Man Who Wanted Tomorrow

by Brian Freemantle

  He pushed his hands over his civilian clothes.

  “Misplaced my uniform,” he said. No wonder she hadn’t recognized him immediately as an officer, dressed like this. He smiled, openly.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “Won’t report you.”

  Why were his thoughts and words coming so disjointed? he wondered. Bloody alcohol. Definitely have to stop.

  She cringed further back into her room, watching him cross the small vestibule to the door. Immediately outside in the street, he stopped, looking around in bewilderment, unable to recognize anything. Berlin? Yes, definitely Berlin, he thought, going slowly up the Duisburgerstrasse toward Brandenburgische.

  Vaguely he heard the sound of sirens. Probably an ambulance going to the scene of another cowardly air-attack upon innocent civilians. When the setbacks had been overcome and they’d occupied London, the Führer intended putting on trial the people who had ordered the indiscriminate bombing of civilian targets, he knew.

  He turned, seeing vehicles arrive far down the road. Was it the Madam, gesturing? He couldn’t see. Too far away.

  On the main thoroughfare, his confusion grew. What had happened? No uniforms. And the lights. Too many lights. Hadn’t they heard of the blackout? No wonder there were the sounds of so many ambulances. Impossible for bombers to miss targets like this. Why no uniforms? Discarded, that was it. Everyone was throwing away their uniforms and running. Cowards, all cowards.

  “Cowards,” he shouted, aloud.

  There were sniggers, but no one stopped. In the Kurfürstendamm he stood, watching the swirl of cars and people. The Führer should know. He’d tell him. The Führer had always liked him, inviting him to the Bunker and to Berchtesgaden. Even called him the architect of the super race. Yes, he’d tell him. There had to be lists. That was the way to keep discipline. Impose the regulations and laws. Keep lists.

  He heard the sirens again and looked around, trying to isolate the burning buildings. Must be several streets away, he decided. Main roads would be jammed, he thought, with fire engines and rescue vehicles. He moved into the side streets, moving surely through the darkened road, squinting at the lights. Momentarily the fog in his mind receded and he huddled against the wall, frightened without knowing the reason. Then it swept in again. He pushed away from the wall, surprised to find himself there. From an adjoining street, he heard the metallic voice of a public address system and thought he caught a name he remembered. “… Kurnov …” he heard. He stopped, making a conscious effort to recollect, then shook his head, dismissively. Didn’t matter. Had to tell the Führer about the relaxation of the regulations. Across the darkened street he saw people hurrying and nodded. The half-heard announcement would have been from the radio street-van, warning them to prepare for another air-raid, he guessed. Have to hurry. Had to reach the Bunker before the raid started. Mustn’t get delayed. Führer had to know. The vans were nearer now, enabling odd words to be heard.

  “… Murder … avoid approach …”

  It was murder. Cold-blooded murder. Why didn’t they turn off their lights? Idiots. Not taking proper precautions. Keep away from tottering buildings. Turn off the lights. They’d be avenged, though. Lists were being prepared. Ahead he saw a jumble of cars. Road blocks. Damn. Dangerous buildings, probably. No papers. And the Führer had to be warned. He dodged into an alley. The darkened office buildings would have an exit into the next street. Bound to have. Complete darkness. Impossible to see. He crashed forward, into rubbish bins. Didn’t matter. Good blackout. Important. Less possibility of getting him. Shouts around him. Brave, these civilian firemen. Landwehr, too. Risked death every night. He’d tell the Führer. Important to praise. Good for morale. He emerged on to a parallel street, sighing. Not blocked. Understandable. Too many men needed for reinforcements. Even forming units from foreign nationals now. Didn’t agree with that. Tainted the purity of the cause. Didn’t matter. Only a temporary measure. Führer knew what he was doing.

  Potsdamerplatz. He smiled, recognizing the thoroughfare. Not far from the bunker now. Quieter here. To be expected, obviously. Essential to guarantee the blackout, so near the Bunker.

  All around were the tall, deserted buildings, blinded by their bricked-up windows. Hadn’t known they were bricking up houses for protection. Couldn’t see the point. Must remember to ask why. He was suddenly confronted by the Wall and stood, confused again. Berlin. Not Buchenwald. So why the wall? Didn’t make sense. He went closer, touching the rough breeze-blocks, like a blind man trying to determine his surroundings. Wasn’t his camp. Just barbed wire there. The administration and research buildings were concrete, certainly, but they were inside the wire. And he hadn’t come through the gate. Had he? He frowned, unable to remember, turning to look behind him. No. Certainly not. He was going to the Bunker, not the camp. Going to the Bunker. To warn the Führer. Protective wall. That was it. They’d built a protective wall around the Bunker. Couldn’t remember it being there before. When was his last visit? He pressed his head against the concrete. Couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter. Protective wall. Very sensible. He began groping along, seeking an opening. No break. Climb over, that was it. Get into the inner compound. No danger. He was well known. They’d recognize him, without identification. First name terms with all of them. He began dragging upwards, feeling for handholds in the rough brickwork, grunting as his fingers slipped, splitting the nails. It had happened before, recently, he thought. Where had he climbed recently? Wouldn’t come. Bloody schnapps. He fell twice, skinning his shins the second time. He sat slumped at the bottom of the wall, limbs weighted by tiredness.

  Far away he heard the persistent sirens. Getting nearer. Meant the raids were coming closer. Führer had to be warned. He began scrambling up again, urged by the sudden, desperate knowledge that if he fell he would not again be able to attempt the climb. He drove his fingers into the cracks, ignoring the pain, the effort coming from him in sharp, gagging sounds. Had to do it. Had to warn the Führer. As his hand covered the top he sobbed with relief, hanging there. Made it. Führer would be grateful. Barbed wire. Should have expected it. He felt carefully, wedging his hands between the spikes, so he could use the wire for support, pulling his legs up to perch precariously on top. He looked to where the Bunker should have been visible. Odd. Just a hump in the ground. Camouflage. That was it. Cleverly hidden. He glanced back, into West Berlin, seeing the sodium glow reflected as an orange blur against the low cloud. God, it was a bad raid tonight. Funny he hadn’t been aware of the explosions. Wrong wind direction, probably.

  The searchlight hit him like a physical blow and he swayed, nearly falling. He snatched out and felt the barb bite into the plam of his hand and groaned with the pain.

  “Don’t shoot,” he screamed, urgently. They’d be under orders to protect the Führer, quite ruthlessly, he knew. “Don’t shoot. It’s me, Köllman. Heinrich Köllman. Important I see the Führer.

  There seemed to be searchlights from either side. He waved his free arm, hesitantly, his balance tottering.

  “Blackout,” he shouted. “Too dangerous. Stop the lights.”

  Behind him he thought he detected a vehicle with a red marker revolving on the roof, but the other lights were blinding, so he couldn’t be sure. There were voices telling him to come back, but he ignored them. Just firemen and Landwehr. Didn’t know how important it was to get to the Führer. Wouldn’t understand. Limited mentality. Only good for menial work.

  “Got to see the Führer,” he shouted down to them.

  He clambered over the wire, trying to judge the distance to the ground. They’d have to bring a ladder. He looked up, to call for one, and the movement dislodged him. He fell, feeling the wire rip at his clothing like a hand trying to pull him back. He landed with a sickening jolt and lay, open-eyed, hawking the air back into his lungs. His wrist hurt and was twisted beneath him. Why didn’t they come to help? Where was everybody? He’d tell the Führer. Make sure names were on the list.

  Fifty yards away, th
e Russians and East Germans who had had a street-by-street account of Kurnov’s progress toward the Wall from people whom they regarded as agents but who were, in fact, carefully planted members of Perez’s team, watched the prostrate figure fixed in the beam of the searchlight. From the other side of the Wall, the West German police-car spotlight went out and the occupants ran to the observation posts looking into East Berlin.

  “Get up, Heinrich Köllman,” shouted Suvlov, formally. He wore his uniform, which made him seem more imposing. There might be photographs from over the Wall, he knew. He was smiling, confident the expression would be misunderstood by everyone around him.

  He’d recovered, decided the Russian colonel. He would be known as the man who had captured the Nazi. A total disaster had been turned into complete victory. He grabbed a megaphone from the man standing next to him. An officer hurried up, reporting that the electronic mines had all been turned off, so there would be no danger in moving forward to get the man.

  “Let him crawl to us,” said Suvlov. He switched on the megaphone, knowing his voice would be heard over the wall and that the arrest would be fully reported in the Western press.

  “Heinrich Köllman, you are a prisoner of the Soviet Union,” he shouted. Should he have added, “and the German Democratic Republic?” Perhaps. But diplomatic niceties didn’t matter. Later perhaps. But not now.

  The old man pushed up, trying to shade his eyes against the light with one hand. The other was hugged across his chest, as if he were injured. He squinted, unable to see anything.

  Very confusing. Not what he had expected. Russians. Definitely Russians. Recognized the accent. How? Didn’t matter. Definitely Russians. So he was too late. Was he dead? Was the Führer dead? Or captured? Neither. Would have escaped. Obviously be a plan. He would have been too clever for them. Escaped to regroup further south, with the reinforcements. Of course he had.

  Only a temporary setback.

  He couldn’t feel his legs and swayed, staggering slightly backwards. Careful. Mustn’t collapse. Mustn’t show weakness. Had to demonstrate superiority. That was important.

  He came forward, his body moving stiffly, puppet-like, and after a few steps his mouth opened and he threw back his head. Suvlov put his head to one side, but couldn’t identify the words.

  “What’s he saying?” he demanded from the men who had given the news about the mines. Before there could be an answer, the old man got nearer and they were all able to hear. He sang croakingly, but still discernibly. He was off-key, but the tune of the Hörst Wessel song was easily recognizable.

  “… And comrades whom reaction and Red

  Front has slaughtered

  In spirit march with us and ne’er shall die …”

  From behind there was the click of a rifle-bolt.

  “No!” ordered Suvlov, urgently. “That’s what he wants, to be shot.”

  Faltering, breath driven from him by the effort of walking, the mass murderer sang on.

  “For brown battalions clear the streets of others,

  Clear us a way and each Storm Trooper cheer,

  The Swastika brings hope to all our myriad brothers,

  The day of freedom and of bread is here.”

  He was close now, his feet scuffing over the rough ground, blinking in an attempt to see them. Impossible. They were just black blurs.

  “For the last time, Reveille has been sounded, for battle …” he began again, but his voice trailed away at the awareness of so many men in uniform. Lucky he was in civilian clothes. Wouldn’t know who he was. No documents. He’d lie. Be easy, with so much confusion everywhere. No difficulty getting lost in all the prisoner-of-war camps that would be created. He’d beat them. Be easy.

  “Heinrich Köllman?” challenged Suvlov.

  The scientist looked at the uniformed man. Difficult to recognize the rank from his shoulder epaulettes.

  “No,” he denied, positively. “I’m …”

  He halted, confused. He couldn’t think of another name. He looked around the half-circle of soldiers. And burst into tears.

  It was over a year later, long after the remedial plastic surgery and the allocation of the Chair of Psychiatry at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, that Uri Perez was asked the question at the end of a lecture. It came from a student who watched the film, shot from one of the abandoned houses on the West side of the Wall, showing Köllman walking forward to confront the Russians.

  “Having once been in one of Köllman’s camps, and then having evolved the scheme that trapped him, you had an enormous personal involvement,” said the boy whom Perez had selected as one of the brightest in the course. “What satisfaction did you feel, seeing everything work so completely.”

  Although he had answered the question to himself many times Perez hesitated. There really wasn’t another reply, he decided, finally.

  “None,” he insisted, definitely. “Not the slightest satisfaction. In fact, I experienced the most overwhelming feeling of pity.”

  He stayed at his desk, long after the lecture hall had emptied. Why had he never been able to convince Mosbacher, he wondered, regretfully. Perhaps, if he had, they would still be friends.

  A Biography of Brian Freemantle

  Brian Freemantle (b. 1936) is one of Britain’s most prolific and accomplished authors of spy fiction. His novels have sold more than ten million copies worldwide, and have been optioned for numerous film and television adaptations.

  Born in Southampton, on the southern coast of England, Freemantle began his career as a journalist. In 1975, as the foreign editor at the Daily Mail, he made headlines during the American evacuation of Saigon: As the North Vietnamese closed in on the city, Freemantle became worried about the future of the city’s orphans. He lobbied his superiors at the paper to take action, and they agreed to fund an evacuation for the children. In three days, Freemantle organized a thirty-six-hour helicopter airlift for ninety-nine children, who were transported to Britain. In a flash of dramatic inspiration, he changed nearly one hundred lives—and sold a bundle of newspapers.

  Although he began writing espionage fiction in the late 1960s, he first won fame in 1977, with Charlie M. That book introduced the world to Charlie Muffin—a disheveled spy with a skill set more bureaucratic than Bond-like. The novel, which drew favorable comparisons to the work of John Le Carré, was a hit, and Freemantle began writing sequels. The sixth in the series, The Blind Run, was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best Novel. To date, Freemantle has penned fourteen titles in the Charlie Muffin series, the most recent of which is Red Star Rising (2010), which brought back the popular spy after a nine-year absence.

  In addition to the stories of Charlie Muffin, Freemantle has written more than two dozen standalone novels, many of them under pseudonyms including Jonathan Evans and Andrea Hart. Freemantle’s other series include two books about Sebastian Holmes, an illegitimate son of Sherlock Holmes, and the four Cowley and Danilov books, which were written in the years after the end of the Cold War and follow an odd pair of detectives—an FBI operative and the head of Russia’s organized crime bureau.

  Freemantle lives and works in London, England.

  A school photograph of Brian Freemantle at age twelve.

  Brian Freemantle, at age fourteen, with his mother, Violet, at the country estate of a family acquaintance, Major Mears.

  Freemantle’s parents, Harold and Violet Freemantle, at the country estate of Major Mears.

  Brian Freemantle and his wife, Maureen, on their wedding day. They were married on December 8, 1956, in Southampton, where both were born and spent their childhoods. Although they attended the same schools, they did not meet until after they had both left Southampton.

  Brian Freemantle (right) with photographer Bob Lowry in 1959. Freemantle and Lowry opened a branch office of the Bristol Evening World together in Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, England.

  A bearded Freemantle with his wife, Maureen, circa 1971. He grew the beard for an undercover newspaper assignment i
n what was then known as Czechoslovakia.

  Freemantle (left) with Lady and Sir David English, the editors of the Daily Mail, on Freemantle’s fiftieth birthday. Freemantle was foreign editor of the Daily Mail, and with the backing of Sir David and the newspaper, he organized the airlift rescue of nearly one hundred Vietnamese orphans from Saigon in 1975.

  Freemantle working on a novel before beginning his daily newspaper assignments. His wife, Maureen, looks over his shoulder.

  Brian Freemantle says good-bye to Fleet Street and the Daily Mail to take up a fulltime career as a writer in 1975. The editor’s office was turned into a replica of a railway carriage to represent the fact that Freemantle had written eight books while commuting—when he wasn’t abroad as a foreign correspondent.

  Many of the staff secretaries are dressed as Vietnamese hostesses to commemorate the many tours Freemantle carried out in Vietnam.

  The Freemantle family on the grounds of the Winchester Cathedral in 1988. Back row: wife Maureen; eldest daughter, Victoria; and mother-in-law, Alice Tipney, a widow who lived with the Freemantle family for a total of forty-eight years until her death. Second row: middle daughter, Emma; granddaughter, Harriet; Freemantle; and third daughter, Charlotte.

  Freemantle in 1999, in the Outer Close outside Winchester Cathedral. For thirty years, he lived with his family in the basement library of a fourteenth-century house with a tunnel connecting it to the cathedral. Priests used this tunnel to escape persecution during the English Reformation.

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