Man Who Wanted Tomorrow

by Brian Freemantle

  Colonel Suvlov, a slightly built, nondescript man who merged well with the walls against which he usually stood, watched the entire charade, then walked back to the hotel bar for another cognac, grateful he wasn’t one of the six men positioned outside in subzero temperatures.

  “I’m apprehensive about Bock,” said Frieden.

  Muntz looked up. God, how tired he felt, thought the lawyer. He wanted to go to bed and never get up again.

  “Why?”

  “That’s the stupidity of it,” replied the Nazi millionaire. “I don’t have a reason. It’s just a feeling.”

  Muntz shrugged, unwilling to continue such an aimless argument. The tension was pressing upon the other man’s nerves, he decided.

  “He was Köllman’s last contact,” continued Frieden, trying to convince himself.

  Muntz took the handkerchief from his mouth. He was bleeding again.

  “Obviously it’s impossible to establish another telephone tap, like we have at the embassy,” admitted Frieden. “That would increase greatly the risk of exposure and ruin the whole thing. But why don’t we watch him for a few days?”

  The lawyer looked at him, wearily.

  “If you like,” he said, without enthusiasm. It hardly seemed to matter.

  “Just for a few days,” emphasized Frieden, as if the decision needed justifying. He picked up the telephone and began dialing the man who would do it.

  “You never know what you might discover,” said the millionaire, but the lawyer had stopped listening.

  The car still retained some of the warmth that had built up from the heater during the ride from Seelingstrasse. Mosbacher lowered his head inside the collar of his overcoat, burying his hands in the pockets, preparing for a long wait in Severingstrasse. But he’d only been there forty minutes before he detected the figure approaching the apartment-block. He strained for better identification, cursing the need to park the vehicle so far from the building. It could mean nothing, of course: dozens of people lived in Bock’s apartment-block. He stared fixedly at the telephone identification-system for Bock’s apartment, which he had marked earlier that day. He started forward, hands gripping the driving wheel, as the figure paused briefly before the intercom, apparently spoke, and was admitted within seconds. It had definitely been Bock’s flat. He was certain of it. Perhaps Perez’s optimism was justified, he thought.

  (12)

  The two men stood warily on opposite sides of the penthouse lounge, Kurnov just inside the door, Bock in front of the veranda window. Neither wanted to speak first. The only sound was the muted noise from the city outside. He was a frightening man, decided Bock, looking at the scientist. Kurnov still had the unsettling ability to remain utterly still, staring wide-eyed, hypnotically almost, at whoever interested him. Bock remembered the effect, even upon brave men. Some had tried to answer that look, unflinching, with the final desperate awareness that there was no longer any hope and that they had nothing to fear by a last-minute show of defiance. Always their determination had collapsed under that unremitting gaze.

  He’s scared, judged Kurnov. Good. That would make the encounter easier. A frightened man was always the most malleable. How many years ago had it been when he formulated that basic philosophy? Too many to remember. It was important to maintain the man’s fear, so Bock would have to break the silence, decided the scientist. He stared steadily, waiting. Inevitably, the surgeon averted his eyes, walking forward.

  “Hello, Heinrich,” greeted Bock, softly.

  “That’s a name from another time,” threw back Kurnov, immediately knowing the correction would jar. “Let’s use our current names, shall we?”

  Bock hesitated, hand half-raised. Would the man insist on the ridiculous Nazi salute, like Frieden? he wondered.

  “Of course. I’m sorry,” he agreed, instantly. Nervously, he extended his hand.

  “You’ve hardly changed, Helmut,” said the scientist, smiling. Apparent friendship would create false confidence.

  Bock shook the hand, effusively, cupping the man’s elbow in his left hand and leading him further into the room.

  “Neither have you. I did a good job,” he said. There was the slightest edge of uncertainty in the laugh, a man wondering if he were going too far.

  Kurnov did not smile, allowing the other man to think he was offended. He looked around the apartment, with its magnificent views over Berlin, then came back to the surgeon. Making the criticism just discernible in his voice, he said; “It seems you’ve done a great many ‘good jobs’.”

  Bock shrugged, uneasily.

  “I’ve been lucky,” he admitted. “Other people’s vanity pays well.”

  He gestured to a seat, then indicated drinks laid out on a small table.

  “Brandy,” selected Kurnov, lighting a cigarette. He watched quizzically at the amount Bock splashed into the glass, half filling it. The fool imagines he can get me drunk he thought. Bock took the same, then settled into a facing chair, holding the glass before him in both hands, so that his face was half hidden. He needed a barricade behind which to hide, judged Kurnov.

  The anaesthetic-like numbness he had felt seeing Kurnov that morning swept over Bock. He wouldn’t be able to manipulate Kurnov as easily as he had before, guessed the surgeon. Admittedly the man must have been desperate to come to Berlin, but he was still more controlled than he had been in 1945.

  “You’ve prospered,” said the surgeon, positively. “In a country where personality cults are frowned upon, you’re quite an exception.”

  Kurnov sipped his drink, fixing his unblinking stare, letting silence frost the room.

  “Small talk is a little out of place, isn’t it?” he challenged, finally. It was time to harry the other man.

  “… Well, …” began Bock, but Kurnov overrode him, deliberately.

  “… I know I’m the last person in the world you want to see, Helmut. There’s no need to maintain a pretense …”

  “That’s not true,” tried Bock, flustered.

  Kurnov took another drink, satisfied. It had really been quite easy, he thought. He imagined the other man would have developed more confidence after so many years of success. But then, Bock had always been a coward. What was it Yevtushenko had written? “… Cowards have small possibilities …” Very appropriate in Bock’s case.

  “I’m here because I’ve got to be,” said Kurnov, flatly. “We both know why. The risks I’ve taken, in the society where I exist, are terrifying …”

  He was setting out on a charted course, saying nothing the other man did not know. The apparent confession would allow Bock to believe in some slight superiority, a crutch that could easily be kicked away.

  “I haven’t time for chit-chat …” he paused, preparing the threat. “… And neither have you, have you, Helmut? You’re in as much danger, from the same people, as I am. Even more, perhaps.”

  Bock sought an answer, moving a hand helplessly as if he could seize the words.

  “Is it safe, Helmut, the money I left you? It would be very unfortunate for us both if it were all gone, wouldn’t it …?”

  Bock started at the menace in the other man’s voice, drawing back as if Kurnov had spat in his face.

  “Surely you don’t think I would have …?”

  “Of course I do,” cut off Kurnov, again. “Why shouldn’t you have spent it? You didn’t expect to see me again. Ever.”

  “Wait,” said Bock, urgently. The ever-moving hand flapped as if he were pushing away an over-boisterous puppy. He hurried into a room behind Kurnov, who sat examining his drink, never once turning to see what the other man was doing. There was the sound of drawers being opened, then the scrape of what could have been a key in a lock. Bock hurried back into the room, wordlessly offering the bank-statements. There was a thick bundle, all carefully clipped together, dating back over thirty years. Kurnov glanced at them, almost as if he were disinterested, easily concealing the warmth of relief. It was all there, he saw. More than he had expected, eve
n, unaware of how the interest would have accrued. The fool seemed to have kept every pfennig, like the coward he was.

  “You’re a good friend, Helmut,” conceded Kurnov and the other man flushed at the praise. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you,” Kurnov added.

  He humped his shoulders, indicating helplessness. “It’s just that I’m frightened … I never expected all this to happen. There are few people to whom I can turn for help.”

  None, assessed Bock, looking down at the man. Was he really frightened? It was impossible to gauge anything from the blank face. It never had been possible, even before the operation.

  “It’s desperate,” warned Bock, hoping to instill into the other man the fear he felt. Kurnov remained unmoved. “Desperate,” emphasized the surgeon.

  “I want to know everything,” said Kurnov, calmly.

  Hurriedly, but omitting nothing, Bock recounted the telephone call from the Bavarian, then told of Frieden’s visit, searching Kurnov’s face for reaction. What was he, for God’s sake, some kind of robot? he wondered, unconsciously settling upon Damerov’s nickname.

  Kurnov sat nodding, like a man hearing a record with which he was already familiar. His disguised reaction was mixed. Good. And bad, he decided. He hadn’t expected direct contact would have been made with Bock. He felt the vague stirrings of unease. The Nazi interest was worrying, he thought. Most of them were ridiculous figures now, old men clinging to memories and mentally moving toy armies into position to win a long-forgotten war. But they retained the capacity to hate those who had offended. And the ability to punish.

  “So the Nazis still want me,” mused the Russian, reflectively.

  Hoping confirmation would endorse the reasoning he had put forward thirty years before and perhaps create some gratitude, Bock said quickly, “Oh, yes. Even more so. You wouldn’t believe how much they want you.”

  Kuraov wondered why Bock had over-stressed himself. Was there some reason of which he wasn’t sure for the man’s nervousness? He smiled, not allowing the man comfort. There was still some resistance to be broken down.

  “If they knew, they’d want you just as much, wouldn’t they Helmut?”

  The surgeon nodded, a gesture of hopelessness. He felt exhausted, like a man not properly recovered from a serious illness. He wondered if he could excuse himself to go to the bathroom. He badly needed another Librium injection.

  “Do you believe the man with the Bavarian accent?” demanded Kurnov.

  Bock looked at him, uncomprehendingly.

  “I’m unsure about it,” continued Kurnov, tilting the balance so that Bock’s uncertainty would be constantly agitated.

  “I don’t know,” shrugged Bock, discomforted, as had been intended. “I suppose it’s odd. But then, how else could he have made contact?”

  The Russian nodded, as if in reluctant agreement.

  “I suppose the bloody yids are here, sniffing like dogs around a dustbin?”

  Again Bock gestured helplessly. “How would I know?” he said. “I expect they are.”

  For several minutes, Kurnov was silent. Then he said, definitely, “They’re the danger, the Jews. Or the authorities.”

  “Everyone is a danger,” corrected Bock, unhappily.

  “True,” conceded Kurnov. “But it’s official action that could cause me most difficulty.”

  “The Nazis would just kill you,” jabbed Bock, sarcastically, still anxious for some response from the other man. Kurnov had said “me”, not “us”, he noticed.

  Kurnov smiled at the reminder.

  “They’ve got to catch me first,” he pointed out. “And they’ve no idea where to look …”

  He stopped, fixing Bock with that unsettling stare.

  “… You’re the only one who can expose me, Helmut,” he said, “And if I die, you die.”

  Bock stood up, refilling his glass. He held out his hand for Kurnov’s brandy glass, but the Russian shook his head.

  “I know,” said Bock, a man accepting defeat.

  Kurnov sat back, happily. Bock was quickly becoming cowed. Soon he would do what he was told, without argument. Kurnov still experienced something approaching a sexual feeling at breaking another man.

  “We’ve got to get to this Bavarian first,” announced Kurnov.

  Bock laughed, a jeering sound. “How, for Christ’s sake? Don’t you think that hadn’t occurred to me?”

  “That sort of remark doesn’t help,” rebuked Kurnov. Once a man came near to being beaten, he had to be allowed no opportunity to recover. Under proper conditions, it took only days of constant, relentless pressure to create a complete slave-mentality.

  Bock stared at him, clinging to the defiance.

  “All right. How do we do it?” he demanded. “It’s a voice on the telephone … someone who’s called just once …”

  “… And will call again,” predicted Kurnov.

  “What if he doesn’t?” questioned the surgeon, isolating the Russian’s fear.

  That was the one unpredictable thing. Kurnov moved his tongue over the tooth in which the cyanide was embedded.

  “He’ll call,” he repeated. He paused. It was the time for commitment. “And you are going to have to arrange a meeting … between him and me …”

  “You …?” queried Bock, amazed. It had not occurred to the surgeon how any exchange would be negotiated, but he had never imagined Kurnov would become personally involved.

  “Do you think I could trust anyone else?” demanded Kurnov, arrogantly. Momentarily, the attitude faltered. “There isn’t anyone else,” he added, sadly.

  “And if he doesn’t call again,” persisted Bock.

  “Then,” said Kurnov. “It’s as you say. Very desperate.”

  The Russian picked up the Swiss account, finding the statements that had arrived a few days before.

  “Over three million,” he mused, tapping the paper with his finger. “That’s a lot of money.”

  Bock sat waiting. Kurnov looked up.

  “You’re sure that’s all he wanted? Just money?”

  Bock nodded, immediately. “Positive,” he said. “That’s all he kept on about, money that he said rightfully belonged to him. He said he was holding an auction, selling to the highest bidder.”

  Kurnov frowned, trying to analyze the remark. It made little sense, he decided. The only inference was that the caller was a disgruntled German who felt he had been cheated. Whom had he ever known closely enough to have felt personally robbed? No one. No, that was not strictly true. Grüber perhaps. But Grüber was dead. Bock had been the man who had conducted the inquiries, although for reasons other than worrying about the fellow-scientist’s safety, while he recovered from the plastic surgery.

  “You never heard anything to suppose that Grüber survived the Russian attack?” he asked, abruptly.

  Bock looked at him, baffled.

  “Who?” he asked, stupidly.

  “Grüber, for Christ’s sake,” shouted Kurnov, pressing the man.

  “I’m sorry,” stumbled Bock. “No, of course not. Why should I have done?” . .

  “Because he is the only person who might have had reasons to complain, like the Bavarian. He would have known of the fortune I was collecting, too. And he came from Munich.”

  Bock made a dismissive gesture. “He’s dead,” he insisted, definitely.

  “And why you?” Kurnov asked, speaking his thoughts aloud. “Of all people, why did the Bavarian choose to contact you?”

  “I wish to God I knew,” replied Bock, sincerely.

  Kurnov stood up and began pacing the room, trying to resolve the doubt. Why would the blackmailer assume Bock had money? He gazed around the penthouse. An obvious answer was the luxury in which Bock lived. There was no secret about the extravagance and a lifestyle associated with film stars and the famous. It was part of the public relations, in fact. But that could not be the only incentive. He was sure that whatever had been recovered from the Austrian lake would have contained no details of the
Swiss account. But there were other pointers, he realized. If the Bavarian were a disgruntled Nazi, then it was likely he knew of Bock’s immediate post-war treatment to all the men who had wanted new faces. And guessed that Bock might have retained ties that would have made a lot of money available. That was it. The approach hadn’t been connected with him; it had been a way of getting to other Nazis.

  “Could the box contain any details about you?”

  Bock played with his glass, considering the question. The heroin addict had handed over all his personal records, he knew. He’d even insisted on going through the filing cabinet himself.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I took every precaution.”

  Kurnov sighed, irritably.

  “Didn’t I?” he demanded, rhetorically. “What about centralized records, in Berlin? How else could the Bavarian have known of the details he mentioned in his telephone call?”

  Again there was the movement of helplessness from the surgeon. What a fool, decided Kurnov, angrily.

  “There must have been some record,” insisted Kurnov. “How else would people have known where to come for new faces?”

  Bock considered the question. Then he said. “Word of mouth. There was never anything written. Frieden assured me of that, years ago. He came to me because he knew of the work in the camp. And he just recommended people when they sought help from him.”

  “Rubbish,” rejected Kurnov. “Somewhere, probably in Frieden’s safe, there will be details of everything you’ve ever done for the Organization, just as in some Berlin office there would have been records of your work at the camp. In Frieden’s case, it would have been kept for blackmail purposes. Never forget, the Nazis were efficient, above all else.”

  Bock shuffled, uncomfortably. He would have to take another injection soon. Kurnov looked away. There was no point in furthering Bock’s fear at the moment. He wanted the man manageable, not apathetic.

  “We’re going to make a deal, when the man calls again,” said Kurnov.

  “If he calls again,” cautioned Bock.

  Kurnov ignored the interruption. “He’s got a blackmailer’s dream and he knows it …” He waved the bank-statement. “… All we’ve got to do is capitalize on his greed.”