The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [135]
Suddenly a blue-black truck turned from a side street and jerked to a stop in the intersection just behind them. Its back door slammed open and a dozen Compagnie de Securité Republicaine antiterrorist police jumped out wearing flak jackets over paratroop jumpsuits and brandishing automatic weapons.
Swearing under his breath, McVey looked around. Two doors down was a small café. “In there,” he said, taking Osborn by the arm and prodding him toward the door.
People were standing at the windows watching the action on the street and barely took notice as they entered. Finding a corner at the end of the bar, McVey turned Osborn into it and held up two fingers to the bartender.
“Vin blanc,” he said.
Osborn leaned back. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
The bartender set two glasses in front of them and filled them with white wine.
“Merci,” McVey said, picking up a glass and handing it to Osborn. Taking a deep swallow, McVey turned his back to the room and looked at Osborn.
“I’ll ask you your own question. How did he know we were going to be there? Answer. You were followed or I was. Or somebody was tapped into the message board at, the Hotel Vieux and figured I might not be meeting the real Tommy Lasorda for drinks.
“A friend of mine, a Parisian detective, was badly shot up this morning and his brother, also a cop, was murdered because he was trying to find out who, besides you, so suddenly got the line on Albeit Merriman about a quarter of a century after the fact. The police may be involved, they may not, I don’t know. What I do know is that something’s going on that’s making it dangerous as hell for anyone even remotely connected to Merriman. And right now, that’s you and me, and the smartest thing we can do is get off the street.”
“McVey—” Osborn was suddenly alarmed. “There’s someone else who knows about Merriman.”
“Vera Monneray.” In the rush of everything, McVey had forgotten about her.
Dread swept over Osborn. “The French detectives who were guarding her here—I arranged to have them take her to her grandmother’s in Calais.”
70
* * *
“YOU ARRANGED?” McVey was incredulous.
Osborn didn’t reply. Instead he set his glass on the bar and started down a dingy corridor past the toilets toward a pay phone in the rear of the café. He was almost there when McVey caught up with him.
“What’re you gonna do, try and call her?”
“Yes.” Osborn kept going. He hadn’t thought it through, but he had to know she was all right.
“Osborn.” McVey took him hard by the arm and pulled him around. “If she is there, she’s probably okay, but the detectives with her will be monitoring the line. They’ll let you talk while they trace the call. If the French police are involved, you and I won’t get five feet out that door.” McVey nodded toward the front. “And if she’s not there, there’s nothing you can do.”
Osborn flared. “You don’t understand, do you? I have to know.”
“How?”
By now Osborn had an answer. “Philippe.” Osborn would call him, have Philippe call Vera, then call Osborn back. They couldn’t trace the second call.
“The doorman at her apartment?”
Osborn nodded.
“He helped you get out of the building, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And maybe arranged the tail on you when you left?”
“No, he wouldn’t. He’s—”
“He’s what? Somebody let the tall man know Vera was, the mystery girl, and somebody told him where she lived. Why not him? Osborn, for now, your peace of mind is going to have to wait.” McVey glared at him long enough to make his point, then looked past him for a way out the back.
A half hour later, paying cash and using an alias—saying their luggage had been lost at the train station— McVey checked them into connecting rooms on the fifth floor of the Hôtel St.-Jacques on the avenue St.-Jacques, a tourist hotel less than a mile from La Coupole and the boulevard du Montparnasse.
Obviously American and without luggage, McVey played upon the French disposition for amour. Entering the rooms, McVey gave the bellman an extra-large tip, telling him shyly but very sincerely to make