Man Who Wanted Tomorrow by Brian Freemantle

there, the implant originally put there forty years ago replaced every three years in the secrecy of his Moscow laboratory. Better a little agony than suffering that would go on and on.
    He shuddered in the warm hotel-room. It wouldn’t be difficult to convince people he was feeling unwell. Bock would regret it if he had spent the money, he mused. Before he died, he would kill the surgeon. Very slowly. No, he corrected, immediately. No, he wouldn’t kill him. He’d use his own death to disclose Bock’s involvement in the hidden bank-account and let the Nazis kill him. They were far more expert. He considered the thought. Perhaps they weren’t. It was just that in Berlin they had better facilities.
    He pulled the telephone directory towards him again. How easy it would be to telephone. He actually reached out, towards the instrument, impelled by the urge to commence the search immediately. He halted, reluctantly.
    Instead, he carefully copied the address upon an envelope resting upon a handkerchief, so there would be no indentation upon the blotter if there were any unexpected investigation of his room. There was no reason why there should be, but on several foreign trips he had had the impression that his room had been visited by other members of the delegation.
    Using the same handkerchief pad, he wrote just the number of the Swiss account and the initials “H.K.V.K.” After so long, he realized, it might baffle the other man, initially. But the surprise would not last long. Bock would know of what had happened at Toplitz and realize the significance of the note. He would even expect some approach, rationalized Kurnov.
    The scientist decided against postal delivery. He could take it himself, providing he was alert for personal surveillance. There was, he had convinced himself, no reason why the Russians should watch him too closely.
    He smiled again, amused through his apprehension at a sudden doubt. Did he still know Berlin well enough to elude any followers? It would be an interesting challenge. The amusement vanished. Before everything was over, there was every likelihood that that would not be a flippant thought.
    He lay outstretched on the bed, unwilling to leave the safety of the locked room, letting his mind drift. He’d been lucky, he reflected, seeking omens. Bock was alive. His whole survival rested on the man and he was alive and easily contactable. Perhaps the luck would continue.
    Was Gerda still here? he wondered. That was odd, he decided, seeking a psychological explanation for the memory. Not once, in the thirty years he had been away, had he thought of his wife. It must be the association with Berlin, he thought. What would she look like now? She had never been attractive, with her buck-teeth and baying laugh and the tendency for yellow spots to form in the crack where her nose met her face. But the Führer had disliked his favorites parading their women instead of their wives, and so he had publicly kept with Gerda, tolerating her snobbery and stupidity. And her incredible attitude toward clothes.
    He recalled how bad she had been in bed, lying listlessly, her mind probably on yet another dress. The camp girls had been so much better. But then, they had known they would be killed if they didn’t satisfy. Perhaps it was unfair to compare Gerda with them. Gerda would never have lasted a day in a camp, he decided, sniggering. She probably wouldn’t have got any trade.
    He frowned. The tendency to hysteria was worrying. His nerves were tight, he recognized. And things were likely to get worse. He would have to keep very firm control upon himself. Fortunately, he had brought along enough medication to help. Like the ease of laughter, lying there was another indication of his fear. The security he felt, within four walls and behind a locked door, was a womb complex. It was predictable, psychologically.
    He forced himself to move, getting up from the bed. In the bathroom he