The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [74]
Agnes stood up and rubbed out a Gitane in an overflowing ashtray. It was now 3:30 in the morning. Saturdays the bakery was open a half day. In less than two hours she would have to leave for work. Then she remembered Henri had her car. That meant taking the Métro, if it was open that early. She didn’t know. It had been that long since she’d last done that.
Thinking she might have to call a taxi, she went into her room, took off her clothes and put on her robe. Then, setting her alarm for 4:45, she lay down on the bed. Pulling the top blanket over her, she turned out the light and lay back. If she could sleep, seventy-five minutes would be better than nothing.
Across the street, Bernhard Oven, the tall man, sat behind the wheel of a dark green Ford and looked at his watch. 3:37 A.M.
On the seat beside him was a small black rectangle that looked like the remote control to a television set. In the upper lefthand corner was a digital timer. Picking it up, he set the timer at three minutes, thirty-three seconds. Then, starting the Ford’s engine, he pushed a small red button at the bottom right of the black rectangle. The timer activated and began counting down in tenths of seconds toward 0:0:00.
Glancing across at the darkened apartment building once more, Bernhard Oven put the car in gear and drove off.
3:32:16.
Strung across the cluttered floor in the basement of Agnes Demblon’s apartment building were seven very small bundles of highly compact, incendiary plastic attached to a primary electronic fuse. At a little past 2:00 A.M., Oven had broken in through a cellar window. Working quickly, in less than five minutes he had placed the charges among stacks of old furniture and stored clothes and paid special attention to the thousand-gallon drum that held the building’s heating oil. Afterward he slipped out the way he had come in and went back to his car. By 2:40 all the building’s lights were out but one. At 3:35, Agnes Demblon turned hers out as well.
At 3:39 and thirty seconds the plastic charges went off.
40
* * *
AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT 38 from Chicago to Zurich touched down at Kloten Airport at 8:35 A.M., twenty minutes ahead of schedule. The airline had provided a wheelchair, but Elton Lybarger wanted to walk off the plane. He was going to see the family he hadn’t seen in the year since he’d had his stroke and he wanted them to see a man rehabilitated, not a cripple who would be a burden to them.
Joanna collected their carry-on luggage and stood up behind Lybarger as the last of the passengers left the aircraft. Then, handing him his cane, she warned him to be careful of his footing and abruptly he stepped off.
Reaching the jetway, he ignored the flight attendant’s smile and well-wish and firmly planted his cane on the far side of the aircraft door. Taking a determined breath, he stepped through it, entered the jetway and disappeared into it.
“He’s a little anxious, but thank you anyway,” Joanna said apologetically in passing as she moved to catch up with him.
Once inside the terminal, they waited in line to pass through Swiss Customs. When they had, Joanna found a cart and retrieved their luggage and they went down a corridor toward Immigration. Suddenly she wondered what they would do if there was no one there to meet them. She had no idea where Elton Lybarger lived or whom to call. Then they were out of Immigration and pushing through a glass door into the main terminal area. Abruptly a six-piece oompah band struck up a Swiss version of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and twenty or more exceptionally well-dressed men and women applauded. Behind them, four men in chauffeur livery joined in the applause.
Lybarger stopped and stared. Joanna had no idea if