Man Who Wanted Tomorrow (24 page)

Kurnov was soaked in perspiration. The sour smell of his own body came up at him, disgustingly. At least he wasn't going to be tortured, physically, he thought. There were merely going to hand him over to the authorities. Somehow, it seemed almost an anti-climax. Inexplicably, he felt suddenly happy. He tried to control the emotion, recognizing the ski-slope of hysteria.

“So there you are, Heinrich,” finished Perez. “You're completely exposed … fingerprints, that confirm you are Heinrich Köllman, on a gun that killed at least two people tonight … an admitted slaughterer of Jews and Russians … wanted by West Berlin and Moscow …”

Kurnov dragged his face up to the other man, realizing he had not finished.

“And now we're going to let you go,” announced Perez, simply.

Kurnov searched, unable to form the words. Again the head shook.

“Yes, Heinrich,” pressed the psychiatrist, “I intend you to suffer. Don't you remember what one of your early experiments showed? That the human acceptance of knowing there is nothing a man can do to avoid disaster is one of the most horrifying of mental pressures? That's what it was like at the camps, Heinrich. That was the most insidious torture of all, knowing that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that anybody could do to avoid whatever fate you decided for them. And that's what's going to happen to you. You're as imprisoned as if you were an inmate of Dachau or Buchenwald. There's no way you can get out of this encircled city. The West Germans are looking for you … the Russians want you … probably a few surviving Nazis, too, if they can group themselves again. All of them, chasing you …”

Perez nodded, and Kurnov felt the manacles being removed.

“So now you can run, Heinrich. You can run, to try to hide, like the Jews did when you came into the camps, looking for a fresh consignment of guinea pigs. There won't be a moment when you can relax, Heinrich. The pictures taken here tonight will be released, showing your new face. Which is hardly necessary; Russia has made photographs available. They'll be in
Bild Zeitung
and
B-Z
and
Die Welt
and every other newspaper circulating in the city. There'll be massive coverage on both
A R D
channels, so anyone who has a television set will recognize you. By tonight, there won't be anybody in West Berlin who doesn't know what your face looks like. Imagine that, Heinrich! You'll be just like the Jews … hunted wherever you go …”

Kurnov slipped off the chair, kneeling in the room for the second time.

“No,” he pleaded. “Please God, no.”

He reached out, imploringly, and Perez stared down at him.

“I had one doubt, about the entire operation,” said the Israeli. “I never thought, once I'd captured you, that I'd be able to hold back from hurting you, physically. But I can. I can because I know exactly what I'm going to do and I know it's causing more pain than any physical torture would.”

He nodded, and Kurnov felt himself jerked up. “You've still got all your Russian documents in your pockets,” said Perez, evenly. “And I've left you with two marks. That's a personal gesture. That's exactly what I had, when I came out of Buchenwald …”

He waved the bank-drafts that Kurnov had handed over, hours before.

“And thanks for the £3,000,000,” he said “Such a present to yids from a Nazi like you!”

He turned away, exhausted.

“Put him in the street,” he ordered. “Let him start running.”

Kurnov's legs buckled and he tried to get back on to the floor, but the men held him easily, dragging his feet over the concrete.

Suddenly Perez spoke again. “Of course, you'll try to explain everything, when you're finally caught,” he said, not bothering to turn back to the man. “In an hour, this room will be what it always has been, a cellar. Our own forensic experts are going to clean it, so there'll be no evidence to support your story. The owner is a Jew, of course. He'll be amazed at any inquiries put to him. There's no way to prove your innocence, Heinrich. No way at all.”

Mosbacher paused, leaving the others initially to drag Kurnov from the room.

From the minute vestibule came the sound of Kurnov, whimpering.

“I was right,” said Mosbacher, positively. “There was no justification for doing it this way.”

Perez turned to reply, but Mosbacher had already left the room.

Gerda Pöhl stood at her accustomed place at the window that morning, overlooking Duisburgerstrasse, drinking her coffee. He wouldn't come now, she thought. Herr Muntz had made a mistake. She'd benefited from it, though, she decided, walking into the bedroom and looking at the still-unworn suit. She'd put it on, she thought, when she visited Heini's grave at the weekend. And then linger over her coffee on the Kurfürstendamn, so that her new clothes would be noticed. She went into the kitchen, rinsed the cup and saucer and left them to drain, pausing before the refrigerator. She opened it, looking guiltily inside. She'd rationed herself to three slices a day, but it was nearly all gone, she saw. Heinrich had liked ham so much, she remembered.

The first injection three days before had made him sick. But then Bock, who had been cured of his heroin addiction five years earlier, had expected it. But it was better now. It was a wonderful sensation, like being supported on fluffy clouds. Nothing could hurt him or get to him, through the protection of the clouds, he thought, lying back in his apartment. He would control it this time, he told himself. It wouldn't get out of hand, like five years ago, threatening to interfere with his work.

He'd be sensible, restricting the injections. No more than three a day. It was stupid for doctors to argue about dependence leading to greater and greater doses. Three a day, that's all. The effect of the fix was subsiding, he recognized. Reality was coming at him, through the clouds, like seeing land far below an incoming aircraft. He wondered where Kurnov was: the conference ended today. He had expected contact. He
had
to know whether the Russian had recovered the contents of the box: his life might quite literally depend upon it. He looked at his watch. Nine-thirty. If there had been no call by eleven, he would have to go to the hotel, he knew. The prospect frightened him. He'd take another injection, he decided. It would be in addition to the number to which he had rationed himself, but there was a particular reason. He wouldn't do it again. Just this once. There wouldn't be any danger.

He jumped, startled, when the telephone rang. Kurnov, he decided, his mind still fogged. Smiling, he picked up the receiver, then winced at the Bavarian accent.

“It's all over, Helmut,” said Perez, at the other end. “Frieden's dead … they're all dead … Kurnov's been exposed and is trying to escape … the police know everything. They'll be coming for you soon. Run, Helmut, run.”

The surgeon stared down at the dead phone, then threw it away from him, as if it were contaminated with some infectious virus.

He dashed across the room, then stopped, frightened, not knowing why he was doing it. He needed another injection, he thought immediately, turning towards the bathroom. Then he halted, positively. Heroin wasn't any good now. How they'd laugh and sneer, all those people who had sought his friendship and demanded secrecy for their operations. From outside the apartment, he heard the distant sound of a siren. Police car or ambulance? It was impossible to isolate. That's how they'd come, he thought. Several carloads of police, forcing their way into the apartment or even worse, into the clinic, jostling and pushing him, anxious for it to be seen how they treated Nazis.

He turned away from the bathroom. He began to sob, and bite his lips together. The veranda doors stuck, and he had to pull several times before they slid aside. The sudden cold contrasted with the central heating of the apartment and made him gasp. He stood for several minutes, staring out over the skyline of Berlin. He shouldn't look down, he thought. If he looked down, he'd get frightened. And he couldn't stand there too long, either, otherwise he'd be driven back by the same fear. He tried breathing deeply, several times, but the emotion began to build up, breaking it into the sobs that had started as he crossed the lounge inside. Abruptly he grabbed the edge of the balcony, hesitated momentarily at the coldness of the metal, then vaulted over.

Far below, the waiting Israeli saw the body spreadeagle, then flutter down, as if it were flying. It seemed to take a long time to reach the ground.

He sighed, shaking his head. It was amazing, he thought, that Perez had so correctly assessed the behavior of everyone. Strange how Mosbacher was objecting to it.

(19)

He screamed, once, as they half-carried him through the courtyard, his feet still dragging the ground in protest. It was Mosbacher who stifled the shout for help.

“Go ahead,” he said, from the left where he was supporting him. “Make everyone look, Heinrich.”

The scientist was shoved, stumbling, into the Mercedes, which was already moving off before he struggled upright. They sat flanking him, looking straight ahead.

He tugged at Mosbacher's arm, desperately. “I've got money. A lot of money. You can have it, all of it. Just help me.”

“I remember my mother saying something like that to the Nazis who took us away,” Mosbacher goaded.

Kurnov's fear overrode the rebuke. “Where are you taking me? What are you going to do? You must tell me.”

The scientist began staring left and right from the vehicle, anxious for landmarks. Suddenly he started to tremble, uncontrollably, like a man without clothes in a snowstorm. The men either side of him turned and smiled at the nervous reaction.

“It often starts like that, Heinrich,” said Mosbacher.

He couldn't recognize anything, the scientist realized. The Berlin he had known had disappeared, along with an ideology.

He felt the speed decrease and saw the Mercedes pulling into the curb. He strained out, looking for the indications of an official building. A police station. Or a Justice Ministry, he thought, forgetting in his apprehension that Bonn was the capital. He looked out on an ordinary street, full of shops and people.

Mosbacher turned.

“Time to learn what it's like to be a Jew, Heinrich,” he said. “Start running.”

Kurnov tried to push himself back into the seat, his feet braced against the floor, but they pushed him forward from both sides and the passenger in the front seat leaned across, grasping the front of his coat. The driver got out and opened the door and reached in, too, pulling at his overcoat lapels. Kurnov grabbed at the door pillar. Behind Mosbacher said, quite calmly, “People will start looking at you soon, Heinrich.”

The driver, less controlled than the other men, said, “Let go that pillar, you bastard. Or I'll slam the door and break your hands.”

The man wanted to hurt him, Kurnov realized, his face only inches away. He let go and was expelled from the car in a rush, almost falling on the pavement. He swiveled, only half recovered and saw the Mercedes already moving off. He opened his mouth to shout, then stopped. People
were
looking, he realized. He stood tensed, awaiting for the first yell of recognition. What would they do? Hit him? Or merely stand around, staring, until the authorities arrived? They'd panic, he decided, reacting with the customary mentality, driven to mob violence. They'd beat him. He was sure of it.

Nothing happened. The people who had glanced casually as he fell from the car looked away. Momentarily, unable to understand it, he stood in the center of the pavement as people washed around him. Then he realized the conspicuousness. Like a suddenly blinded man walking for the first time, Kurnov went to the side of the pavement and began to edge along, keeping close to the walls of buildings, as if they would provide protection. Hide, he told himself. He had to hide. Thank God it was winter and they had allowed him his overcoat. He shrugged the collar closer around him, burrowing his chin low into it. Good enough, he reasoned. No one was going to take too much notice of a man huddled against the winter. He saw a street sign and looked up, anxiously. Dachdecker Weg. He was still in Buckow. They'd just driven around aimlessly, to confuse his sense of direction. There was a park nearby, he remembered. That would be the place to go. Neukölln Park. On the streets, he was close to people. In an open space, there would be safety. Goaded scientifically to the point of mental collapse, he snatched at omens, as he had when he first arrived in the city. He'd been on the streets for fifteen minutes, he calculated. And no one had even glanced at him. Perhaps the Jew had been lying. Perhaps the whole story had been an invention, a clumsy rather than clever attempt to break him. That was it. He had been bluffed out of Russia and now they had tried to trick him into a complete mental breakdown by extending the delusion. He'd even conducted such experiments himself, in Buchenwald. Perez had said he was following the precedents he had established. That was it. Another trick. But he was sure he could defeat them. Easy, he warned himself, the elation filling him. Too much confidence would be dangerous. He gripped his hands inside the pockets of the overcoat. That was irrational thinking: exactly what had to be avoided. He could only survive by being cleverer than they were. His advantage was knowing in minute detail what they had done. And what they hoped to achieve by having done it. They were trying to drive him insane. And as he knew it, he could resist them and win.

He recognized again the rehearsal and timing that had gone into Perez's explanation. Every word and every action had been calculated to the last degree of stress, to tilt him off his mental balance. But they'd overlooked one important factor. Clever men always did. They'd ignored the fact that he was a psychiatrist, someone perhaps better trained than Perez. Definitely better trained, he assured himself. Certainly in behavioral stress.