Ira Levin - Boys from Brazil

“Pennsylvania—Dutch country,” the man with the black beard said. “I know it.”

“This man is the next one to be killed in this country,” Liebermann said. “On the twenty-second of this month, but maybe sooner. Maybe only a few days from now. So he has to be guarded. But the man who comes to kill him mustn’t be scared away or killed himself; he has to be captured, so he can be questioned.” He looked at Gorin. “Do you have people who could do a job like that? Guard someone, capture someone?”

Gorin nodded. Greenspan said, “You’re looking at them,” and to Gorin, “Let Jay take over the demonstration. I’ll manage this.”

Gorin smiled, tilted his head toward Greenspan and said to Liebermann, “This one’s main regret is he missed World War Two. He runs our combat classes.”

“It will only be for a week or so, I hope,” Liebermann said. “Just till the F.B.I. comes in.”

“What do you want them for?” the young one with the mustache asked, and Greenspan said to Liebermann, “ We’ll get him for you, and get more information out of him, quicker, than they will. I guarantee it.” The phone rang.

Liebermann shook his head. “I have to use them,” he said, “because from them it has to go to Interpol. Other countries are involved. There are five other men besides this one.”

Gorin was looking toward the door; he looked at Liebermann. “How many killings have there been?” he asked.

“Eight that I know of.”

Gorin looked pained. Someone whistled.

“ Seven that I know of,” Liebermann corrected himself. “One very probable. Maybe others.”

“Jews?” Gorin asked.

Liebermann shook his head. “Goyim.”

“Why?” Bachrach at the window asked. “What’s it for?”

“Yes,” Gorin said. “Who are they? Why does Mengele want them killed?”

Liebermann drew a breath, blew it out. He leaned forward. “If I tell you it’s very, very important,” he said, “more important in the long run than Russian anti-Semitism and the pressure on Israel—would that be enough for now? I promise you I’m not exaggerating.”

In silence, Gorin frowned at the desk before him. He looked up at Liebermann, shook his head, and smiled apologetically. “No,” he said. “You’re asking Moshe Gorin to lend you three or four of his best men, maybe more. Men, not boys. At a time when we’re spread thin already and when the government’s breathing down my neck because I’m lousing up their precious détente. No, Yakov”—he shook his head—“I’ll give you all the help I can, but what kind of a leader would I be if I committed my men blindly, even to Yakov Liebermann?”

Liebermann nodded. “I figured you’d at least want to know,” he said. “But don’t ask me for proof, Rabbi. Just listen and trust me. Or else I wasted my time.” He looked at all of them, looked at Gorin, cleared his throat. “By any chance,” he said, “did you ever study a little biology?”

“God!” the one with the mustache said.

Bachrach said, “The English word for it is ‘cloning.’ There was an article about it in the Times a few years ago.”

Gorin smiled faintly, winding a loose thread around a cuff-button. “This morning,” he said, “by my son’s bedside, I said ‘What next, oh Lord?’” He smiled at Liebermann, gestured ruefully at him. “Ninety-four Hitlers.”

“Ninety-four boys with Hitler’s genes,” Liebermann said.

“To me,” Gorin said, “that’s ninety-four Hitlers.”

Greenspan said to Liebermann, “Are you sure this man Wheelock hasn’t been killed already? ”

“I am.”

“And that he hasn’t moved away?”—the black-bearded one.

“I got his phone number,” Liebermann said. “I didn’t want to talk to him myself yet, until I knew you would do what I wanted you to”—he looked at Gorin—“but I had the woman from the couple I’m staying with call him this morning. She said she wanted to buy a dog and heard he raised them. It’s him. She got directions how to get there.”

Gorin said to Greenspan, “We’re going to have to work this out of Philadelphia.” And to Liebermann: “The one thing we won’t do is take guns across a state border. The F.B.I. would love to get us along with the Nazi.”

Liebermann said, “Should I call Wheelock now?”

Gorin nodded. Greenspan said, “I’m going to want to put someone right in his house with him.” The young man with the mustache moved the phone over near Liebermann.

Liebermann put his glasses on and got an envelope out of his jacket pocket. Bachrach at the window said, “Hi, Mr. Wheelock, your son is Hitler.”

Liebermann said, “I’m not going to mention the boy at all. It might make him hang up on me, because of the way the adoption was. I just dial, yes?”

“If you have the area code.”

Liebermann dialed the phone, reading the number from the envelope.

“School’s probably out by now,” Gorin said. “The boy is liable to answer.”

“We’re friends,” Liebermann said drily. “I met him twice already.” The phone at the other end rang.

Rang again. Liebermann looked at Gorin looking at him.

“Hay-lo,” a man said in a deep-throated voice.

“Mr. Henry Wheelock?”

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Wheelock, my name is Yakov Liebermann. I’m calling from New York. I run the War Crimes Information Center in Vienna—maybe you heard of us? We collect information on Nazi war criminals, help find them and help with the prosecution?”

“I’ve heard. That Eichmann.”

“That’s right, and others. Mr. Wheelock, I’m after someone now, someone who’s in this country. I’m on my way to Washington to see the F.B.I. about it. This man killed two or three men here not so long ago, and he’s planning to kill more.”

“Are you looking for a guard dog?”

“No,” Liebermann said. “The next one this man is planning to kill, Mr. Wheelock”—he looked at Gorin—“it’s you.”

“All right, who is this? Ted? That’s a real good Choiman agzent, you shithead.”

Liebermann said, “This isn’t someone joking. I know you think a Nazi would have no reason to kill you—”

“Says who? I killed plenty of them; I bet they’d be damn happy to get even. If any were still around.”

“One is around—”

“Come on now, who is this?”

“It’s Yakov Liebermann , Mr. Wheelock.” “Christmas!” Gorin said; the others spoke, groaned. Liebermann stuck a finger in his ear. “I swear to you,” he said, “that a man is coming to New Providence to kill you, a former SS man, maybe in only a few days. I’m trying to save your life.”

Silence.

Liebermann said, “I’m here in the office of Rabbi Moshe Gorin of the Young Jewish Defenders. Until I can get the F.B.I. to protect you, which could take a week or so, the Rabbi wants to send some of his men down. They could be there—” He looked questioningly at Gorin, who said, “Tomorrow morning.” “Tomorrow morning,” Liebermann said. “Will you cooperate with them until F.B.I. men get there?”

Silence.

“Mr. Wheelock?”

“Look, Mr. Liebermann, if this is Mr. Liebermann. All right, maybe it is. Let me tell you something. You happen to be speaking to one of the safest men in the U.S.A. Firstly, I’m a former correction officer at a state penitentiary, so I know a little about taking care of myself. And secondly, I’ve got a houseful of trained Dobermans; I say the word and they tear the throat out of anyone who looks cross-eyed at me.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Liebermann said, “but can they stop a wall from falling on you? Or someone shooting at you from far away? That’s what happened to two of the other men.”