Man Who Wanted Tomorrow

by Brian Freemantle

  Muntz still looked puzzled.

  “Think of it,” encouraged the millionaire. “That means Bock was the last person in Berlin to have any contact with Köllman.”

  “So?”

  Frieden looked at Muntz worriedly. The lawyer was obviously very ill, he thought. His mind was refusing to function.

  “Think what it means, Manfred,” he coaxed, gently. “If Köllman comes back to get the records, as we know he must, then who is he going to contact? He won’t approach us. He knows what we’d do to him. He won’t know where his wife is, but even if he does manage to locate her in some way we haven’t considered, we’ve prepared ourselves …”

  Muntz nodded, with growing awareness.

  “… But he’s got to have some starting-point. He worked with Bock … was the man’s guardian, almost. It would be natural for him to go to Bock.”

  Muntz shrugged, unconvinced.

  “But he knows Bock was part of the network … that he’d have contact with us,” argued the lawyer. “To approach Bock would be as dangerous as contacting anyone else in the Organization.”

  Frieden considered the objection, then shook his head, rejecting it.

  “Bock isn’t important in the network any more. Köllman could work that out. He could realize that Bock was useful, once, like the forgers were necessary. But his importance ended within two years of the war when everyone had their new faces. And don’t forget their friendship. I know it was a long time ago, but Köllman might try to invoke old associations. That man needs friends more than anything else in the world.”

  Muntz gestured, still doubtful.

  “For heaven’s sake, Manfred,” reinforced Frieden. “Köllman must start somewhere!”

  “It’s a possibility that will have to be covered,” admitted the lawyer, coughing into his handkerchief. He looked at it The bleeding had stopped.

  “Can you see Bock?” pleaded the lawyer, “I feel so bad. I should be in bed.”

  It was the strain, decided the millionaire. Muntz was a weak link in the Organization now. And they couldn’t afford weak links, ever. He would have to summon a meeting soon to discuss a replacement. Poor Manfred.

  “Of course,” he agreed.

  The call that arrived minutes later completed the plastic surgeon’s terror. There had been no contact for over twenty years. That had been the arrangement, for God’s sake. Everyone worked to protect each other, but when their particular function was over then the association was forgotten. Hadn’t he done his part? In those first years he’d operated practically non-stop. Now this, within three hours of the first call. What did it mean? he wondered. Had they discovered his access to the Zurich bank-account? Frieden had sounded friendly. But then the first approach would be friendly, to avoid alarming him. Before any retribution, he would have to be cajoled along, so they could arrange for him to transfer the fortune to their own accounts. Perhaps it was all an incredible bluff, he considered, suddenly. Had the Nazis been responsible for the first call, to unnerve him, then planned the second approach to take advantage of his fear? It would be a good psychological ploy. It was possible, he conceded. They always had been incredibly devious. The man who’d claimed to have the Toplitz box was unquestionably a German, he decided, remembering the Bavarian intonation. He allowed himself to be reminded of Frieden, exchanged the old code words like children playing a game and agreed to a meeting. It would mean canceling an operation, he pointed out, sighing. But if it were as essential as the man insisted, then of course he would do it.

  He walked aimlessly around the office, awaiting Frieden, considering the escape. He would have to run, he told himself. They obviously knew. He couldn’t let them capture him. God, never that. He’d witnessed their treatment of people for lesser crimes than hoarding £3,000,000 which they considered rightfully theirs.

  The secretary announced the arrival of the property millionaire, who waddled in almost immediately behind her. He smiled a greeting, then waited until she had left, ensuring the door was securely closed. He came further into the room, then abruptly raised his right arm.

  “Sieg Heil,” he said.

  Bock wanted to laugh. It was a nervous reaction, he knew, but the little man looked so ridiculous standing there with his arm stuck out before him. Surely they didn’t still do such things? Bock struggled for control. He’d have to return the salutation, he decided.

  “Sieg Heil.”

  Frieden smiled broadly, then extended the hand. Bock hesitated, then took it.

  “Good to see you after all these years,” said Frieden.

  Bock nodded, settling down behind his desk. He’d chosen it for its imposing size and was glad, at that moment. It seemed to form a barrier between them. He remembered operating upon Frieden, perhaps twenty-eight years before. He’d chiseled the nose, he remembered, and brought up the skin already sagging through over-indulgence. He examined the man intently. Well up to standard, he thought, proudly. It had lasted well. No one, comparing an old picture of the S.S. Standartenführer with the person who sat on the other side of the desk, would have asserted they were the same man.

  “You were surprised by my call?”

  “Very,” agreed the surgeon.

  “Hope you weren’t alarmed,” said the property developer.

  Fear twisted in Bock’s stomach. “Alarmed?” he queried, pleased at the control over his voice. “Should I have been?”

  “No, of course not,” assured the visitor. “But we’ve found that when we contact people after so long, it can sometimes create unnecessary fear.”

  Bock smiled. He could be in Switzerland by the evening, he realized. It would be easy to transfer the account the following day and be out of Europe within 24 hours. Where would he go? He’d have to avoid South America, he knew. They were far too well established there. Uruguay was practically a German state. Argentina and Paraguay weren’t much better. The United States was the obvious choice. There was a fortune to be made there in cosmetic plastic surgery. But he didn’t need a fortune, he reflected suddenly. All he needed was safety. America was the obvious choice.

  “You said it was urgent,” he prompted, allowing just a tinge of irritation to register. It was very important not to reveal any fear to a man like Frieden. He would be very susceptible to nuance, guessed Bock.

  Frieden quickly reviewed the Toplitz raid, the Jerusalem conference and the Israeli announcement that the box was being held in Berlin. Then he virtually repeated the conversation he had had with Muntz a few hours previously, putting forward the guess that Köllman might contact the surgeon. Bock stared at him, wondering if his feigned surprise seemed genuine to the other man.

  “But I don’t understand,” said Bock, apparently confused. “I mean, why should Köllman return for the records?”

  Frieden frowned and Bock decided he had almost overplayed his bewilderment.

  “Come now, doctor. You were there. You know what he did, as well as I do. He’s got to come back.”

  “Of course,” recovered Bock, hoping Frieden would confuse the attitude as being caused by the reminder of an embarrassment over thirty years ago.

  “But I still don’t see why Köllman should contact me,” he hurried on.

  Was everyone retarded, wondered Frieden, angrily. Subduing the annoyance, he patiently repeated the reasoning he had put to Muntz. Bock sat, shielding part of his face with his hands. It was all right, he thought, the excitement bursting through him. They didn’t know about Köllman’s account. All they wanted was Köllman himself. They thought he still controlled his own money. For a moment, he was safe, decided Bock. Immediately his elation collapsed. There still remained the call from the Bavarian.

  “So if Köllman approaches me … and I can’t agree with you that he might … then you want me to call you immediately?”

  Frieden nodded. How, he wondered, had such fools managed to be so highly regarded? He passed over the telephone numbers.

  “That’s all,” he agreed. “Just arrange to m
eet him, get some method of identification and then call me. There will be no need for you to have any other involvement. None. Just leave everything else to us.”

  He smiled, and Bock felt cold.

  Would Köllman contact him? First the Bavarian. Now Frieden, both asserting that Köllman couldn’t stay hidden. And they were right, of course. He was annoyed that it hadn’t occurred to him earlier. He wouldn’t be able to betray Köllman to them, of course. Within minutes of any Nazi interrogation, Köllman would disclose the secret of that hidden money, and then they would be after him with the same determination.

  “Good,” he said, standing abruptly. Frieden accepted the dismissal, rising with him.

  “It seems quite simple,” continued the surgeon. “I’ll call you the moment I get any strange approaches.”

  “Thank you,” said the Nazi. “I admit the chances of contact are unlikely. But if it happens, I want to punish the traitor.”

  “Naturally,” said Bock. After all these years, he thought, they still retained this laughable Nazi mentality about betrayal. They were like children, he decided, remembering the silly jingle of codes on the telephone. They played stupid games in which people got killed.

  “What about the box itself?” questioned Bock, as they moved toward the door. “Won’t that be … ah, annoying if the Jews get hold of it?”

  Frieden stopped, nodding agreement. “We’re very worried,” he admitted.

  “What can you do?”

  Frieden shrugged. “Very little. We’re just hoping for an approach.”

  Bock stared at him, critically. “But how can that happen? Everyone is underground, living with new identities. How would anyone know who to contact?”

  “That’s the trouble,” conceded the millionaire. He looked at the surgeon. Why not, he thought. The man was committed. There was no danger in his knowing.

  “If the Jews got an approach, it must have been made through their embassy,” he said.

  Bock looked at him, waiting.

  “We’ve established a telephone tap,” said Frieden. “We know of every call that goes into the building, from anywhere in Europe. If the yids had already made a deal with whoever’s got the box, there would be a lot more activity … maybe even an announcement Indications from the first conference were that all they wanted to do was make public the details, so the proper authorities would have to move. There hasn’t been any denunciation. So we don’t think any deal has been completed yet.”

  Bock nodded, slowly. They were remarkably determined, he thought. But then, they had to be.

  “We are assured of knowing if another contact is made. The only thing we can’t monitor is the diplomatic radio and their Telex link with Jerusalem. But that doesn’t matter. The approaches must come on an outside line, so we’re covered.”

  “What if the police discover something?”

  Frieden grinned, surprised at the other man’s naïvety.

  “I don’t think there is any risk of something going through the police department that we won’t hear about,” he said.

  Bock smiled back. Their implacable determination made his position very dangerous. He would have to be extremely careful.

  From a park bench opposite the clinic, Mosbacher saw Frieden leave and noted the time. A photograph would have been taken by someone closer to the building, he knew, for later identification against the file they held on all the known Nazis. They are gathering like animals bunching together in fright against an unseen danger, he thought, as he looked for a taxi to take him back to Seelingstrasse. They must be very worried. It was a comforting thought.

  As Mosbacher’s car moved off down Mariendorferdamm, Vladimir Kurnov was disembarking at Tempelhof airport from the K.L.M. airliner that had brought him from Moscow.

  It was, he thought, a miserable airport. He’d known better railway stations. Far better. He stared around, almost angrily. Had the Führer achieved his ambitions, it would have been different. Speer would have probably designed it, he thought. Then it would have been magnificent, with colonnades and parade areas.

  He stood apart from the Soviet party, disdainful of the greeting, staring through the windows towards the city.

  Out there, he knew, in the Berlin he had fled thirty years before, were the Israeli secret service, the West German police and the Nazis. All, for varying reasons, would make any sacrifice to know he was in the city.

  He was unaware, of course, of the telephone call from Mavetsky, which meant a Russian colonel was at that moment maneuvering an invitation for himself to the official conference reception that evening.

  Kurnov shivered, looking at the snow banked up around the arrival building. It was very cold, he thought.

  (8)

  It was exhilarating to be back, decided Kurnov. He stood in his hotel bedroom, looking out over the Bismarckstrasse, trying to identify landmarks. The majority would be behind the Wall, of course. The Brandenburg gate … the Reichstag ruins … the Führer’s Bunker, even. He’d heard the East Germans had tried to prevent it becoming a martyr’s monument. They’d used hundreds of tons of explosives. And failed to level the ground beneath which it was constructed. He smiled. It was stupid to have tried.

  How good it would be to go across into the East, to see it all again. He felt sick, like a teenager excited at the approach of a birthday party. It would be wonderful to go there again, wandering the streets, remembering how it had been. He sighed, staring at the city. Everything was so unexpected, he thought. So bad. The skyscraper blocks, stark and functional, offended him, like rotting teeth in an old man’s head. The neon burst and glared around everything like a whore’s necklace.

  How sad it was. He moved away from the window, not wanting to look upon it any more. It was cheap and tawdry. So different, he reflected, from what the Führer had planned. He remembered the dinner-parties, here in Berlin and then at Berchtesgaden, with the papier mâché models showing the city that was to be built as a monument to the leader’s genius. The Führer had been so excited, so vibrant, hurrying from plan to plan, gesturing with a baton to each building, knowing by heart the function of each.

  He glanced back to the window. The Führer would have hated it, Kurnov knew. He shrugged, pushing away the nostalgia. He hadn’t come to reminisce. He’d exposed himself, perhaps stupidly, merely to survive.

  Where should he start? A stupid question. There was only one way he could begin. The dangers were incredible, he thought, a recurring mental admonition. But then, he’d had no choice, no choice at all. This couldn’t be criticized as panic, like the ill-considered flight from Berlin in 1945.

  An arrogant man who always sought complete control over everything in which he became involved, it irritated him to be exposed in a situation where he would probably have to accede to demands, rather than make them.

  In every move, he would have to be incredibly circumspect. He was well known as Vladimir Kurnov, so any long absence from the conference hall or official function would be noticed. He’d already decided how to get away, but it wasn’t a good excuse, so it would have to be used sparingly.

  The city would be crawling with Nazis and Jews, seeking the Toplitz evidence. So, he presumed, would the police, irked by the Jerusalem announcement. He wouldn’t know what any of them looked like, he accepted. Nor know their names. But then, by the same token, neither would they be able to identify him. There were no pictures, linking the new face with Heinrich Küllman. Thank God. It would be a minor advantage, but he needed every advantage, no matter how small. He would have to tread with the delicacy of a man crossing a lightly frozen stream. If the ice broke suddenly, there would be no way he could avoid drowning. He grimaced at himself in the mirror. Compared to what might happen if he were caught by the Nazis or the Jews, drowning would be an acceptable death. Welcome, even.

  What would Bock be like, after all these years? he wondered. Definitely successful, guessed Kurnov. Certainly the listing he had immediately checked in the telephone book, flushing with reli
ef that Bock was still alive, looked impressive, a clinic in the best area, a private address in the most expensive part of town, a veritable alphabet of medical qualifications behind his name. Bock was one of life’s survivors whatever the circumstances, he decided, smiling ruefully. Not that such ability mattered. He had been handed £1,000,000 after all, a tax-free, instantly available, untraceable fortune.

  Kurnov had often recalled the decision to authorize Bock’s drawing facility upon the account, convinced through his fear by the surgeon’s argument that if the East proved unacceptable, then he would need someone in a Berlin no longer safe who could handle money for an escape to yet another country. Considered many times in Russia, that decision in 1945 had been madness. Now, he decided, the regret was misplaced. Putting his trust in Bock could have saved his life.

  Of course, the Nazis or the Jews could outbid him. He’d realized that, within minutes of seeing the television broadcast in his Houston motel-room and knowing he would have to attempt to recover his dossier. Their resources made what he had to offer look like fairground baubles. But he didn’t want the box: just a tiny part of what it contained.

  The difficulty was going to be conveying his offer. He smiled. Bock was initially going to be useful. The surgeon would have retained links with the Organization, he reassured himself, even though his post-war importance had been exhausted. The Nazis had always had an excellent intelligence service. From them, Bock would be able to discover if any contact had been established with whoever held the documents. Bock might stall, initially, at helping, thought Kurnov. But there was nothing the man could do. The blackmail was perfect. Gradually, the smile dried on his face. Bock’s usefulness was strictly limited, he thought. The negotiations to retrieve the documents could be entrusted to no one. He shuddered, the physical movement jerking through him at the idea of actually exposing himself to such open identification. There was no other way, he thought, the habitual conceit surfacing. He alone would have the guile and intelligence to bargain, anyway. Certainly it was not something that could be left to Bock.