Man Who Wanted Tomorrow (11 page)

Bahr appeared by his side, his face twisted in disgust.

“My dear doctor,” he said, forcing the solicitude. Clutching a waiter's napkin to his face, Kurnov allowed himself to be guided from the hall. Spasms of sickness jerked through him and perspiration soaked his face and body. His eyes were running, too, so it was difficult to see. Hotel staff met them in the foyer and accompanied Kurnov to his room. Within minutes, the hotel doctor arrived, fussed over him, then insisted he take the concentrated streptomycin, sulphadiazine and sulphadimidine. Within half an hour he was alone, with the assurance he would not be disturbed for the remainder of the evening. For fifteen minutes he lay on the bed, aching from the convulsions, sure of his rate of recovery.

He'd succeeded, he thought. It had been disgusting and embarrassing, but no one would be able to question the reason for his absence over the next couple of days.

He got up from the bed, dressing slowly. How much he wanted to stay in the room! The recurring thought of cowardice. He shrugged it away. He
had
to stop his mind slipping away like this all the time. Reluctantly, breathing heavily, he took his overcoat from the closet, changed his shoes for the heavier, Russian boots more suitable for the conditions outside, then gently opened the door, to check the corridor. There was the low murmur of conversation and he waited for several minutes before accepting it was a radio from behind one of the closed doors. He edged out, tensed for any movement so that he could dodge back. It remained empty. He hurried along, pushing his way from the fire-escape door on to the middle landing, then through the window and out on to the slippery platform. Immediately outside he stopped, gasping. It was bitterly cold, the wind crying like a petulant child through the narrow alley-way. Soon it would snow again, he knew. He held on to the metal rails and felt the cold bite through his gloves. Far below him, the city heaved with life, headlights fireflying along inch-wide roadways, neon jerking and exploding, the bombs of advertising. It was stupid to stand exposed, in such conditions. Gripping the rail, he began slowly to descend the narrow stairway. Ice and snow were wedged into the steps, reducing their width, and several times his foot slipped, so that his shin grated over the metal. He felt blood running into his boot. The strain began almost immediately as a dull ache in his shoulders and legs and got worse while he continued down, and the nagging pain from the left leg, scarred from thigh to groin in an accident in Hamburg when he was eighteen, pulled at him. He had to stop on the first landing. He stood, panting. He was soaked in sweat but had no feeling in his frozen hands or feet. The abused muscles in his arms and legs made his limbs twitch uncontrollably. The scar hadn't troubled him so much for years. He crossed his arms, cupping his elbows, and hugged himself. The pain began to subside. He knew it indicated the muscles were setting and forced himself to reach out and grab the rail to continue down. His breath came out in tiny, white clouds and he was grunting with effort. He slowed on the last landing, trying to reduce the sound. For several minutes, he stood completely unmoving, trying to penetrate the dense blackness of the alley-way below him. No one waiting below could have remained still for so long, certainly not in this cold, he determined. Satisfied he was unobserved, Kurnov finished the descent, hesitating until his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness so he could detect the dustbins and litter over which he might have stumbled, then moved off towards Eckerndorferplatz. He moved awkwardly, his feet shuffling over the ground, cramped by cold and exertion.

Twice he had to stop, gripping his hands tightly by his side, to stifle the sobs of self-pity that welled up.

Inside the hotel, Colonel Pyotr Suvlov, who had succeeded in getting an invitation to the reception, excused himself from the meal, explaining to Bahr he had to return early to the Russian sector. He stood undecided in the hotel foyer for several minutes, then left hurriedly, driving immediately eastwards.

Frieden had sensed the excitement as soon as the consumptive lawyer telephoned. He agreed immediately to the meeting and sat now in the luxury penthouse atop the office block in Ludwigsfelderstrasse, staring out over the park. It was a pity about Muntz, he reflected, in genuine sadness. He had been a loyal man, a true Party member. But he had no choice, Frieden decided. The continued existence and safety of the Organization demanded that everyone stayed alert, both mentally and physically. Muntz had to be dispensed with because his health had failed. It was like easing the suffering of a favorite animal which had grown too old. If the circumstances were reversed, he would have expected Muntz to behave in exactly the same way with him. Muntz would understand. It was one of the rules by which they survived.

The elderly lawyer came breathlessly into the room. Speech was difficult and Frieden waited patiently for him to recover, pouring his friend a brandy. Muntz sipped it, gratefully, wincing as the liquid reached his raw throat.

“Luck,” he managed, at last. “We've had some luck.”

From his briefcase he took a tape already mounted on a miniature cassette-player. He placed it on the table between them, adjusted the volume control and then started the machine. Immediately there was the hiss of recording.

“The quality is not very good,” he said, apologetically. The words groaned out, as if his voice were being squeezed through a narrow opening. He began again. “It was difficult for our man to record without the telephone supervisor spotting it.”

Frieden nodded, gesturing impatiently for the man to stop talking. He didn't want to miss any part of the recording. The tape unwound, crackling, and then the sound started, abruptly, with no preliminaries.

“Israeli embassy, shalom,” said a girl's voice, the university-taught German clipped and precise in the customary greeting. There was a pause. “Shalom?” prompted the girl again, an edge of irritation in her voice.

“Hello …” said a man's voice, hesitantly, “… I called before … I spoke to someone in your security section …”

“Who is this, please?” continued the Jewish girl.

“No name,” said the caller, his confidence growing. “Just say it's about the box … about Toplitz …”

Frieden looked up at the lawyer and smiled, a self-satisfied expression. The girl's reaction was immediate, as if she had been given explicit instructions for such an approach.

“A moment, please,” she said, quickly. Almost immediately a man's voice came on. Again it was the perfect German of a foreigner well-instructed.

“Hello,” said the Jew. “Who is this?”

“I called before,” repeated the man.

“We've been waiting for you to contact us again,” said the embassy security-man.

“Said I would,” mumbled the man, with a trace of truculence. “Just got to wait. That's all. Everyone has to wait on me now.”

“Of course,” soothed the Israeli, quickly. “We were just … just concerned. Several weeks have passed, after all. Jerusalem have sent some men here, in anticipation of your contacting us again.”

“They brought the money?” demanded the caller.

A note of caution entered the Israeli's voice.

“I told you on the first call there would be no difficulty about the money. But I've got to have proof that what I'm buying is genuine. Can't we meet?”

The sneer was immediate.

“Oh no. They're after me. I know that. They might even get their chance. Who knows? They might make a better offer than you. It's going to be an auction … the highest bidder wins.”

“The Nazis would kill you. And you know it,” warned the embassy man, urgently.

“Not if they didn't get all the details. If I had copies made and put in a bank vault, to be produced if anything happened to me, they couldn't kill me, could they?”

Frieden frowned, head close to the recorder, his entire concentration on the voice.

“They'd defeat you,” insisted the Israeli. “You don't know what they could do …”

Again the sneer over-rode him. “Don't tell me what the Nazis can do,” he said. “I'm an expert.”

“They'll kill you,” asserted the embassy official. “We are the only people you can trust.”

The disbelieving voice grated on the tape.

“I don't trust anyone,” it said.

“Why don't we meet, so we can talk about the evidence you have,” tried the Israeli again.

There was a pause. The caller's heavy breathing was etched on to the tape.

“Got it all,” he resumed, like a man recounting a memory. “The Swiss account of Mengele … Heinrich Müller. There's all the information about Richard Glücks … the sterilization experiments of Heinrich Willermann … the facts about Oscar Dulwanger, who's still drawing on Swiss funds while hiding in Aswan … Hans Eisele, the Buchenwald doctor …”

The Israeli over-reaction to the promised evidence sounded in the sharp intake of breath on the tape.

“… and everything about the partnership of Otto Grüber and Heinrich Köllman. I've got it all … I'll hang every one of them …”

The Israeli came on, urgently, unable to keep the anxiety from his voice.

“Now listen,” he said. “Please listen. We've got the money we promised. We will pay it anywhere you want … in any currency in the world. We will even assign men to protect you. But we've got to have the contents of that box. Let's meet … just the two of us. Let's arrange a meeting anywhere in Berlin that you decide … outside of Berlin, if you like … anywhere … I'll come anywhere, at any time. Just bring one document, something from the box as proof …”

“… you might trick …”

“… There will be no trickery …” cut off the embassy man, in his eagerness. “You
know
that we are the only people you can deal with safely. We'll meet any conditions …”

“I'll see …” began the caller, dismissively.

“Don't go,” demanded the Jew. “Don't go without our setting up some form of contact.”

“I'll have to work it out,” said the caller. He spoke confusedly, like an old man. “I'll call again …”

“… When? Let's fix a time …”

“A week. Maybe I'll call again in a week. I'm in contact with someone else. He might have a better offer.”

The line went dead as abruptly as the conversation had commenced. For several seconds Muntz and Frieden sat looking at the tape scratchily unwinding, then the millionaire reached out and depressed the stop button.

“When was the call made?”

Muntz glanced at his watch.

“Five hours ago,” he said. He was smiling, like a child—who had brought home a good school-report.

“We're getting somewhere, Max,” said the lawyer, hopefully. “It's a lead.”

His exuberance faded at the look on Frieden's face.

“Isn't it good, Max?” he probed, worriedly. He began to cough.

The fat man shrugged. “Could be,” he conceded.

“But we know the man's here,” argued the lawyer. “And we know the evidence he's got …”

He stopped, halted by the recollection.

“God, Max. That bloody box seems to contain everything. It could destroy us all.”

Frieden nodded, slowly. “Everyone,” he agreed, reflectively. His voice changed, becoming incisive. “Pay the telephonist double whatever we agreed … treble if needs be. We've got to know of the other calls. They'll arrange a meeting soon. Tell him there will be a bonus every time. We can't miss anything.”

Muntz nodded.

“Who's the other person with whom he's negotiating?” questioned the millionaire, distantly.

Muntz waved a hand, vaguely. “I don't believe it,” he said. “That's the sort of thing people say to inflate the value of what they're selling.”

“He
knows
what he's selling,” argued Frieden. “It's impossible to inflate the price of something like that.”

“Who, then?”

Frieden didn't reply immediately.

“Bock?” he wondered, suddenly.

Muntz laughed, ridiculing the idea.

“You said he'd promised to call us immediately, if there were any contact,” pointed out the lawyer. “Bock's rich, certainly. But he's not as rich as you, even. Where could he put his hands on to the sort of money being discussed here? And
why
should he? He's got every reason to come to us the moment any call is made to him.”

Frieden nodded, convinced. He started the machine, rewinding the tape. Then he began to play the conversation again, stopping after a few minutes.

“Notice anything?” he demanded from the lawyer.

Muntz frowned.

“The man's a German,” enlarged Frieden. He played a further section of the tape and Muntz nodded.

“Bavarian,” he identified. “The man's got a strong Bavarian accent.”

Kuraov lay on the bed, his body shaken by waves of shivering. The emotion was an amalgam of many things, he accepted, through his distress. Of the numbing cold from the frozen fire-escape; of fear; and of the relief at having regained the room undiscovered. But there had been an excitement, too, he recalled, hugging himslf as the shaking subsided, a thrill at walking again through the streets he had once known so well. The bloody West Germans had renamed most of them, but he'd soon realized when he had made mistakes and walked along, ignoring the new street-signs, remembering the old names and the old associations, even able to disregard at times his own immediate danger in the warmth of the nostalgia. Bock had done well, he decided, bringing to mind the sleek, modern clinic, its twin towers rising into the darkness, hurrying white-coated figures of efficiency visible through the windows.

My money built that, Kurnov thought, suddenly. That's mine, all mine. Bock was a thief. He should suffer. He smiled. The man would suffer, decided Kurnov, when he opened that hand-delivered letter inscribed “personal.”