Man Who Wanted Tomorrow

by Brian Freemantle

  The man sighed softly, so as not to disturb his friend. What a shitty business they were in, he thought. Was it necessary to pursue the Nazis after so long? he wondered, raising again the doubt that had begun the break with Perez. Of course it was, he decided. Too many had survived to hold high office in the new Germany. It was the method of the scheme that offended him.

  He looked again at the sleeping figure of Perez. But they should choose with more care, he thought. He tempered the doubt. It was too easy for him, a bachelor whose parents had died in Dachau, a man with no home but an apartment in which he sheltered during the night. Perez was married and, a month before, his wife had had a child that the man had not yet been allowed to see. How simple it would be, if it were possible to select a revenge-unit of unattached, totally committed men whose deaths, if they failed, would be mourned by no one. He should have made the sacrifice, instead of Perez, thought Mosbacher. He smiled at the stupidity. How could he have done it? Perez was ideal because of his stature and because of that very history which at the same time made him unreliable. There was no way Mosbacher or anyone else could have replaced him. Knowing sleep would not return, he got up from the bed and went to the window, staring out over the city. Directly in line, but not visible, was the penthouse apartment in which Bock was at that moment moaning, half in pleasure, half in discomfort, above the film star.

  It really began tomorrow, thought Mosbacher. He corrected himself, looking at his watch. Not tomorrow. Today. How fortunate it had been, he remembered, that Bock chose to sleep with every attractive female patient. She had been a brave Jewess, he decided, to report that tell-tale scar beneath the left arm, indicating the removal of the tattooed S.S. number. The Mossad had spent a lot of money paying for two more women to undergo treatment and seduction to establish the suspicions of the first genuine patient. But never, when they started to intercept his letters through the bribed sorter at Berlin’s Central Post Office, had the Mossad imagined they would discover that one of the most renowned plastic surgeons in the world had learned his craft under another name on unanaesthetized patients at Buchenwald. And more important still, they learned that he had apparent control of Heinrich Köllman’s Swiss bank-account, the most decisive clue that the scientist was still alive and in hiding.

  Mosbacher went to the table, flicking through the photostat of the account-records that had arrived five days ago en route to the surgeon. Over £3,000,000. He wondered how Bock had gained control. It didn’t matter. It was certainly enough to buy back embarrassing secrets being held to ransom. The Nazis would have even more, he knew.

  He was aware that Perez was awake, watching him.

  “It’ll be a fine day,” he said, looking out over the city.

  “It starts today,” said Perez, dully.

  “Yes.”

  “Nervous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of what—failure? Or getting hurt?”

  What answer did the young man want? conjectured Mosbacher. Surely Perez wasn’t frightened of being injured. They’d been too well trained for that.

  “Both, I suppose,” he replied.

  “Do you know what I thought about, yesterday?” asked the younger man.

  Mosbacher turned from the window. Perez was lying, hands locked behind his head, gazing at the ceiling.

  “No,” he said.

  “I was thinking of my son. I looked at the picture that Rachel sent me and I thought that my father must have felt like I did then, when he saw me for the first time. And when he saw my sister. And then I thought of what happened in Buchenwald.”

  Let him talk, decided Mosbacher. It was probably useful therapy.

  “Can you imagine what it’s like, forced to watch children that you’ve created and the mother who gave birth to them, subjected, day after day, to experiments to establish their degree of physical survival? And your level of mental tolerance?”

  He was crying, Mosbacher saw.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think anyone can imagine that.”

  “He did it,” said Perez, distantly. “Köllman did it.”

  “I know, Uri,” said Mosbacher, softly. “They all committed crimes it’s difficult to comprehend.”

  “We might fail,” said the man, with unexpected pessimism. He turned on his side, so he could look across the room. “Have you thought about that?”

  “Of course,” said Mosbacher.

  Neither spoke for several minutes. Then Perez said: “If we fail … if there’s no reaction, I mean, then I’m going to make them suffer. I’m going to kill every Nazi we can locate … I’m going to do it, Arron. I’m going to kill them all …”

  He was serious, realized Mosbacher. He would have to act immediately, if things went wrong. An injection would be the best way if he could accomplish it, rendering Uri unconscious until they got him back to Israel. Whatever method he chose, he would have to stop Perez doing something that would get him jailed. Or killed. Uri had suffered enough. And he hadn’t seen his son, either.

  At least the time-wasting of lunchtime diplomatic receptions could be limited, thought Mavetsky. One could always plead work waiting back at the office and escape after an hour. He accepted the need to attend, of course, now that Russia was pursuing its détente with the West, but he always felt vaguely uncomfortable in such crowded conditions. He liked small gatherings, where he was able to observe people, assessing their attitudes and behavior. At receptions, he always had an unavoidable suspicion that he was being studied and reported upon. Often he looked back with regret to the Stalinist era, when the approval of the outside world was so disdained. Now it seemed the Politburo would hardly move without first considering the reaction of Washington, London or Bonn.

  He saw the American ambassador moving towards him and fixed a smile of greeting. Since the space co-operation programme, both sides were going to extreme lengths to prove their friendliness.

  “Good party,” opened the American.

  “Yes,” agreed Mavetsky.

  “I hear you’ve decided to go to Houston for the launch.”

  Mavetsky nodded. “I thought it would be interesting to view it from the other side,” he said. He took a drink from a, passing tray.

  “Our people are looking forward to coming here,” assured the American.

  Diplomatic small talk was boring, decided Mavetsky.

  “There will be a reception for them,” he promised the diplomat. “We are looking forward to the exchange.”

  The American sighed, as bored as the other man.

  “The West Germans aren’t here,” he said, looking around the room. Since Brandt’s policy of Ostpolitik had enabled the opening of a West German embassy in Moscow, its occupants had attended every conceivable diplomatic function, anxious to establish contacts.

  “No,” agreed Mavetsky, disinterested.

  “Wonder if it’s anything to do with this Berlin business,” gossiped the other man.

  Mavetsky felt like a traveler attracted to a safe path by the summoning of a distant bell.

  “What Berlin business?” he asked.

  The ambassador looked directly at the minister. Surely he knew about the Israeli announcement.

  “The Lake Toplitz affair,” enlarged the ambassador. “Jerusalem has disclosed an approach from someone purporting to have the missing ammunition box. It could contain enough Nazi records to start a whole new witch-hunt.”

  “Yes?” prompted Mavetsky.

  “Apparently the contact was made in Berlin,” went on the American. “Wasn’t that ironic?”

  The Russian nodded. His stomach felt hollow. Suddenly there was a wave of nausea and he swallowed. Kurnov had hardly talked on the flight home from America, he recalled, hunched over the same page in the New York Times recounting the Israeli press conference that had followed the commando raid into Austria.

  “I bet there’s a few nervous men in Berlin today,” speculated the American.

  “Yes,” agreed the minister. “I’m sure there will
be.”

  The waiter returned and paused expectantly. Mavetsky replaced his empty glass, but did not take another. He made a show of consulting his watch.

  “Forgive me,” he excused himself. “A busy afternoon …”

  He almost ran into his Kremlin office, startling the secretary who hadn’t expected his return for another hour, yelling as he passed for a transcript of the overlooked Israeli announcement and for Kurnov’s file. For thirty minutes, he studied the folder he had examined a week earlier and again reached the same conclusion. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that prompted investigation. He read what had been said in the Jewish parliament, tapping it with his finger, then pushed it away, the conviction growing within him. He had survived Stalin and Khrushchev to reach his present position, he remembered. Several times he had faced purges and on every occasion he had avoided disaster by reacting upon instinct and anticipating any investigation. Had he waited then for positive evidence, as he was doing now like some junior, inexperienced clerk, he would have long ago been incarcerated in a labor camp. The Knesset declaration was the link, he determined. He consulted his desk diary, then double-checked by telephoning the Academy of Science. Kurnov had departed for Berlin an hour before.

  Impatiently, Mavetsky jiggled the telephone rest, clearing the line. When the bewildered secretary replied, he demanded an immediate connection to the commanding officer of the Russian contingent forming part of the Four-Power presence in Berlin. As he sat, waiting for the call to arrive, he saw his hands were shaking.

  He’d have to be very careful, he decided. If he were wrong, it could result in the purge he had always managed to avoid. The telephone rang, but he hesitated before answering it, staring at the button that would automatically record the conversation. Would it ever be needed, to produce to the Politburo? There was no way of knowing. Determinedly he pressed the record mechanism and picked up the receiver.

  (7)

  Bock felt very tired. It was fortunate, he thought, there was only one small operation planned for that afternoon. Afterwards he would spend an hour in the sauna, he decided, and then at least another hour on the massage couch. He was too old for such sexual athletics, he thought, ruefully. The door opened and Bock looked up, irritably, at the woman he’d instructed not to disturb him. She was a plump, matronly woman, chosen precisely for her lack of sexual attractiveness. She was, however, a remarkably efficient personal secretary.

  “What?” he demanded, rudely.

  “There’s a telephone call …” she started, but he cut her off, exasperated.

  “In God’s name,” he shouted. “I told you no calls … no interruptions. Don’t you realize I’m unwell?”

  She looked at him, unconcerned.

  “I told him that,” she replied. “But he is incredibly persistent. It took him fifteen minutes to persuade the switchboard to put him through to me. He keeps saying that if he’s kept from speaking to you, we’ll all be dismissed when you eventually discover what we’ve done.”

  “I don’t want to know anything about it,” dismissed Bock. “You handle it.”

  He turned away, expecting the woman to leave. Pain swelled in his head and his groin ached. He wondered what excuse he could make that night.

  “I said you never took personal calls … that everything was arranged through junior doctors and assistants …” continued the woman, remaining where she was.

  He swung back, tight-faced with anger.

  “… He told me to mention the name Hugo Becker,” the woman hurried on. “Do we know anyone called Hugo Becker?”

  Bock stared at her, slack-mouthed. A numbness spread over him, like one of the anaesthetics that render unconsciousness without the distress of the old-fashioned face-mask. Realizing how he must look to the woman, he brought both hands up, cupping his chin, trying to cover his face. The secretary looked at him, worriedly. She hadn’t believed him that morning when he had complained of being ill. He certainly looked it now. It was hardly surprising. He worked so hard.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, belatedly, accepting her mistake. “I’ll get rid of him …”

  “No!”

  He’d shouted, Bock realized, embarrassed. It had been over thirty years since he had heard the name with which he had been christened.

  “No,” he repeated, quieter this time. He breathed deeply, trying to regain control.

  “I’ll take the call.”

  The woman looked at him, uncertainly. “Are you sure …?”

  “I said I’d take it!” He’d shouted again.

  She went from the room, frowning. Within seconds, the light on the telephone console glowed and he reached for the receiver, holding it delicately, as if it might burn. He put it to his ear, but said nothing. There was silence for several seconds and then a voice said, inquiringly, “Hello?”

  It was guttural German, recognized Bock. Bavarian, perhaps.

  “Yes,” he said. His own voice was thin and strained.

  “Who is this?” demanded the caller.

  “Bock,” identified the surgeon. “Helmut Bock.”

  There was a laugh.

  “Really?” queried the voice.

  “Who are you?” demanded Bock, his voice growing stronger. “I …”

  “… Be quiet.” said the caller and Bock stopped talking.

  “You’ve feared this call, Dr. Becker, haven’t you? Ever since 1945, you’ve been frightened that one day the real identity of the famous Dr. Bock would be discovered.”

  The surgeon hunched over his desk, feeling numbness edge over him again.

  “And now it’s happened, Dr. Becker. Now it’s happened.”

  The caller used the name like an obscenity, almost spitting it out.

  “I know you’re Dr. Becker,” insisted the voice. “I know all about what you did in Buchenwald. And I know something else. I know how close you were to Köllman. Won’t that be embarrassing when the details of the Toplitz box get out?”

  It was a Bavarian accent, decided Bock. He was almost certain of it.

  “Tell me who you are,” repeated the surgeon, weakly.

  There was another laugh.

  “I’m the one who was abandoned, Dr. Becker. I’m the one who suffered when the rats ran.”

  The surgeon frowned, unable to comprehend what he was being told.

  “What do you want?”

  “Money, Dr. Becker. I want money that’s been kept from me for thirty years.”

  Köllman? Was it Köllman on the telephone? Hope surged through him. Was that why he had mentioned the name, as a clue?

  “Heinrich? Is that you, Heinrich?”

  The laugh came again, quite humorless.

  “Oh no, Dr. Becker. This isn’t Köllman. But he’s got to come out of hiding, like they all have, hasn’t he? We both know that, don’t we?”

  The surgeon pushed his knuckles into his aching forehead, trying to concentrate upon the thoughts fluttering through his mind like discarded paper blowing in the wind.

  “Look. I don’t understand …”

  “I don’t expect you do,” interrupted the caller. “It’s bound to be a shock, isn’t it?”

  He’d pay, decided Bock. He had Köllman’s money. It would be easy if it were only money. He could pay anything the man wanted.

  “Tell me what you want,” he repeated, his mind locked on a single thought.

  “Have you realized something?” said the caller, ignoring the question. “Have you realized what’s happened since the yids announced that the Lake Toplitz box was here? Everyone’s after it, Dr. Becker. Everyone.”

  Bock’s mouth moved, but the question wouldn’t form. He wished the man would stop using his real name.

  The voice went on, “It’s going to be an auction. I don’t care who gets it. I’ve contacted the Israeli embassy and got the yids over here in force. The Nazis are after it, ready to pay any money. And you’ve got to come running, too, haven’t you?”

  “I …”

  “Shut
up, Becker,” said the Bavarian, his voice suddenly harsh. “I could get you killed. You know that, don’t you? And there’s only one way you’re going to stay alive. And that’s by paying to do so. You’d better start raising the money. And quickly …”

  “Let’s meet,” urged Bock, quickly. “We can’t talk on the telephone, like this. Tell me how I can meet you … I can come right away.”

  That contemptuous laugh sounded again.

  “Oh, you’ll come,” said the caller. “I know you’ll come. It’ll be fun making you run, Dr. Becker …”

  The line went dead. Initially Bock didn’t realize that the receiver had been replaced and then, when it registered, he almost whimpered with frustration. He put down the instrument and sat gazing at it. Oh God, he thought. Oh dear God, please help.

  “We’ve forgotten the doctor,” said Frieden, suddenly. Muntz, sitting opposite the millionaire in the office block in Ludwigsfelderstrasse, jumped at the exclamation. His chest hurt him, very badly. That morning he had started coughing blood again. It was a long time since that had happened. He should get treatment, he knew. Perhaps he would, when this was all over.

  “Who?”

  “Becker, the plastic surgeon …” the property man snapped his fingers, impatiently. “You know … he calls himself Bock now.”

  The lawyer frowned. “What would he know?”

  “Nothing, probably,” agreed Frieden, annoyed at the other man’s refusal to accept the point. “But think it through. It was Bock who performed the operation on Köllman, wasn’t it? He treated a lot of important people whose faces might have been embarrassing.”

  The fat man fingered his own cheek, remembering. It hadn’t been absolutely necessary. But there was a slight risk and he had decided the operation was a sensible precaution. Frieden was seized by the recollection. “Good God,” he said. “It was Bock who volunteered the information about Köllman. Don’t you remember? It was too late, by several years, to serve any useful purpose. But it was not Bock’s fault. He hadn’t known we were looking for the man.”