The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [168]
“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?
“Vera—if they’re listening, I don’t give a damn,” he said. “I want you to think carefully. From what Francois said, is there a connection between Albert Merriman and me and the situation with François?”
“I don’t know. . . .” Vera looked at the tiny, sculpted donkey still in her hand, then gently set it back on the table. “I remember my grandmother telling me what it was like in France during the war. When the Nazis came and stayed,” she said quietly. “Every moment was filled with fear. People were taken away with no explanation and they never came back. People were spying on each other, sometimes in the same families, and reporting what they saw to the authorities. And men with guns were everywhere. Paul—” She hesitated, and he could hear how afraid she really was. “I feel that same shadow now—”
Suddenly Osborn heard a noise behind him. He wheeled around. McVey was outside the phone booth. So was Noble. McVey jerked the door open.
“Hang up,” he said. “Now!”
84
* * *
OSBORN WAS hustled through the bar and out an exit onto the street. He’d tried to sign off with Vera, but McVey had reached in and cut off the phone with his hand.
“The girl, wasn’t it? Vera Monneray,” McVey said, pulling open the door to an unmarked Rover at the curb.
“Yes,” Osborn said. McVey had pushed into his private world and he didn’t like it.
“She with the Paris police?”
“No. The Secret Service.”
Doors slammed, and Noble’s driver pulled into traffic. Five minutes later they were rounding Piccadilly Circus and turning on Haymarket for Trafalgar Square.
“Unlisted number?” McVey said flatly, staring at the numbers Osborn had scrawled on his hand.
“What are you getting at?” Osborn said defensively, tucking his hands up under his armpits.
McVey stared at him. “I hope you didn’t kill her.”
Noble turned from his seat next to the driver. “Did you inquire about the telephone you were using or did you find it yourself?”
Osborn turned from McVey. “What difference does it snake?”
“Did you inquire about the telephone Or did you find it yourself?”
“The phones in the lobby were being used. I asked if there were any others.”
“And someone told you.”
“Obviously.”
“Anybody see you place the call? See what booth you went into?” McVey let Noble continue.
“No,” Osborn said quickly, then suddenly remembered.
“A hotel employee, an old black woman. She was vacuuming the hallway.”
“Not hard to trace a call from a public telephone,” Noble said. “Especially if you know which phone it is. Listed or unlisted, fifty pounds in the right hands will get you the number, the town, the street address and most likely what’s being served for dinner. All in the bat of an eyelash.”
Osborn sat for a long time in silence and watched as nighttime London flashed by. He didn’t like it, but Noble was right. He’d been foolish, stupid. But this wasn’t his world. Where every thought had to have a forethought, and everyone was under suspicion no matter who they were.
Finally he looked to McVey. “Who’s doing this? Who are they?”
McVey shook his head.
“Did you know the man you shot was a member of the Stasi,” Osborn said.
“She tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“She’s right.”
Osborn was incredulous. “You knew?”
McVey didn’t reply. Neither did Noble.
“Let me tell you, something you probably don’t know. The French prime minister has resigned his office. It’ll be announced