Boys from Brazil by Ira Levin Read Free Book Online

Schwimmer and Farnbach and Mundt.”
    â€œMundt? You haven’t heard of Mundt? He’s in your book, Mr. Liebermann! That’s where I heard about him.”
    â€œA Mundt, in my book? No.”
    â€œYes! In the chapter on Treblinka. I’ve got it in my suitcase; you want me to give you the page number?”
    â€œI never heard of a Mundt, Barry; this is a mistake on your part.”
    â€œOh Jesus. All right, forget it. Anyway, there are six of them, and they’re going out for two and a half years, and they’ve got certain dates when they’re supposed to kill certain men, and here comes the crazy part. Are you ready, Mr. Liebermann? These men they’re going to kill, there are ninety-four of them , and they’re all sixty-five-year-old civil servants . How do you like them apples?”
    Silence. “Apples?”
    He sighed. “It’s an expression.”
    â€œBarry, let me ask you something. This tape is in German, yes? Are you—”
    â€œI understand it perfectly! I don’t spreche too well but I understand it perfectly . My grandmother speaks nothing but, and my parents use it for secrets. It didn’t even work when I was a kid.”
    â€œThe Kameradenwerk and Josef Mengele are sending men out—”
    â€œTo kill sixty-five-year-old civil servants. A few of them are sixty-four and sixty-six. The tape’s rewound now and I’m going to play it, and then you’re going to tell me who I should take it to, someone high-up and reliable. And you’ll call him and tell him I’m coming, so he’ll see me, and see me quickly. They’ve got to be stopped before they leave. The first killing is slated for October sixteenth. Wait now, I’ve got to find the right place; there’s a lot of sitting down and admiring something first.”
    â€œBarry, it’s ridiculous. Something is wrong with your tape recorder. Or else—or else they’re not the men you think they are.”
    A triple-knock at the door. “Go way!” he shouted at it, covering the mouthpiece; remembered Portuguese: “I talk the long distance.”
    â€œThey’re someone else,” the phone said. “They’re playing a joke on you.”
    â€œMr. Liebermann, will you just listen to the tape?”
    Louder knocking, a nonstop barrage.
    â€œShit. Hold on.” Putting the phone on the bed, he got up and stepped to the racketing door, held its knob. “What is?”
    Portuguese raced, a man’s voice.
    â€œSlow! Slow!”
    â€œSenhor, there’s a Japanese lady here, looking for someone who looks like you. She says she has to warn you about something a man is—” He turned the knob and in the door burst a dark bull of a man that slammed him backward; he was grabbed and turned, his mouth crushed, his arm wrenched back breakingly; the Nazi of the stairs lunged with a knife six inches shiny-sharp. His head was yanked back; the ceiling slid, stained with pale-brown watermarks; his arm hurt, and his stomach deep inside.
    The man in white came into the room, wearing his hat and holding his briefcase. He closed the door, and standing before it, watched the blond man stab and stab the young American. Stab, twist, pull out; stab, twist, pull out; overhand now, the red-streaked knife into white snug-shirted ribs.
    The blond man, panting, stopped stabbing, and the black-haired man lowered the surprised-eyed young man gently to the floor, laid him down there half on gray rug and half on varnished wood. The blond man held his bloody knife-hand over the young man and said to the black-haired man, “A towel.”
    The man in white looked toward the bed, moved to it, and set his briefcase down on the floor. “Barry?” the phone on the bed asked.
    The man in white looked at the tape recorder on the night table; pressed a white fingertip to its end button. The window sprang; the cassette jumped free. The man in