Man Who Wanted Tomorrow

by Brian Freemantle

  Which resolved itself into a desperate situation, he accepted, again. Realistically, his chances of getting his personal folder back were minimal. Ridiculous even. The anger built up within him and he clenched his hands until his knuckles hurt. He was running, like a dog responding to a trick. But at least a dog could refuse if it wanted to. Kurnov knew he had to perform.

  Another doubt settled, like heavy mist. If the money were gone, there would be no way to avoid exposure, he realized, objectively. And there would be nowhere he could run.

  But he wouldn’t be captured, he determined. Not by anyone. He knew imprisonment, anywhere, would send him insane. And he was well aware he could stand even less the penalties the Nazis would impose. Kurnov knew completely the degree of his personal cowardice. He tapped the left molar, an unnecessary reassurance. The cyanide was still there, the implant originally put there forty years ago replaced every three years in the secrecy of his Moscow laboratory. Better a little agony than suffering that would go on and on.

  He shuddered in the warm hotel-room. It wouldn’t be difficult to convince people he was feeling unwell. Bock would regret it if he had spent the money, he mused. Before he died, he would kill the surgeon. Very slowly. No, he corrected, immediately. No, he wouldn’t kill him. He’d use his own death to disclose Bock’s involvement in the hidden bank-account and let the Nazis kill him. They were far more expert. He considered the thought. Perhaps they weren’t. It was just that in Berlin they had better facilities.

  He pulled the telephone directory towards him again. How easy it would be to telephone. He actually reached out, towards the instrument, impelled by the urge to commence the search immediately. He halted, reluctantly.

  Instead, he carefully copied the address upon an envelope resting upon a handkerchief, so there would be no indentation upon the blotter if there were any unexpected investigation of his room. There was no reason why there should be, but on several foreign trips he had had the impression that his room had been visited by other members of the delegation.

  Using the same handkerchief pad, he wrote just the number of the Swiss account and the initials “H.K.V.K.” After so long, he realized, it might baffle the other man, initially. But the surprise would not last long. Bock would know of what had happened at Toplitz and realize the significance of the note. He would even expect some approach, rationalized Kurnov.

  The scientist decided against postal delivery. He could take it himself, providing he was alert for personal surveillance. There was, he had convinced himself, no reason why the Russians should watch him too closely.

  He smiled again, amused through his apprehension at a sudden doubt. Did he still know Berlin well enough to elude any followers? It would be an interesting challenge. The amusement vanished. Before everything was over, there was every likelihood that that would not be a flippant thought.

  He lay outstretched on the bed, unwilling to leave the safety of the locked room, letting his mind drift. He’d been lucky, he reflected, seeking omens. Bock was alive. His whole survival rested on the man and he was alive and easily contactable. Perhaps the luck would continue.

  Was Gerda still here? he wondered. That was odd, he decided, seeking a psychological explanation for the memory. Not once, in the thirty years he had been away, had he thought of his wife. It must be the association with Berlin, he thought. What would she look like now? She had never been attractive, with her buck-teeth and baying laugh and the tendency for yellow spots to form in the crack where her nose met her face. But the Führer had disliked his favorites parading their women instead of their wives, and so he had publicly kept with Gerda, tolerating her snobbery and stupidity. And her incredible attitude toward clothes.

  He recalled how bad she had been in bed, lying listlessly, her mind probably on yet another dress. The camp girls had been so much better. But then, they had known they would be killed if they didn’t satisfy. Perhaps it was unfair to compare Gerda with them. Gerda would never have lasted a day in a camp, he decided, sniggering. She probably wouldn’t have got any trade.

  He frowned. The tendency to hysteria was worrying. His nerves were tight, he recognized. And things were likely to get worse. He would have to keep very firm control upon himself. Fortunately, he had brought along enough medication to help. Like the ease of laughter, lying there was another indication of his fear. The security he felt, within four walls and behind a locked door, was a womb complex. It was predictable, psychologically.

  He forced himself to move, getting up from the bed. In the bathroom he showered and then put on the uncreased suit. The reception was in fifteen minutes, he saw, checking his watch. He’d left it almost too late. He began to hurry, putting his letter to Bock carefully into his inside pocket, then quietly letting himself out of the room, looking both ways along the corridor. Empty. Keeping to the edge, where the thickness of the carpet would shield his footsteps, he went towards the corridor window, away from the elevator. Nervously, he pushed the unmarked door adjoining the window. It moved easily and he let out a tiny sound of relief. It led out on to stairs that went down to the middle landing, serving both his floor and that below as a fire-escape. He’d brought tissues from the supply in the bathroom. He padded his fingers to prevent them getting dirty on the little-used handles, then cupped his palms beneath the two arms of cold metal, heaving upwards. The windows remained unmoving. The ever-present bubble of apprehension popped inside him. He felt around the rim, seeking the lock. It had to be manual. A key would destroy the purpose of a window leading out on to a fire-escape. His throat felt dry, as if he had run a long race. He’d been good at sport at school, he remembered, and recognized the feeling. He’d always won. It was important to win, always. Because of the darkness, he couldn’t see how the lock operated, and he groped, trying to bring his face closer to the cold glass. They swiveled, he realized. He found the clasps in the top corners. They were stiff. He pushed and one gave suddenly. He felt his nail split off. Perspiration soaked his back and he stopped, panting. He had left the preparations too late, he decided, angrily. Bloody womb complex.

  With the locks undone, the window scraped open, squeaking on its sash-cords. He hesitated, head turned up towards the corridor he had just left, listening for the sound of anyone who might have been attracted by the noise. Turning back, he pulled the window higher, staring out into the coldness that burst in, catching his breath. The fire-escape was tacked zig-zag against the wall, like an afterthought. Snow and ice glittered in the reflection from the sodium street lights. It would be dangerous: too risky, considering his age. He shivered, the perspiration drying coldly upon him. Quickly he closed the window almost completely and stood, quite still, on the emergency landing, fighting the fear that flooded through him. It came in waves, like sickness. He swallowed, gripping his hands around the wad of tissues he’d carried from the room. Too dangerous. Too risky. But unavoidable.

  Leaving the window slightly open, he went up again, pausing before the door leading back to his floor. Deserted. He smiled. Another omen, he thought, like a child convincing itself an imagined disaster will be averted if it can avoid stepping on the cracks in a pavement. He hurried out, almost running to his door. Inside, he leaned backwards against it, breathing deeply. How nice to be able to stay here for the rest of the night. Read a book. Or watch television. He shook himself, like an animal casting off water, staring down at his suit. It was dirty, dust and cobwebs at the knees and over the front of his jacket. As he brushed himself, he saw the shirt cuffs were filthy. No time to change, he decided. Quickly he ran water over his split nail, but the bleeding refused to stop. He wrapped more tissue around it and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. The vision was of a frightened man, he thought. He smoothed his hair back into its military cut and dampened his face, trying to stop the sweat that kept bubbling on his forehead. Suddenly, without warning, he whimpered. He clamped his mouth shut, embarrassed, looking around in the empty room. Careful. He needed more resilience than this. He stared directly
at the medicine box he had brought with him. The performance had to be staged, but Kurnov was offended at the prospect. It would mean making a spectacle of himself, and deeply ingrained into every aspect of his behavior was the need to avoid attention. This time it a sigh, not a whimper. It couldn’t be avoided, he thought, taking the syringe and ampoule from the box.

  The reception was crowded, smothered with cigarette smoke and talk. He winced, then hurried into the room. Thank God a waiter was near. He took a whisky, needing it. His throat was so dry, it hurt to drink. Perhaps he should have stayed with vodka.

  All the delegates had name-tabs on their lapels, but Kurnov’s was hardly necessary. Almost immediately he was enveloped in small talk. He responded beyond his usual protective, monosyllabic manner, forcing himself to be noticed. He began sweating at the effort. The conference chairman, Konrad Bahr, hurried forward, hand outstretched, effusive in his greeting.

  “So pleased to meet you,” gushed the German, pumping Kurnov’s arm. “We’re honored you are with us.”

  Kurnov nodded. “I wish I had had time to prepare a paper,” he said. He allowed a pause, then added, “Not that I think I would have been able to deliver it.”

  The chairman frowned, taking the bait.

  “Why?”

  Kurnov touched his stomach, gently. “I’ve been dreadfully ill,” he said.

  The chairman smiled, dismissively, “A small upset, I’m sure,” he said, reassuringly. “It’ll go in a few hours, once you’ve got used to German hospitality.”

  Kurnov fixed the doubtful look.

  “Please,” continued the conference official. “There are some other delegates who particularly wish to meet you …”

  He put his arm around Kurnov’s shoulders, but the Russian pulled back. The thought of what was to happen brought out fresh dampness on his face.

  “A moment,” he apologized. “I must visit the bathroom first. Just allow me a minute.”

  There was a cloakroom alongside the foyer. Kurnov went straight to it, locking himself in a cubicle. He took the apomorphine from his pocket and for a few seconds stared at the drug, conscious of the vomiting it would cause. Hurriedly, he took off his jacket. The excuse had to appear genuine, he convinced himself. Quickly, he administered the injection, flushed the ampoule and disposable syringe away, then hurried out, aware of its quick reaction. He felt the attack rising within him as he re-entered the reception area. Doctor Bahr turned to greet him again, gesturing for a group of Italian delegates to approach, but the retching overtook Kurnov. He managed to turn, almost reaching the side of the room before the first wave of sickness engulfed him. He stood, supported against the wall by an outstretched hand, vomiting again and again, conscious of people moving away.

  Bahr appeared by his side, his face twisted in disgust.

  “My dear doctor,” he said, forcing the solicitude. Clutching a waiter’s napkin to his face, Kurnov allowed himself to be guided from the hall. Spasms of sickness jerked through him and perspiration soaked his face and body. His eyes were running, too, so it was difficult to see. Hotel staff met them in the foyer and accompanied Kurnov to his room. Within minutes, the hotel doctor arrived, fussed over him, then insisted he take the concentrated streptomycin, sulphadiazine and sulphadimidine. Within half an hour he was alone, with the assurance he would not be disturbed for the remainder of the evening. For fifteen minutes he lay on the bed, aching from the convulsions, sure of his rate of recovery.

  He’d succeeded, he thought. It had been disgusting and embarrassing, but no one would be able to question the reason for his absence over the next couple of days.

  He got up from the bed, dressing slowly. How much he wanted to stay in the room! The recurring thought of cowardice. He shrugged it away. He had to stop his mind slipping away like this all the time. Reluctantly, breathing heavily, he took his overcoat from the closet, changed his shoes for the heavier, Russian boots more suitable for the conditions outside, then gently opened the door, to check the corridor. There was the low murmur of conversation and he waited for several minutes before accepting it was a radio from behind one of the closed doors. He edged out, tensed for any movement so that he could dodge back. It remained empty. He hurried along, pushing his way from the fire-escape door on to the middle landing, then through the window and out on to the slippery platform. Immediately outside he stopped, gasping. It was bitterly cold, the wind crying like a petulant child through the narrow alley-way. Soon it would snow again, he knew. He held on to the metal rails and felt the cold bite through his gloves. Far below him, the city heaved with life, headlights fireflying along inch-wide roadways, neon jerking and exploding, the bombs of advertising. It was stupid to stand exposed, in such conditions. Gripping the rail, he began slowly to descend the narrow stairway. Ice and snow were wedged into the steps, reducing their width, and several times his foot slipped, so that his shin grated over the metal. He felt blood running into his boot. The strain began almost immediately as a dull ache in his shoulders and legs and got worse while he continued down, and the nagging pain from the left leg, scarred from thigh to groin in an accident in Hamburg when he was eighteen, pulled at him. He had to stop on the first landing. He stood, panting. He was soaked in sweat but had no feeling in his frozen hands or feet. The abused muscles in his arms and legs made his limbs twitch uncontrollably. The scar hadn’t troubled him so much for years. He crossed his arms, cupping his elbows, and hugged himself. The pain began to subside. He knew it indicated the muscles were setting and forced himself to reach out and grab the rail to continue down. His breath came out in tiny, white clouds and he was grunting with effort. He slowed on the last landing, trying to reduce the sound. For several minutes, he stood completely unmoving, trying to penetrate the dense blackness of the alley-way below him. No one waiting below could have remained still for so long, certainly not in this cold, he determined. Satisfied he was unobserved, Kurnov finished the descent, hesitating until his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness so he could detect the dustbins and litter over which he might have stumbled, then moved off towards Eckerndorferplatz. He moved awkwardly, his feet shuffling over the ground, cramped by cold and exertion.

  Twice he had to stop, gripping his hands tightly by his side, to stifle the sobs of self-pity that welled up.

  Inside the hotel, Colonel Pyotr Suvlov, who had succeeded in getting an invitation to the reception, excused himself from the meal, explaining to Bahr he had to return early to the Russian sector. He stood undecided in the hotel foyer for several minutes, then left hurriedly, driving immediately eastwards.

  Frieden had sensed the excitement as soon as the consumptive lawyer telephoned. He agreed immediately to the meeting and sat now in the luxury penthouse atop the office block in Ludwigsfelderstrasse, staring out over the park. It was a pity about Muntz, he reflected, in genuine sadness. He had been a loyal man, a true Party member. But he had no choice, Frieden decided. The continued existence and safety of the Organization demanded that everyone stayed alert, both mentally and physically. Muntz had to be dispensed with because his health had failed. It was like easing the suffering of a favorite animal which had grown too old. If the circumstances were reversed, he would have expected Muntz to behave in exactly the same way with him. Muntz would understand. It was one of the rules by which they survived.

  The elderly lawyer came breathlessly into the room. Speech was difficult and Frieden waited patiently for him to recover, pouring his friend a brandy. Muntz sipped it, gratefully, wincing as the liquid reached his raw throat.

  “Luck,” he managed, at last. “We’ve had some luck.”

  From his briefcase he took a tape already mounted on a miniature cassette-player. He placed it on the table between them, adjusted the volume control and then started the machine. Immediately there was the hiss of recording.

  “The quality is not very good,” he said, apologetically. The words groaned out, as if his voice were being squeezed through a narrow opening. He began again. “It
was difficult for our man to record without the telephone supervisor spotting it.”

  Frieden nodded, gesturing impatiently for the man to stop talking. He didn’t want to miss any part of the recording. The tape unwound, crackling, and then the sound started, abruptly, with no preliminaries.

  “Israeli embassy, shalom,” said a girl’s voice, the university-taught German clipped and precise in the customary greeting. There was a pause. “Shalom?” prompted the girl again, an edge of irritation in her voice.

  “Hello …” said a man’s voice, hesitantly, “… I called before … I spoke to someone in your security section …”

  “Who is this, please?” continued the Jewish girl.

  “No name,” said the caller, his confidence growing. “Just say it’s about the box … about Toplitz …”

  Frieden looked up at the lawyer and smiled, a self-satisfied expression. The girl’s reaction was immediate, as if she had been given explicit instructions for such an approach.

  “A moment, please,” she said, quickly. Almost immediately a man’s voice came on. Again it was the perfect German of a foreigner well-instructed.

  “Hello,” said the Jew. “Who is this?”

  “I called before,” repeated the man.

  “We’ve been waiting for you to contact us again,” said the embassy security-man.

  “Said I would,” mumbled the man, with a trace of truculence. “Just got to wait. That’s all. Everyone has to wait on me now.”

  “Of course,” soothed the Israeli, quickly. “We were just … just concerned. Several weeks have passed, after all. Jerusalem have sent some men here, in anticipation of your contacting us again.”

  “They brought the money?” demanded the caller.

  A note of caution entered the Israeli’s voice.

  “I told you on the first call there would be no difficulty about the money. But I’ve got to have proof that what I’m buying is genuine. Can’t we meet?”