Man Who Wanted Tomorrow (13 page)

Then Kurnov saw him. His head was moving in that almost perpetual motion when their eyes met. For seconds, the look held. There was no change of expression from Kurnov, not even recognition. The hesitation was almost undetectable, then the head moved on. Bock continued walking, against the tide of people, out into the gray morning.

Immediately outside he stopped, breathing deeply. Irrationally, he felt relieved. For days he had swirled like a feather in a breeze, from one frightening encounter to another. Now the nervousness began slipping away. Kurnov would manage a meeting, he was positive. He'd be able to talk to the man, to discuss the approaches and the threats. And use him, of course, he thought again, smiling.

He crossed to where the convertible Mercedes 450 S.L. was parked and drove happily back to the clinic.

Perez looked up smiling as Mosbacher entered the Seelingstrasse apartment. The older Jew stared at the man upon whom so much depended. His attitude had improved over the last few days, he thought. The pendulum between euphoria and depression appeared to have stopped swinging so dangerously.

“Bock's made a contact,” he reported, shortly.

Perez stared, expressionless.

“Are you sure?”

Mosbacher nodded. “I followed him from his apartment to the clinic this morning, then waited. He was inside about an hour, then came dashing out …”

“… Dashing?” picked up Perez.

He
is
improving, decided Mosbacher. That was an intelligent query.

“Really,” assured Mosbacher. “He was definitely hurrying.”

“You're not imagining it,” pressed the younger man. “If we misinterpret any action now, we could blow the whole thing.”

Mosbacher shook his head, adamantly.

“I'm certain,” he insisted. “He was a man moving without too much thought. And remember the pattern. He
never
goes out in the morning.”

Perez shrugged in uncertain agreement.

“He took off down Dahlemer Weg but pretty soon began dodging through the side-streets until he got to Foster Dulles Allee in the Tiergarten …”

He paused, expecting reaction, but Perez said nothing.

“He went straight to the medical convention,” completed Mosbacher.

Perez sighed and finally smiled. It was a reluctant expression.

“So he's here,” he said softly. “The bastard had to break his cover.”

He looked up, having to prove himself against the other man. “It's working,” he insisted. “There's been contact.”

“That wasn't my doubt. Nor my objection. You know that,” snapped Mosbacher, raising his hand, like an after-dinner speaker interrupted before his punchline.

“He hung around in the vestibule in the Kongresshalle,” he continued, “watching the delegations arrive. I was only about eight feet from him. I thought he was going to faint when the Russians arrived. He actually swayed …”

Perez stared at his friend, his eyes wide with emotion.

“Which one is he?” he demanded, his voice dry. “Which one is Köllman?”

Mosbacher hesitated, then shrugged. “I don't know,” he admitted.

The tension went out of Perez, like a spring from which pressure is slowly released.

“There are fifteen in the Russian party,” defended Mosbacher. “About five minutes after they arrived, Bock went near them. There was no personal contact. And nothing was said. Nearly all of them looked at him, at one time or another. But there wasn't the slightest recognition.”

The big man stopped, waiting for approval. Suddenly Perez stood up and walked towards him. He held out both hands, seizing the man who towered over him and pulled him forward in a bear-hug.

“We've got him,” he predicted, excitedly. “It's
got
to be right.”

Mosbacher sighed. He still thought the operation wrong, even if the eventual conclusion were successful. “We'll see,” he cautioned.

“It could be within days,” said Perez, distantly. “The whole thing could be over before the end of the week.”

Mosbacher smiled, exerting the steadying influence.

“Careful now, Uri,” he warned. “This is only the beginning … the very beginning. There's still a million things that could go wrong.”

“Nonsense,” dismissed the other man, with optimism Mosbacher had almost forgotten. “My plans never go wrong …”

They both remembered Toplitz at the same moment.

“Sorry,” mumbled Perez. “I didn't mean …”

“It wasn't your fault,” insisted Mosbacher. “If they'd followed your orders, it wouldn't have happened.”

Perez looked at him, but didn't say anything.

There was no sound whatsoever in the committee-room in which the other fifteen members of the Soviet Politburo sat, all waiting for Mavetsky to continue.

“… And so,” picked up the minister, “those are the facts as I know them at the moment. Obviously the man is now constantly under observation. I consider a method has now to be devised to bring him back to Russia without arousing the slightest interest in the West.”

He sat down, damp with apprehension. It had gone well, he thought, without any interruption that would have indicated anyone had isolated a flaw in his argument. They were scared, he knew.

“Before the discussion continues,” said the Party chairman, Valery Shepalin, “I think it should be made a matter of record that we register our appreciation of the vigilance of Comrade Mavetsky …”

There was a muttering of assent and Mavetsky nodded his head, modestly. Imperceptibly, he released the pent-up breath. Thank Christ, he thought.

“But I have one slight disagreement,” continued the chairman. Mavetsky's eyes came up, warily.

“I am not sure about immediately withdrawing him,” said Shepalin.

They all waited.

“If this mysterious box does contain all the Nazi records, then presumably they are sufficient to identify Kurnov for whoever he is?”

Mavetsky gestured. “I don't have that information,” he apologized.

“Quite,” Shepalin agreed. “But it's a fair assumption to make?”

Mavetsky nodded.

“Therefore no matter what diplomatic reason we create for withdrawing him from Berlin and the Houston space-shot, it will be criticized as a blatant example of Russia protecting one of its scientists, once the details become public …?”

Around the table there were movements of agreement. It was subtle reasoning, admitted Mavetsky. Discerning the mood of the committee, the chairman went on, “And the last accusation that should be leveled against us is protecting a Nazi war criminal.”

He paused, looking around, embracing all with the criticism.

“… It is, after all, going to be embarrassing enough conceding that for so long such a man fooled us and managed to reach such a high position …”

Everyone avoided the gaze. Scapegoats were being selected, thought Mavetsky. He should cement the advantage so far achieved.

“What do you suggest?” he asked. The question would show he was not frightened of involvement in the purge that was to come. The chairman turned to him and Mavetsky answered the look steadily. Shepalin smiled slightly.

“There is no possibility of his being able to escape our surveillance?”

“None,” answered the minister, too quickly. He would have to call Suvlov immediately after the meeting to ensure every available man was put on the observation. If necessary, they would infiltrate some from East Germany. He swallowed, worriedly, realizing how easily he had entered the chairman's snare. The assurance that Kurnov was being constantly watched would be recorded against his name. If Shepalin's plan misfired, the blame would be channeled toward him. He sat, tight-faced, his eyes fixed on the man.

“Excellent,” greeted the chairman. “Then I propose we just let everything continue, without any interruption whatsoever. We will keep the closest watch on every contact and move that Kurnov makes, both in Germany and then in America. If the contents of the box are disclosed, we will immediately arrest him and hand him over to the West Germans or American authorities, together with all the evidence we have collated.”

Mavetsky looked uncertain. “You mean we would willingly hand over a Russian to be tried in another country?” he asked, allowing the surprise to leak into his voice.

“But that's just the point,” said the chairman, triumphantly. “He isn't a Russian. He's a naturalized German. The propaganda victory to be gained by arresting him, then handing him over for trial, would be enormous. It would certainly eradicate any criticism of our having harbored the man for all these years.”

Again there were indications of approval along the table.

“The only difficulty,” argued Mavetsky, seeing an opening through which to recover, “is that Kurnov's knowledge is incalculable …” he paused, wondering whether to mention the camps. He decided against it “… And not only in matters directly connected to how advanced our space program has become,” he compromised.

Immediately the attitude in the room shifted in Mavetsky's favor. Shepalin sensed it and looked at the minister, curiously. A challenge? Perhaps he should be more careful.

“Of course,” he agreed, easily. “I said merely that he should be made available to the authorities, not that he should survive …”

Mavetsky frowned, realizing he had lost.

“… I feel that Kurnov should perish within twenty-four hours of entering captivity. There are many delayed-action poisons suitable for the purpose … the K.G.B.'s Department V will provide them at a moment's notice.”

He paused, enjoying the meeting.

“… And then imagine the propaganda! An accused Nazi war criminal able to commit suicide, most likely in a German jail, rather than face trial for which the Soviet Union made him available. Even better, if it were to happen in America.”

His eyes swept the room.

“Oh yes,” predicted the chairman, confidently. “The only people to emerge from this with any credit will be the Soviet Union.”

Frau Pöhl gazed at the food in the ancient, gas-operated refrigerator. It had been almost a week since her conversation with Herr Muntz and gradually the euphoria had evaporated. She had expected almost immediate contact from Heinrich, jumping at every sound outside the apartment, staring for hours down into the street outside, examining everyone. But he hadn't come. Now she felt cheated, like a child who knows there's a party in progress to which it hasn't been invited.

She closed the refrigerator door, shaking her head. When he came, he might be hungry. Herr Muntz had said he was in trouble. Perhaps he wouldn't have eaten for days. She walked to the bedroom, looking at the new suit hanging unworn in the wardrobe. She moved her hand over the material caressingly, feeling the stiffness of the new fibers. She hoped she would have some warning. She wanted so much to impress her husband when he finally came home. She would need at least an hour to prepare. She took the suit from the closet and brushed it, needlessly, then carefully replaced it, a strip of plastic wedged over the shoulders as a protection against the dust.

Should she break her ritual and miss her visit the following day to Heini's grave? She pondered the decision, walking slowly back into the kitchen. How awful, not to be here when he arrived, she thought. But she so enjoyed her Saturday visits. They were her only association with the past in which she desperately wanted to live. It would only take an hour, she reasoned, provided she cut out the coffee and cake on the Kurfürstendamm that was her other Saturday-morning luxury.

She looked back at the refrigerator. He wouldn't mind, she told herself. Quickly, the decision made, she cut two pieces very thinly off the ham she had bought for Heinrich's return, laid them on the pumpernickel and began eating, happily.

She'd take a chance the following morning, too, she decided.

(11)

Kurnov sat in a place of honor at the top table, his mind closed to the babble of the banquet going on around him, allowing only that amount of concentration necessary to give the briefest response when people spoke to him, constantly referring to his illness and asking for their understanding. There was movement behind him as a waiter appeared with cigars and liqueurs and Kurnov turned away, accepting the drink but refusing the cigar. He preferred cigarettes. The speeches began, long platitudes of greeting, and assertions of the importance of inter-country co-operation. How little they knew, reflected Kurnov, reviewing the day's discussion, about the psychiatric damage that could be caused to a person forced to accept a lifetime's incarceration in the sort of prisons to which he was accustomed. He smiled to himself. Every ridiculous theory would change if they visited Potma or Siberia.

Kurnov discarded thoughts of the convention, which irritated him, concentrating on what faced him, wondering how easy it would be to get away that night. Throughout the day he had maintained the pretense of ill-health and obtained sympathy from everyone. Certainly, the reflection that had looked back at him in the washroom mirror during the lunchtime adjournment had supported the lie. His resilience had a time-limit, he accepted. His nerves would not stand the sustained tension to which he was being subjected. He sighed, dismissing the reservation. It had to be concluded in five days, anyway. The conference ended then, closing the excuse for remaining in the city.

Distantly he heard a reference to honored guests and realized people were looking at him, expecting reaction to the toast. He smiled, bleakly.

What would Bock have done after establishing contact? Very little, he guessed. There was nothing he could do, after all. Except await an approach. The surgeon would not come again to the conference, decided Kurnov. He'd taken quite a risk at exposing himself that morning. So the next move had to be his. Where would Bock anticipate it? At the clinic? Or at the apartment? It had to be his home, Kurnov decided. Just as Bock would not risk appearing a second time at the Kongresshalle, so he could not expose himself by going for the second night in succession to the clinic. Bock would realize that, guessed Kurnov, and know where to wait.