by Allan Folsom
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 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—
“Fahrkarte, bitte.” Osborn looked up. A young ticket collector was standing beside him, a black leather ticket case slung from his shoulder.
“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 already gone and not there, waiting for another train.”
“My best suggestion is that you take a Eurail schedule and look over the trains that have left Bern between twelve twelve when he gets there and twelve forty-four, when you do. May I also suggest you have him paged once you get to the station.”
“Paged?”
“Yes, sir.” With that the ticket collector nodded, handed Osborn a train schedule and moved on.
Osborn looked off—“Paged.”
Von Holden waited outside a pastry shop within the depths of the Bern rail station. Vera had gone into the women’s room directly across from him. She was exhausted and had said little on the entire trip but he knew ‘ she’d been thinking of Osborn. And because of that; because she was certain he was taking her to him, he had no doubt she would return to him as she had promised.
The first hour of the trip from Frankfurt to Bern had been his greatest concern. If the black counterman had been less intimidated than he’d seemed when Von Holden had taken him aside and threatened him that skinheads would show up at his door if he didn’t do exactly as he was told, and instead revealed to the police what train he was really on— they would have stopped the train in no time with a battery of police. That hadn’t happened. Nor had he seen any more than the usual station security when they’d reached Bern.
At seven minutes to one, Vera came out of the women’s room and went with him while he purchased two multiday passes on the Eurail system. They were good for travel anywhere on the continent. It would give them flexibility of movement, he told her. What he didn’t tell her was that he could suddenly put them on any train at all without her knowing where it was going.
“Achtung! Herr Von Holden, Telefon anruf, bitte. Herr Von Holden, Telefon, bitte.” Von Holden started. He was being paged over the public address system. What was going on? Who could possibly know he was there?
“Achtung! Herr Von Holden, Telefon anruf, bitte.”
Osborn stood at a bank of phones, his back against the wall. From there he could see most of the station. The ticket windows, shops, restaurants, the foreign money exchange. If Von Holden was in the station at all -which was a long shot, since from the time Von Holden had arrived until now, at least thirteen trains had left Bern, six for cities within Switzerland, one for Amsterdam and the rest for Italy—but if he was there and moved to answer a courtesy telephone, there was every chance Osborn would see him. The other possibility was that he could be waiting for a train on one of the upstairs platforms. Osborn had counted at least eight tracks as they’d come in from Zurich.
“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Von Holden does not answer,” the operator said in English.
“Would you please try once more, it’s very important.”
The page came again and Von Holden took Vera by the arm! and moved her quickly away from the ticket windows and into the corridor leading to the tracks.
“Who is it? Who’s calling you?”
“I don’t know.” Von Holden looked over his shoulder. He saw no one he recognized. They turned a corner and started up the stairs toward the tracks. Then they were at the top of the stairs and onto the platform. At the far end of the station a train was waiting.
Osborn hung up and headed for the tracks. If Von Holden had been in the station he hadn’t answered the page, nor had Osborn seen him in the crowds going toward the tracks. If he was there, the only thing left was that he was already on the platform, either on a train or waiting to board one.
Now Osborn was in the corridor leading to the trains. Stairs went up to his left and right, and he had to choose between at least four platforms. He went for the third, knowing it would put him on a platform somewhere toward the middle of the station.
His heart was pounding as he reached the top of the stairs. He expected to see the station filled with people, as it had been when he’d arrived. To his amazement it was all but deserted. Then he saw a train at the far end of the station, two tracks away. A man and a woman were walking rapidly toward it. He could see neither clearly, but he could tell that the man had a pack of some kind thrown over his shoulder. Osborn ran down the platform he was on. He didn’t dare jump the track because he was afraid that if it had a third rail he would be electrocuted. Now,
‘the couple were almost to the train; both had their backs to him. Osborn was running as fast as he could and very nearly coming abreast of them. He saw them reach the train and the man help the woman on, then the man turned back and looked across. As he did, Osborn slid to a stop. For the briefest moment they stared at each other, then the man pulled himself up and disappeared inside the train. A moment later the train gave a lurch and “started forward. Then it picked up speed and pulled out of the station.
Osborn stood frozen where he was. The face that had stared back at him from the train was the face that had stared back at him that night in the Tiergarten. The same face that glared out of the video enhancement taken at the house on Hauptstrasse. It was Von Holden.
The woman he’d only glimpsed for a second as she boarded the train. But in that instant his world and everything in it was destroyed. There was no question who it had been. No question at all.
Vera.
137
* * *
“PASCAL,” SCHOLL had said, “be most respectful of the young doctor. Kill him first.”
“Yes . . . ,” Von Holden had answered.
But he hadn’t done it. For whatever myriad of reasons he hadn’t done it. But reasons made no difference when they were excuses. Osborn was alive and had followed him to Bern. How he had accomplished that was beyond comprehension. But it was a fact. It was also a fact that he would be on the next train behind them.
***
“Interlaken,” a railway supervisor on the platform had told Osborn when he asked the destination of the train that had just left the station. Trains to Interlaken left every half hour.
“Danke,” Osborn said.
He went downstairs and into the main station in a daze. He wanted to believe Vera was Von Holden’s prisoner and being held against her will. But it wasn’t like that and he knew it, not the way they were walking together toward the train. So what he wanted to believe made no difference. The truth was there and McVey had been right about it. Vera was part of the Organization and wherever Von “Holden was going, she was going too. Osborn had been a fool to believe her, to fall in love.