Man Who Wanted Tomorrow (21 page)

He stopped, to light another cigarette from the stump of the first. He was going too far, he thought suddenly. The admissions should be confined to what Grüber knew. It had been stupid to talk so openly about Russian reaction. It was time for more movement.

Casually, he got up, stretching, wandering to the side of the room to examine one of the busts. He turned. Grüber was frowning, as if the action were confusing him. Not giving him time to think, Kurnov hurried on.

“But you were right. I had to come out of the Soviet Union to get the file. You found the one thing that made me destroy a cover it's taken half a lifetime to build up …”

He moved over to the Hitler picture, near the door. It was time to start the pressure, very lightly.

“What does it say, this file about me …?”

Grüber laughed, happy at his power.

“Everything, Heinrich. Every experiment that was ever conducted … letters of commendation from the Führer … descriptions of you as the doctor of a new race of super-men … demands for more prisoners, to speed up the work being done …”

Kurnov swallowed, nervously. Damn the Nazi aptitude for keeping records. He was half turned, toward the pictures, and knew the gesture of uncertainty would be missed by Grüber. He'd been right in coming out of Russia, to reclaim it, decided Kurnov. It would have certainly meant his destruction. He turned back into the room.

“How was it that you got hold of the box?” he probed, gently.

Grüber played with the gun, smiling at the question.

“My luck,” he said, simply. “After years of almost starving … my luck finally changed …”

The mind was unlocked, realized Kurnov. There would be little need to prompt him.

“Only one man bothered about me, ever,” complained Grüber. “If it hadn't been for him, I'd have died … the rest of the family treated me like a maniac … somebody to be given money to go away, so I would not embarrass them …”

Kurnov sat, waiting patiently.

“Remember Fritz Grüber?” demanded the old man. “My cousin … the one in the camp …”

Kuraov frowned. There
had
been a relation, Kurnov recalled. Grüber had brought him into the laboratory in the very last year of the war, as soon as the boy had left university … a spotty, callow youth, who never said anything.

“It was the raid on the lake,” began Grüber again, obstusely. “Fritz is one of the forestry workers employed by the Austrian government to patrol the lake. It was he who found the bodies, early after the morning of the ambush. He's a quick boy … always was …”

He stopped, deflected by another recollection.

“… He's as nostalgic as me about the old days,” said Grüber. “He likes coming to this room and putting on the uniform. We sing the Hörst Wessel song and listen to the recorded speeches of the Führer …”

He had to be steered back, Kurnov knew.

“What did he do?” he prodded.

“He didn't panic, like the other idiot who eventually raised the alarm,” said Grüber, almost belligerently, like someone giving a character reference. “He guessed what had gone on. So he searched. The box was in just three feet of water …”

Grüber gazed maniacally through his one eye.

“There was almost half a million in gold in that box, as well as the files. It took him nearly a month to ferry all the stuff to me here. I couldn't believe my luck …”

Kurnov walked casually back to the chair.

“And then you began negotiations?” he encouraged.

Grüber's face began working, the triumphant smile that had constantly lurked near his mouth disappearing.

“No, Heinrich,” he corrected, his voice grating out. “Not negotiations … demands. After thirty years of hiding in slums, constantly frightened of discovery, knowing that around me are Nazis living in luxury, I decided to make insane demands and see they were met by everyone. I'm going to expose every Nazi still alive …”

“… Except me,” broke in Kurnov, eager to prevent the rising hysteria.

“… That's right, Heinrich. Except you. I've got something different decided for you …”

Kurnov began reaching for the bank draft, but the gun came up, unwaveringly. Kurnov stopped.

“It's the money,” he explained, gently. “Just the payment you want.”

“I want more than payment, Heinrich. Something much better than money.”

Kurnov waited, uneasily. The man's sanity was slipping, fast.

“I hate you, Heinrich,” announced Grüber. “I
know
you left me to die. I know you're lying when you say you tried to locate and help me. You were always the same, interested only in yourself …”

“… No, believe me …”

“Shut up,” yelled Grüber, enjoying the role of bully. Kuraov snapped his mouth closed.

“I decided on a very special retribution for you,” Grüber continued. “I remembered your arrogance … your incredible disregard for everyone … You're going to beg, Heinrich. You're going to go down on your knees, just like the Jews used to do, pleading with you to be spared. You won't like that, will you, Heinrich? You've never begged in your life, before.”

Grüber jerked the gun, like a blackboard pointer.

“Go on, Heinrich,” he ordered. “We don't even talk about money until you've gone down on your knees and told me how sorry you are.”

He'd kill him, decided Kurnov, calmly. Once he'd got every file, he'd strangle the man. It wouldn't be difficult, he thought. Grüber was obviously physically weak. The files were a worry, though.

Kurnov suddenly realized he hadn't seen any sign of them. As if aware of his thoughts, Grüber reached into a drawer, taking out the red-bound documents. The edges were blackened, the water-stain running unevenly around the edge. Even from where he was sitting, Kurnov could see the name “Heinrich Köllman” embossed deeply into the cover.

“There it is, Heinrich,” said the Nazi. “This is what you want. Now beg for it.”

“Kurnov sat, staring at it. Two steps, he thought. Just two steps and he could reach out to snatch it away.”

“I'm waiting,” goaded Grüber. “I'm waiting for your apology.”

There was no point in arguing with a sick mind, Kurnov knew. He'd managed almost to get control, like trying to tickle a trout from the side of the river bank. But always it slipped away from him. Now Grüber's insanity was unarguable, his mind locked by the imagined deprivation of three decades upon the humiliation of the man he believed responsible. He could only comply, remaining tense for the indications that the spasm was passing. Reluctantly, Kurnov got up from the chair, moving slightly back into the room. He stood there, the anger flooding through him. Grüber was right. He'd never begged to anyone.

“Down you go, Heinrich.”

Slowly, using the chair again as a support, Kurnov lowered himself to one knee.

“Both knees,” insisted Grüber, “And your hands together, as if you were praying, like the yids used to.”

Kurnov knelt completely, his hands gripped in front, knowing he had to adopt the posture the man had carried for so long in his mind.

“Now say ‘Please forgive me for abandoning the S.S. code of loyalty and leaving fellow Nazis to die …'”

Softly Kurnov began intoning the stupid diatribe.

“Louder!” shouted Grüber.

Kurnov halted, then started again, his voice higher.

“‘… And I solemnly swear my regret …,'” took up Grüber, waiting for Kurnov to follow.

“… ‘and reiterate my oath of allegiance to the glorious Führer and the Nazi party.'”

Kurnov finished and remained kneeling. Grüber's madness was far more severe than he had first estimated. His knees began to ache and his thigh hurt, but he knew he would have to wait until given permission to stand. Grüber had been too long deprived to miss a second of his retribution. The insanity was matched with cunning, thought Kurnov, crouched with his head slightly bowed. To catch the old man off-guard he would have to increase the movement toward the desk.

Grüber seemed reluctant to abandon the spectacle. But finally, after several minutes, he said, “You can get up now, Heinrich.”

Kurnov rose, easing gratefully into the chair.

“That's how I've been, since the war ended … since you abandoned me,” said Grüber. “Constantly on my knees, just to live. Not nice, is it, Heinrich?”

“No,” said Kurnov, honestly. For the moment, he would have to agree with everything. But it would soon change. Grüber had rehearsed the humiliating charade a dozen times, guessed Kurnov. But the apology would have been the highlight of the manic depression. As if in confirmation of the scientist's diagnosis, Grüber sat gazing at him, as if he expected Kurnov to say something. Time for a little more pressure, thought Kurnov.

“I've apologized,” he reminded. Perhaps it was a good idea still to exaggerate. “And I meant it. I'm sorry for everything I did to harm you … and the Party …”

This time the gun wasn't raised as he took the money draft from his pocket. His voice took on the coaxing tone one used upon a stubborn child. “And here's the money. You're going to give me the files, aren't you? You know the ones. Those that identify me … the one you showed me a few moments ago, identifying me with the Russian experiments. And those involving Bock. That's all I want.”

Grüber seemed to be receding in the chair opposite, exhausted by what had happened. He had been fueled too long by the need for revenge, assessed Kurnov. Now it had happened. Now he had seen the man his twisted mind hated groveling before him. Grüber suddenly pulled himself up, as if determined to regain control. It wouldn't be long now, judged Kurnov. Another thirty minutes … perhaps less. To recover his lapse, Grüber reached forward, taking a cigarette from an engraved box on the desk. Almost as an afterthought, he pushed it towards Kurnov. Recognizing the first chance to get nearer the desk, Kurnov accepted. Grüber snapped at the lighter, needing several attempts to light it, and then had to use both hands to hold it steady for Kurnov's cigarette.

Kurnov smiled his thanks, pulling the smoke into his lungs. It burned and he coughed slightly and then realized the sensation was not that of a different tobacco, but something else. His last moment of consciousness was as Grüber laughed aloud, an animal-like shout of triumph.

Frieden sat awkwardly in the Volkswagen, unused to small cars. But the discomfort was necessary. It was important not to attract attention. And a man sitting in a Mercedes or a Rolls might have been remembered later. Nobody would recall a parked Volkswagen in West Berlin. Ahead he saw a second Volkswagen pull into the street and stop. The former Standartenfünrer twisted in the seat. At the other end, he could detect the cigarette glow from inside a Ford. Good men, both of them, he thought. Once the Jew from the embassy had entered the street, they would stay with their vehicles, not sealing the thoroughfare, but alert for police cars or anything else that might impede the ambush. Frieden began to look along the street, isolating the loitering pedestrians who would form the squad the moment he gave the signal. They'd be enjoying it, he knew, welcoming the adrenalin driving through their bodies at the prospect of action after so long. Frieden wondered how many men would be in the apartment that had to be reached through the tiny courtyard opposite. Probably only two, he decided. Pity. Perhaps, he thought optimistically, the Israeli would ignore the instructions and arrive with accomplices. Frieden hoped so.

He brought the watch up close to his face. Eleven, the Bavarian had stipulated. It was seven minutes before the hour. Frieden felt the first twitch of nervousness, but was unconcerned by it. Anyone who didn't feel frightened before an action was a fool.

Lights glared in his interior mirror, the first indication of the arriving Jew. Frieden looked away, trying to huddle inside the parked car as the other vehicle approached from behind. The man drove slowly down the road, obviously seeking the address. He was late in identifying it, swinging over abruptly against the pavement. He had to reverse, then go forward again to park properly. Frieden smiled; the man drove a Volkswagen, too, without any C.D. insignia. How careful they were all being! For a few seconds, the Israeli sat unmoving. He'd be scared, decided Frieden. He searched for any companions, but the car was empty. The guards at either end of the street would watch for any followers.

Slowly the embassy man got from his car, hauling the heavy briefcase from the passenger seat. That money would come in useful for Organization funds, thought Frieden, smiling again. And it would pay for a celebration party, too. It was gestures like that which bound soldiers to their offices. Yes, there would definitely be a party. They would have every reason to celebrate.

The Jew hesitated at the opening into the darkened courtyard, confirming the number, then entered. Frieden waited for just three minutes, keeping strictly to the plan that had been formulated in his apartment. Then he got out of the vehicle, pausing for the action to be a signal. Immediately the squad formed along the street. Six got out of three separate cars in which they would later escape. Seven moved from shop doorways, and from apparently aimless promenading. Frieden reached the entrance to the courtyard first and stared in, seeking the light. The entrance was in complete darkness. He looked back. The road was utterly deserted. The Bavarian had chosen well.

“Now,” he whispered, and moved into the courtyard with the men following tightly behind. Their eyes grew used to the darkness. It was a cobbled area, dotted with dustbins and backyard debris of the flat-dwellers who lived around it. There were inner balconies, so none of the apartments directly overlooked the middle area. Ahead, the apartment entrance was a rectangle of dull light. Frieden went toward it.

The pudgy Nazi died first, the silenced bullet hitting him with a dull slap directly in the middle of the forehead, throwing him back into the men behind him. Immediately the other hidden guns began firing and, because each one was silenced, the Nazi squad stumbled in momentary confusion, imagining their own men were shooting, but unable to identify the target.