Free Man Who Wanted Tomorrow by Brian Freemantle Page B

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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œâ€¦ 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.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said, belatedly, accepting her mistake. “I’ll get rid of him …”
    â€œNo!”
    He’d shouted, Bock realized, embarrassed. It had been over thirty years since he had heard the name with which he had been christened.
    â€œNo,” he repeated, quieter this time. He breathed deeply, trying to regain control.
    â€œI’ll take the call.”
    The woman looked at him, uncertainly. “Are you sure …?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYes,” he said. His own voice was thin and strained.
    â€œWho is this?” demanded the caller.
    â€œBock,” identified the surgeon. “Helmut Bock.”
    There was a laugh.
    â€œReally?” queried the voice.
    â€œWho are you?” demanded Bock, his voice growing stronger. “I …”
    â€œâ€¦ Be quiet.” said the caller and Bock stopped talking.
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œAnd now it’s happened, Dr. Becker. Now it’s happened.”
    The caller used the name like an obscenity, almost spitting it out.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œTell me who you are,” repeated the surgeon, weakly.
    There was another laugh.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œMoney, 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?
    â€œHeinrich? Is that you, Heinrich?”
    The laugh came again, quite humorless.
    â€œOh no, Dr. Becker. This isn’t