In the stairwell, one of the men stayed at Georg’s side, the other followed behind. Georg set the pace. Damn! he thought. Damn! On the third-floor landing he saw the open elevator shaft with the wood planks nailed across the missing door, and on the way down to the second floor heard the painters working below. It was worth a try.
Before they reached the second-floor landing, he stopped and bent down as if to tie his shoelace. The man behind him stopped too, while the one beside him continued walking the few steps down to the landing, where he turned back with an expectant look. He had been descending the stairs on Georg’s right, along the wall, and now stood in front of the wood planks across the open elevator shaft. Georg untied his shoelace and then tied it again. He got up and took a step forward. The man on the landing turned away and waited for Georg to come down. Georg lunged forward and rammed his shoulder and arm into the man’s back with all the force he could muster. He heard splintering wood and a surprised cry, followed by a shout of horror. Georg didn’t look back, he just ran, made it down the first flight, past the bend in the stairwell, another flight of stairs, tripped on the paper the painters had put down to protect the floor of the landing, caught himself, and saw the startled faces of the painters, who were too taken aback to try to stop him. Behind him he heard the other man’s loud and heavy steps. The painters were crowded to the right along the wall, and on the left were the cans of paint by the banister. Georg kicked over a large bucket of paint blocking the way, jumped over as it tumbled, and took three steps in one stride. He reached the last bend in the stairwell, the last flight of stairs, when he heard a crash. This time he quickly turned around. The man following him had slipped on the paint and came sliding down the stairs on his back, his head banging against the steps as he went, and finally crashed into the wall. Georg bounded down the last few stairs, ran through the hall, out the door, and into the street.
He kept running, weaving through a throng of pedestrians and dodging cars to get to the other side of the street. He looked back: nobody was following him. He hailed a cab and headed home. Larry wasn’t there.
He stood in his room and looked in the mirror. His face, though unchanged, looked alien to him. Did I kill that man? He realized that his whole body was drenched in sweat. He took a shower. A towel around his middle, he was pouring himself some coffee in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. He tiptoed across the hall and looked through the peephole: two men of the same type as the ones who were to escort him to the airport. They rang again, and exchanged a few hushed words that Georg couldn’t catch. One of them leaned against the wall across the landing, while the other disappeared from Georg’s field of vision. Georg waited. The man by the wall changed his position from time to time. Georg thought about how by now he could have been on his way to the airport with thirty thousand dollars in his pocket. Or had they just wanted to get him out of the building and into a car so they could kill him somewhere along the way? What did these two bastards out there want from him? Should he wait for Larry, and leave the building with him? Where would he go? As it was, he had to wait for Larry and ask him for the name of that New York Times reporter he had met at his party. Why hadn’t I asked him before?
Georg got dressed and put everything he wanted to show the reporter into a folder: the copies of the Mermoz plans, the photographs he had taken of Bulnakov and his men in Pertuis, the newspaper article, the helicopter book, the photograph of Françoise. Through the peephole he saw Larry with a Food Market bag in one hand and his key in the other. One of the bastards was talking up a storm, and Larry was shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. He turned to the door, and put the key in the lock. His face was near and large in the peephole, his mouth and nose distorted, his eyes, hair, and chin receding grotesquely.
Georg had reached the kitchen window before the door even opened, pulled the kitchen window guard open, and swung himself out onto the fire escape. With a tug he pulled the guard shut again, and with a few jumps found himself in front of the kitchen window on the floor below. The fire escape vibrated and rattled, the echo clanging against the walls of the narrow courtyard. He cowered beneath the windowsill and waited for the echo to die away. He listened for a sound from above: nothing. He looked down: trash cans, trash bags, a cat.
He waited twenty minutes. Should I have stayed upstairs to help Larry in case those bastards attacked him? But perhaps things have turned out for the best because I wasn’t there. If one of them had burst into the apartment with Larry, seen me, thrown himself at me, and Larry had tried to stop him-perhaps the guy would have drawn a revolver, or pistol, or whatever they’re called. He imagined the scene. He wondered what to do next. He couldn’t go back to Larry’s apartment anymore. To Helen’s? There would probably be men there too, and furthermore he didn’t want to put her in harm’s way.
He was still holding the folder with the material for the press. I must find that reporter, he told himself. Then he, the CIA, or the FBI will take charge. But what can they do? What will happen if Bulnakov and his people go underground, disappear, cover their tracks, or if the material I’ve gathered isn’t substantial enough? Then at least I can pack my things in peace and fly back home. Home?
But there would be time enough to think about all that later. Now he had to see how he would get through the rest of the day and the night. He knew that Larry was planning to go to Long Island to see a literary critic, and that he was thinking of spending the night there. Her name was Mary. Larry said she was a beautiful woman, this literary critic, or critical literate, or literally critical. Larry had mentioned her full name, but Georg couldn’t remember it, so wouldn’t be able to reach him there. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t even noon yet.
He carefully climbed down the fire escape, trying not to make any noise or startle housewives at their kitchen windows. On the third floor, the window and the window guard were open. The kitchen was empty, there were no pots on the stove, no dishes in the sink, no open box of cornflakes or newspaper lying on the table. He climbed through the window and walked through the rooms. The blinds were down, their slats throwing light and shade onto the freshly painted walls and polished floors. The apartment was waiting to be lived in again. Georg carefully put the chain on the door. He wanted to hear in time if the super or the new tenants showed up. He lay down on the floor near the front door.
35
WHEN HE WOKE up it was dark outside. His body was aching from the hard floor. He got up, walked around the apartment, and looked outside. He gazed into lit windows. The streetlights were on, and 115th Street was quiet. On Broadway, the headlights of cars flitted past. It was eleven o’clock. He had slept deeply. He was hungry.
He couldn’t think clearly yet. He climbed down the fire escape to the courtyard, reached the cellar, stole past the laundry room and the super’s office, and found the door from which steps led up to the sidewalk by the main entrance. Only after he had pulled the door shut behind him did he realize that he wouldn’t be able to get back in again, and that he should have tried to return to Larry’s apartment. Spending the night on an empty stomach in an empty apartment was still better than spending it… spending it where? He had no idea where to go.
He waited a long time to make sure that nobody suspicious was standing in one of the doorways, under an awning, or behind a parked car. He didn’t see anyone. He decided not to go down Broadway, but went to Riverside Drive and walked in the shadow of the park to where it ended at Seventy-second Street. He crossed West End Avenue and Broadway, and went into an Italian restaurant on Columbus. It was expensive, but the service was fast and the pasta was good. Georg had washed his face in the men’s room, combed his hair, and been pleased with what he saw in the mirror. He enjoyed his meal. He had survived. After a whole bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, he was convinced he had won. He chuckled at the thought of those two bastards from Bulnakov’s office, the splintering wood, the shout from the elevator shaft, and the man who tripped over the bucket of paint and fell down the stairs. I did all that, he thought triumphantly. Too bad I couldn’t stop and watch. The two of them must really have been a sight.