Free Man Who Wanted Tomorrow by Brian Freemantle Page A

ambassador looked directly at the minister. Surely he knew about the Israeli announcement.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œYes?” prompted Mavetsky.
    â€œApparently 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.
    â€œI bet there’s a few nervous men in Berlin today,” speculated the American.
    â€œYes,” 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.
    â€œForgive 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.
    â€œWhat?” he demanded, rudely.
    â€œThere’s a telephone call …” she started, but he cut her off, exasperated.
    â€œIn God’s name,” he shouted. “I told you no calls … no interruptions. Don’t you realize I’m unwell?”
    She looked at him, unconcerned.
    â€œI told him that,” she replied. “But he is incredibly persistent. It took him