Man Who Wanted Tomorrow by Brian Freemantle Page B

mean making a spectacle of himself, and deeply ingrained into every aspect of his behavior was the need to avoid attention. This time it a sigh, not a whimper. It couldn’t be avoided, he thought, taking the syringe and ampoule from the box.
    The reception was crowded, smothered with cigarette smoke and talk. He winced, then hurried into the room. Thank God a waiter was near. He took a whisky, needing it. His throat was so dry, it hurt to drink. Perhaps he should have stayed with vodka.
    All the delegates had name-tabs on their lapels, but Kurnov’s was hardly necessary. Almost immediately he was enveloped in small talk. He responded beyond his usual protective, monosyllabic manner, forcing himself to be noticed. He began sweating at the effort. The conference chairman, Konrad Bahr, hurried forward, hand outstretched, effusive in his greeting.
    â€œSo pleased to meet you,” gushed the German, pumping Kurnov’s arm. “We’re honored you are with us.”
    Kurnov nodded. “I wish I had had time to prepare a paper,” he said. He allowed a pause, then added, “Not that I think I would have been able to deliver it.”
    The chairman frowned, taking the bait.
    â€œWhy?”
    Kurnov touched his stomach, gently. “I’ve been dreadfully ill,” he said.
    The chairman smiled, dismissively, “A small upset, I’m sure,” he said, reassuringly. “It’ll go in a few hours, once you’ve got used to German hospitality.”
    Kurnov fixed the doubtful look.
    â€œPlease,” continued the conference official. “There are some other delegates who particularly wish to meet you …”
    He put his arm around Kurnov’s shoulders, but the Russian pulled back. The thought of what was to happen brought out fresh dampness on his face.
    â€œA moment,” he apologized. “I must visit the bathroom first. Just allow me a minute.”
    There was a cloakroom alongside the foyer. Kurnov went straight to it, locking himself in a cubicle. He took the apomorphine from his pocket and for a few seconds stared at the drug, conscious of the vomiting it would cause. Hurriedly, he took off his jacket. The excuse had to appear genuine, he convinced himself. Quickly, he administered the injection, flushed the ampoule and disposable syringe away, then hurried out, aware of its quick reaction. He felt the attack rising within him as he re-entered the reception area. Doctor Bahr turned to greet him again, gesturing for a group of Italian delegates to approach, but the retching overtook Kurnov. He managed to turn, almost reaching the side of the room before the first wave of sickness engulfed him. He stood, supported against the wall by an outstretched hand, vomiting again and again, conscious of people moving away.
    Bahr appeared by his side, his face twisted in disgust.
    â€œMy dear doctor,” he said, forcing the solicitude. Clutching a waiter’s napkin to his face, Kurnov allowed himself to be guided from the hall. Spasms of sickness jerked through him and perspiration soaked his face and body. His eyes were running, too, so it was difficult to see. Hotel staff met them in the foyer and accompanied Kurnov to his room. Within minutes, the hotel doctor arrived, fussed over him, then insisted he take the concentrated streptomycin, sulphadiazine and sulphadimidine. Within half an hour he was alone, with the assurance he would not be disturbed for the remainder of the evening. For fifteen minutes he lay on the bed, aching from the convulsions, sure of his rate of recovery.
    He’d succeeded, he thought. It had been disgusting and embarrassing, but no one would be able to question the reason for his absence over the next couple of days.
    He got up from the bed, dressing slowly. How much he wanted to stay in the room! The recurring thought of cowardice. He shrugged it away. He had to stop his mind slipping away like this all the time. Reluctantly, breathing