Man Who Wanted Tomorrow by Brian Freemantle Page A

…”
    He hesitated, allowing the doubt, knowing the effect it would have upon Kurnov.
    â€œâ€¦ You know how it is, this mania for bureaucratic records. We’ll discuss it finally next week.”
    â€œI really think …” the scientist tried to enforce again, with just too much hope. Mavetsky raised his hands, cutting him off, then made an officious point of consulting his appointment-book, as if Kurnov were overstaying his time. He changed the halting gesture into an open-palmed movement of helplessness.
    â€œâ€¦ Like I said earlier … I’ve a busy life …”
    Kurnov rose, anger knotted within him. Bastard, he thought. Like a randy dog sniffing lamp-posts for the scent of a bitch in season, Mavetsky believed he could detect an odor to pursue. Kurnov was sure of it. That persistent bubble of fear rose within him.
    â€œThank you for sparing me the time, minister,” he said, formally. Humility choked him, like a piece of meat badly chewed.
    â€œAny time. You know that, Vladimir.”
    For a long time after Kurnov had left, Mavetsky sat, staring unseeingly ahead. He felt like an algebra student abandoned by a teacher in mid-course: all the signs were available, but he didn’t know how to arrange them into a formula that would produce a solution. Assessed against Kurnov’s known history, Berlin had to be the key, he decided. On impulse, he summoned the fastidious secretary and demanded Kurnov’s file. It was returned within thirty minutes, rimmed with dust from the cabinet in which it had lain for so long. He unclipped the spiral holding the pages into position and spread them over the desk, creating a montage from which he hoped to spot the piece that made it incomplete. Before adopting Russian nationality, he read, Kurnov’s name had been Klaus Reinhart. A graduate from the Berlin Medical School in 1938, he had been jailed in 1939 for organizing junior doctors against joining the Nazi party. Freed because of the war, he had been rejected as psychologically unsuitable for medical service on any front, instead serving in four prisoner-of-war camps. There were frequent references to operations he had performed repairing the damage caused by the S.S. butchers to extract information from inmates. And numerous commendations from the Red Cross about his work, often carried out in defiance of official Nazi orders. There was even a copy of an S.S. order committing him to Buchenwald concentration camp for the treatment he had given Russian prisoners. Luckily, the war had ended before that order could be put into effect.
    He was, noted the minister, a native of Berlin. So what? That didn’t give any clue for wanting to return to the city for the conference. Mavetsky turned the page, studying Kurnov’s picture. Odd how little the man had aged, he thought in passing. He flicked without interest through the fingerprint file, then read the impressive list of Kurnov’s achievements since his decision to settle in the Soviet Union. The minister pushed the file to one side and swiveled to look out over the capital. It was already quite dark, but the whiteness of the snow reflected what little light was left, giving the buildings an unreal glow. There was no clue in the file, he decided. Kurnov was unquestionably an anti-Nazi, properly recognized as a war hero whose work had subsequently proven invaluable to the Soviet Union, so properly earning all the honors and awards accorded him.
    There was still something wrong in today’s request. He was convinced of it. He went back to the file, shuffling it like a losing card-sharp desperately trying to locate an ace.
    The space program was classified as top secret, Mavetsky knew. Therefore there would have been a detailed investigation into the man’s background before he was allowed to become part of it. Accustomed to bulky, exhaustive character-documentation, the minister was surprised at the brevity of