“Just odd, inexplicable behavior, from men finally realizing their lives have ended, even though their bodies continue to function. I felt it might translate to the effect upon a cosmonaut if his craft malfunctioned and he realized there was no way of rescue, although there was the support system to enable life to continue in space for a period of time.”
How had that idea occurred to him? wondered Kurnov. Suddenly he remembered. That bumptious NASA director had asked him whether Russians could survive with such knowledge. He had assured the man they could, he recalled. He hoped the American hadn’t continued the discussion with Mavetsky.
It sounded plausible, determined the minister, but he felt Kurnov was floundering. This recording should be put to one side, with the others selected for easy reference if the need arose.
“I can’t quite see …?” Mavetsky encouraged.
“There’s a world-wide conference of prison psychiatrists and doctors, a fortnight before the space launch. We’ve got accreditation, but the party still isn’t finally chosen …”
“And you want to go?” asked Mavetsky. Why? he wondered.
“It might be interesting,” said Kurnov. “The public sessions probably will be very dull. They usually are. But the benefits will come from private conversations and contacts.”
The hope was just detectable in the man’s voice, thought Mavetsky. He was concentrating fully now. Something was wrong, very wrong. He would have to be careful. There might be difficulty from association.
“Strange you’ve never thought such conferences worth attending before,” said Mavetsky, gently. It would be wrong to frighten the man too soon.
“I haven’t encountered the Potma manifestation before,” replied Kurnov. “Other countries may have done and conducted some research into it. If they have, I’d like to read their papers.”
He’s suspicious, he thought, worriedly. It had been stupid to annoy him earlier. The man’s vanity was malleable. It would have been so easy to have flattered him and smothered the doubt he was now feeling.
“I really think there would be benefit from attending,” he said. He was annoyed at the need to speak again. It put him at a disadvantage.
“I don’t doubt your sincerity,” assured Mavetsky. Never before had he felt Kurnov to be so obviously discomforted. The minister was enjoying the encounter.
“Where is this conference?” demanded Mavetsky.
Kurnov didn’t reply immediately, which was a tactical error. God, how badly he’d handled the entire interview, he thought. He wondered if Mavetsky’s suspicions could be dangerous. Probably, he conceded. The man was a survivor. People like him remained because they were able to anticipate difficulties.
“Berlin,” he announced, simply.
Mavetsky stared at him, his face quite blank. He let the silence build up, knowing it would unsettle further the other man. He was reacting as Kurnov would in similar circumstances, Mavetsky decided. Any further discussion would be wrong. Mavetsky knew he had to end the winner.
“Right,” he concluded, dismissively. “Send me a full note …”
He hesitated, allowing the doubt, knowing the effect it would have upon Kurnov.
“… You know how it is, this mania for bureaucratic records. We’ll discuss it finally next week.”
“I really think …” the scientist tried to enforce again, with just too much hope. Mavetsky raised his hands, cutting him off, then made an officious point of consulting his appointment-book, as if Kurnov were overstaying his time. He changed the halting gesture into an open-palmed movement of helplessness.
“… Like I said earlier … I’ve a busy life …”
Kurnov rose, anger knotted within him. Bastard, he thought. Like a randy dog sniffing lamp-posts for the scent of a bitch in season, Mavetsky believed he could detect an odor to pursue. Kurnov was sure of it. That persistent bubble of fear rose within him.
“Thank you for sparing me the time, minister,” he said, formally. Humility choked him, like a piece of meat badly chewed.
“Any time. You know that, Vladimir.”
For a long time after Kurnov had left, Mavetsky sat, staring unseeingly ahead. He felt like an algebra student abandoned by a teacher in mid-course: all the signs were available, but he didn’t know how to arrange them into a formula that would produce a solution. Assessed against Kurnov’s known history, Berlin had to be the key, he decided. On impulse, he summoned the fastidious secretary and demanded Kurnov’s file. It was returned within thirty minutes, rimmed with dust from the cabinet in which it had lain for so long. He unclipped the spiral holding the pages into position and spread them over the desk, creating a montage from which he hoped to spot the piece that made it incomplete. Before adopting Russian nationality, he read, Kurnov’s name had been Klaus Reinhart. A graduate from the Berlin Medical School in 1938, he had been jailed in 1939 for organizing junior doctors against joining the Nazi party. Freed because of the war, he had been rejected as psychologically unsuitable for medical service on any front, instead serving in four prisoner-of-war camps. There were frequent references to operations he had performed repairing the damage caused by the S.S. butchers to extract information from inmates. And numerous commendations from the Red Cross about his work, often carried out in defiance of official Nazi orders. There was even a copy of an S.S. order committing him to Buchenwald concentration camp for the treatment he had given Russian prisoners. Luckily, the war had ended before that order could be put into effect.
He was, noted the minister, a native of Berlin. So what? That didn’t give any clue for wanting to return to the city for the conference. Mavetsky turned the page, studying Kurnov’s picture. Odd how little the man had aged, he thought in passing. He flicked without interest through the fingerprint file, then read the impressive list of Kurnov’s achievements since his decision to settle in the Soviet Union. The minister pushed the file to one side and swiveled to look out over the capital. It was already quite dark, but the whiteness of the snow reflected what little light was left, giving the buildings an unreal glow. There was no clue in the file, he decided. Kurnov was unquestionably an anti-Nazi, properly recognized as a war hero whose work had subsequently proven invaluable to the Soviet Union, so properly earning all the honors and awards accorded him.
There was still something wrong in today’s request. He was convinced of it. He went back to the file, shuffling it like a losing card-sharp desperately trying to locate an ace.
The space program was classified as top secret, Mavetsky knew. Therefore there would have been a detailed investigation into the man’s background before he was allowed to become part of it. Accustomed to bulky, exhaustive character-documentation, the minister was surprised at the brevity of Kurnov’s personal records. Several times it was noted that data confirming the information supplied were unavailable because all records had been destroyed by the blitz upon Berlin or were thought to be held by one of the other three occupying powers. Nearly all the information, Mavetsky realized, was that supplied either directly or inadvertently by the man himself. Unusual, decided the minister. Although well aware of the chaos and destruction of those last days in Berlin, he would have expected some corroborative evidence to have been available.
There were ten affidavits, he saw, from Russian prisoners, who had been interviewed in rehabilitation hospitals, attesting to Reinhart’s treatment of them, often in open contradiction to the known instructions from superior officers. A brave man, thought the minister. Would Kurnov defy authority? he wondered. Of course he would, he answered himself, immediately. He did it practically all the time. He paused, reconsidering the thought. Although not so certain as the other critics, Mavetsky had always thought the man’s defiance based upon arrogance, not principles. He found himself unsure whether Kurnov would flout a directive merely from conscience.
He stared down at the papers strewn over the desk. There was no answer there, he decided.
The pages were numbered and he began collating them in ord
er to replace them upon the spiral. He stopped, staring down at Kurnov’s picture. A brave man, he reflected, someone who knowingly faced death in a concentration camp rather than sacrifice the lives under his care. He looked away from the picture, back across the room, remembering the man’s remarks about Potma. Kurnov’s principles about human suffering had altered dramatically in thirty years, he realized suddenly. What he had not been prepared to accept in the extremity of war he was now able not only to countenance but participate in during peacetime. It was the jarring illogicality from the entire file. He read again the affidavits from the survivors. “Compassionate,” said one. “Humane,” asserted another. “Selfless disregard for personal safety,” listed a third. Never, thought Mavetsky, would he have chosen such words to describe the man who had sat before him an hour earlier. He started again replacing the affidavits, re-sealing the box, then sat back, forming a tower with his fingertips, parading the thoughts before him. An inadequate file, certainly. But not unusual in the circumstances.
A character now that did not reconcile completely with the prisoners’ accounts of the man who had treated them over thirty years ago. Too flimsy to permit an official investigation, dismissed the minister.
An abhorrence of human suffering apparently now completely overcome. Coupled to the other disparities, an inexplicable change. By itself?—he considered the question, objectively. Kurnov was undoubtedly imbued with a Russian pride, elevated to a position of honor and stature, well aware his privileges were linked with the continuing progress of Soviet space exploration. Was it surprising, then, that a humble prison-camp doctor had been able to temper his morality? Of course not.
And that’s all there was, realized Mavetsky. The other sufferer from any investigation, no matter how circumspect, would be himself, decided the minister. Irritably, he summoned the woman from the outer office and handed her the file.
Remembering the cigarette litter in front of her desk, she said hopefully, “What shall I do with it?”
Mavetsky looked up.
“Put it back,” he said, simply.
“Downstairs? In records?” she pressed.
“Of course. Where else?” said the minister.
The woman walked from the room, disappointed. Mavetsky watched her leave. It was ridiculous, he thought, angrily. He’d wasted nearly two hours, just because he’d allowed one man’s attitude to annoy him into believing an ordinary request had some ulterior reason.
That was dangerous. There were enough real problems, without those of his own creation. Within ten minutes, he had dismissed Kurnov and the request to visit Berlin from his mind.
(6)
It had been a good life, decided Helmut Bock, greeting the recurring thought. Although psychiatry was not the predominant feature of his medical practice, he recognized the nostalgia as a need for constant reassurance. Which was hardly surprising, he consoled himself. Considering the disaster that could have overtaken him, particularly in the latter days with his plastic surgery experimentation at Buchenwald, such a complete escape was little short of a miracle. He smiled to himself, in the half-light of the early-morning. How worried he had been, he remembered, at being adopted so avidly by Heinrich Köllman. It had been obvious by then to anyone with a minimum of intelligence that the war was lost and that survival was the only consideration. So association with Köllman, whose record was worse even than that of Mengele, could have been ranked as suicide. But although inevitable, the collapse of the Third Reich was too far away for him to resist openly the friendship of someone still so powerful, and he had allowed himself to be cultivated, not realizing initially that Köllman was already preparing his escape.
It hadn’t taken long, though, thought Bock, a conceited man who over-rated his intelligence. And, once realized, what had been more sensible than modifying the method that Köllman had been perfecting for several years? But he still had been lucky, he reflected, honestly.
By his side the woman turned, erupting into a bubbly snore. He looked at her, distastefully, then lowered the covering from her breasts, very carefully, so she would not awaken. They sprouted, firm and unsagging, generous mountains in the moonlight that came in from the uncurtained windows. There was no sexual feeling. It had been a good job, he congratulated himself. Her breasts would remain firm for at least fifteen years. And her stomach and buttocks, too, no matter how careless she was about her diet. She would, he decided, continue to be the sex symbol of the international movie circuit. No wonder she had been so grateful. He smiled at the memory. She stirred and he covered her, gently. If she awoke, she would imagine he wanted sex, and he felt drained by what had happened earlier.
Yes, he decided, regressing again, he had definitely been lucky. He hadn’t realized, not until he was operating upon the former S.S. colonel only two rooms away from the recovering Köllman, that the Nazis were pursuing his benefactor for embezzling over £1,000,000 from his concentration-camp victims. How sad it had been, he reflected, giggling, that the colonel had never recovered from his operation, having imparted the information. And how easy it had been to convince the nervous, over-reactive concentration-camp experimenter that the survivors of the S.S. were within days of capturing him.
The light grew stronger, and gently, still anxious to avoid disturbing the woman, he sidled from the bed and stood just inside the penthouse veranda, gazing out over the still-slumbering Berlin.
It had all happened so quickly. In June he had been terrified of capture and arraignment as a war criminal who deserved the death penalty that the others had got at Nuremberg. By September, he was a man with a different identity supplied by Köllman’s forger. He had a new face created by the man who had assisted in the operation upon Köllman (and then had to die because of his knowledge). And was also a millionaire with a fortune securely hidden in Switzerland because Köllman had panicked and fled to the East.
Köllman had recovered well from that incredible mistake, decided Bock. A man still very aware of the dangers from the past, the plastic surgeon had followed avidly the details available of Kurnov’s success in Russia, even keeping a picture scrapbook of the face he had so carefully sculpted from the model provided. Poor Reinhart. The idiot had still imagined he was to continue helping people when he had arrived at Bock’s makeshift clinic. Bock could still recall that last-minute look of shocked realization as they had rendered him unconscious.
What had happened at Lake Toplitz was unsettling, he thought. More and more he had been dwelling in the past, since the news of the assassinations and the missing container had been occupying the newspapers and television screens. The Jewish premier’s assertion that someone in Berlin was offering the secrets for sale added to the worry. Did anything incriminating lie in the lake? he wondered. He was sure he was safe, personally. The records officer at Buchenwald had been a heroin addict, and Bock had carefully supplied his need, creating a dependence to ensure that when the collapse came, every single document referring to him had been incinerated in the very ovens that had so recently destroyed other evidence. No, Bock assured himself, confidently, he was quite safe from any investigation. A hunt for the Toplitz documents would get nowhere, anyway, he concluded, attempting to reinforce his confidence. The Jews would never be able to buy the records if they were for sale. The Nazi funds were incredible. He paused at the comforting thought, remembering the bank-statement of the previous week. Poor Köllman, he sympathized, existing in the austerity of the Soviet Union, unaware that his carefully garnered fortune had increased to over £.3,000,000 in thirty years.
Bock smiled in self-satisfaction, looking back toward the sleeping actress. He’d had no need to touch the capital for almost twenty-five years, since he’d become recognized as one of the world’s leading cosmetic plastic surgeons. Payment in kind was always a bonus, but the patients paid in the ordinary way, as well. God, how they paid. The woman stirred. She’d awaken soon, decided Bock. He went into the bathroom, adjusting the shower control to “water massage”. She really had be
en extraordinarily inventive, he decided, feeling the needles of water bite into him, bringing his flesh alive. She’d have to be gone by the weekend, though. There was arriving from Buenos Aires an Argentinian woman with the most spectacular breasts he had ever examined. He couldn’t understand why she wanted them reduced. Amazing, he thought, what women were prepared to do to remain beautiful.
“Hello,” she said, looking up at him as he returned to the bedside. “I thought you had deserted me.”
“What a silly idea,” he said, pulling back the covering. Perhaps another quarter of an inch off her stomach, he speculated, professionally. It was a debatable point. Her husband had seemed satisfied, two days earlier.
She smiled, misinterpreting the examination.
“Are you sure I’m the only one who’s undergone plastic surgury?” she said, coquettishly, looking at his nakedness.
Crude cow, he thought, straddling her waist.
“I’d hate you to get a stiff neck,” he said, joining in the charade.
“Never.”
Bock wondered if he could stand her for the remainder of the week. Below him, she groaned. He should definitely have taken that quarter-inch off her waist, he thought.
Three miles away, in the apartment on Seelingstrasse, Mosbacher awakened and lay tense for a moment, in that state of immediate awareness to which he had been trained. Sure of his surroundings, he relaxed, turning to look at the twin-bed four feet from him.
Perez slept fitfully. Several times he whimpered, muttering dissociated words, then relapsed into unsettled sleep again. Would he last? wondered Mosbacher. The strain upon him was tremendous. Superhuman, even, particularly considering his personal history. Should he even now inform Jerusalem of his doubt? he questioned. Immediately he rejected the idea, without deeper consideration. It could serve no purpose. They wouldn’t abort the mission merely on his fears. And Perez was too used to convincing them, better able to argue and convince other people. With leading politicians and statesmen, Mosbacher was always uncertain, words clogging in his mouth. Any belated objection he put up would be almost flippantly dismissed, he knew. They were committed. And there was no way for the mission to go on without Perez.
Man Who Wanted Tomorrow Page 5
