The Day After Tomorrow

  She’d checked into Avril’s room and found Avril’s clothes already there. Then room service brought her breakfast. On the tray had been the newspaper and the word of François’ suicide. Feeling faint at first, she knew she needed to get outside and into the air to recover, to think, to plan what to do when and if someone contacted her. Or what to do if they did not, and if she should simply go to Charlottenburg that night alone. So, hiding her passport under the mattress for fear someone would discover who she really was, she’d gone out.

  It was while she was walking she’d come upon the Church of Mary Queen of Martyrs. Ironically it was a religious memorial, dedicated to the martyrs for the freedom of belief and conscience from 1933 to 1945. It was like an omen beckoning her, and she thought that inside she might find some kind of answer to what was happening. What she’d found instead were the German police waiting when she came out.

  Detective Schneider had lied when he’d told Osborn that if anything happened he was to take him back to the hotel. The truth was that if Vera Monneray was found, Osborn was to be taken directly to where she was being held. McVey wanted Osborn and Ms. Monneray to think they were alone, thereby giving McVey the chance to garner whatever candid information such a meeting would reveal. The idea was to make it seem the concept had been Osborn’s; and with Schneider’s help it worked; Osborn had played right into it.

  Suddenly the door to the interrogation room was pulled open. Osborn swung around and saw McVey coming through the doorway. “Get him out of here, now!” McVey said angrily, and abruptly two uniformed federal policemen were jerking Osborn to his feet and hustling him out. “Vera!” he cried out, trying to look back. “Vera!” His second cry was followed by the booming slam of a heavy steel door. Then he was walked quickly down a narrow hallway and up a short flight of stairs. A door was opened and he was taken into another white room. The policemen I went out, and the door was closed and locked.

  Ten minutes later McVey came in. His face was red and he was breathing heavily, as if he’d just climbed a long flight of stairs.

  “What’d you get on the tape? Anything of interest?” Osborn said icily the moment the door opened. “Convenient” for me to get there first, wasn’t it! Maybe, she’d tell me what she wouldn’t tell you or the German police and the mikes would pick everything up. But it didn’t work, did it? All you got was the truth from a terrified woman.”

  “How do you know it was the truth?”

  “Because I do, dammit!”

  “Did she ever mention Captain Cadoux of Interpol— ever talk about him, say his name?”

  “No. Never.”

  McVey glared at him, then softened. “Okay. Let’s believe her. Both of us.”

  “Then let her go.”

  “Osborn. You are here because of me. And by that I mean not dead on the floor of some Paris bistro with a Stasi shooter’s bullet between your eyes.”

  “McVey, that has nothing to do with this and you know it! The same as you have no reason to hold her. You know that too!”

  McVey never took his eyes from Osborn’s. “You want to know the why about your father.”

  “What happened to my father has got nothing to do with Vera.”

  “How do you know? How do you know for sure?” McVey wasn’t being cruel, he was probing. “You said you met her in Geneva. Did you find her or did she find you?”

  “I—It doesn’t make any—”

  “Answer me.”

  “—She . . . found me. . . .”

  “She was François Christian’s mistress. And on the day of this thing with Lybarger, he’s suddenly dead and she shows up in Berlin with an invitation to the ball.”

  Osborn was angry. Angry and confused. What was McVey trying to do? That Vera might be part of the “group” was crazy. It wasn’t possible. He believed what she had just told him. They loved each other too much for him .not to! Her love meant too much. Turning away, he looked up at the ceiling. Above him, hanging out of reach from anyone standing on the floor, was a bank of bright lights. Glaring, hundred-and-fifty-watt bulbs that would never be turned off.

  “Maybe she is innocent, Doctor,” McVey said. “But it’s out of your hands and in those of the German police.”

  Behind them the door opened and Remmer came in. “We have video of the house on Hauptstrasse. Noble is waiting.”

  McVey looked back to Osborn. “I want you to see this,” he said directly.

  “Why?”

  “It’s the house where we’re to meet Scholl. By we, f Doctor, I mean you and me.”

  110

  * * *

  JOANNA’S SUITCASE was on the bed and the last of her things were going into it when Von Holden came in.

  “Joanna, I apologize. Forgive me. . . .”

  Ignoring him, she went to the closet and took out the Uta Baur original she was to wear this evening. Coming back, she laid it out on the bed and began to fold it. Von Holden stood quietly for a moment, then came up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. When he did, she froze.

  “This is a very tense time for me, Joanna. . . . For you as well, and for Mr. Lybarger. Please forgive me for acting the way I did downstairs”

  Joanna remained as she was, her eyes focused on the glare of the distant window

  I “I have to tell you the truth, Joanna. . . . In my entire life, no one has ever told me they loved me. You—frightened me. . . .”

  He felt the breath go out of her.” I frightened you ?”

  “Yes. . . .”

  Ever so slowly she turned. The horrid, hate-filled eyes that had terrified her barely an hour before were now soft and vulnerable.

  “Don’t do this to me. . . .”

  “Joanna, I don’t know if I am capable of love. . . .”

  “Don’t . . .” Joanna felt her eyes brim and a tear begin to steal down her cheek.

  “It’s true. I don’t—”

  Abruptly she pressed her fingers against his lips to stop him. “You are—” she said.

  Slowly he put his hands around her waist and she came into his arms. And then he kissed her gently and she returned it and felt him grow hard against her. Emotion crept over her body, taking away reason. .Whatever fearful thing she had seen in him before was gone. Unremembered in the sense that it had never existed.

  From a single fly-over at five hundred feet, the helicopter view of the house at 72 Hauptstrasse showed a nineteenth-century villa, a three-story main building with a five-car garage to the rear. A semicircular driveway was entered past a guardhouse, through wrought-iron gates from the street. The driveway to the garage was to the right of the house, while to the left was a red clay tennis court. The entire premises were surrounded by a high stone wall, grown over with deciduous ivy.

  “There’s a gate at the back beside the garage. It looks like it opens to a service alley,” Noble said as he watched the fly-over on the large Sony screen.

  “It does, and it’s operable,” Remmer said.

  The four—Noble, Remmer, McVey and Osborn—were sitting in theater-like seats in a video room one floor up from cell level. Osborn was leaning back, his chin resting on his hand. A floor below, Vera was being interrogated. His imagination flailed at what they might be doing to her. On the other hand—his mind raced—what if, after everything, McVey had been right and she was working with the “group”? What had she learned from François Christian that she might have passed to them? If so, how did he, Osborn, fit in? What did she want with him? Maybe that he had been involved with Merriman had been an accident, a sheer coincidence. She couldn’t have known about that in Geneva because he hadn’t seen Merriman until he followed her to Paris.

  “This was taken from a laundry truck while the driver made a delivery to the house across the street,” Remmer said, as broadcast-quality color video rolled on the screen. “We only have short pieces shot from different vehicles. That’s the reason there’s only one fly-over take. We don’t want to create suspicion they are under surveillance.

&n
bsp; Now the hidden camera pushed in toward the house. A Mercedes limousine was parked in the driveway and a gardener was at work on the lawn. Nothing else seemed to be happening. The camera held, then started to pull back.

  “What’s that?” McVey said abruptly. “A movement in the upstairs window, second from the right.”

  Remmer stopped the machine, backed it up. Then played it forward again in slow motion.

  “Someone’s standing in the window,” Noble said.

  Again Remmer replayed it. This time in extreme slow motion and using a special zoom lens on the playback to move in on the window. “It’s a woman. Can’t see much of her.”

  “Get it enhanced, will you?” Noble said.

  “Right.” Touching the intercom and asking for a technician, Remmer took out the cassette, put it aside and inserted another. Basically it was the same shot of the house but from a slightly different angle. A small movement in the upstairs window suggested McVey was right, that someone was standing there looking out. Suddenly a gray BMW pulled in off the street and stopped at the guard house. A moment later the gate opened and the car drove in. Pulling up at the main entrance, a tall man got out and went inside.

  “Any idea who he is?” McVey asked. Remmer shook his head.

  “This will be unmitigated joy,” Noble said flatly as he opened an alphabetized file of photographs. So far, Bad Godesberg had sent them photos of sixty-three of the one hundred invited guests. Most were driver’s license Polaroids, but others Were copies of publicity, corporate or news photographs. “I’ll take A through F, the rest of you can fight over what remains of the alphabet.”

  “Let’s put him on the zoom.” Remmer punched rewind, then hit the slow-mo play button. This time the car entered in slow motion and Remmer moved in on it with the zoom. As it reached the front of the house, the car stopped and the man got out—

  “Jesus Christ—” Osborn said.

  McVey’s head came around like a bullwhip. “You know that guy?” Remmer backed up the tape and froze the picture as Von Holden was just stepping out of the car.

  “He followed me into the park.” Osborn pulled away from the screen to look directly at McVey.

  “What park? What the hell are you talking abou—”

  “The night I went put. I ditched Schneider on purpose.” Osborn was pumped up. His lie had come back on him but he didn’t care. “I was walking through the Tiergarten, on my way to Scholl’s hotel. Suddenly I realized I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. That I might blow the whole thing. I was turning back when this guy—that guy there”— he looked back at Von Holden on the screen— “is coming up behind me. I had the gun in my pocket. I freaked, I guess. I pulled it on him. He had a friend, hiding in the bushes—I told them to leave me alone. Then I ran like hell.”

  “You sure it’s him?”

  “Yes.”

  “That means they’re watching the hotel,” Remmer said.

  Noble looked at Remmer. “Could we see him walk into the house? At normal speed, please.”

  Remmer hit “play,” and Von Holden’s image unfroze. Closing the door to the BMW, he crossed the driveway and moved quickly up a short flight of steps, someone opened the front door and he entered.

  Noble sat back. “Once more, please.” Remmer repeated the action, stopping the tape once Von Holden had gone inside.

  “One hundred to one he was trained as a Spetsnaz soldier,” Noble said. “A saboteur and terrorist, schooled in special reconnaissance units of the old Soviet army. It takes a bit of experience to recognize it. They may not even know they do it, but their training effects a certain walk, a kind of bearing and balance that make them look as if they were on a circus wire.” Noble turned to Osborn. “If he was following you, you are incredibly lucky to be sitting here telling us about it.” Noble looked to McVey and Remmer.

  “If Lybarger is staying in the house, it’s possible our friend here is a security operative, possibly even the man in charge.”

  “Either that or he’s securing it for Scholl,” Remmer said.

  “Or doing something else entirely.” McVey sat staring at the screen, intent on the frozen image of Von Holden.

  “Setting us up?” Noble said.

  “Don’t know” McVey shook his head uncertainly, then looked to Remmer. “Let’s get an enhancement on him too, see if we can find out who he is. Maybe we can take the circle down one more notch.”

  A line lit up and the phone buzzed at Remmer’s elbow. “Ja,” he said, picking up.

  It was fifteen minutes past two when they got there. Berlin police had already cordoned off the block. Homicide investigators stood aside as Remmer led the way through the shop and into the back room of the antique store on Kantstrasse.

  Karolin Henniger lay on the floor wrapped in a sheet. Her eleven-year-old son, Johann, was next to her. He, too, was covered by a sheet.

  Remmer knelt and pulled back the covering.

  “Oh God—”Osborn breathed.

  McVey eased the sheet from the boy. “Yeah,” he said, looking up at Osborn. “Oh God . . .”

  Both mother and son had a single gunshot wound to the 1 head.

  111

  * * *

  NINETY MINUTES later, at 3:55 P.M., Osborn stood at the window in a large room at the ancient Hotel Meineke staring out at the city. Like all of them, he was trying to separate the horror of what they’d just seen from what they had to do at the present. Their focus had to be on Scholl, nothing else. Still, it was impossible to shake the thoughts.

  Who was Karolin Henniger really, that someone would do that to her and her child? Did the perpetrator think that she had told the police something that morning? If so, what did she know she might have confided? And then there was the other question, the one he could see in McVey’s eyes: If they had never gone to see her, would Karolin Henniger and her son still be alive? That burden had to be his and he knew it, more dead because of him. He had to forget about it.

  Going into the bathroom he washed his hands and face. They’d moved the entire operation to the Meineke following the discovery of a body in a .seventh-floor bathroom of the Casino wing of the Hotel Palace, a room that had an almost perfect view into theirs in the main building. A special tech team was being flown in from Bad Godesberg to go over the room for evidence.

  The reason they’d come to the Meineke was that it was only one building, and the only way up or down was via a creaky elevator that serviced the entire hotel. A stranger or even a friend would have a great deal of trouble getting past the BKA detectives in the lobby, or the team of Schneider and Littbarski detailed near the elevator lading two doors down. That protection left McVey and the Others free to consider a severe complication.

  Cadoux.

  He’d suddenly reappeared, seemingly from nowhere, leaving a message for Noble through his office at New Scotland Yard that, guess of guesses, he was in Berlin. He’d emphasized he was in trouble, and said it was extremely important he speak to Noble or McVey as soon as r possible and that he would call back within the hour.

  McVey didn’t know what to think. He saw Osborn eye him as he dumped a handful of mixed nuts onto his palm from a plastic bag. “I know. Too much fat, too much salt. I’m gonna eat ‘em anyway.” Carefully picking out a Brazil nut, he held it up, studied it, then popped it in his mouth. “If Cadoux’s telling the truth and the group’s onto him, he is in trouble,” he said, chewing. “If he’s lying, he’s probably working for them. And if he is, he knows we’re in Berlin. His job will be to try and sucker us out to where they can—”

  A knock at the door cut McVey off in midsentence. Getting up, Remmer slid the automatic from his shoulder holster and went to the door.“Ja.”

  “Schneider.”

  Remmer opened the door and Schneider stepped in, followed by a handsome brunette in her early forties. She was taller than Schneider and wider. Pale lipstick emphasized a mouth that was turned up at the corners in a perpetual smile. Tucked under her arm was a large manila en
velope.

  “This is Lieutenant Kirsch,” Schneider said, adding that she was a member of the BKA computer-enhancement team. Nodding at Remmer, she looked to the others and spoke in English. “I am happy to report the identity of the man driving the BMW. His name is Pascal Von Holden and, he is director of security for Erwin Scholl’s European business operations. We are running a profile on him now.” Opening the envelope, she took out two 8 x 10 black-and-white glossy photographs from the enhanced video taken of the house at 72 Hauptstrasse. The first was of Von Holden I as he got out of the car. It was grainy but clear enough to make out his features. The second was grainy as well and less exact. Still, it was enough to define a youngish, dark-haired woman, standing by the window looking out.

  “The woman was a little more difficult, but a positive I.D. came back from the FBI just as I was leaving to bring you the photographs,” Lieutenant Kirsch said. “She is American. A licensed physical therapist. Her name is Joanna Marsh. Her residence is Taos, New Mexico.”

  “Elementary police work, eh McVey?” Noble raised an eyebrow in admiration.

  “Luck,” McVey smiled. The BKA had sent a fax of both computer-enhanced photos to the police departments in Berlin and Zurich, and, at his request, the photo of the woman to Fred Hanley at the L.A. office of the FBI. It was a long shot, but he’d had a hunch that if Lybarger was in Berlin and staying at the house in Hauptstrasse, there was a very good chance his physical therapist would be there as well. And now, with her identification confirmed, the reversal of the same ought to hold true. To wit: if she was there, so was Lybarger.

  “Danke,” Remmer said, and Lieutenant Kirsch and Schneider left together.