it, Kanarack’s eyes seemed to shift back in his head. The fierceness that was there before became ice, and his finger tightened around the trigger.
“You know what happened to the detective,” Kanarack whispered, letting the barrel of the gun slide down until it rested on Osborn’s lower lip. “It was on TV and in all the papers.”
Osborn quivered uncontrollably. Thinking was hard enough, finding and forming words all but impossible. “Yes, I know,” he managed, finally.
“Then you understand I’m not only good at what I do—once I start, I like it.” The black dots that were Kanarack’s eyes seemed to smile.
Osborn pulled away, his eyes darting around the room, looking for a way out. The window was the only thing. Seven floors up. Then the gun barrel was on his cheek and Kanarack was forcing him to look at him.
“You don’t want the window,” he said. “Too messy and much too quick. This is going to take a little time. Unless you want to tell me right away who you’re working for and where they are. Then it can be over very fast.”
“I’m not working for anybo—”
Suddenly the phone rang. Kanarack jumped at the sound and Osborn was certain he was going to pull the trigger.
It rang three times more, then stopped. Kanarack looked back to Osborn. It was too dangerous here. Even now the front desk clerk might be asking someone about the problem with the air conditioning and learn there was none, that no one had called for a repairman. That would start them wondering and then looking. Maybe even calling security or the police.
“Listen very carefully,” he said. “We’re going out of here. The more you fight me, the harder it’s going to be for you.” Kanarack eased back and stood up, then motioned with the gun for Osborn to get up as well.
Osborn had little memory of what happened in the moments immediately following. There was a vague recollection of leaving the hotel room and walking close beside Kanarack to a fire stair, then the sound of their footsteps as they descended. Somewhere a door opened to an inner hallway that led past air-conditioning, heating and electrical units. A short time later, Kanarack opened a steel door and they were outside, climbing concrete steps. Rain was coming down and the air was fresh and crisp. At the top of the steps, they stopped.
Little by little Osborn’s senses came back and he was aware they were standing in a narrow alley behind the hotel with Kanarack immediately to his left, his body pressed closely against Osborn’s. Then Kanarack started them down the alley and Osborn could feel the hardness of the gun against his rib cage. As they walked, Osborn tried to collect himself, to think what to do next. He’d never been so afraid in his life.
