by Jeff Sutton
The Man Who Saw Tomorrow by Jeff Sutton
I
His name was Bertram Kane.
Bertram Kane, Ph.D., professor of mathematics at Los Angeles University, world-renowned for his work in multidimensional space…
Bertram Kane, age thirty-nine, tall, slender, balding, with dark myopic eyes…
Bertram Kane, hiding in the woods in northern Wisconsin to murder an ignorant laborer who worked in a Fox River paper mill…
Bertram Kane didn't wonder why he was there, why he clutched the powerful rifle that was so alien to his hand, why he was waiting to kill a man in cold blood.
He knew that murder was the only way.
Peering out from his hiding place, he nervously scanned the landscape. The series of low, gently-rolling hills planted in corn and oats, or given over to the pasture of dairy cows, held the lushness of late spring. Here and there he saw the animals pasted against the quiet slopes, browsing or staring into nothingness. A graveled road wandered past, white and lonely against the greenery of the land.
Directly across the road was a battered mailbox, the name on its side made undecipherable by the ravages of sun and storm. Balanced **atop a splintered four-by-four that leaned away from him as if bent by the wind, it appeared somewhat like a diminutive quonset hut.
A rutted dirt road which turned in at the mailbox led to a ramshackle two-story frame house a hundred or so yards beyond. The paint, weathered and peeling, was a dirty gray. The warped roof shingles and dangling storm windows gave the structure a deserted appearance. Many such homes, he had discovered, now served as low-rent refuges for farm laborers, or those who worked in the fisheries or paper mills of Green Bay. .
Kane's intended victim lived in the one across the way.
A car chugged around the brow of a hill. The uneven roar of the engine alerted him before he saw it. Stepping farther back into the shelter of the trees, he shivered apprehensively. The car swept past, gravel spattering against the undersides of its fenders.
He watched nervously, fearful of what might happen if he were seen. Smoking badly, the car disappeared around a bend in the road. He looked at his watch; it was almost time.
Hefting the rifle, he checked it uneasily. He didn't know much about weapons but the proprietor of the gunshop in Los Angeles who had sold it to him had assured him it was excellent for big game. At the time he had wondered what the proprietor might think if he knew just how big the game was to be.
Now, studying it, he was glad that soon he'd be able to rid himself of it—chuck it into the dark, slow-moving stream that wandered through the woods behind him. Loaded and locked—everything appeared as it should be. He breathed deeply.
Waiting, he felt a sadness. What would happen to his work? Nothing, he resolved fiercely. He'd kill this man and leave, and no one would be the wiser. It would be just another unsolved murder. Chances are it would be attributed to a hunter.
He'd kill this man, return to Los Angeles, take up where he'd left off. He'd center his life once again around the Bornji transformations—his work in "the spaces of infinitely many dimensions." That was his life, his future. In time his name would rank with those of Hilbert, Russell, Weyl, Lebesgue, Goedel.
No one could possibly suspect him; he'd covered his tracks too well. He'd made every move behind a screen of caution and secrecy. Prior to coming to Green Bay, he had flown to Chicago to give the keynote address at a gathering of world-famous mathematicians. At the conclusion of the meeting, he had supposedly departed for New York for several weeks' stay on the pretext of attending personal business. He'd made a point of stressing that.
Instead, he had changed clothes, donned sunglasses to disguise his appearance (as he'd seen on television), and had flown to Green Bay under an assumed name. There he had rented a car.
Staying at a small motel on the outskirts of the town, he'd cautiously reconnoitered the entire area, locating and identifying the worker as his quarry. Uneducated, Polish, the man was young, a beer-drinker and tavern roisterer who worked in a paper mill on the Fox River.
His habits were almost invariable. At the close of each work day, he stopped at a tavern for a quick beer, then drove directly to the rickety structure across the way. Reaching it about five-thirty, he would pull up in front of the mailbox. Because the support holding it leaned backward from the edge of the road, it was necessary for him to open the car door and lean out to examine it.
Now, waiting apprehensively in the woods across from the mailbox, Kane tried to push the dire forebodings from his mind. Suppose someone had seen him turning into this infrequently-traveled road, or had spotted him hiding the rented car in the shade of the trees? He would have been marked instantly as a stranger.
His worries were foolish, he reflected; he had a bad case of nerves. If anyone had spotted him, it would make scant difference. No one could possibly connect him with ,the crime. And if they did? He grimaced. But that was the chance he had to take. Murder, he thought philosophically, could be the instrument of passion or justice; it all depended on the viewpoint.
Still, when he attempted to review the act dispassionately, he saw murder for what it was: murder! It made no difference that the man he planned to kill was ignorant, uncouth, as plodding as the cows that wandered the nearby grassy slopes. It made no difference that he was still wifeless, pursuing a life pointed nowhere. Murder was murder. Yet the man had to die.
He looked at his watch; the time lacked seven minutes of five-thirty. The thirty-some minutes he had been waiting seemed like hours. He peered anxiously around. In the lengthening days of spring, the sun still stood well above the low rolling hills to his west.
In the distance he saw a red barn and silo and, off to the side, an unadorned two-story house, characteristic of the farm dwellings in the area. Movement on the rolling scape caught his eye. Peering, he recognized it as a man on a tractor, then spotted a second figure plodding toward the barn. Would they hear the shot? He wrenched his eyes away, perturbed at their presence.
An automobile, its engine pounding, came suddenly into view on the graveled road. He took a swift step backward, scrutinizing it intently. Dirty tan, four-door, dilapidated, a crushed right fender—it was the one I
He unlocked the safety on the rifle, aware that his hands were trembling. The metal was wet beneath his grip. Easy, easy, easy, he told himself.
The car slowed, coming to a halt alongside the mailbox. He- clearly saw the figure at the wheel—a dark, heavy-set man wearing a faded blue shirt. His untidy hair badly needed cutting. Kane imagined that he would smell of tobacco and beer and paper pulp, but those were only impressions. Actually he had scant knowledge of his quarry; he simply was a man who had to die.
Kane lifted the rifle, his hands shaking violently. As the driver opened the door and leaned out to examine the box,
Kane managed to bring the weapon into alignment. The laborer's head appeared to be a small dark ball wobbling in front of the sight. What if he missed? He suppressed a quick panic, fighting to steady his hands. There, he had him. He squeezed back against the trigger.
Philip Conrad, which wasn't his real name, knelt on a sofa to peer between the curtains at the palatial mansion across the way. The high-powered rifle on the cushion beside him had telescopic sights and, more important to him, a silencer.
Of middle height, lean, with dark eyes set under bushy brows, Philip Conrad looked his forty years, but certainly no more. In another setting, he might have been mistaken for a lawyer or physician, for his manner suggested the professional man which, in a sense, he was.
His profession, when it became necessary, included murder.
Under another name—the one that appeared on his birth record, social security and
government roster—he was an employee of a super-secret intelligence agency, the headquarters of which was in Langley, Virginia. Even ■ there few knew him. None, save for his immediate superior, several men who worked with him, and perhaps one or two men high in the hierarchy, knew what he did. Conrad's boss wanted it that way; so did Conrad.
He never questioned his assignments. His job was to perform the tasks given to him; that was all. His sole concern was the "how" of the tasks, not the "why." Conrad had no qualms about killing. He seldom thought of it one way or another. He knew that when he killed, it was in the realm of that nebulous something called "national security," although of course the act must be completely divorced from any official connection.
But there was one thing different about the present job: it was being carried out within the borders of his own nation. That made it extremely touchy, especially if it came to murder. And this job had come to that point. He had the go code in his pocket. "Topflight"—it had come from Charles Dorrance personally that day.
In the unlikely event that he was apprehended, Conrad knew that he could expect no help from the agency. In that instant, he would be disowned. Not that he would get caught; he was too professional for that. But there were always quirks of fate that upset even the most carefully hatched plans. If such happened, he'd take it on the chin, alone. That was one of the fringe benefits he owed his em-plover.
Conrad knew exactly what to expect in the moments to come. He had planned carefully, step by step, checking and rechecking each move. That the man he was to kill was the most powerful man on Earth hadn't influenced his judgment one way or the other except, perhaps, to make him more cautious. But the modus operandi was simple: a 30-caliber bullet in the back of the head.
He lit a cigarette, then glanced at his watch, mentally living the action that soon was to come. At some time between four-thirty and five o'clock, probably closer to the latter time, a three-car caravan would turn into the circular drive in front of the big mansion across the way.
Two bodyguards would clamber out of the lead car, two out of the rear car. They would scan the grounds quickly but carefully, front, sides and rear, before two of the men would enter the house through the front door. When they emerged, one would gesture and a tall, dark man would emerge from the depths of the chauffeur-driven car in the center.
His name was John Androki.
Probably he would be accompanied by a blonde—he preferred blondes—or, as happened on occasion, two blondes. Chances are that he would be chatting wittily, a cigarette negligently held. Conrad knew that his talk would be light, meant to impress, for he had taped every word spoken in and around the big house for well over a year.
John Androki would start up the six steps that led to the porch. Attentive to the blonde (blondes?), he would walk slowly. For approximately nine seconds his back would be exposed to Conrad's unrestricted view.
Conrad knew exactly what would happen when he pulled the trigger. John Androki would collapse in death; the blonde (blondes?) would scream; the bodyguards would shout, dodge frantically, peering wildly around as they wrested hidden weapons from shoulder holsters.
He had no fear of the bodyguards; they weren't professionals. They were good for keeping hecklers away from the tall man, for disposing of boisterous drunks and nuisances, and shunting aside autograph seekers. They were good, also, at gangland-type murders. But they weren't professionals, not in Conrad's league.
He knew John Androki, he believed, as well as any hunter had ever known his quarry. He knew his likes and dislikes, his habits and actions. He knew his manner of cocking his head when listening, the quiet, self-satisfied chuckle that often followed one of his witticisms. He knew almost everything there was to know about John Android. Except who John Androki was.
But then, he reflected wryly, did anyone know? He believed it unlikely.
He became attentive to the window. Now that the end was near, the listening post upstairs had been dismantled. Greb and Laski, who had manned it, were already en route back to Washington. Hasselwaite was somewhere in the East, trying to run down a missing mathematician.
In the final wind-up, Philip Conrad always worked alone. At ten minutes to five he saw the three cars approaching. He stepped quickly to a small adjoining window which had been cranked open, pulled the curtains aside and looked out. The bodyguards were going through the predicted motions. The familiarity of the scene brought a smile.
When the two bodyguards came out of the big house and motioned, John Androki emerged from the depths of his limousine; he was accompanied by a blonde. Smoothing her skirt, she laughed at something he had said. Androki tapped a cigarette against the back of his hand and lit it.
The act made Conrad think of how deeply ingrained were people's habits. He had watched Androki go through exactly the same sequence scores of times. Man steps from car, speaks to blonde, taps cigarette against back of hand, lights it—that part of the act took twelve seconds; Conrad had long since timed it.
He lifted the rifle, waiting. Androki crooked his arm; the blonde slipped hers through it and they started up the stairs. They walked slowly, Androki doing the talking. The blonde was laughing. Everything was according to the script. Conrad steadied the rifle with the crosshair splitting the base of Androki's skull. His finger squeezed back on the trigger and… the tall man vanished!
He lowered the weapon, startled. One instant Androki had been ascending the steps with the blonde; the next he had vanished. He hadn't dashed through the door, nor had he leaped into the bushes on either side of the steps; Conrad knew that with certainty. He had simply vanished I The screaming blonde and shouting, scrambling bodyguards assured him of that.
He knew instinctively that wherever the tall man had gone, he had gone permanently; he wouldn't be coming back. Something new in weapons? He studied the scene wonderingly. His boss would be interested.
Quickly dismantling the rifle, he slipped it into a carrying case and left the house through the rear door. Unhurriedly entering his rented car, he drove away. In that instant
"George Lee," the name under which he had rented the house, ceased to exist.
One hour later Philip Conrad was on flight 245, headed for Washington. Watching the rugged mountains of Southern California wheel to the rear far below, he reflected that nearly three years had elapsed since he'd first heard of John Androki. One thing was certain: the world would never be quite the same again.
Who was John Androki?
It was a question he had asked himself numberless times. Would he ever know? Would anyone? Recalling the fantastic manner in which the man had vanished, he doubted it. Still, everything about John Androki was fantastic, always had been. If in life he had been a world enigma, what would he be now? Yet somewhere there should be a record—birth, school, marriage, or perhaps just a yellowed snapshot in a family album—to disclose his real identity. That he had never discovered such a record left him with the sense of a job not completed.
He contemplated that.
Three years before there had been no John Androki, at least not under that name on any known record. He had come out of nowhere to shake the world; now he was gone. Conrad felt certain of that.
In a sense, it had all started with Winthrop Farrand, the multimillionaire, he reflected. Farrand might have offered clues, but he was dead now; murder had sealed his pudgy lips. From Winthrop Farrand to the present seemed like a very long time—far longer than three years. It seemed, Conrad thought, like a lifetime.
Settling back in his seat, he remembered how it had been.
II
Winthrop Farrand was a self-made multimillionaire, a fact that he was fond of proclaiming. He took pride in his coming out of a Chicago slum—"On my own," as he put it—to become a power on the boards of directors of a dozen giant corporations.
Short, pudgy, fiftyish, his light blue eyes regarded the world knowledgeably—meaning the world of finance. For him, there was little else. Winthrop Farrand liked to make money. He
didn't particularly care whether it came in big heaps or small, although big heaps were preferable. But making it was the game. In his own opinion, he was the game-master.
Sprawled comfortably in an easy chair in his den, relaxing over a highball, he smugly contemplated an adroit manipulation in the market that had just netted him a cool three-quarters of a million dollars. With the tax laws being what they were, the transaction represented clear profit.
His private phone rang. Annoyed, he answered it.
"Mr. Farrand," a voice said, "my name is John Androki. You don't know me but—"
"How did you get this number?" Farrand cut in coldly.
"I got it because I knew you'd like to make a million dollars, Mr. Farrand."
"I have forty of them now," Farrand snapped.
"Isn't forty-one a higher figure?"
"I would appreciate it if…"
"Sperry Rand will advance three and a quarter points on the Big Board tomorrow," Androki interrupted.
"Please don't tout me," Farrand barked angrily.
"No, but I'll call you after it jumps and give you a better tip."
"Don't!" Farrand slammed down the receiver. Sperry Rand up three and a quarter points? That was patently ridiculous in the present state of the market. That fellow—John Androki, he had called himself—was trying to con him. But he'd been in the business too long to be conned. He knew exactly how the system worked.
The knowledge brought a smug smile. Androki and his organization, if he had one, had selected the names of a dozen or so pigeons, a pigeon being defined as anyone with plenty of money to burn and an ardent interest in speculation. Picking a stock, he'd call his supposed victims, quoting a slightly different advance or loss to each. In that way he was almost certain to make a correct guess. When he did, the person to whom that price had been quoted became the prime pigeon.
He knew all about that; he'd worked similar practices in the old days, before he'd made his first million. But you couldn't work it without a fool for a client. So, Androki believed him a fool! He smiled grimly.
