The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [216]
“My God—” Osborn whispered. “Are you all right?”
Vera’s mouth was open; she was trying to say something but couldn’t. Tears burst forth instead, and then they were in each other’s arms and both were crying. Somewhere between the sobs and frightened caresses he heard her say, “François dead”—“WhyamIhere?”—“Everyone killed at farmhouse”—”What—haveIdone?”—“Came—to—Berlin—only—place—left—to—go—to—find—you.”
“Vera. Shhh. It’s all right, honey.” He held her tight against him. Protectively, like a child. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. . . .” Brushing back her hair, he kissed her tears and wiped her cheeks with his hands.’
“They even took my handkerchief,” he said, trying to smile. He had no belt, and they’d taken the laces from his shoes. Then they were holding each other again. Pressed together, arms around each other.
“Don’t let go,” she said. “Don’t ever . . .”
“Vera—tell me what happened. . . .” She took his hand, and held it tight and they sat down on the bench. Brushing away tears, she closed her eyes and thought back. All the way to yesterday.
She could see the farmhouse outside Nancy and the bodies of the three slain Secret Service agents lying where they had fallen. Not far away, Avril Rocard stared unseeingly, blood slowly oozing from her throat.
The phones had been dead when she’d gone back inside. Unable to find the keys to the Secret Service Ford, she’d taken Avril Rocard’s black police Peugeot and driven into the city, where she’d used a public telephone and tried to reach François in Paris. But the phones in both his office and his private number at home had been busy. No doubt, she thought, because news of his resignation had just been released. Still in shock from the killings, she’d gotten back into the Peugeot and driven to a park ori the edge of the city.
There, sitting in the car, trying to work through a blur of fear and emotions, trying to think what to do next, she’d seen Avril’s purse on the floor on the passenger side. Opening it, she’d found Avril’s police I.D. and her passport case. Inside the case, tucked behind the passport, was a first-class Air France ticket from Paris to Berlin and an envelope with a reservation confirmation from the Hotel Kempinski. There was also an elaborate engraved invitation in German to a formal dinner to be held at the Charlottenburg Palace at 8 P.M. Friday October 14, in honor of a man named Elton Lybarger. Among the sponsors was the name Erwin Scholl. The same man who hired Albert Merriman to kill Osborn’s father.
Her only thought was that if Scholl was in Berlin, perhaps Paul Osborn might have found out and gone there too. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was all she had. She looked enough like Avril Rocard that unless someone knew her personally, she could pass for her even though she was several years younger. That had been Thursday, the Charlottenburg thing was Friday. From Nancy the fastest way to Berlin was by train from Strasbourg, and so that was where she went.
Twice on the road from Nancy to Strasbourg she’d stopped to call François. The first time, the lines were tied up. The second time, at a highway rest stop, she got through to his office. By then it was nearly four in the afternoon and François had not been seen or heard from since he’d left his home at seven that morning. The media had not yet been informed that he was missing, but the Secret Service and police were on full alert and the president had ordered François’ wife and children to be taken to an unknown destination and kept there under