Man Who Wanted Tomorrow (15 page)

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.”

“I don't understand.”

Kurnov closed his eyes, wearily. “According to what's been printed,” he explained, “the box contained details of nearly every wanted Nazi. The Jews have already said they're prepared to pay a million …”

He paused. Bock watched him attentively, head to one side.

“… But that's for everything. We will pay a million. But just for the folder that contains the material about me and the folder about you …”

Bock smiled. He recalled his relief of that morning. He knew Kurnov would have it worked out.

“… And he'll still have everything else to sell. If he deals with us first, he'll double what he stands to get …”

He hesitated, looking at the statement again.

“… And if he balks at one million for just two folders, then we'll offer him two million …”

He threw the statement down.

“… In fact,” he said, “he can have it all.”

He looked up at the surgeon. “I want several bank drafts, starting with a million …”

“There's no way …”

“You've got bank-authorization documents,” broke in Kurnov. Bock nodded agreement.

“That'll enable a withdrawal,” Kurnov said. He nodded his head back towards the study. “Tonight,” he insisted. “I want it tonight.”

The surgeon hurried away and Kurnov sipped his drink. The bank-drafts would be an embarrassment if they were found in his possession, he thought. Still, his stature was such that a search was unlikely.

“We've no guarantee there's going to be another call,” said Bock, reiterating the doubt as he returned, holding out the written authorizations.

“There will be,” said Kurnov, taking the papers. “Look at it psychologically. From the Jews, he knows he can get a million, probably more. But he still calls you. For all we know, he might have contacted other people, trying to get through to the Nazis as well. What does that indicate?”

Bock looked at him blankly.

“Remember his expression … ‘the money that was rightfully his' … and his Bavarian accent. He's a German, a Nazi most probably. And although he's prepared to screw everybody, he's still got an inbuilt reluctance to deal with the Jews.”

“That's a wild assessment,” said Bock.

“No, it's not. It's an intelligent analysis of what we know so far.”

Still Bock looked doubtful.

“Look at another indicator,” pressed Kurnov. “There would be no point in telephoning just once. He probably assesses you as a link with a lot of Nazis, because of the work you did just after the war. And thinks you have access to a great deal of money. So even if the Jews came up with a fortune, he'd still come back to you, just to see if you'd top it. There's never been a shortage of money in the Party,”

“I hope you're right,” said the surgeon, unconvinced.

“So do I,” muttered Kurnov, fervently.

(13)

Because it was Saturday, with the conference suspended, tours were organized throughout the morning. Kurnov allowed himself to be carried in the crowd toward the waiting coaches, but carefully avoided contact with everyone around him. His fame within Russia assured his superiority and no one challenged his insistence upon a seat by himself, at the rear of the bus.

The first stop was at Berlin's famous zoo, for which Kurnov was grateful. Slowly, he allowed himself to drop further and further behind the main party, anxious to avoid being trapped by his own companions. Twice the party slowed, to permit him to catch up. Each time he feigned interest in the animals and mumbled a vague apology befitting a man still feeling unwell. The main thoroughfare was intersected by minor paths. He maintained the slow progress, apparently intent upon bordering cages, again preparing the shrugging apology, but no move came from the party ahead. Suddenly he darted sideways, hurrying into an even narrower walk and heading for the exit out on to Budapesterstrasse. He had to fight against running, still tensed against a yell of challenge that would destroy everything. He dodged traffic to cross the busy main road, then cut down Wickmannstrasse, walking close against the tall buildings, seeking their concealment.

He turned right, into Landgrafenstrasse, looking at his watch. Nine forty-five. Tempelhof was at least thirty minutes away. It took nearly ten minutes to find a taxi and he was perspiring with nervous annoyance as he settled back, snapping out the address in Hermannstrasse. As the noisy, diesel-driven Mercedes edged through the morning traffic, he forced himself to relax, seeking old landmarks, needing the comfort of nostalgia. This was the greatest risk he had taken, he realized, bringing his thoughts back inside the vehicle. Several times back there in the zoo he'd seen the frowns of bewilderment from Russians unable to reconcile his behavior with whatever illness he was suffering. So far, his luck had held. Amazingly so. But it couldn't last, he accepted, realistically. Now he had vanished, in broad daylight. Which amounted to near-insanity. Would the excuse that he had become lost in the labyrinth of pathways be as acceptable as the illness? Hardly, he decided. There was bound to be a report made to Moscow, he thought; his conduct was almost infantile. But it had to be. Again the helplessness of his position washed over him and he grimaced, to himself, then shrugged, in resignation. He was like a puppy chasing a leaf in the wind, he thought, running without direction. He hesitated, correcting the simile. More like the leaf, he decided, thrown whichever way people decided to blow.

It had been madness to take this chance, he suddenly thought, angrily. He did not know if Gerda were still alive. Or if she retained the habits of thirty years ago. He stopped, re-considering. If she were alive, he thought, then she would have retained the habit. Dull, boring Gerda had always been a woman of rigid, unchanging routine. Only in clothes was there constant change. It was an odd psychiatric paradox that hadn't occurred to him before.

He paid the taxi, looking nervously around, then went through the main gate of St. Thomas Kirchhof. Immediately inside the cemetery he stopped, trying to recall the location of Heini's grave. Had he ever visited it? He must have done, he supposed, when the boy was buried. He couldn't remember. Methodically, he began searching for the tombstone, moving along the winding pathways. Overhead, the jets roared in arrival and departure. He wondered how many nervous flyers were made more frightened, with a flight-path immediately over a cemetery. Occasionally he glanced up, envious of the freedom of those cocooned passengers, going anywhere they wanted. He would sacrifice the £3,000,000, he thought, for just one such ticket.

All around him the graves were assembled in their orderly rows, the headpieces heavy with Germanic stone-masonry. He couldn't recall ordering a gravestone for his son. Gerda would have done it, he decided. It was the sort of thing she would have enjoyed doing, studying the designs and involving herself with sympathetic officials who would have fawned upon her, conscious of his position. She would have ordered several black suits and dresses, he was sure.

He had almost passed the stone, black with neglect and tilted sideways from some long-ago accident, before he realized it was the one he was seeking. Weeds strangled over the mound and leaves from a nearby tree were banked against one side.

“Heini Köllman,” he read, “‘Born July, 1926, died May, 1943.'”

How abrupt, he thought sadly, that a person's life should be dismissed so briefly. A statistic, nothing more. He had slowed, under the pretense of examining another grave, trying to recall his son's image. He could not remember him, he realized. He had a vague recollection of a thin, intense boy, rolling the cant phrases of National Socialism in his mouth like a schoolboy tasting sweets. Heini had had fair hair, he determined. Or was it? He couldn't be sure. It was like trying to identify a casual acquaintance through a fog. He broke away from the past abruptly, remembering why he was there.

And then he saw her. She was lingering over another mound, two graves away, disguising her pilgrimage. Every Saturday for over thirty years, he reflected, in amazement. How many people must have guessed in that time? As he watched, she looked up, toward Heini's resting place, and smiled. She was an old, gray-haired woman, he saw, with varicose legs bulging the heavy, darned stockings, which puckered around her ankles, when she stooped beside the adjoining abandoned burial-place. Her straggling hair had fallen from its retaining band, half covering her face. Her shabbiness shocked him. Gerda, who had changed at least three times a day when his position in the inner caucus of the Party had made unlimited funds available, wore a suit shining with use and the shoes, half-on, half-off her feet as she squatted, were trodden down at the heel. A slut, he thought. A fading, aging slut. How ugly she was. To imagine, he thought, that he'd actually married the clumsy woman getting to her feet fifteen yards away. And gone to bed with her. Touched her even. And made love, albeit more from duty than from desire.