Free Man Who Wanted Tomorrow by Brian Freemantle

head, gazing at the ceiling.
    â€œNo,” he said.
    â€œI was thinking of my son. I looked at the picture that Rachel sent me and I thought that my father must have felt like I did then, when he saw me for the first time. And when he saw my sister. And then I thought of what happened in Buchenwald.”
    Let him talk, decided Mosbacher. It was probably useful therapy.
    â€œCan you imagine what it’s like, forced to watch children that you’ve created and the mother who gave birth to them, subjected, day after day, to experiments to establish their degree of physical survival? And your level of mental tolerance?”
    He was crying, Mosbacher saw.
    â€œNo,” he said. “I don’t think anyone can imagine that.”
    â€œHe did it,” said Perez, distantly. “Köllman did it.”
    â€œI know, Uri,” said Mosbacher, softly. “They all committed crimes it’s difficult to comprehend.”
    â€œWe might fail,” said the man, with unexpected pessimism. He turned on his side, so he could look across the room. “Have you thought about that?”
    â€œOf course,” said Mosbacher.
    Neither spoke for several minutes. Then Perez said: “If we fail … if there’s no reaction, I mean, then I’m going to make them suffer. I’m going to kill every Nazi we can locate … I’m going to do it, Arron. I’m going to kill them all …”
    He was serious, realized Mosbacher. He would have to act immediately, if things went wrong. An injection would be the best way if he could accomplish it, rendering Uri unconscious until they got him back to Israel. Whatever method he chose, he would have to stop Perez doing something that would get him jailed. Or killed. Uri had suffered enough. And he hadn’t seen his son, either.
    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.
    â€œGood party,” opened the American.
    â€œYes,” agreed Mavetsky.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œOur people are looking forward to coming here,” assured the American.
    Diplomatic small talk was boring, decided Mavetsky.
    â€œThere 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.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œNo,” agreed Mavetsky, disinterested.
    â€œWonder 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.
    â€œWhat Berlin business?” he asked.
    The