The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [178]
“Yes, sir. It is clear,” Von Holden breathed.
Scholl stared for a moment longer. “Thank you, Pascal,” he said quietly. With that he opened his hand and the cat, screaming in terror, dropped out of sight like a stone. Then Scholl brought his hand in from over the balcony railing, palm held upward, the blood running in a half circle around his Wrist before disappearing into the stark white of his shirt sleeve.
“Pascal,” he said, “when the time comes, be most respectful of the young doctor. Kill him first.”
Von Holden’s eyes went to the hand in front of him and then back to Scholl. “Yes, sir...,” he breathed again.
Then, as if following a dark and ancient ritual, Scholl lowered his hand and Von Holden sunk to his knees and took the hand in his. Bringing it to his mouth, he began to lick the blood from it. First the fingers. Then slowly working his way to the palm and then farther up, to the wrist itself. He did it deliberately and with his eyes open, knowing that Scholl stood above him, watching transfixed. And he continued that way, his tongue and lips suckling the wounds over and over until finally and at length Scholl gave a profound shudder and drew back.
Von Holden stood slowly and for a moment stared, then quickly turned and went back inside, leaving Scholl in private to recover from the fulfillment of his desire.
88
* * *
London, 7:45 A.M.
MILLIE WHITEHEAD, Lebrun’s extraordinarily large bosomed, and therefore his favorite, nurse, had just finished giving him a sponge bath and was fluffing the pillows under his head when Cadoux walked in in full uniform.
“Much easier to get through airports this way,” he said of his uniform, with a broad smile.
Lebrun raised a hand to take his old friend’s. Oxygen was still being fed through tubes to his nose and the way they hung down over his mouth made talking difficult.
“Of course I didn’t come to see you, I came to see a lady,” Cadoux bantered, smiling at Nurse Whitehead. Blushing, she giggled, winked at Lebrun, and then left the room.
Pulling up a chair, Cadoux sat down next to Lebrun. “How are you my friend? How are they treating you?”
For the next dozen or so minutes Cadoux carried on about old times; recalling their days growing up, best friends in the same neighborhood, the girls they’d known, the women they’d finally married, the children they’d had with them, laughed out loud at the vivid memory of running away to enlist in the Foreign Legion then being rejected and escorted abruptly back home by two real legionnaires because they were only fourteen. Cadoux’s smile was broad and he laughed often in a genuine attempt to cheer his wounded comrade:
All the while they talked, the index finger of Lebrun’s .right hand rested on the stainless steel trigger of a .25 caliber automatic, concealed beneath his bedclothes and pointed at Cadoux’s chest. The coded warning from McVey had been absolutely clear. Never mind that Cadoux was an old and cherished friend; there was every indication he was a major conspirator working with the “group,” as they were now calling it. Most likely, it was he who controlled the covert operations within Interpol, Lyon, and he who had ordered the execution of Lebrun’s brother and the attempted murder of Lebrun himself at the Lyon railway station.
If McVey was right, Cadoux had come visiting for one reason: to finish the job on Lebrun himself.
But the more he talked, the more convivial he became, and Lebrun began to wonder if McVey could have been wrong or his information incorrect. Further, how would he dare attempt it when there were armed police standing twenty-four-hour guard just a few feet away on the other side of the door, and the door itself open?
“My friend,” Cadoux said, standing. “Forgive me but I must have a cigarette and I know I can’t do that in here.” Gathering his cap, he started toward the door. “I’ll go down to the