Man Who Wanted Tomorrow

by Brian Freemantle

  The sneer was immediate.

  “Oh no. They’re after me. I know that. They might even get their chance. Who knows? They might make a better offer than you. It’s going to be an auction … the highest bidder wins.”

  “The Nazis would kill you. And you know it,” warned the embassy man, urgently.

  “Not if they didn’t get all the details. If I had copies made and put in a bank vault, to be produced if anything happened to me, they couldn’t kill me, could they?”

  Frieden frowned, head close to the recorder, his entire concentration on the voice.

  “They’d defeat you,” insisted the Israeli. “You don’t know what they could do …”

  Again the sneer over-rode him. “Don’t tell me what the Nazis can do,” he said. “I’m an expert.”

  “They’ll kill you,” asserted the embassy official. “We are the only people you can trust.”

  The disbelieving voice grated on the tape.

  “I don’t trust anyone,” it said.

  “Why don’t we meet, so we can talk about the evidence you have,” tried the Israeli again.

  There was a pause. The caller’s heavy breathing was etched on to the tape.

  “Got it all,” he resumed, like a man recounting a memory. “The Swiss account of Mengele … Heinrich Müller. There’s all the information about Richard Glücks … the sterilization experiments of Heinrich Willermann … the facts about Oscar Dulwanger, who’s still drawing on Swiss funds while hiding in Aswan … Hans Eisele, the Buchenwald doctor …”

  The Israeli over-reaction to the promised evidence sounded in the sharp intake of breath on the tape.

  “… and everything about the partnership of Otto Grüber and Heinrich Köllman. I’ve got it all … I’ll hang every one of them …”

  The Israeli came on, urgently, unable to keep the anxiety from his voice.

  “Now listen,” he said. “Please listen. We’ve got the money we promised. We will pay it anywhere you want … in any currency in the world. We will even assign men to protect you. But we’ve got to have the contents of that box. Let’s meet … just the two of us. Let’s arrange a meeting anywhere in Berlin that you decide … outside of Berlin, if you like … anywhere … I’ll come anywhere, at any time. Just bring one document, something from the box as proof …”

  “… you might trick …”

  “… There will be no trickery …” cut off the embassy man, in his eagerness. “You know that we are the only people you can deal with safely. We’ll meet any conditions …”

  “I’ll see …” began the caller, dismissively.

  “Don’t go,” demanded the Jew. “Don’t go without our setting up some form of contact.”

  “I’ll have to work it out,” said the caller. He spoke confusedly, like an old man. “I’ll call again …”

  “… When? Let’s fix a time …”

  “A week. Maybe I’ll call again in a week. I’m in contact with someone else. He might have a better offer.”

  The line went dead as abruptly as the conversation had commenced. For several seconds Muntz and Frieden sat looking at the tape scratchily unwinding, then the millionaire reached out and depressed the stop button.

  “When was the call made?”

  Muntz glanced at his watch.

  “Five hours ago,” he said. He was smiling, like a child—who had brought home a good school-report.

  “We’re getting somewhere, Max,” said the lawyer, hopefully. “It’s a lead.”

  His exuberance faded at the look on Frieden’s face.

  “Isn’t it good, Max?” he probed, worriedly. He began to cough.

  The fat man shrugged. “Could be,” he conceded.

  “But we know the man’s here,” argued the lawyer. “And we know the evidence he’s got …”

  He stopped, halted by the recollection.

  “God, Max. That bloody box seems to contain everything. It could destroy us all.”

  Frieden nodded, slowly. “Everyone,” he agreed, reflectively. His voice changed, becoming incisive. “Pay the telephonist double whatever we agreed … treble if needs be. We’ve got to know of the other calls. They’ll arrange a meeting soon. Tell him there will be a bonus every time. We can’t miss anything.”

  Muntz nodded.

  “Who’s the other person with whom he’s negotiating?” questioned the millionaire, distantly.

  Muntz waved a hand, vaguely. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “That’s the sort of thing people say to inflate the value of what they’re selling.”

  “He knows what he’s selling,” argued Frieden. “It’s impossible to inflate the price of something like that.”

  “Who, then?”

  Frieden didn’t reply immediately.

  “Bock?” he wondered, suddenly.

  Muntz laughed, ridiculing the idea.

  “You said he’d promised to call us immediately, if there were any contact,” pointed out the lawyer. “Bock’s rich, certainly. But he’s not as rich as you, even. Where could he put his hands on to the sort of money being discussed here? And why should he? He’s got every reason to come to us the moment any call is made to him.”

  Frieden nodded, convinced. He started the machine, rewinding the tape. Then he began to play the conversation again, stopping after a few minutes.

  “Notice anything?” he demanded from the lawyer.

  Muntz frowned.

  “The man’s a German,” enlarged Frieden. He played a further section of the tape and Muntz nodded.

  “Bavarian,” he identified. “The man’s got a strong Bavarian accent.”

  Kuraov lay on the bed, his body shaken by waves of shivering. The emotion was an amalgam of many things, he accepted, through his distress. Of the numbing cold from the frozen fire-escape; of fear; and of the relief at having regained the room undiscovered. But there had been an excitement, too, he recalled, hugging himslf as the shaking subsided, a thrill at walking again through the streets he had once known so well. The bloody West Germans had renamed most of them, but he’d soon realized when he had made mistakes and walked along, ignoring the new street-signs, remembering the old names and the old associations, even able to disregard at times his own immediate danger in the warmth of the nostalgia. Bock had done well, he decided, bringing to mind the sleek, modern clinic, its twin towers rising into the darkness, hurrying white-coated figures of efficiency visible through the windows.

  My money built that, Kurnov thought, suddenly. That’s mine, all mine. Bock was a thief. He should suffer. He smiled. The man would suffer, decided Kurnov, when he opened that hand-delivered letter inscribed “personal.”

  And then even more, if there were insufficient money to negotiate for what Kurnov wanted.

  The shuddering lessened and he stood, examining himself in the full-length mirror. He was sagging with tiredness, red-veined eyes pouched in blackness. The suit that had been crisp and fresh six hours before was sodden high above the knees and hung around his legs in concertina creases, and the jacket was filthy. But he’d made it, he told himself again. The knowledge intoxicated him, pushing away the fatigue. It wasn’t going to be easy. But he was capable of doing what was required. He undressed quickly, throwing his clothes in a pile for express cleaning the following morning, then showered for the second time that night, easing the numbing cold from his body by gradually increasing the heat of the water. He knew from the experiments that it would hurt, initially, but that the discomfort would be transitory. They’d screamed and writhed, he recalled. But then, he had tested their reaction with water boiling sufficiently hot to strip the skin.

  He slithered almost sexually into bed, huddling the covering around him. Womb complex again, he decided. Suddenly he began to giggle, the amusement almost uncontrollable. He sniggered on for several minutes, then lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling, still smiling. How dumb he had been, he thought. How incredibly, unthinkingly stupid.

  He’d just realized where to hide if he we
re discovered. He was amazed that the way of locating Gerda hadn’t occurred to him before.

  (9)

  The following morning, Bock canceled indefinitely all further personal operations, giving instructions to both medical and administration staff that he was not to be bothered. There would be talk, he knew. It didn’t matter. Survival mattered, that was all. He sat in his office, the door locked, staring down at the letter that had been awaiting him when he arrived at the clinic two hours before. Just the number … and the initials.

  Fear knotted inside him, like a badly eaten meal he couldn’t digest. Was it genuine? Was it really from Kurnov? He turned the envelope over. No stamp or postmark. If it were, it meant he was here, in Berlin. What about Frieden? Could it be a trap set by the suspicious, fat Nazi? No, he rejected. No, definitely not from Frieden. He certainly didn’t know the number of the Swiss account. Or Köllman’s chosen identity.

  What about the anonymous caller with the Bavarian accent? Again, no. The Swiss number was not listed on any Nazi records. And “Vladimir Kurnov” was the name Köllman selected after the box had been sunk and he fled to Russia. So it could not be the Bavarian.

  Bock shivered, a man suddenly cold. Köllman was back.

  The surgeon gazed out over the city, remembering the man. Almost everyone had been frightened of Köllman, thought Bock. It was said even the Führer had been unhappy to have Köllman in his presence for too long, but Bock had always considered that an exaggeration. He’d never been part of that inner group and had no way of knowing what the relationship had been. Certainly Köllman had been invited to Berchtesgaden as well as to Berlin. But always in a crowd, he recalled, as if that confirmed the rumor. Köllman had no friends, decided Bock. Nor had he seemed to need them. Bock halted his thoughts. Not true, he corrected. He had been the man’s friend, he supposed. That wasn’t strictly accurate, either, thought the cosmetic expert. He had believed he was being cultivated for friendship, he recalled, but he couldn’t have been more mistaken. Köllman’s friendship arose entirely from the use he could get from it when the Third Reich collapsed. Bock laughed aloud, a nudge of hysteria. But he’d got the benefit, he gloated. He’d got the Swiss fortune and the life of luxury and Köllman had got thirty years’ unnecessary exile in the Soviet Union. The ever-present fear wrapped itself around him, like a damp blanket. Was there any way of Köllman discovering he had been tricked? Unlikely, decided Bock. But then he couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t sure of anything, any more. Off his office there was an examination room, with almost one whole wall entirely occupied by a medical cabinet. Bock hurried to it, shaking his head in self-apology. It was no good. He couldn’t stand any more without help. The hypodermic rattled against the kidney bowl as he prepared the injection, then swabbed his arm. He winced slightly as the needle went in, then began inhaling deeply in anticipation as the 25 ml of Librium entered his bloodstream. There was no danger, he assured himself, professionally, no danger at all. He paused before the array of drugs, staring to his left. The heroin and cocaine phials, encased in their neat cardboard boxes, were stacked in tiny walls. Just like walls, he thought, expanding the metaphor, walls behind which people could hide, safe from everyone. The tension began easing away as the Librium took effect and he looked away from the heroin and cocaine. No, he determined, realistically. Not again. Never again. Back at his desk, he sat staring down at the single sheet of paper, turning it over seeking clues. None, he realized. Köllman—or Kurnov, thought Bock, deciding to revert to his adoptive Russian name—would have given no clues. Or would he, inadvertently perhaps? Kurnov was in Berlin. It wasn’t easy for a Russian to travel, he knew. There had to be permission and travel documents. For someone as well known as Kurnov, it would be even more difficult to move. He could be in East Berlin, reasoned Bock. No, that was wrong. It would be as restrictive behind the Wall as it would be in Moscow. To have personally delivered the letter—and Bock was convinced Kurnov would have entrusted it to no one—would mean crossing the Wall. For Kurnov, so easily recognizable, that would be impossible. And to have applied officially would have made the Soviets or East Germans immediately suspect a defection.

  So it couldn’t be East Berlin.

  Then he was here, in the city. But how? There were Russians in the Control Commission, of course. But what excuse could Kurnov, a scientist specializing in human stress, create for being with the commission?

  None.

  Bock sat back. He was reasoning well, he thought, gratefully. Each possibility was coming easily to mind, being logically examined and then discarded when flaws were discovered. He wouldn’t need anything else. Librium would be sufficient.

  Kurnov must be officially in Berlin, in circumstances that allowed him reasonable freedom of movement through the city. The surgeon pulled the medical diary towards him, examining it for a week prior to that day’s date. The conference of prison psychiatrists was the only entry. The excuse had to be something medical. And the psychiatrists’ convention was the only internationally attended event taking place within a period of three weeks. Bock looked away, frowning. Thirty years before, Kurnov could have been the main speaker at such a gathering. But now …? He looked at the diary again. Foster Dulles Allee. Less than three miles away. He hurried from the office.

  The personal secretary looked up, expectantly, for Bock never left during the day without saying where he was going. But today he did.

  Which was why the girl was unable to help the insistent Frieden, who telephoned fifteen minutes later, demanding to know the surgeon’s whereabouts.

  Two thousand miles away in his Kremlin office, Mavetsky read for the third time the overnight report that had come from Suvlov. He threw it down, half-covering Kurnov’s file which now permanently occupied his desk drawer.

  “… Unkempt … profusely sweating … overcompensatory in conversation …”

  Definitely not typical Kurnov behavior, thought the Russian minister. But then, according to the report, he had been disgustingly ill. But apparently not too ill to descend a frozen fire-escape and make his way to a famous plastic-surgery clinic. So his suspicions were justified.

  Mavetsky picked up the man’s file. If Vladimir Kurnov were not Klaus Reinhart, the brave opponent of Nazism who had risked death to treat Russian prisoners of war, then who was he? Again he remembered the man’s preoccupation with the reports of the Israeli commando raid into Austria. Not a war hero, but a Nazi war criminal. That could be the only interpretation, decided the minister. A man guilty of atrocities had managed to infiltrate the highest echelon of the Soviet space program. And he was closely associated with him, realized Mavetsky. He looked down at his hands, lying on the desk before him. They were shaking, the Russian saw. There would be scapegoats, determined the minister. The blood-letting would be reminiscent of Stalin, as culprits were rounded up to answer for the embarrassment.

  He felt in the drawer, finding the tape that had been recorded just before the man went to Germany. Little use now, he thought. He stood and began pacing his office, head down on his chest. He would be the first victim, decided Mavetsky. He had to be. He’d been seen too often in Kurnov’s presence, even recommended the exit visa to Berlin in advance of the Houston visit. Mavetsky was aware of his enemies. How easy it would be for them to show Kurnov to be the minister’s protégé.

  The decision to check Kurnov in Berlin had been wise, he reflected. There was a tape of the initial conversation with Suvlov, too. It would be irrefutable evidence of his suspicions, a useful defense. He smiled, buoyed by a sudden thought. Why defense? It might, just might, be possible to emerge from the disaster with enhanced stature. He came back to the desk, looking down at the first tape. And that wasn’t worthless, either. Far from worthless, in fact. Presented in the proper way, that recording could be damning against the scientist. He ran his hand over the Suvlov report. Good enough, he decided.

  Quickly, he booked a call to Suvlov, then summoned his secretary.

  “A memorandum,” he ordered. “T
o every member of the Politburo …”

  He paused, assembling his thoughts.

  “… I request,” he began, “as a matter of urgency affecting the highest security of the Soviet Union, that an immediate emergency session of the full Politboro …”

  The telephone rang with the Berlin call and the secretary sat back, looking at the minister curiously.

  (10)

  It was a frightening sensation, seeing him after so long. Bock’s entire body was permeated again with the unreal feeling that occurs seconds before an anaesthetic takes effect, when the body appears to float, disconnected from the mind. How little change there was in the man he had last seen thirty years before, scurrying from the back door of what passed then as a surgery, disguised as a laundryman against the Nazis he believed would be watching, basket held high to protect him!

  Kurnov’s hair had grayed, of course, and receded considerably, but his face was remarkable. It had lined, of course, on the forehead and around the eyes, which were more pouched than he recalled. There was some sagging near the ears, too, he thought, professionally. But then, there had been some damage to the nerves, he remembered. In all, he decided, Kurnov didn’t look any more than ten years older than he had that June evening, three decades ago.

  Even more than by the minimal facial changes, Bock was arrested by Kurnov’s demeanor. It was almost identical to the way he had conducted himself in the camps, Bock remembered, straight-backed, head high at that autocratic angle which had always seemed to overawe. Only the cigarette jarred. Bock did not remember him as a smoker. In fact, he had a faded recollection that Kurnov positively disdained smoking, because the Führer objected. As he watched, almost completely concealed behind one of the pillars in the vestibule leading into the conference hall, Kurnov lit another from the stump of his cigarette.

  Bock had decided against attempting to enter the hall. He had no accreditation, and to have attempted to obtain it at such a late stage, even though he probably had the medical qualifications, would have been ridiculous, he determined. The only result would be to attract attention. Instead, he had positioned himself with a perfect view of all the entrances, grateful for the growing flow of people that gave him added concealment. At first, he had been frightened he had made a mistake, waiting, with a growing feeling of foolishness, as the delegations, easily identifiable from their lapel designation, had arrived. He had actually been preparing to leave when he had seen him, a little apart from the rest of the Russian contingent, gazing around in the haughty manner Bock recalled so well. He had always stood apart from a group, remembered the surgeon, constantly disdaining association by close contact. Even from the Führer, the rumors had said, Kurnov had stood back. So, recalled Bock, had Bormann. He wondered if it were for the same reason, the instinctive objection to being photographed. The delegations were jostling the crowded entrance-area, renewing the friendships made at the reception the previous night Bock started to withdraw behind the pillar, then stopped. Why hide? Kurnov knew who he was and had made contact. Their mutual survival was intertwined. There would have to be a meeting, and Bock wanted desperately to share his burden. The man with the Bavarian accent would call again, inevitably. And Frieden, too, he guessed. Bock smiled, warming to optimism. He had fooled the other man before and sent him into an unnecessary exile. Very soon there would have to be a meeting with the anonymous telephoner. He shuddered at the prospect. How much better it would be if Kurnov made that contact! And how much safer! Purposefully, he pushed away from the concealment of the pillar, moving openly through the crowd, slowly but quite definitely taking a course that would lead him to within feet of the adoptive Russian. As he came closer, Bock again began to revise his earlier impression of the unchanged face of the other man. He had aged more than ten years, he corrected. Particularly around the eyes. But then, he decided, that could be sleeplessness. There would have been many nights without sleep in the last few weeks, he estimated. Kurnov continued to survey the crowd, apparently seeing no one. Bock slowed further, moving even nearer, fixing his eyes directly upon the man.