The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [199]
Still Von Holden was silent.
“ Sprechen Sie Englisch?” Osborn said again, this time more forcefully.
Von Holden nodded ever so slightly.
“Then tell him to walk over to you.” Osborn held back the hammer with his thumb, the gun’s trigger pulled. If they rushed him, all he had to do was let his thumb slip sideways and the weapon would fire point-blank. “Tell him now!”
Von Holden waited a moment longer, then called out in German: “Do as he says.”
At Von Holden’s command, Viktor stepped from under the tree and slowly crossed over the grass to where Von Holden stood.
Osborn stared at them for a moment in silence, then backed slowly away, the gun still pointed at Von Holden’s chest. He continued walking backward for another twenty yards. Then, passing under a tree, he turned and ran. Crosing a lighted pathway, he bounded up a short flight of steps and ran across the grass through still more trees. Looking back, he saw them come after him. Dark figures silhouetted for only an instant against the night sky as they came on the run through the stand of trees where he had just been.
Ahead, he could see bright lights and traffic. He looked back again. The trees blended into darkness. He had to assume they were still coming, but there was no way to tell. Heart pounding, feet slipping on the wet grass beneath him, he ran on. Finally he felt pavement and saw he’d reached the edge of the park. Streetlights and a steady flow of traffic were directly in front of him. Without stopping, he ran into the street. Horns blared. He dodged one car and then another. There was a shriek of tires, then a tremendous bang as a taxi swerved to avoid him and slammed into a parked car. A split second later, another car plowed into the taxi, a piece of its bumper scything off into the darkness.
Osborn didn’t look back. His lungs on fire, he ducked behind a row of parked cars and ran low for a half block, then cut down a side street. There was an intersection in front of him and a brightly lit street. Breathless, he turned the corner and pushed quickly down a sidewalk filled with pedestrians.
Shoving the gun into his belt, he covered it with his jacket and kept on, trying to gather his wits. Passing a Burger King, he turned and looked behind him. Nothing. Maybe they hadn’t come after him after all. Maybe it had been his imagination. He kept walking, moving with the crowd.
Several preposterously dressed teenagers passed him in the opposite direction and a dark-haired girl smiled at him. Why had he pulled the gun? All the man had done was turn around. For all he knew the second man might not even have been with him, just someone out for a walk. But the stranger’s unnatural stance, the way he had turned back so measuredly after saying good evening, made Osborn believe he was going to be attacked. That was why he had done what he had. Of course it was. Better safe than set upon.
A clock in a window read 10:52.
Until this moment he’d totally forgotten McVey. In eight minutes he was due back to the hotel, and he had no idea where he was. What now? Call him? Make up a story, say you were—turning a corner, he saw the Europa Center directly in front of him. Below it the lighted sign of the Hotel Palace hung over its motor entrance.
At six minutes to eleven, Osborn stepped into an elevator and pushed the button for the sixth floor. The doors closed and the elevator started up. He was alone and safe.
Trying to forget the men in the park, he glanced around the elevator. The wall next to him was a mirror, and he Crushed back his hair and straightened his jacket. On the Wall opposite was a tourism poster of Berlin with photographs of must-see attractions. Centermost was an expo-sure of Charlottenburg Palace. Suddenly he remembered what Remmer had said earlier “The occasion is a welcoming celebration for an Elton Karl Lybarger. An industrialist from Zurich who had a severe stroke a year ago in San Francisco and has now fully recovered.”
“Damn,” he swore under his breath. “Damn.”
He should have realized it before.
101
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