The Day After Tomorrow

by Allan Folsom

  At 8:35, McVey sat alone in his undershirt on the edge of his bed in a refurbished eighteenth-century hotel in Knightsbridge. His shoes were off, and a glass of Famous Grouse scotch whisky rested on the telephone table, at his sleeve. Special Branch had checked him in as Howard Nichol of San Jose, California. Osborn, under the name Richard Green of Chicago, had been checked into the Forum Hotel not far away in Kensington, and Noble had gone home to his residence in Chelsea.

  In his hand was a fax from Bill Woodward, chief of detectives at the LAPD, informing him of the murder of Benny Grossman. Initial and confidential NYPD investigations were centering on the probability the killing had been done by two men posing as Hasidic rabbis.

  McVey tried to do what he knew Benny would do. Put his own feelings aside and think logically. Benny had been killed in his home approximately six hours after he’d called Ian Noble with the information McVey had requested. Never mind the other stuff. That Benny had spent his last entire night alive collecting the material because McVey had told him it was urgent. Or that he’d called Noble with it because he’d seen the satellite TV coverage of the Paris-Meaux train disaster and had a psychic jolt that McVey had been on the train, and that Noble would need whatever information he had as soon as he could get it to him.

  The hard fact was that he’d called Noble from his home with his detailed list. What that meant was that not only did the group have operatives working in the States with very sophisticated information-retrieval technology accessed into classified police department computer systems, they also knew what information had been gathered, by whom and from where, If they could do that, they could get into telephone company logs and by now would know where Benny had called, and most likely whom, because Benny would have used Noble’s private number.

  And if they were set up to operate in France and the United States, they would almost assuredly be set up to operate here in England.

  Taking a large swallow of scotch, McVey set the glass down, pulled on a fresh shirt and tie and took his only other suit from the closet. A few minutes later he slid his .38 into the holster at his hip, took another belt of scotch and left. There’d been no need to look in the mirror; he knew what he’d see.

  Pushing through the hotel’s polished brass front door, he walked the half block to the Knightsbridge Underground station. In twenty minutes he was in Noble’s tastefully appointed house in Chelsea, waiting as Noble called New Scotland Yard on his direct line, ordering a car for his wife. Fifteen minutes later, they said their goodbyes and she was on her way under guard to her sister’s home in Cambridge.

  “Nothing she hasn’t experienced one way or another before,” Noble said after she’d gone. “The I.R.A., you know. Nasty business all the way around.”

  McVey nodded. He was worried about Osborn. Metropolitan detectives checking him into his hotel had warned him to stay in his room. McVey had tried calling him before he’d left his hotel to meet Noble but there’d been no answer. Now he tried again and got the same result.

  “Nothing still?” Noble said.

  McVey shook his head and hung up. The minute he did, Noble’s red phone rang. The direct line from Yard headquarters.

  Noble picked up. “Yes. Yes, he’s here.” He looked at McVey. “A Dale Washburn of Palm Springs has been trying to reach you.”

  “She on the line?”

  Noble asked for a confirm and instead, got a phone number where Washburn could be reached. Taking it down, he hung up and gave the slip of paper to McVey.

  Walking into the hallway, McVey picked up Noble’s house phone and dialed Palm Springs. “Try Osborn again, huh?” he said to Noble. It was a little after eleven in the evening, London time. Just after three in the afternoon in Palm Springs.

  “This is Dale,” a soft voice said.

  “Hello, angel, it’s McVey. What do you have?”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  “You want me to say it, just like that? There’s a couple of other people here.”

  “Then they must be friends of yours. Tell me what you have.”

  “Two pair, lover. Aces over eights, the dead man’s hand. There, you happy I gave it away?”

  “Poker—”

  “You got it, baby, I’m playing poker. Or I was until you called. Let me go into the other room.” McVey heard her say something to someone else. A minute later she picked up the extension, and the other phone was hung up.

  Dale Washburn stepped out of Raymond Chandler. She was thirty-five, a genuine platinum blonde, with a terrific body and a brain to match. She’d been an LAPD undercover cop for five years before her cover was blown during a screwed-up midnight drug raid in upscale Brentwood. With a bullet inoperably lodged in her lower back, she took a disability pension to Palm Springs, played cards with a few rich divorcés, male and female, and hung out a quiet shingle as a very private investigator. McVey had called her as soon as he’d checked into his Knightsbridge hotel. He wanted everything she could dig up about Mr. Harald Erwin Scholl in two hours.

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on—nothing . . .” McVey heard the anger in his own voice. He wasn’t handling Benny Grossman’s murder as well as he thought.

  “Nothing, baby. I’m sorry. Erwin Scholl’s who he’s supposed to be. A richer-than-hell publisher, art collector, and chum-chum with the ultras, as in presidents and prime ministers. In capital letters, my love. If there’s more, it’s dug deep in the sandbox where only the really big kids play. And little girls and boys like you and me aren’t going to find it.”

  “What about a history—” McVey said.

  “Poor immigrant comes here from Germany just before World War Two, works his keester off and the rest is what I already told you.”

  “Married?”

  “Never, babe. Not as far as I could find out in a coupla hours. And if you’re thinking gay, honey, the queens he plays with are the kind with emeralds and sable and armies. Ladies who have coronations and used to rule empires and probably still sit on jeweled heads.”

  “Angel, you’re not giving me much.”

  “One fact I can give you, and you can do with it what you want—your man is in Berlin until Sunday. Big commemoration or something at a place called—wait’ll I look at my notes—they’re here somewhere—Yeah, here we go—the place, a palace or something called Charlotten-burg.”

  “Charlottenburg Palace?” McVey looked to Noble.

  “A museum in Berlin.”

  “Go back to your game, angel. I’ll take you to dinner when I get back.”

  McVey, for you, anytime.”

  McVey clicked off. Noble was staring at him.

  “Angel?” Noble grinned.

  “Yeah, angel—” McVey said flatly. “What about Osborn?”

  Noble’s smile faded and he shook his head. “Nothing.”

  83

  * * *

  “VERA—”

  “Oh God, Paul!”

  Osborn could hear the relief and excitement in her voice. Despite everything, Vera hadn’t been out of his mind for more than a moment. Somehow he’d had to get hold of her, talk to her, hear her tell him she was all right.

  He couldn’t use the phone in his room and knew it. So he’d gone down to the lobby. McVey wouldn’t like it if he found out, but as far as he was concerned he had no other choice.

  Once he reached the lobby, he’d found the phones near the entrance in use. Taking a chance, he’d gone to the desk and asked if there were others. A clerk had directed him to a corridor just off the bar where he’d found a bank of old-style private phone booths.

  Entering, he closed the door and took out a small address book where he’d written the number of Vera’s grandmother in Calais. For some reason the old burnished wood and the closed door seemed reassuring. He heard someone in the booth next to him finish a call, then hang up and leave. Looking out through the glass, he saw a young couple pass, going toward the elevators. After that the hallway was empty. Turni
ng back, he picked up the phone, dialed the number and charged the call to his office credit card.

  He heard the phone start to ring through on the other end. It rang for some time and he was about to hang up when the old woman surprised him and answered. Finally, the best he could garner was that Vera was not there and hadn’t been. He felt his emotions begin to run away and he knew he’d go crazy if he didn’t get a grip on them. Then it crossed his mind that she was still at the hospital, that she’d never left. Using his credit card, he dialed her direct line. The number rang through and he heard her voice.

  “Vera—” he said, his heart leaping at the sound of it. But she kept on talking and in French and he realized it was her voice mail. Then he heard a click and a recorded voice tell him to dial “O.” A moment later a woman answered. “Parlez-vous anglais?” he asked. Yes, the woman spoke a little English. Vera, she said, had been called away two days earlier on a family emergency; it was not known when she would return. Would he like to speak with another doctor? “No. No, thank you,” he said, and hung up. For a long moment he stared at the wall. There was only one place left. Maybe, for some reason, she’d gone back to her apartment.

  For the third time he used his credit card, this time wondering if he shouldn’t go to another phone, one outside the building. Before he could hang up, the number rang through and on just the second ring a man answered.

  “Monneray residence, bonsoir.”

  It was Philippe picking up the call from the switchboard. Osborn was silent. Why was Philippe monitoring Vera’s calls without giving them a chance to ring long enough for her to pick them up herself? Maybe McVey had been right and it had been Philippe who’d alerted this “group” to who Vera was and where she lived, then later helped him escape from under the noses of the police, but not until he’d notified the tall man.

  “Monneray residence,” Philippe said again. This time his voice was hollow, as if he were suddenly suspect of the call. Osborn waited a half beat, then decided to take the chance.

  “Philippe, it’s Doctor Osborn.”

  Philippe’s reaction was anything but cautious. He was excited, delighted to hear from him. He made it sound as if he’d been worrying himself to death about him.

  “Oh, monsieur. The shooting at La Coupole. It was all over the television. Two Americans, they said. You are all right? Where are you?”

  Uh uh, Osborn told himself. Don’t tell him.

  “Where is Vera, Philippe? Have you heard from her?”

  “Oui, oui!” Vera had telephoned earlier in the day and left a number. It was to be given only to him if he called, and to no one else.

  A noise outside the phone booth made Osborn look around. A small black woman in a hotel uniform was vacuuming the hallway. She was old, and her hair twisted up under a bright blue scarf made her look Haitian. The hum of the vacuum grew louder as she worked closer.

  “The number, Philippe,” he said, turning his back to the hallway.

  Fumbling a pen from his pocket, Osborn looked for something to write on. There was nothing, so he wrote the number on the palm of his hand, then repeated it just to make sure.

  “Merci, Philippe.” Without giving the doorman a chance for another question, he hung up.

  Against the sound of the old woman’s vacuum, Osborn picked up the phone, again debated moving to another telephone, then said the hell with it, dialed the number written on his hand and waited for it to ring through.

  “Oui?” He started as a man’s voice came on, tough and forceful.

  “Mademoiselle Monneray, please,” Osborn said.

  Then he heard Vera say something in French and add the name Jean Claude. The first line clicked off and he heard Vera say his name.

  “Jesus, Vera—” he breathed. “What the hell is going on?—Where are you?” Of all the women he’d ever known, none affected him as Vera did. Mentally, emotionally, physically—and what had been built up inside him came gushing out pell-mell, like an adolescent, without thought or judgment.

  “I call your grandmother’s worried to death about you and her English is worse than my French and the best I can understand is she hasn’t heard from you. I start thinking about the Paris inspectors. That they’re mixed up in this and I sent you to them. . . . Vera, where the hell are you? Tell me you’re okay—”

  “I am okay, Paul, but—” She hesitated. “I can’t tell you where I am.” Vera glanced around the small, cheery, yellow-and-white bedroom with a single window that looked out on a long floodlit driveway. Beyond it were trees and then darkness. Opening the door she saw a stocky man in a black sweater with a pistol at his waist monitoring the call on a wireless, recorder. An assault rifle leaned against the wall next to him. Looking up, he saw her staring at him, her hand covering the phone.

  “Jean Claude, please . . . ,” she said in French. He wavered for a moment, then turned off the machine.

  “Who are you talking to? Those aren’t the police. Who was the man that answered?” Osborn snapped suddenly. He could feel the jealousy surge through him like an ugly wave. Outside the phone booth, the solid hum of vacuum seemed louder than ever. Turning angrily, he saw the old woman staring in at him. When their eyes met, she abruptly lowered her head and moved off, the whir of the vacuum vanishing with her.

  “Dammit, Vera!” Osborn turned back to the phone. He was angry and hurt and confused. “What the hell is going on?”

  Vera said nothing.

  “Why can’t you tell me where you are?” he said again.

  “Because—”

  “Why?”

  Osborn glanced out through the glass. The hallway was empty now. Then, brutally and with a rush, he realized. “You’re with him! You’re with Frenchy, aren’t you?”

  She could hear the hard rasp of his anger and she hated him for it. Like that, he was telling her he didn’t trust her. “No, I am not. And don’t call him that!” she snapped.

  “Dammit, Vera. Don’t lie to me. Not now. If he’s there, just tell me!”

  “Paul! Stop it! Or I’ll tell you to go to hell and that will be the end of our relationship.”

  Suddenly he realized he wasn’t listening, not even thinking, but instead doing what he’d always done, since the day of his father’s murder, reacting to his own numbing fear of losing love. Rage, anger and jealousy—that was how he fended off hurt, protected himself. Yet, at the same time, he was forcing away those who might have loved him and reducing any feelings left to little more than sadness and pity. Then, blaming them, he would slink away, as he always had, to the dark corner of his own exile, ravaged and raw, alienated from everything human on earth.

  Like an addict suddenly aware, he realized that if he was ever going to stop his own destruction, it had to be now, at this moment. And difficult as it was, the only way to do it was to damn the outcome and find the courage to trust her.

  Digging deep inside, he brought the receiver back.

  “I’m sorry ...,” he said.

  Vera ran a hand through her hair and sat down at a small wooden desk. On it was a clay sculpture of a donkey that had obviously been crafted by a child. It was awkward and primitive but wholly pure. Picking it up, she looked at it, then held it comfortingly against her breast.

  “I was afraid of the police, Paul. I didn’t know what to do. In desperation I called Francois. Do you know how hard that was for me after I’d left him? He brought me here, to a place in the country, and then went back to Paris. He left three Secret Service agents to protect me. No one is to know where I am, that’s why I can’t tell you. In case someone is listening. . . .”

  Abruptly Osborn’s veil lifted, jealousy was gone, replaced by the deep concern that had been there before. “Are you safe, Vera?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think we should get off the line,” he said. “Let me call you again tomorrow.”

  “Paul, are you in Paris?”

  “No. Why—?”

  “It would be dangerous if you were.”

 
“The tall man is dead. McVey killed him.”

  “I know. What you don’t know is that he was a member of the Stasi, the old East German secret police. They can say they’re disbanded but I don’t believe it’s true.”

  “You found that out from Francois.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would the Stasi have wanted to kill Albert Merriman?”

  “Paul, listen to me, please.” There was urgency in her voice. But she was also frightened and confused. “Francois is resigning. It will be made public in the morning. He’s doing it because he’s being pressured from inside his own party. It has to do with the new economic community, the new European politics.”

  “What do you mean?” Osborn didn’t understand.

  “Francois thinks they are all being subjugated by Germany and that Germany will end up controlling the purse strings of all of Europe. He doesn’t like it and thinks France is becoming too involved for its own good.”

  “You’re telling me he’s being forced out.”

  “Yes—very reluctantly, but with no choice. It’s become very ugly.”

  “Vera, is François afraid for his life if he doesn’t resign?”

  “He never spoke to me about it. . . .”

  Osborn had hit a nerve. Maybe they hadn’t discussed it, but she’d thought about it. And probably couldn’t stop thinking about it. François Christian had sequestered her someplace in the country with three Secret Servicemen guarding her. Did that mean the fact that the tall man had been a Stasi agent somehow interconnected with what was going on in French politics? And that François was worried Vera might be in danger because of it, that they would do something to her as a warning to him? Or was she hidden away and protected because of her connection to Osborn and now McVey, and what had happened to Lebrun and his brother in Lyon?