Man Who Wanted Tomorrow (10 page)

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 relief 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.

Which resolved itself into a desperate situation, he accepted, again. Realistically, his chances of getting his personal folder back were minimal. Ridiculous even. The anger built up within him and he clenched his hands until his knuckles hurt. He was running, like a dog responding to a trick. But at least a dog could refuse if it wanted to. Kurnov knew he had to perform.

Another doubt settled, like heavy mist. If the money were gone, there would be no way to avoid exposure, he realized, objectively. And there would be nowhere he could run.

But he wouldn't be captured, he determined. Not by anyone. He knew imprisonment, anywhere, would send him insane. And he was well aware he could stand even less the penalties the Nazis would impose. Kurnov knew completely the degree of his personal cowardice. He tapped the left molar, an unnecessary reassurance. The cyanide was still there, the implant originally put there forty years ago replaced every three years in the secrecy of his Moscow laboratory. Better a little agony than suffering that would go on and on.

He shuddered in the warm hotel-room. It wouldn't be difficult to convince people he was feeling unwell. Bock would regret it if he had spent the money, he mused. Before he died, he would kill the surgeon. Very slowly. No, he corrected, immediately. No,
he
wouldn't kill him. He'd use his own death to disclose Bock's involvement in the hidden bank-account and let the Nazis kill him. They were far more expert. He considered the thought. Perhaps they weren't. It was just that in Berlin they had better facilities.

He pulled the telephone directory towards him again. How easy it would be to telephone. He actually reached out, towards the instrument, impelled by the urge to commence the search immediately. He halted, reluctantly.

Instead, he carefully copied the address upon an envelope resting upon a handkerchief, so there would be no indentation upon the blotter if there were any unexpected investigation of his room. There was no reason why there should be, but on several foreign trips he had had the impression that his room had been visited by other members of the delegation.

Using the same handkerchief pad, he wrote just the number of the Swiss account and the initials “H.K.V.K.” After so long, he realized, it might baffle the other man, initially. But the surprise would not last long. Bock would know of what had happened at Toplitz and realize the significance of the note. He would even expect some approach, rationalized Kurnov.

The scientist decided against postal delivery. He could take it himself, providing he was alert for personal surveillance. There was, he had convinced himself, no reason why the Russians should watch him too closely.

He smiled again, amused through his apprehension at a sudden doubt. Did he still know Berlin well enough to elude any followers? It would be an interesting challenge. The amusement vanished. Before everything was over, there was every likelihood that that would not be a flippant thought.

He lay outstretched on the bed, unwilling to leave the safety of the locked room, letting his mind drift. He'd been lucky, he reflected, seeking omens. Bock was alive. His whole survival rested on the man and he was alive and easily contactable. Perhaps the luck would continue.

Was Gerda still here? he wondered. That was odd, he decided, seeking a psychological explanation for the memory. Not once, in the thirty years he had been away, had he thought of his wife. It must be the association with Berlin, he thought. What would she look like now? She had never been attractive, with her buck-teeth and baying laugh and the tendency for yellow spots to form in the crack where her nose met her face. But the Führer had disliked his favorites parading their women instead of their wives, and so he had publicly kept with Gerda, tolerating her snobbery and stupidity. And her incredible attitude toward clothes.

He recalled how bad she had been in bed, lying listlessly, her mind probably on yet another dress. The camp girls had been so much better. But then, they had known they would be killed if they didn't satisfy. Perhaps it was unfair to compare Gerda with them. Gerda would never have lasted a day in a camp, he decided, sniggering. She probably wouldn't have got any trade.

He frowned. The tendency to hysteria was worrying. His nerves were tight, he recognized. And things were likely to get worse. He would have to keep very firm control upon himself. Fortunately, he had brought along enough medication to help. Like the ease of laughter, lying there was another indication of his fear. The security he felt, within four walls and behind a locked door, was a womb complex. It was predictable, psychologically.

He forced himself to move, getting up from the bed. In the bathroom he showered and then put on the uncreased suit. The reception was in fifteen minutes, he saw, checking his watch. He'd left it almost too late. He began to hurry, putting his letter to Bock carefully into his inside pocket, then quietly letting himself out of the room, looking both ways along the corridor. Empty. Keeping to the edge, where the thickness of the carpet would shield his footsteps, he went towards the corridor window, away from the elevator. Nervously, he pushed the unmarked door adjoining the window. It moved easily and he let out a tiny sound of relief. It led out on to stairs that went down to the middle landing, serving both his floor and that below as a fire-escape. He'd brought tissues from the supply in the bathroom. He padded his fingers to prevent them getting dirty on the little-used handles, then cupped his palms beneath the two arms of cold metal, heaving upwards. The windows remained unmoving. The ever-present bubble of apprehension popped inside him. He felt around the rim, seeking the lock. It had to be manual. A key would destroy the purpose of a window leading out on to a fire-escape. His throat felt dry, as if he had run a long race. He'd been good at sport at school, he remembered, and recognized the feeling. He'd always won. It was important to win, always. Because of the darkness, he couldn't see how the lock operated, and he groped, trying to bring his face closer to the cold glass. They swiveled, he realized. He found the clasps in the top corners. They were stiff. He pushed and one gave suddenly. He felt his nail split off. Perspiration soaked his back and he stopped, panting. He had left the preparations too late, he decided, angrily. Bloody womb complex.

With the locks undone, the window scraped open, squeaking on its sash-cords. He hesitated, head turned up towards the corridor he had just left, listening for the sound of anyone who might have been attracted by the noise. Turning back, he pulled the window higher, staring out into the coldness that burst in, catching his breath. The fire-escape was tacked zig-zag against the wall, like an afterthought. Snow and ice glittered in the reflection from the sodium street lights. It would be dangerous: too risky, considering his age. He shivered, the perspiration drying coldly upon him. Quickly he closed the window almost completely and stood, quite still, on the emergency landing, fighting the fear that flooded through him. It came in waves, like sickness. He swallowed, gripping his hands around the wad of tissues he'd carried from the room. Too dangerous. Too risky. But unavoidable.

Leaving the window slightly open, he went up again, pausing before the door leading back to his floor. Deserted. He smiled. Another omen, he thought, like a child convincing itself an imagined disaster will be averted if it can avoid stepping on the cracks in a pavement. He hurried out, almost running to his door. Inside, he leaned backwards against it, breathing deeply. How nice to be able to stay here for the rest of the night. Read a book. Or watch television. He shook himself, like an animal casting off water, staring down at his suit. It was dirty, dust and cobwebs at the knees and over the front of his jacket. As he brushed himself, he saw the shirt cuffs were filthy. No time to change, he decided. Quickly he ran water over his split nail, but the bleeding refused to stop. He wrapped more tissue around it and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. The vision was of a frightened man, he thought. He smoothed his hair back into its military cut and dampened his face, trying to stop the sweat that kept bubbling on his forehead. Suddenly, without warning, he whimpered. He clamped his mouth shut, embarrassed, looking around in the empty room. Careful. He needed more resilience than this. He stared directly at the medicine box he had brought with him. The performance had to be staged, but Kurnov was offended at the prospect. It would mean making a spectacle of himself, and deeply ingrained into every aspect of his behavior was the need to avoid attention. This time it a sigh, not a whimper. It couldn't be avoided, he thought, taking the syringe and ampoule from the box.

The reception was crowded, smothered with cigarette smoke and talk. He winced, then hurried into the room. Thank God a waiter was near. He took a whisky, needing it. His throat was so dry, it hurt to drink. Perhaps he should have stayed with vodka.

All the delegates had name-tabs on their lapels, but Kurnov's was hardly necessary. Almost immediately he was enveloped in small talk. He responded beyond his usual protective, monosyllabic manner, forcing himself to be noticed. He began sweating at the effort. The conference chairman, Konrad Bahr, hurried forward, hand outstretched, effusive in his greeting.

“So pleased to meet you,” gushed the German, pumping Kurnov's arm. “We're honored you are with us.”

Kurnov nodded. “I wish I had had time to prepare a paper,” he said. He allowed a pause, then added, “Not that I think I would have been able to deliver it.”

The chairman frowned, taking the bait.

“Why?”

Kurnov touched his stomach, gently. “I've been dreadfully ill,” he said.

The chairman smiled, dismissively, “A small upset, I'm sure,” he said, reassuringly. “It'll go in a few hours, once you've got used to German hospitality.”

Kurnov fixed the doubtful look.

“Please,” continued the conference official. “There are some other delegates who particularly wish to meet you …”

He put his arm around Kurnov's shoulders, but the Russian pulled back. The thought of what was to happen brought out fresh dampness on his face.

“A moment,” he apologized. “I must visit the bathroom first. Just allow me a minute.”

There was a cloakroom alongside the foyer. Kurnov went straight to it, locking himself in a cubicle. He took the apomorphine from his pocket and for a few seconds stared at the drug, conscious of the vomiting it would cause. Hurriedly, he took off his jacket. The excuse had to appear genuine, he convinced himself. Quickly, he administered the injection, flushed the ampoule and disposable syringe away, then hurried out, aware of its quick reaction. He felt the attack rising within him as he re-entered the reception area. Doctor Bahr turned to greet him again, gesturing for a group of Italian delegates to approach, but the retching overtook Kurnov. He managed to turn, almost reaching the side of the room before the first wave of sickness engulfed him. He stood, supported against the wall by an outstretched hand, vomiting again and again, conscious of people moving away.