The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [112]
Oh, God! Her heart was pounding as if it were going to explode.
Where was he now? Somewhere in the building! Even here! In her apartment. How could she have been so stupid as to send Philippe away? The telephone! Pick it up and call Philippe. Quickly!
Turning, she reached out for the wall switch. Abruptly a strong hand clasped around her mouth and she was dragged back against a man’s body. In the same instant she felt the sharp needle point of a blade press up under her chin.
“I really don’t care to hurt you, but I will if you don’t do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
His voice was very calm and he spoke in French but With an accent that was either Dutch or German. Terrified, Vera tried to make herself think, but the thoughts wouldn’t come.
“I asked you if you understood.”
The knife point pressed further into her flesh and she nodded.
“Good,” he said. “We are going to leave the apartment by the service stairway at the back of the kitchen.” He was very collected and precise. “I am going to take my hand from your mouth. If you make a sound, I will cut your throat. Do you understand?”
Think! Vera. Think! If you go with him, he’ll force you to take him to Paul. The taxi! The driver will be impatient! If you stall, Philippe will call again. If you don’t answer, he will come up.
Suddenly there was a noise at the front door a dozen feet away. Vera felt him stiffen behind her, and the knife slid down and across her throat. At the same instant the door opened and Vera let out a cry against the hand over her mouth.
Osborn stood in the doorway. In one hand was the key to her apartment, in the other, Henri Kanarack’s automatic. He was full in the light. Vera and the tall man were almost completely in the dark. It made no difference. They’d already seen each other.
The hint of a smile crossed Oven’s lips. In a blink he shifted Vera to the side and the blade came up in his hand. In the same instant, Osborn raised the gun, screaming for Vera to hit the floor. As he did, Oven threw the knife at Paul’s throat. Instinctively, Osborn flung up his left hand. The stiletto struck it full force, pinning it like a donkey tail to the open door.
Crying out, Osborn twisted around in pain. Shoving Vera aside, Oven dug for the Walther in his waistband. Vera’s scream was lost in a stab of flame that was followed by a tremendous explosion. Oven fell sideways and Osborn, still pinned to the door, fired again. The big automatic thundered three times in rapid succession, turning the hallway into a howling storm of muzzle flashes punctuated by the deafening roar of gunshots.
On the floor, Vera caught a glimpse of Oven as he fled down the hallway and through the kitchen door. Then Osborn was tearing his hand from the door and hobbling past her after him.
“Stay here!” he screamed.
“Paul! Don’t!”
Blood was running down Oven’s face as he crashed through the pantry. Tipping over a rack of pots and pans, he flung open the service door and bolted down the stairs.
Seconds later, Osborn eased out into the dimly lit stair well and listened. There was only silence. Craning his heck, he looked up the stairs behind him, then back down.
Nothing.
Where the hell is he? Osborn breathed. Be careful. Be very careful.
Then, from below, came the slightest creaking. Looking down, he thought he saw the door to the street just swing closed. Beyond it, on the far side of the landing, was gaping blackness where the stairs continued down, bending in a curl and vanishing into the basement below.
Swinging the automatic toward the door, Osborn took a guarded step down. Then another. Then another. A wooden stair moaned beneath his foot and he stopped short, his eyes probing the darkness beyond the door.
Did he go out? Or is he down there in the basement, waiting? Listening to me come down the stairs.
For some reason the thought came to him that his left hand felt cold and sticky.