Man Who Wanted Tomorrow

by Brian Freemantle

  The nerves blocked in Kurnov’s left arm, so the limb jerked convulsively. He strained, trying to control it, but the vibrations continued, making the flesh jump visibly beneath his shirt. His injured leg ached, too, very badly.

  “That’s a frightening thought, isn’t it, Heinrich?” pressed the other man, presciently. “Doesn’t it make you feel cold to know that you were exposed so long? Just imagine the number of people who would have squeezed that trigger, with you in their sights.”

  “What other reasons were there?” said Kurnov. He pushed the words out through a tight mouth. There was a way to combat the other man, he knew. Seize the conversation and insist upon conducting it, refusing to be sidetracked or unsettled by the constant goading. It was an old ploy, gaining control and then phrasing every conversation in questions, forcing the person to be constantly responding, exposing himself, so abdicating even further control.

  “Second time tonight you’ve been clever,” praised the caller, ahead of him again. “I wonder which one of us will win, Heinrich?”

  Kurnov pressed his eyes closed, squashing the anger. I will win, he promised himself, vehemently. I’ll win and see you in hell.

  “What other reasons?” he insisted, doggedly, sticking to his defense.

  The Bavarian laughed.

  “As part of the experiment, of course. They’re your own rules, Heinrich … make an arrangement linked to a promise that is very important to the recipient, then immediately break it. That was it, wasn’t it …?”

  That formula again. Always end with a query. Kurnov opened his eyes, staring distantly down at the carpet. Thirty-two years ago at least, he decided. The experiments on disorientation at Buchenwald. Had this man taken part in them? Obviously. The best clue so far. Who had been in the camp with him? Mentally, he started parading names, but immediately the caller punctured the thoughts.

  “It was my proof, you idiot,” he said. The mockery was gone now, replaced by a voice of quiet anger. “Don’t you remember how carefully you annotated those experiments? I’ve got all the details here, before me. Everything I’ve done and said in the last two calls was based upon your ideas, Heinrich. I dictated your notes back to you. And you behaved exactly as you predicted a victim would. Aren’t you annoyed, not recognizing the pattern?”

  Kurnov felt weak, as if a hypodermic had been plunged into the vein and gradually siphoned off the blood. How obvious. Yet he’d missed it, seeking substance from shadows. He felt suddenly irritated, hot with annoyance. For years … all his life almost … his vocation had been to test people to the very limit of their endurance. Some of the results had been incredible. Men he would have guessed would have broken in hours sustained every pressure, disdaining fear, contemptuous always of threats. And others, often physically strong, had collapsed in minutes. Sometimes, in reflective conceit, he had wondered about his reaction to such stress and always aligned himself with those who resisted the torture. He remembered the arrogant reaction to just such a question from the American director of NASA, a few weeks before. But it was not so, he realized. He had crumbled, like a cardboard house in a gale. The Bavarian was right. It was all there, he remembered, carefully detailed, every case-history recorded. It wasn’t until two years after those experiments that he had fully realized the danger of so carefully listing everything. He had had no idea the clerks in Berlin would have been so meticulous. He hoped their deaths had been painful.

  “Convinced, Heinrich?” demanded the Bavarian.

  Kurnov nodded in the empty room, stupidly, then realized he couldn’t be seen. “Oh yes,” he blurted. “Yes, I’m convinced.”

  “Good,” continued the other man, briskly. “Have you heard the announcement, by the way?”

  “What announcement?”

  “I made contact with the yids this afternoon. Gave them something from Glücks’s file … they’ve already disclosed it, in Jerusalem …”

  God, let it end soon, thought Kurnov. His tongue strayed to the molar housing the cyanide. So easy, he thought. A few seconds of agony, then oblivion. He moved his tongue away, shaking his head. It had been another experiment, as successful as all the rest. The will to live was the strongest desire, he’d recorded, after watching the wretches in the camps, waiting for the men and women reduced to the level of animals to take the offer of self-destruction. Always, he recalled, they had discarded the opportunity, as he was doing now.

  “… So we’d better hurry, hadn’t we?” prompted the German.

  “Yes,” acquiesced Kurnov, obediently. How well the man had studied his papers.

  “Like I said, Heinrich, I watched you all the time this afternoon. So I know there’s no one with you waiting to trap me …”

  Suddenly the course changed, as the experiments dictated it should.

  “… So we’ll meet tonight.”

  Instinctively, Kurnov looked at his watch. Six-thirty.

  “I’ve been taking too many chances,” he said, attempting to gather some control from the new approach. “There’s an official dinner tonight. I shall have to attend …”

  “Of course,” agreed the Bavarian, easily.

  Damn, thought Kurnov. He’d missed it again. The momentary change of attitude was the continuing, unremitting process of disorientation.

  Casually, the German went on: “We can’t have our meeting ruined by anyone wondering where you are, can we …?”

  The man paused, “Listen carefully, Heinrich. Don’t leave the hotel until nine-thirty. Two blocks from the hotel, there’s a taxi rank. Get a cab from there …”

  “… But they’ll see me …”

  “… Not if you’re careful. There’ll be quite a crowd of people going in and out, so you’ll be able to mingle. All you’ll need is about ten yards’ head-start.”

  Kurnov nodded, dully assimilating the instructions. He felt like a man deprived of sleep, numbed with fatigue.

  “I’m going to give you an address, Heinrich,” said the caller. The voice changed, commandingly. “Write it down. Memorize it. And then destroy the paper. Don’t carry it with you.”

  “All right,” agreed Kurnov.

  “No,” insisted the Bavarian. “Repeat that you’ll destroy the paper.”

  “I’ll destroy the paper,” promised Kurnov.

  “And bring the money,” ordered the man. “You must bring the money. If you haven’t got it, Heinrich, I’ll throw you to the wolves.”

  “I’ve got it,” said Kurnov, quickly. “It’s a draft, drawn against a Swiss bank.”

  “No tricks,” warned the other man. “Remember. No tricks.”

  “No,” undertook Kurnov, cowed. “I promise.”

  There was a pause, as if the man at the other end were making a final decision. Then he said, “In Buckow, fairly near the Wall, there’s a large street. It’s called Salmbacherstrasse. Halfway along, there’s a shopping area, with two towers. Enter the first of these tower sections. But ignore the lift. It’s a basement apartment, number three …”

  Again the hesitation.

  “… I’ll be there, Heinrich. But I’ll watch for anyone other than yourself. If there’s any one with you, the apartment will be empty when you arrive. I can easily escape, no matter how well you might think you can cover the place. If you try to be smart, the yids will have everything … and I mean everything … by this time tomorrow …”

  “I’ll be alone,” undertook Kurnov, anxiously. “I’ll …”

  He stopped talking, realizing the instrument was dead. Without any indication, the other man had put the telephone down. Following the rules: always treat the victim contemptuously, destroying his self-respect.

  Sighing, Kurnov opened his briefcase and extracted from the tiny space behind the lining the bank-drafts he had hidden there. He gazed down at the amounts. All that money, he thought. It seemed so useless. How empty a rich man must feel being told he has cancer, knowing his wealth can’t help him, reflecting Kurnov. At least the money was saving his life. He hoped.


  It was physically disgusting, thought Frieden, watching the excited man gasp into his handkerchief. Five minutes earlier, Muntz had burst into his apartment after a near-hysterical telephone call, but was still unable to speak. The exertion had exhausted the elderly lawyer, reducing him to paroxysms of coughing that racked his body. Distastefully, the property millionaire offered the man brandy, placing the glass on the table in front of him to avoid contact. He was diseased, thought Frieden. For their hands to touch might infect him.

  Muntz ignored the liquor, rocking in the chair, waiting for the attack to pass. Finally, through watery eyes, he looked up at the millionaire.

  “We’ve got it,” he announced. The words came out with effort, destroying the triumph.

  Frieden waited, expectantly. So the Bavarian was trapped. With the Jews, he guessed. Good. To kill Jews would be a bonus. He smiled, like a man about to see a favorite play, anticipating the performance. He was going to move, he thought, to go into action again. Just like the old days. It was an odd sensation, he decided, like the tingling one experienced from knocking one’s elbow. He’d always had it, being briefed for an assignment during those truly wonderful years of his life.

  Breathing easier now, Muntz gulped at the drink Frieden had put before him. He drank too quickly and it engendered another bout of coughing. Frieden frowned, annoyed.

  The lawyer groped in his pocket, sensing the feeling.

  “Here,” he wheezed, pushing over the piece of paper upon which an address was scrawled. The erratic, uneven writing indicated the depth of the man’s illness.

  “Only an hour ago,” tried Muntz. “The call was made to the Israeli embassy only an hour ago …”

  He looked at his watch.

  “… And the meeting isn’t planned for another three hours.”

  Frieden stared down at the paper, smiling emptily. So it was the Jews: they had their bonus.

  Ignoring the other man, allowing him to recover, he moved to the telephone and for twenty minutes was engaged in a series of brief, demanding calls, snapping orders that were accepted without challenge. Finished, he looked at the address again, mentally reviewing the arrangement he had just made, seeking flaws. Finding none, he turned back to Muntz. The coughing had stopped, but the old man was slumped in the chair as if in pain. Frieden poured two more brandies, then raised his glass, in a toast.

  “We’ve got it, Manfred,” he predicted. “I’ve called everyone in the Organization. We’ll blitzkrieg the building … no one will escape alive … we’ll recover everything.”

  Just like the old days. Again, the recurring nostalgia. Wonderful, decided Frieden.

  “… So much for your prediction that we were beaten this time,” he said, allowing the sneer as a rebuke to the other man.

  Muntz brought the handkerchief to his face, uncaring.

  A puff of wind would blow him away, thought Frieden. Muntz was an assortment of bones, just held together by skin. He would have to be disposed of soon, decided the millionaire. Certainly before the end of the week. Every day that passed created an unnecessary danger. Manfred Muntz had performed his last duty to the Party. It would be a good funeral, decided Frieden, objectively. Muntz would be properly honored.

  “There’ll be killing tonight, Max,” said Muntz, suddenly.

  Frieden nodded.

  “I can’t come with you,” said the lawyer, definitely. “I’m exhausted … I wouldn’t be any good … I’d hinder, in fact … all I want to do is rest.”

  For a moment, Frieden paused. The lawyer was right. An outburst of coughing at the wrong moment would ruin everything. Anyway, what good would he be in a fight?

  “Of course,” he agreed, soothingly. “You’ve done your share, Manfred. More than your share, in fact. The Party and the Organization are grateful to you.”

  Muntz finished his brandy and rose, unsteadily. At the door he paused, turning.

  “Max.”

  “What?”

  “Call me when it’s over. I want to know how it went.”

  “Of course.”

  “And Max.”

  “What?”

  “Good luck.”

  Frieden grinned. “We’ve already had it,” he said, confidently. “We’re going to survive. Again.”

  (16)

  Like the others that had preceded it, the official dinner was a series of tiresome conversations, culminating in a series of boring speeches. It would be an interesting experiment when he got back to Russia, thought Kurnov, to test a man to the limit of boredom. He paused at the thought, irritated. It would, in fact, be particularly applicable in space science. It annoyed him not to have thought of it before.

  He nodded and mimed the pleasantries, like a mummer in a medieval court, occasionally feeling for reassurance to the bank-drafts. They were folded in his trouser pocket and rarely did his hand stray away. He smiled, despite the apprehension, at the sudden thought. What would the Russian reaction be, he hypothesized, if he were genuinely taken ill and discovered to have bank-orders for £3,000,000 in his pocket?

  Finally the speeches ended and gratefully he stood, watching Bahr approach.

  “I hope you’re better, Dr. Kurnov.”

  The Russian nodded, smiling in feigned gratitude at the inquiry.

  “Not completely,” he qualified. “But recovering. I regret not being able to take a fuller part in the convention.”

  The German shrugged, philosophically. “It couldn’t be helped,” he said, falling into step as Kurnov moved toward the restaurant door. “We’re grateful you honored us with your presence.”

  “Perhaps,” Kurnov threw out, generously, “I shall be able to come next year.”

  Bahr nodded at the prospect and Kurnov seized what had been a casual remark. What irony, he decided, to return next year to Berlin, after the agony of this visit. He would do it, he determined, suddenly. He would come back again and savor every moment of their ridiculous, self-congratulatory convention. He’d even prepare a paper, he thought, a thesis on the ultimate stress upon a man faced with a lifetime’s deprivation of freedom. Oh yes, he thought. That would make an excellent subject. In the foyer, he shook hands and turned into the lift. He’d recovered his topcoat within minutes and was out of his room so quickly that he actually passed some of the Russian party in the corridor as he returned to the elevator. They looked at him, inquiringly.

  “A breath of air,” he said, quickly, hurrying on, anxious to catch the lift still standing at the floor. As he entered, immediately pressing the descent button, he heard a shout behind him. He allowed himself just sufficient pause before turning, seeing two Russians approaching as the doors closed, cutting them off. There was another lift, he knew, so he had only a few minutes. He thrust through the doors immediately they opened on the ground floor, burying himself in the crush of people, and was actually walking through the exit into the street before Suvlov saw him.

  The Russian colonel burst forward, trying to shoulder his way through the crowd. The watchers might be off-guard with so many delegates emerging. And Kurnov had already been seen going up in the lift. The scientist was almost a block away when Suvlov reached the pavement. A controlled man, he looked casually around, then smiled, seeing two men assigned to foot-surveillance had recognized Kuraov and were moving into a shadowing pattern, one following behind, the second almost parallel on the opposite side of the street, shielded by the stream of vehicles. A third man would join them, once he had seen the other two move off, and within five minutes they would be practicing the classic triangle-surveillance, which was virtually undetectable as they alternated positions both in front, alongside and behind the victim.

  Almost imperceptibly, he raised his hand and an unmarked Volkswagen pulled alongside.

  “Leaving openly, tonight,” he said to the driver, as he got in. The man grunted. He had spent the previous three nights hunched in the car, stiff with cold.

  “This has to be the meeting,” guessed Suvlov. “The conference ends tomorrow.”r />
  The driver moved off, glad of the traffic that made anything more than a walking pace impossible. The triangle was in position now, Suvlov saw. He settled back in the seat, relaxed. Kurnov was an important man, he thought. And he was going to be the person directly responsible for trapping him. Promotion was an obvious possibility.

  Ahead, Kurnov passed an intersecting street, remaining on the main road. The man following behind paused, obedient to his training, allowing the man parallel to cross the road to be replaced in that position by the third man, then move over to bring up the rear. Traffic was heavy and the man who was to follow had difficulty in crossing. Kurnov increased his lead.

  “Quickly,” warned Suvlov, but the driver had anticipated the danger, trying to ease out of the wedge of traffic and reduce the gap. A horn blared and another vehicle flashed its lights, warningly.

  “Keep going,” insisted Suvlov, as the driver hesitated. The tiny Volkswagen kept on, but the Mercedes behind came up, blocking the maneuver.

  The man who had been following originally saw the difficulty and stopped, on a traffic island in the middle of the road. He stayed there, uncertain, knowing that to go back would break the pattern. Finally he continued on, keeping to routine.

  “Fool,” yelled Suvlov, unheard.

  The replacement finally got into position, but the triangle was uneven and stretched out. Suvlov sighed. It would only take minutes for them to tighten up.

  Then Kurnov turned left at the next side street. The sudden move completely broke the planned surveillance. The following Russian was still too far behind and the two others were further apart than they should have been and on the wrong side of a busy road which it was impossible to cross immediately.

  “Get after him,” screamed Suvlov, frightened by the effect of Kurnov’s move. The driver jerked out, forcing the Mercedes moving parallel to swerve over the central reservation. There was a blare of protest from several car-horns and as the Volkswagen drew out it clipped the bumper of a Rekord in front, collapsing it against the boot. The car jerked to a halt, but the Volkswagen accelerated, the back wheels slipping on the ice. The car was bathed in a glare of yellow lights from offended motorists and the Rekord jerked off in pursuit.