The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [263]
“Sir?” Osborn looked up. A stewardess was smiling at him. “Our flight is not full. The captain has invited you to the first-class cabin.”
“Thank you very much.” Osborn smiled gratefully and got up. The flight was short, just over an hour, but in first class he could sit back and maybe sleep for forty minutes or so. And in first-class lavatories they might provide a razor and shaving cream. It would be a chance to freshen up.
The captain must have been a fan of either law enforcement or L.A. cops because, besides the star treatment, he also gave Osborn something else and of infinitely greater value when they landed, an introduction to Swiss airport police—personally vouching for who he was and why he was there without passport, and stressing the essence of time in his pursuit of the suspected perpetrator of the Charlottenburg holocaust. This was followed immediately by a hasty police chaperon through Swiss immigration and a hearty good-luck wish.
Outside, the captain returned the gun and asked where he was going and if he could drop him along the way.
“Thank you, no,” Osborn said, greatly relieved but purposefully not revealing his destination.
“Be well, then.”
Osborn smiled and took his hand. “If you’re ever in Los Angeles, look me up. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“I will.”
It was then 11:20, Saturday morning, October 15. By 11:35, Osborn was on the EuroCity express out of Zurich. At 12:45 it would arrive in Bern, thirty-four minutes after Von Holden’s train had arrived from Frankfurt. By now Remmer would have scoured the Strasbourg and Geneva trains and come up empty. And with egg on his face. He’d have to turn somewhere, but where?
Then the thought came to Osborn that if the black man had lied to Remmer, why couldn’t he have done the same to him? Was he coming into Bern thinking he’d cut the odds “of catching Von Holden from nothing to little more than thirty minutes or would he end up the same way Remmer had, with nothing? Nothing at all—again.
136
* * *
IN FORTY-FIVE minutes Osborn would be in Bern, and he needed to think about what he was going to do when he got there. He could have shortened the distance between himself and Von Holden mightily, but still there was a thirty-four-minute overlay. Von Holden knew where he was going; Osborn didn’t. What he had to do was put himself in Von Holden’s place. Where and what had he come from, where was he going and why?
Bern, he’d learned in Frankfurt when he was trying to find the fastest way to get there, had a small airport that was serviced from London, Paris, Nice, Venice and Lugano. But flights were infrequent. Daily, not hourly. And a small airport could easily be watched. Von Holden would think about that. On the plus side were civil aircraft. He could have a plane waiting.
There was a roar as a train passed in the opposite direction. Then it was gone and in its place was green farmland and behind it steep hills covered with thick forest. For a moment Osborn was lost in the beauty of the land, the clarity of blue sky against radiant green, sunlight that seemed to dance off every leaf. A small town passed, and then the train rounded a sweeping bend and on a distant hill Osborn saw the dominating silhouette of a huge medieval castle. He knew he wanted to come back here.
Suddenly he found comfort in his conviction that it was not Vera but some other woman who was with Von Holden. Vera, he was certain, had been released from jail legitimately and was, at this moment, on her way back to Paris. Thinking of her that way, picturing her safely back in her apartment, living the life she had before all this happened, a longing fell over him that was painful and beautiful at the same time. It was for them and a life together. Against the Swiss countryside he saw children and heard laughter and saw Vera’s face and felt the touch of her cheek against his. He saw them smiling and holding hands and—
“Fahrkarte, bitte.” Osborn looked up. A young ticket