Man Who Wanted Tomorrow (19 page)

“A breath of air,” he said, quickly, hurrying on, anxious to catch the lift still standing at the floor. As he entered, immediately pressing the descent button, he heard a shout behind him. He allowed himself just sufficient pause before turning, seeing two Russians approaching as the doors closed, cutting them off. There was another lift, he knew, so he had only a few minutes. He thrust through the doors immediately they opened on the ground floor, burying himself in the crush of people, and was actually walking through the exit into the street before Suvlov saw him.

The Russian colonel burst forward, trying to shoulder his way through the crowd. The watchers might be off-guard with so many delegates emerging. And Kurnov had already been seen going up in the lift. The scientist was almost a block away when Suvlov reached the pavement. A controlled man, he looked casually around, then smiled, seeing two men assigned to foot-surveillance had recognized Kuraov and were moving into a shadowing pattern, one following behind, the second almost parallel on the opposite side of the street, shielded by the stream of vehicles. A third man would join them, once he had seen the other two move off, and within five minutes they would be practicing the classic triangle-surveillance, which was virtually undetectable as they alternated positions both in front, alongside and behind the victim.

Almost imperceptibly, he raised his hand and an unmarked Volkswagen pulled alongside.

“Leaving openly, tonight,” he said to the driver, as he got in. The man grunted. He had spent the previous three nights hunched in the car, stiff with cold.

“This has to be the meeting,” guessed Suvlov. “The conference ends tomorrow.”

The driver moved off, glad of the traffic that made anything more than a walking pace impossible. The triangle was in position now, Suvlov saw. He settled back in the seat, relaxed. Kurnov was an important man, he thought. And he was going to be the person directly responsible for trapping him. Promotion was an obvious possibility.

Ahead, Kurnov passed an intersecting street, remaining on the main road. The man following behind paused, obedient to his training, allowing the man parallel to cross the road to be replaced in that position by the third man, then move over to bring up the rear. Traffic was heavy and the man who was to follow had difficulty in crossing. Kurnov increased his lead.

“Quickly,” warned Suvlov, but the driver had anticipated the danger, trying to ease out of the wedge of traffic and reduce the gap. A horn blared and another vehicle flashed its lights, warningly.

“Keep going,” insisted Suvlov, as the driver hesitated. The tiny Volkswagen kept on, but the Mercedes behind came up, blocking the maneuver.

The man who had been following originally saw the difficulty and stopped, on a traffic island in the middle of the road. He stayed there, uncertain, knowing that to go back would break the pattern. Finally he continued on, keeping to routine.

“Fool,” yelled Suvlov, unheard.

The replacement finally got into position, but the triangle was uneven and stretched out. Suvlov sighed. It would only take minutes for them to tighten up.

Then Kurnov turned left at the next side street. The sudden move completely broke the planned surveillance. The following Russian was still too far behind and the two others were further apart than they should have been and on the wrong side of a busy road which it was impossible to cross immediately.

“Get after him,” screamed Suvlov, frightened by the effect of Kurnov's move. The driver jerked out, forcing the Mercedes moving parallel to swerve over the central reservation. There was a blare of protest from several car-horns and as the Volkswagen drew out it clipped the bumper of a Rekord in front, collapsing it against the boot. The car jerked to a halt, but the Volkswagen accelerated, the back wheels slipping on the ice. The car was bathed in a glare of yellow lights from offended motorists and the Rekord jerked off in pursuit.

The Russian behind Kurnov had run to the corner and was turning into the side street as the Volkswagen pulled around the corner. Fifty yards ahead, Kurnov was getting into a taxi, following his instructions, appearing almost comatose. As the car pulled away, the second cab in the rank moved out, too, awkwardly, almost blocking the road.

“Around him,” yelled Suvlov, realizing what was happening.

The Volkswagen lurched on to the pavement, around the taxi, into which the Rekord and the Mercedes which had involved themselves in the protest chase collided in a concertina crash. Twenty yards ahead, the first taxi was turning right, with Kurnov quite unaware of what was going on behind him.

“We've still got him,” shouted Suvlov, hopefully, then immediately bit back the words. Slowly, from the left, a huge furniture pantechnicon moved into view, going in the same direction as Kurnov's taxi. Its enormous bulk completely filled the road ahead and instinctively the Russian driver braked, which was fortunate because when it absolutely blocked the road it stopped, making an impassable barrier. Suvlov leaped from the slithering Volkswagen and hauled himself up level with the lorry-cab. It was empty, the key missing from the ignition. He threw open the door, groping beneath the dashboard, sure of what he would find. Ripped out wiring hung uselessly in his hand. He turned, shouting at his driver to reverse, then stopped at the sight of the police car coming toward him, urged on by a clutch of offended motorists whose cars were spreadeagled in a crumpled block in the street. He began looking for the driver of the second taxi, then shook his head, annoyed at his own stupidity. Of course the man wouldn't still be there, he realized.

Frieden invited reaction from the fifteen men seated around him in the lounge of the Ludwigsfelderstrasse apartment. No one spoke.

They were a good unit, thought the millionaire, gratefully. But then they always had been. The Organization had sound judgment in choosing a group of S.S. men who had been through the war as a trained team. For over thirty years, he thought, the men grouped in the room with him had protected the surviving Nazis against almost every investigation. They were old men now, Frieden saw, sadly, with fat bellies and receding hairlines. They'd probably be slower than they had been thirty years ago. That was only to be expected. But tonight it wouldn't matter, he consoled himself, happily. Tonight it was an ambush, and they were more than efficient enough for that.

“No questions, then,” he demanded.

“We've to
kill
them?” queried a man near the veranda window. Frieden looked towards the questioner, smiling in recognition. Schmidt, he saw. A good man. A former sergeant who'd once carved tiny notches in the handle of his machine-pistol, like an American cowboy, recording the number of Jews he'd shot.

“All except the Bavarian,” he confirmed. He nodded towards the middle of the room, where Lugers and Mausers were piled. They would be heavily oiled, Frieden realized too late. He hoped the furniture hadn't been marked by the weapons.

“Everything is silenced,” he said, aware everyone must have already seen the extended barrels of the pistols. “It must be quick, though. They might be armed. It'll be the noise of their weapons that will attract attention. I want enough time to search the room thoroughly to ensure I've got everything … we can't have a repetition of the Toplitz mistake … I want the Bavarian alive in case he's taken any precaution against being tricked …”

He gestured vaguely, indicating the cellars far below where the guardians of Lake Toplitz had been tortured and killed.

“… I don't suppose it will take more than an hour or two down there to learn all we want to know and get everything back,” he said.

Schmidt grinned, echoing Frieden's earlier thought

“Just like the old days,” said the ex-sergeant, enjoying the nostalgia.

“Yes,” agreed Frieden. “Let's ensure we're still as good.”

He looked at his watch, then indicated the guns.

“It's time to be going,” he said, eagerly.

For at least five minutes after the Berlin report, Mavetsky sat unmoving in his office, searching for an escape. Not only had Kurnov vanished, but there was a full-scale diplomatic incident, as well. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands, as if the pain would make him think more clearly. Finally, he reached for the intercom that would connect him with the Party Secretary. He winced at Shepalin's voice.

“What is it?” demanded Shepalin, when Mavetsky identified himself.

“He got away,” said Mavetsky.

(17)

Kurnov paid the taxi to Töpchiner Weg, walking slowly down Delmersteig to the address the Bavarian had given three hours before. He halted at the junction, feeling the nervousness pull at him. It was close now, he thought. Too close. He couldn't recall being so frightened of anything before. He fought back the urge to turn and run, rationalizing the sensation, professionally: fear of the unknown. The most basic fear of all.

He remembered his promise to make the man he was to meet suffer for the torment. That was stupid vindictiveness, he decided, like a schoolboy whistling in the dark to retain his courage. He was in no position to punish anyone, whatever the humiliation. He could only pay the blackmail. And hope. Did anyone ever stop, once they had begun paying a blackmailer? What if the man had taken copies, to sell elsewhere? Or offer as fresh threats, even? Kurnov groaned aloud, at the frustration, choked at his helplessness.

He walked away from the corner, moving down Salmbacherstrasse. The twin towers were marked out blackly against the night sky fifty yards ahead, on the opposite side of the road. Almost level, he moved into a shop doorway, the determination leaking from him. He was shaking and it was a positive effort of will to force one leg before the other. He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. It was stupid, he thought. Certainly not the way to go into negotiations with a man as confident as the Bavarian. Gradually the shaking subsided and he sighed, relieved. Only one hour. Perhaps two, he reassured himself. Then it would all be over. By midnight he'd be back in the hotel, destroying forever that last shred of evidence endangering him.

It took fifteen minutes before he could bring himself to move again. He pushed away from the doorway, crossing the road, his footsteps echoing behind him. He looked around, expecting the few other pedestrians to be attracted by the noise. Careful, he told himself, immediately. That was a banal impression, prompted by apprehension.

The apartment entrance lay back off a small courtyard, merely an opening in the wall, with no concierge or nightwatchman. An apartment block of anonymous people in which everyone minded their own business, ignoring their neighbors, he decided. He went inside, stopping again. The lobby was floored with concrete and dirty, littered with long-discarded cigarette butts, paper and leaves. Above, he heard the murmur of activity from the flats, like the humming of a bee-hive. Somewhere a radio blared pop music and a voice sounded loudly in an unintelligible argument. The smell of cooking permeated everywhere.

Number three, he remembered. In the basement There were stairs leading down, at the back of the lobby. He pressed the light-switch that should have provided timed illumination. It clicked, but no bulb went on. He pressed again. Still nothing. The light had been destroyed, obviously. Which made it ridiculous to descend. What choice did he have? He started groping downwards, edging one foot exploratively ahead of the other, both hands gripping the iron railing. Halfway down there was a small landing and the stairs twisted, so that he lost even the dim light from the lobby. He scuffed on, counting the steps. Six … seven … eight. He moved his foot out, but there was no drop. He blinked, trying to adjust to the deep blackness. It was impossible to see the door, so he ran his fingers along the wall, jumping when his hand went into the depression and encountered the wooden frame. He moved back, seeking the edge for a bell, but couldn't locate it. He stayed there, like a lost child at a school outing. Finally, abruptly, he reached out, rapping the door. The noise bounced in the tiny space and involuntarily he jumped. There was no sound from behind the door. He let the silence stretch out, then knocked again, seized with the stupid comfort that if there were no one there, he could go back to the hotel. He pricked his own hope, anxious to stifle the illogical reasoning. There was no retreat now. He sighed again, the sound very near a sob. Surely the swine wasn't conducting another experiment, like that afternoon in the park?

He was reaching out for the third time when the light came on, brilliantly. He winced, trying to shield his eyes. The switch would have been inside the apartment, he realized. The light was unnaturally bright. In the middle of the door he could just detect a Judas hole, through which the occupant could see all callers. Under this illumination, nothing in the tiny approach area could have been concealed. He heard a noise from inside the apartment; it sounded like a laugh. The latch clicked, but the door opened only slightly.

“Come in,” said the voice he had learned to recognize.

There was another reason for the brightness of the light, he realized as he stumbled forward. After the darkness of the descent, its suddenness was blinding. Now the inside of the apartment was dark again, completing the disorientation. He edged forward, able only to distinguish outlines, his eyes refusing detail. He heard the door close and the burglar chains clatter into place and stood apprehensively just inside the entrance. He had no sensation of anyone near him. Then, frighteningly, he was aware of a man's presence and pulled back, the sound of surprise bursting from him. His response was met with a jeering laugh.

“Come further in, Heinrich,” said the man. “Come right in and see where you are. You were promised a surprise, remember?”

Kurnov had his hands to his eyes, pressing against them. Again the thought of his hopelessness came to him, but he managed to control the shiver.

Gradually his obscured vision cleared and he began examining the room, his face opening in growing amazement until he reached the man. Kurnov sagged, visibly, unable to comprehend what he saw. All control completely gone, he snatched out, supporting himself against the high back of a chair in the middle of the room.