The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [182]
“Vera?” she said again.
Still there was no answer.
Vera stood alone, just inside the hallway entrance. She’d started to go out the back door, but realized it opened to a wide lawn that ran down to a duck pond. If she Went out there, she’d be nothing but a target.
“Vera.” Avril’s voice came again and she could hear the wide plank floorboards creak beneath her feet.
“Don’t be afraid, Vera. I’m here to help you. If someone has you, don’t move. Don’t struggle. Just stay where you are. I’ll come to you.”
Vera took a deep breath and held it. A small window was to her right and she glanced out, hoping someone would be coming up the driveway. Agents sent to relieve the dead guards, a postman, anything.
“Vera.” Avril’s voice was closer now. She was coming toward her. Vera looked down. She was a doctor, trained to save lives. She had no training in taking them. Still, she wouldn’t die, not here, if she could do anything at all to prevent it. Between her hands was a length of dark blue drapery cord, pulled from the bedroom curtains.
“If you’re alone and hiding, please come out, Vera. françois is waiting for word of your safety.”
Vera cocked an ear. Avril’s voice was retreating. Perhaps she’d gone into the living room. Letting out her breath, she relaxed. As she did, the small window to her right suddenly shattered.
Avril was right there! There was a sharp report, and the wood fragments exploded everywhere. Vera screamed as splinters riddled her neck and face. Then Avril’s hand was inside the window frame, her gun looking for the final shot. Blindly, Vera’s two hands shot forward, encircling Avril’s gun hand with the dark blue cord. At the same time she jerked them tight, and pulled backward with all her strength. Caught off guard, Avril’s head shot face-first through the broken glass. There was a dull thud as the Beretta dropped at Vera’s feet.
Face cut and bleeding from the shattered glass, Avril struggled wildly to pull free. But her struggle only strengthened Vera’s resolve. Tugging backward on the cord, she extended Avril’s arm to its full length. Now, with Avril’s body pressed up against the outside of the house, Vera heaved backward with both hands. There was a pop, and Avril screamed as her shoulder dislocated. Then Vera let go, and slowly Avril slid back out the window and slumped on the ground below, crying in agony.
“Who are you?” Vera said, as she approached from outside. Avril’s Beretta was in her hand and she had it pointed directly at the long-legged figure in the dark skirt slumped on the ground, her dislocated arm twisted awkwardly under her.
“Answer me. Who are you? Who do you work for?”
Avril said nothing. Very carefully Vera moved forward. The woman on the ground was a professional. In the last five minutes she had seen her shoot three men to death and try to kill her.
“Put your good hand out and roll over where I can see both your hands,” she commanded.
Avril didn’t move. Then Vera saw a crimson ooze of blood where her breast and shoulder touched the ground. Reaching out, she kicked at Avril’s foot. Nothing happened.
Trembling, she moved closer, the gun pointed, ready to fire. Bending down carefully, she took hold of Avril’s shoulder and rolled her over on her back. Blood ran down from beneath her chin and onto her blouse. Her left fist was closed. Easing down on one knee, Vera opened it. When she did, she cried out, and moved back. In it was a single-edged razor blade. In the time it had taken Vera to pick up Avril’s gun and come out of the house, Avril Rocard had cut her own throat.
91
* * *
Berlin, 11 A.M.
A BLONDE waitress in a Bavarian costume smiled briefly at Osborn, then set a steaming pot of coffee on the table and left. They had come into Berlin on the autobahn and driven directly to a small diner on Waisenstrasse that billed itself as one of Berlin’s oldest restaurants. The owner, Gerd Epplemann,