Man Who Wanted Tomorrow (29 page)

It had happened, just as Mavetsky had feared.

“How can he have vanished?” demanded Shepalin.

Mavetsky looked away, refusing to meet the chairman's accusation. No one else came to help. Bastards.

“Too many things are happening that we can't tie together,” said the minister, desperately. Responsibility was being directed against him from every side, he knew. The entire Praesidium had decided he should be the scapegoat. Suvlov had even been sent back to Berlin, not arrested and put into a camp, as Mavetsky had expected.

“Every Nazi from whom we might have got a lead has been killed,” added Mavetsky.

“I
want
Russia to be in a position of handing Kurnov over,” insisted Shepalin. “We've scored an enormous propaganda victory so far. It must continue.”

“I'll try,” shrugged Mavetsky, hopelessly. But he couldn't, he knew. There was nothing he could do. Nothing at all. Except hope that the agents he'd flooded into the city would stumble across something.

“You'd better,” warned Shepalin, softly.

(21)

It was an agonizing pain, reaching deep into his unconsciousness, driving through his head. He struggled, trying to escape, but he was pinned firmly down. He could feel the hands upon his arms and legs and others holding his head, preventing almost any movement. He shouted and tried to twist away, realizing his ear lobes were being squeezed, to make him awaken. He didn't want to wake up. He wanted to sleep, forever. Go away, please let me sleep, he thought. Still the searing pain continued.

Initially his eyes fogged, refusing to see. Then the light penetrated and he heard the familiar voice and blinked, fixing his vision.

There were four around the bed, moving away from him now he was conscious. Perez was at the bottom, smiling down.

“We can't allow sleep, can we, Heinrich?” he said, mocking. “Amazing how quickly the human body and mind can recover, after a little sleep. You established that years ago, didn't you? There's too many people looking for you to let you hide away here.”

Kurnov began moaning, head shaking his refusal to accept their presence.

“… Alone,” he pleaded. “Leave me alone. I'm sorry … really … very sorry … it was orders … I did everything under orders … didn't want to do it he … made to, by the S.S. If I hadn't, they would have killed me … had to obey orders …”

Perez and Mosbacher exchanged looks. The burly Israeli seemed disgusted, not by the man on the bed, but by what was happening in the room. There was a fifth person there, realized Kurnov, standing back against the door. There was a hand-held movie camera recording everything.

“A genuine murder, Heinrich,” went on Perez, ignoring Mosbacher's criticism. Always that goading, jeering tone, thought Kurnov. He hunched himself away from the psychiatrist, drawing his knees in front of him and locking his arms around them, so that bis body was clenched into a fetal position.

“… No …” he said. “… Please no … just kill me … please kill me … please.”

“… You made people run under greater stress than this, Heinrich,” said Perez, remorselessly. “You know you did …”

“… How …?”

Perez laughed, confident now of his absolute control.

“We never lost you, Heinrich. There were three on the platform, not two. We followed you all the time. Not that we had to. We've known about Gerda for years … Saw you follow her here days ago. It was obviously the place where you'd go to ground.”

He tossed an object in his hand.

“We even had a key to the apartment,” he said.

Mosbacher moved at the side of the bed, anxious to quit the room.

“I hope you're finally satisfied,” said Mosbacher, to Perez. “Now you've done exactly what that swine practiced years ago.”

Perez's smile died and he looked up at his friend.

“Your family died in the same way,” he reminded.

Mosbacher looked at Perez, contemptuously. “This isn't the way I want them avenged,” he said.

He moved away, toward the door. “We'd better go.”

Perez paused, uncertain whether to continue the argument, looking at his watch.

“We've telephoned the police, Heinrich,” he said, coming back to the man on the bed. “… like any good neighbor who had heard screams and indications of a struggle …”

They began moving from the room.

“… I'd say you've got about ten minutes to get out … just ten minutes to start running again …” concluded Perez.

Kurnov stared up at his tormentor, who laughed from the doorway. At that moment, Kurnov's mind snapped. He threw back his head and let out a long, wailing scream, more animal than human.

“Satisfied now?” demanded Mosbacher, sickened. Perez didn't reply, leading the party from the flat.

“Orderly!”

Where the hell was the man? Not the first time he'd had to be disciplined. It was incredible how everyone was reacting, just because of a minor setback on the Eastern Front and an isolated reversal in Normandy. The Führer had told them the truth … reinforcements were being drafted into the areas. By winter, all the ground would be recovered and more besides. They'd spend Christmas in Moscow … by spring, the invasion of England would be launched. Then the doubters would regret their cowardice. Names were being collected, he knew. Lists already existed. The Führer would have his revenge, just like he had after the July outrage in 1944.

“Orderly!”

He looked around the room frowning, unable to recognize it. Where was he? He saw for the first time that he was naked, and instinctively covered himself with a sheet. Everything was cheap and shabby. He giggled. A whore's bedroom. That was it. He must be in a whore's room. No wonder the orderly wasn't there. Bloody schnapps. Impossible to remember anything after a few schnapps. He looked around for his clothes. Dirty bitch must have stolen them. He got off the bed, wondering why he felt so weak. Amazing. Almost impossible to walk. He lurched into the living room, holding the door-edge for support. It looked familiar, but he couldn't recall why he should know it.

“Anyone here?”

He stared down at Gerda's crumpled figure on the bathroom floor, stirring it with his foot. Who was she? With difficulty, he tugged the towel from around her head. Been strangled, he diagnosed, professionally, looking at the contorted, swollen face. She was very old. Surely he hadn't gone with her? Definitely have to stop drinking so much. Played havoc with the memory. Everyone drank a lot now. Cowardly. Far too many people running and drinking. Even denying membership of the Party. But the Führer knew. He had the lists. Embarrassing to be found in a room with a dead whore, he decided. Despite everything, law and order still existed in the capital. Quite right, too. Where was his uniform? He saw clothing on the bathroom chair and picked it up, distastefully. Not his, surely? Filthy, smelly shirt and suit. And civilian, too. Not his. Couldn't be. Have to wear something, though. He would be recognized by all the guards at the camp. They'd know better than to try to stop him. No trouble to get admitted without a uniform. He carried the clothing into the main room and started to dress. God, how it smelled! Appeared to fit, though. His face crumpled as his mind tried to grasp reality, but it eluded him, like hurrying images seen through a fog. Sure he knew the room. And the woman, lying over there. Always the fog swirled when he thought he was about to remember. He looked down at himself, offended by the suit, feeling through the pockets, seeking identification. He pulled the Russian passport from his pocket and stared at it. “Vladimir Kurnov,” he read, moving to the picture. Sure he knew the man. Positive. Damn the difficulty in remembering. Definitely have to stop drinking. Wouldn't be good to have a Russian document in his possession, he thought. Sign of a traitor. Get his name on one of the Führer's lists that way. He tossed it on the couch. Better get out, It was very confusing. Obviously dangerous to stay. Time he got back.

He went out into the passageway, moving slowly, seeking the exit. He walked with his shoulder brushing the wall, grateful for the support. He was ill, he decided. So difficult to move. See a doctor when he got back. Working too hard. That was the problem. Too few left like himself prepared any more to work hard, to make the effort when it was necessary.

He stumbled, stiff-legged, down the stairs, stopping several times to recover his breath, careless of the noise. He felt sick, too. Probably the drink.

“Hey.”

He turned at the shout, seeing the woman gazing at him over the counter. The Madam, he decided. Wonder if he'd paid. Bound to have done. Wouldn't have let him into the brothel otherwise.

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

Who did she think she was talking to? Didn't know her place. No one did any more. He jerked his arm upwards, vaguely, not bothering to answer her.

“I want to know …,” began the woman, then stopped. “Oh my God …” she said, the words jumping from her. She groped backwards into the doorway of her tiny office, holding the edge as if she were about to dodge behind it. He smiled. So she'd recognized him. About time. He had intended taking the address and reporting the brothel to the local S.S. office. Wouldn't now. No point in causing unnecessary difficulty. She'd been lucky, though. Never know how lucky she'd been. Everyone had their names on lists these days.

He pushed his hands over his civilian clothes.

“Misplaced my uniform,” he said. No wonder she hadn't recognized him immediately as an officer, dressed like this. He smiled, openly.

“Don't worry,” he said. “Won't report you.”

Why were his thoughts and words coming so disjointed? he wondered. Bloody alcohol. Definitely have to stop.

She cringed further back into her room, watching him cross the small vestibule to the door. Immediately outside in the street, he stopped, looking around in bewilderment, unable to recognize anything. Berlin? Yes, definitely Berlin, he thought, going slowly up the Duisburgerstrasse toward Brandenburgische.

Vaguely he heard the sound of sirens. Probably an ambulance going to the scene of another cowardly air-attack upon innocent civilians. When the setbacks had been overcome and they'd occupied London, the Führer intended putting on trial the people who had ordered the indiscriminate bombing of civilian targets, he knew.

He turned, seeing vehicles arrive far down the road. Was it the Madam, gesturing? He couldn't see. Too far away.

On the main thoroughfare, his confusion grew. What had happened? No uniforms. And the lights. Too many lights. Hadn't they heard of the blackout? No wonder there were the sounds of so many ambulances. Impossible for bombers to miss targets like this. Why no uniforms? Discarded, that was it. Everyone was throwing away their uniforms and running. Cowards, all cowards.

“Cowards,” he shouted, aloud.

There were sniggers, but no one stopped. In the Kurfürstendamm he stood, watching the swirl of cars and people. The Führer should know. He'd tell him. The Führer had always liked him, inviting him to the Bunker and to Berchtesgaden. Even called him the architect of the super race. Yes, he'd tell him. There had to be lists. That was the way to keep discipline. Impose the regulations and laws. Keep lists.

He heard the sirens again and looked around, trying to isolate the burning buildings. Must be several streets away, he decided. Main roads would be jammed, he thought, with fire engines and rescue vehicles. He moved into the side streets, moving surely through the darkened road, squinting at the lights. Momentarily the fog in his mind receded and he huddled against the wall, frightened without knowing the reason. Then it swept in again. He pushed away from the wall, surprised to find himself there. From an adjoining street, he heard the metallic voice of a public address system and thought he caught a name he remembered. “… Kurnov …” he heard. He stopped, making a conscious effort to recollect, then shook his head, dismissively. Didn't matter. Had to tell the Führer about the relaxation of the regulations. Across the darkened street he saw people hurrying and nodded. The half-heard announcement would have been from the radio street-van, warning them to prepare for another air-raid, he guessed. Have to hurry. Had to reach the Bunker before the raid started. Mustn't get delayed. Führer had to know. The vans were nearer now, enabling odd words to be heard.

“… Murder … avoid approach …”

It
was
murder. Cold-blooded murder. Why didn't they turn off their lights? Idiots. Not taking proper precautions. Keep away from tottering buildings. Turn off the lights. They'd be avenged, though. Lists were being prepared. Ahead he saw a jumble of cars. Road blocks. Damn. Dangerous buildings, probably. No papers. And the Führer had to be warned. He dodged into an alley. The darkened office buildings would have an exit into the next street. Bound to have. Complete darkness. Impossible to see. He crashed forward, into rubbish bins. Didn't matter. Good blackout. Important. Less possibility of getting him. Shouts around him. Brave, these civilian firemen. Landwehr, too. Risked death every night. He'd tell the Führer. Important to praise. Good for morale. He emerged on to a parallel street, sighing. Not blocked. Understandable. Too many men needed for reinforcements. Even forming units from foreign nationals now. Didn't agree with that. Tainted the purity of the cause. Didn't matter. Only a temporary measure. Führer knew what he was doing.

Potsdamerplatz. He smiled, recognizing the thoroughfare. Not far from the bunker now. Quieter here. To be expected, obviously. Essential to guarantee the blackout, so near the Bunker.

All around were the tall, deserted buildings, blinded by their bricked-up windows. Hadn't known they were bricking up houses for protection. Couldn't see the point. Must remember to ask why. He was suddenly confronted by the Wall and stood, confused again. Berlin. Not Buchenwald. So why the wall? Didn't make sense. He went closer, touching the rough breeze-blocks, like a blind man trying to determine his surroundings. Wasn't his camp. Just barbed wire there. The administration and research buildings were concrete, certainly, but they were inside the wire. And he hadn't come through the gate. Had he? He frowned, unable to remember, turning to look behind him. No. Certainly not. He was going to the Bunker, not the camp. Going to the Bunker. To warn the Führer. Protective wall. That was it. They'd built a protective wall around the Bunker. Couldn't remember it being there before. When was his last visit? He pressed his head against the concrete. Couldn't remember. Didn't matter. Protective wall. Very sensible. He began groping along, seeking an opening. No break. Climb over, that was it. Get into the inner compound. No danger. He was well known. They'd recognize him, without identification. First name terms with all of them. He began dragging upwards, feeling for handholds in the rough brickwork, grunting as his fingers slipped, splitting the nails. It had happened before, recently, he thought. Where had he climbed recently? Wouldn't come. Bloody schnapps. He fell twice, skinning his shins the second time. He sat slumped at the bottom of the wall, limbs weighted by tiredness.