Read Online Boys from Brazil by Ira Levin - Free Book Online

have him,” Dermot Brody said.
    Liebermann said to Beynon, “Thank you, Sydney. I knew I could depend on you. Oh, and listen.” He bent and spoke lower, holding Beynon’s hand. “Ask them please from Wednesday on. To continue, I mean. Because the boy said six men was going, and would Mengele send them all at once if some will do nothing for a long time? So there should be two more killings not long after the first one—that’s if they’re working in two-man teams—or five more, God forbid, if they’re working separately. And if, of course, the boy was right. Will you do that?”
    Beynon nodded. “How many killings are there to be altogether?” he asked.
    Liebermann looked at him. “A lot,” he said. He let go of Beynon’s hand, straightened up, and nodded good-bys to the others. Thrusting his hands into his coat pockets, he turned and set off quickly toward the bustle and traffic of the Ring.
    The four on the bench watched him go.
    â€œOh Lord,” Beynon said, and Freya Neustadt shook her head sadly.
    Dermot Brody leaned forward and said, “What was that last bit, Syd?”
    â€œWould I ask them to continue pulling clips.” Beynon put his notebook and pen inside his jacket. “There are going to be three or six killings, not merely one. And more besides.”
    Paul Higbee took his pipe from his mouth and said, “Funny thought: he’s absolutely right.”
    â€œOh, come off it,” Freya said. “Nazis hating him over the telephone?”
    Beynon picked up his cup and grappled at a sandwich-half. “The past two years have been awfully rough on him,” he said.
    â€œHow old is he?” Freya asked pointedly.
    â€œI’m not sure,” Beynon said. “Oh, yes, I see. Just around sixty-five, I should think.”
    â€œYou see?” Freya said to Paul. “So Nazis are killing sixty-five-year-old men. It’s a nicely worked-out paranoid fantasy. In a month he’ll be saying they’re coming for him .”
    Dermot Brody, leaning forward again, asked Beynon, “Are you really going to get the clips?”
    â€œOf course not,” Freya said, and turned to Beynon. “You aren’t, are you?”
    Beynon sipped wine, held his sandwich. “Well, I did say I’d try,” he said. “And if I don’t, he’ll only come pestering me when he gets back. Besides, London will think I’m working on something.” He smiled at Freya. “It never hurts to give that impression.”
    Â 
    Unlike most men his age, sixty-five-year-old Emil Döring, once second administrative assistant to the head of the Essen Public Transport Commission, had not allowed himself to become a creature of habit. Retired now and living in Gladbeck, a town north of the city, he took especial care to vary his daily routine. He went for the morning papers at no regular hour, visited his sister in Oberhausen on no particular afternoon, and passed the evenings—when he didn’t decide at the last moment to stay home—at no one favorite neighborhood bar. He had three favorite bars rather, and chose among them only when he left the apartment. Sometimes he was back in an hour or two, sometimes not until after midnight.
    All his life Döring had been aware of enemies lying in wait for him, and had protected himself not only by going armed, when he was old enough, but also by keeping his movements as unpredictable as possible. First there had been the big brothers of small schoolmates who had unjustly accused him of bullying. Then there had been his fellow soldiers, dullards all, who had resented his knack for ingratiating himself with officers and getting easy and safe assignments. Then there had been his rivals at the Transport Commission, some of whom could have given lessons in treachery to Machiavelli. Could Döring tell you stories about the Transport Commission!
    And now, in what should