Man Who Wanted Tomorrow by Brian Freemantle Page A

showered and then put on the uncreased suit. The reception was in fifteen minutes, he saw, checking his watch. He’d left it almost too late. He began to hurry, putting his letter to Bock carefully into his inside pocket, then quietly letting himself out of the room, looking both ways along the corridor. Empty. Keeping to the edge, where the thickness of the carpet would shield his footsteps, he went towards the corridor window, away from the elevator. Nervously, he pushed the unmarked door adjoining the window. It moved easily and he let out a tiny sound of relief. It led out on to stairs that went down to the middle landing, serving both his floor and that below as a fire-escape. He’d brought tissues from the supply in the bathroom. He padded his fingers to prevent them getting dirty on the little-used handles, then cupped his palms beneath the two arms of cold metal, heaving upwards. The windows remained unmoving. The ever-present bubble of apprehension popped inside him. He felt around the rim, seeking the lock. It had to be manual. A key would destroy the purpose of a window leading out on to a fire-escape. His throat felt dry, as if he had run a long race. He’d been good at sport at school, he remembered, and recognized the feeling. He’d always won. It was important to win, always. Because of the darkness, he couldn’t see how the lock operated, and he groped, trying to bring his face closer to the cold glass. They swiveled, he realized. He found the clasps in the top corners. They were stiff. He pushed and one gave suddenly. He felt his nail split off. Perspiration soaked his back and he stopped, panting. He had left the preparations too late, he decided, angrily. Bloody womb complex.
    With the locks undone, the window scraped open, squeaking on its sash-cords. He hesitated, head turned up towards the corridor he had just left, listening for the sound of anyone who might have been attracted by the noise. Turning back, he pulled the window higher, staring out into the coldness that burst in, catching his breath. The fire-escape was tacked zig-zag against the wall, like an afterthought. Snow and ice glittered in the reflection from the sodium street lights. It would be dangerous: too risky, considering his age. He shivered, the perspiration drying coldly upon him. Quickly he closed the window almost completely and stood, quite still, on the emergency landing, fighting the fear that flooded through him. It came in waves, like sickness. He swallowed, gripping his hands around the wad of tissues he’d carried from the room. Too dangerous. Too risky. But unavoidable.
    Leaving the window slightly open, he went up again, pausing before the door leading back to his floor. Deserted. He smiled. Another omen, he thought, like a child convincing itself an imagined disaster will be averted if it can avoid stepping on the cracks in a pavement. He hurried out, almost running to his door. Inside, he leaned backwards against it, breathing deeply. How nice to be able to stay here for the rest of the night. Read a book. Or watch television. He shook himself, like an animal casting off water, staring down at his suit. It was dirty, dust and cobwebs at the knees and over the front of his jacket. As he brushed himself, he saw the shirt cuffs were filthy. No time to change, he decided. Quickly he ran water over his split nail, but the bleeding refused to stop. He wrapped more tissue around it and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. The vision was of a frightened man, he thought. He smoothed his hair back into its military cut and dampened his face, trying to stop the sweat that kept bubbling on his forehead. Suddenly, without warning, he whimpered. He clamped his mouth shut, embarrassed, looking around in the empty room. Careful. He needed more resilience than this. He stared directly at the medicine box he had brought with him. The performance had to be staged, but Kurnov was offended at the prospect. It would