Man Who Wanted Tomorrow Read online

  “Thank God I’d copied your example and always avoided photographs. But my eye made me an easy target … the yids at the camp gave a very detailed description of me. Even now, I’ve got to wear a patch. Several times they came this close to catching me …”

  He made a tiny gap between his thumb and forefinger, chuckling.

  “… And that’s going to be the greatest pleasure of all,” he mused. “I’m going to make them beg and pay the earth for the box, Heinrich. Can you imagine that? They’re going to have to pay someone who’s at the top of their wanted list.”

  Knowing he would need response, Kurnov laughed, too effusively, Grüber grinned, happy at the reaction. Should he raise the purchase of his personal file? wondered Kurnov. He rememberd Grüber’s nervousness at the proffered handshake. He’d reject any verbal suddenness, too, decided the scientist. It would be better to wait.

  “That’s wonderfully ironic,” he encouraged. “Remember the old motto—‘always make the yids pay’ …”

  He stretched out, pointing to Hitler’s picture, anticipating gestures would have to be exaggerated to penetrate the fogged intellect. “The Führer would have appreciated that.”

  The old man turned, his shoulders drooping with sadness as he looked up at the picture. He came back, swallowing, and it seemed impossible for him to talk immediately. It had been wise avoiding premature demands for the file, decided Kurnov. Grüber had a lot left to say.

  “Remember how it was, Heinrich?” reflected the old man, wistfully. “The honor … the way we were treated … the importance to the Fatherland of the experiments …”

  The memories had to be drained from Grüber’s mind by reminiscence, thought Kurnov. And he would help. People always responded if the person to whom they were talking appeared to be confiding, Kurnov knew. It was basic psychology that trust had to be created this way between a doctor and patient. He hesitated for a moment, then thrust the doubt aside. Why not? Grüber had worked with him. He would be saying nothing the old man didn’t already know. It would establish a bond between them in Grüber’s crippled mind. He’d always been a dutiful, subservient assistant. Before the evening was over, he would become so again, a completely malleable man.

  “They were great days,” he agreed, recognizing he was half enjoying the nostalgia, too. “The Führer was a great man … so enthusiastic about the work …”

  He paused, casually moving his hand toward his jacket pocket. It was important to get Grüber used to movement. The other man made no move for the Luger, as Kurnov took out the cigarette, inserted it in the holder and began smoking, gratefully.

  “… He knew the importance of the studies,” continued Kurnov, wanting to embrace Grüber in the praise. “Another three years and we would have perfected the germ experiments that would have rid Europe of every Jew, gypsy and black … changed the setbacks of the war, even …”

  “… So near …” sighed Grüber.

  “… The benefits of our experiments to mankind would have been enormous, too,” added Kurnov, his voice strengthening with the indignation of a committed man denied the completion of his life’s work. It had been close. Often, in Russia, he had daydreamed of the role that would have been his in Germany had the outcome of the war been different.

  A cunning look flickered over Grüber’s face.

  “Other things went unrecognized, too, didn’t they, Heinrich? And that was fortunate.”

  Kurnov hesitated, guessing the way Grüber’s mind was slipping. It would bring them to the evidence he wanted, he decided. He sat, waiting.

  “I didn’t know you’d gone to Russia,” confessed Grüber. “There were the odd stories, like there were about Bormann and Mengele. But I was never sure. I only approached Bock because I thought he would have contact with some Nazis to make them sweat. I threw out your name, like bait … I decided to gamble, knowing what I held would make it suicide for you to stay in Moscow … and I knew you had money, after all …”

  He would have known about the Swiss account, accepted Kurnov. Or guessed about it, certainly. He had been too close to miss the collections and the ransoms. It had been another reason for wanting to find him in those last days. It was important, thought Kurnov, that his former assistant shouldn’t get too confident. There was an easy method, of control, he decided. He gestured towards Hitler’s picture.

  “It was the Führer’s own instructions that the freezing experiments should be conducted not only on Jews, but on the Russian prisoners as well,” he defended. “We had to know whether someone born into the Russian environment had an inherent ability better to resist cold.”

  “True,” agreed Grüber, quickly, as if he wished to appease Kurnov’s irritability. “I’m not questioning what was done … just remarking about your luck. Weren’t you worried that they’d find out in Moscow? Imagine what would have happened to you!”

  Kurnov smiled at the hint of admiration in the old man’s voice. There was still respect, he judged. That was important. Gradually the conversation was moving in the right direction. He’d end the victor, Kurnov knew.

  “I hate to think what they would have done to me if they knew I had frozen four hundred Russians to death,” he agreed. “But I took as many precautions as I could. My Russian file shows me to be Reinhart … Remember that fool, who spent all his time trying to help everybody …?”

  Grüber burst in, a mocking laugh. Kurnov joined him, over-effusive again, judging the reaction like a man tuning a musical instrument.

  “… I know,” he agreed. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

  He paused, reviewing the old Nazi’s question.

  “They wouldn’t imprison me,” he said, distantly. “The Russians would shoot me, if they knew. They’d stage a huge public trial, then shoot me. The Russians are odd people … often very stupid. They’ve created a gigantic myth about their heroic Red Army during the last war, when it was nothing more than a ragtaggle collection of peasants. They won on the same principle that the Chinese would win a war today … they’ve just got more people to sacrifice as cannon fodder until the other side becomes exhausted. But for them to discover I’m the person responsible for Russian deaths in a concentration camp … deaths of members of their wonderful Red Army … would drive the fools insane …”

  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.<
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  “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 con
trol. 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.