Man Who Wanted Tomorrow (8 page)

At least the time-wasting of lunchtime diplomatic receptions could be limited, thought Mavetsky. One could always plead work waiting back at the office and escape after an hour. He accepted the need to attend, of course, now that Russia was pursuing its
détente
with the West, but he always felt vaguely uncomfortable in such crowded conditions. He liked small gatherings, where he was able to observe people, assessing their attitudes and behavior. At receptions, he always had an unavoidable suspicion that he was being studied and reported upon. Often he looked back with regret to the Stalinist era, when the approval of the outside world was so disdained. Now it seemed the Politburo would hardly move without first considering the reaction of Washington, London or Bonn.

He saw the American ambassador moving towards him and fixed a smile of greeting. Since the space co-operation programme, both sides were going to extreme lengths to prove their friendliness.

“Good party,” opened the American.

“Yes,” agreed Mavetsky.

“I hear you've decided to go to Houston for the launch.”

Mavetsky nodded. “I thought it would be interesting to view it from the other side,” he said. He took a drink from a, passing tray.

“Our people are looking forward to coming here,” assured the American.

Diplomatic small talk was boring, decided Mavetsky.

“There will be a reception for them,” he promised the diplomat. “We are looking forward to the exchange.”

The American sighed, as bored as the other man.

“The West Germans aren't here,” he said, looking around the room. Since Brandt's policy of
Ostpolitik
had enabled the opening of a West German embassy in Moscow, its occupants had attended every conceivable diplomatic function, anxious to establish contacts.

“No,” agreed Mavetsky, disinterested.

“Wonder if it's anything to do with this Berlin business,” gossiped the other man.

Mavetsky felt like a traveler attracted to a safe path by the summoning of a distant bell.

“What Berlin business?” he asked.

The ambassador looked directly at the minister. Surely he knew about the Israeli announcement.

“The Lake Toplitz affair,” enlarged the ambassador. “Jerusalem has disclosed an approach from someone purporting to have the missing ammunition box. It could contain enough Nazi records to start a whole new witch-hunt.”

“Yes?” prompted Mavetsky.

“Apparently the contact was made in Berlin,” went on the American. “Wasn't that ironic?”

The Russian nodded. His stomach felt hollow. Suddenly there was a wave of nausea and he swallowed. Kurnov had hardly talked on the flight home from America, he recalled, hunched over the same page in the
New York Times
recounting the Israeli press conference that had followed the commando raid into Austria.

“I bet there's a few nervous men in Berlin today,” speculated the American.

“Yes,” agreed the minister. “I'm sure there will be.”

The waiter returned and paused expectantly. Mavetsky replaced his empty glass, but did not take another. He made a show of consulting his watch.

“Forgive me,” he excused himself. “A busy afternoon …”

He almost ran into his Kremlin office, startling the secretary who hadn't expected his return for another hour, yelling as he passed for a transcript of the overlooked Israeli announcement and for Kurnov's file. For thirty minutes, he studied the folder he had examined a week earlier and again reached the same conclusion. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that prompted investigation. He read what had been said in the Jewish parliament, tapping it with his finger, then pushed it away, the conviction growing within him. He had survived Stalin and Khrushchev to reach his present position, he remembered. Several times he had faced purges and on every occasion he had avoided disaster by reacting upon instinct and anticipating any investigation. Had he waited then for positive evidence, as he was doing now like some junior, inexperienced clerk, he would have long ago been incarcerated in a labor camp. The Knesset declaration was the link, he determined. He consulted his desk diary, then double-checked by telephoning the Academy of Science. Kurnov had departed for Berlin an hour before.

Impatiently, Mavetsky jiggled the telephone rest, clearing the line. When the bewildered secretary replied, he demanded an immediate connection to the commanding officer of the Russian contingent forming part of the Four-Power presence in Berlin. As he sat, waiting for the call to arrive, he saw his hands were shaking.

He'd have to be very careful, he decided. If he were wrong, it could result in the purge he had always managed to avoid. The telephone rang, but he hesitated before answering it, staring at the button that would automatically record the conversation. Would it ever be needed, to produce to the Politburo? There was no way of knowing. Determinedly he pressed the record mechanism and picked up the receiver.

(7)

Bock felt very tired. It was fortunate, he thought, there was only one small operation planned for that afternoon. Afterwards he would spend an hour in the sauna, he decided, and then at least another hour on the massage couch. He was too old for such sexual athletics, he thought, ruefully. The door opened and Bock looked up, irritably, at the woman he'd instructed not to disturb him. She was a plump, matronly woman, chosen precisely for her lack of sexual attractiveness. She was, however, a remarkably efficient personal secretary.

“What?” he demanded, rudely.

“There's a telephone call …” she started, but he cut her off, exasperated.

“In God's name,” he shouted. “I told you no calls … no interruptions. Don't you realize I'm unwell?”

She looked at him, unconcerned.

“I told him that,” she replied. “But he is incredibly persistent. It took him fifteen minutes to persuade the switchboard to put him through to me. He keeps saying that if he's kept from speaking to you, we'll all be dismissed when you eventually discover what we've done.”

“I don't want to know anything about it,” dismissed Bock. “You handle it.”

He turned away, expecting the woman to leave. Pain swelled in his head and his groin ached. He wondered what excuse he could make that night.

“I said you never took personal calls … that everything was arranged through junior doctors and assistants …” continued the woman, remaining where she was.

He swung back, tight-faced with anger.

“… He told me to mention the name Hugo Becker,” the woman hurried on. “Do we know anyone called Hugo Becker?”

Bock stared at her, slack-mouthed. A numbness spread over him, like one of the anaesthetics that render unconsciousness without the distress of the old-fashioned face-mask. Realizing how he must look to the woman, he brought both hands up, cupping his chin, trying to cover his face. The secretary looked at him, worriedly. She hadn't believed him that morning when he had complained of being ill. He certainly looked it now. It was hardly surprising. He worked so hard.

“I'm sorry,” she said, belatedly, accepting her mistake. “I'll get rid of him …”

“No!”

He'd shouted, Bock realized, embarrassed. It had been over thirty years since he had heard the name with which he had been christened.

“No,” he repeated, quieter this time. He breathed deeply, trying to regain control.

“I'll take the call.”

The woman looked at him, uncertainly. “Are you sure …?”

“I said I'd take it!” He'd shouted again.

She went from the room, frowning. Within seconds, the light on the telephone console glowed and he reached for the receiver, holding it delicately, as if it might burn. He put it to his ear, but said nothing. There was silence for several seconds and then a voice said, inquiringly, “Hello?”

It was guttural German, recognized Bock. Bavarian, perhaps.

“Yes,” he said. His own voice was thin and strained.

“Who is this?” demanded the caller.

“Bock,” identified the surgeon. “Helmut Bock.”

There was a laugh.

“Really?” queried the voice.

“Who are you?” demanded Bock, his voice growing stronger. “I …”

“… Be quiet.” said the caller and Bock stopped talking.

“You've feared this call, Dr. Becker, haven't you? Ever since 1945, you've been frightened that one day the real identity of the famous Dr. Bock would be discovered.”

The surgeon hunched over his desk, feeling numbness edge over him again.

“And now it's happened, Dr. Becker. Now it's happened.”

The caller used the name like an obscenity, almost spitting it out.

“I know you're Dr. Becker,” insisted the voice. “I know all about what you did in Buchenwald. And I know something else. I know how close you were to Köllman. Won't that be embarrassing when the details of the Toplitz box get out?”

It
was
a Bavarian accent, decided Bock. He was almost certain of it.

“Tell me who you are,” repeated the surgeon, weakly.

There was another laugh.

“I'm the one who was abandoned, Dr. Becker. I'm the one who suffered when the rats ran.”

The surgeon frowned, unable to comprehend what he was being told.

“What do you want?”

“Money, Dr. Becker. I want money that's been kept from me for thirty years.”

Köllman? Was it Köllman on the telephone? Hope surged through him. Was that why he had mentioned the name, as a clue?

“Heinrich? Is that you, Heinrich?”

The laugh came again, quite humorless.

“Oh no, Dr. Becker. This isn't Köllman. But he's got to come out of hiding, like they all have, hasn't he? We both know that, don't we?”

The surgeon pushed his knuckles into his aching forehead, trying to concentrate upon the thoughts fluttering through his mind like discarded paper blowing in the wind.

“Look. I don't understand …”

“I don't expect you do,” interrupted the caller. “It's bound to be a shock, isn't it?”

He'd pay, decided Bock. He had Köllman's money. It would be easy if it were only money. He could pay anything the man wanted.

“Tell me what you want,” he repeated, his mind locked on a single thought.

“Have you realized something?” said the caller, ignoring the question. “Have you realized what's happened since the yids announced that the Lake Toplitz box was here? Everyone's after it, Dr. Becker. Everyone.”

Bock's mouth moved, but the question wouldn't form. He wished the man would stop using his real name.

The voice went on, “It's going to be an auction. I don't care who gets it. I've contacted the Israeli embassy and got the yids over here in force. The Nazis are after it, ready to pay any money. And you've got to come running, too, haven't you?”

“I …”

“Shut up, Becker,” said the Bavarian, his voice suddenly harsh. “I could get you killed. You know that, don't you? And there's only one way you're going to stay alive. And that's by paying to do so. You'd better start raising the money. And quickly …”

“Let's meet,” urged Bock, quickly. “We can't talk on the telephone, like this. Tell me how I can meet you … I can come right away.”

That contemptuous laugh sounded again.

“Oh, you'll come,” said the caller. “I know you'll come. It'll be fun making you run, Dr. Becker …”

The line went dead. Initially Bock didn't realize that the receiver had been replaced and then, when it registered, he almost whimpered with frustration. He put down the instrument and sat gazing at it. Oh God, he thought. Oh dear God, please help.

“We've forgotten the doctor,” said Frieden, suddenly. Muntz, sitting opposite the millionaire in the office block in Ludwigsfelderstrasse, jumped at the exclamation. His chest hurt him, very badly. That morning he had started coughing blood again. It was a long time since that had happened. He should get treatment, he knew. Perhaps he would, when this was all over.

“Who?”

“Becker, the plastic surgeon …” the property man snapped his fingers, impatiently. “You know … he calls himself Bock now.”

The lawyer frowned. “What would he know?”

“Nothing, probably,” agreed Frieden, annoyed at the other man's refusal to accept the point. “But think it through. It was Bock who performed the operation on Köllman, wasn't it? He treated a lot of important people whose faces might have been embarrassing.”

The fat man fingered his own cheek, remembering. It hadn't been absolutely necessary. But there was a slight risk and he had decided the operation was a sensible precaution. Frieden was seized by the recollection. “Good God,” he said. “It was Bock who volunteered the information about Köllman. Don't you remember? It was too late, by several years, to serve any useful purpose. But it was not Bock's fault. He hadn't known we were looking for the man.”

Muntz still looked puzzled.

“Think of it,” encouraged the millionaire. “That means Bock was the last person in Berlin to have any contact with Köllman.”

“So?”

Frieden looked at Muntz worriedly. The lawyer was obviously very ill, he thought. His mind was refusing to function.

“Think what it means, Manfred,” he coaxed, gently. “If Köllman comes back to get the records, as we know he must, then who is he going to contact? He won't approach us. He knows what we'd do to him. He won't know where his wife is, but even if he does manage to locate her in some way we haven't considered, we've prepared ourselves …”

Muntz nodded, with growing awareness.

“… But he's got to have some starting-point. He worked with Bock … was the man's guardian, almost. It would be natural for him to go to Bock.”

Muntz shrugged, unconvinced.

“But he knows Bock was part of the network … that he'd have contact with us,” argued the lawyer. “To approach Bock would be as dangerous as contacting anyone else in the Organization.”