The Odessa File

by Frederick Forsyth

  Frau Bayer, alerted by another call from the Werwolf that the man calling himself Kolb was not what he seemed to be, and might indeed be a police informer, was a trembling and frightened woman when Mackensen arrived. His terse manner was hardly calculated to put her at her ease.

  ‘When did they leave?’

  ‘About a quarter past eight,’ she quavered.

  ‘Did they say where they were going?’

  ‘No. Franz just said the young man had not eaten all day and he was taking him into town for a meal at a restaurant. I said I could make something here at home, but Franz just loves dining out. Any excuse will do …’

  ‘This man Kolb. You said you saw him parking his car. Where was this?’

  She described the street where the Jaguar was parked, and how to get to it from her house. Mackensen thought deeply for a moment.

  ‘Have you any idea which restaurant your husband might have taken him to?’ he asked.

  She thought for a while.

  ‘Well, his favourite eating place is the Three Moors restaurant on Friedrich Strasse,’ she said. ‘He usually tries there first.’

  Mackensen left the house and drove the half-mile to the parked Jaguar. He examined it closely, certain that he would recognise it again whenever he saw it. He was in two minds whether to stay with it and wait for Miller’s return. But the Werwolf’s orders were to trace Miller and Bayer, warn the Odessa man and send him home, then take care of Miller. For that reason he had not telephoned the Three Moors. To warn Bayer now would be to alert Miller to the fact that he had been uncovered, giving him the chance to disappear again.

  Mackensen glanced at his watch. It was ten to eleven. He climbed back into his Mercedes and headed for the centre of town.

  In a small and obscure hotel in the back streets of Munich, Josef was lying awake on his bed when a call came from the reception desk to say a cable had arrived for him. He went downstairs and brought it back to his room.

  Seated at the rickety table he slit the buff envelope and scanned the lengthy contents. It began:

  ‘Here are the prices we are able to accept for the commodities about which the customer has inquired:

  Celery: 481 marks, 53 pfennigs.

  Melons: 362 marks, 17 pfennigs.

  Oranges: 627 marks, 24 pfennigs.

  Grapefruit: 313 marks, 88 pfennigs …’

  The list of fruit and vegetables was long, but all the articles were those habitually exported by Israel, and the cable read like the response to an inquiry by the German-based representative of an export company for price quotations. Using the public international cable network was not secure, but so many commercial cables pass through Western Europe in a day that checking them all would need an army of men.

  Ignoring the words, Josef wrote down the figures in a long line. The five-figure groups into which the marks and pfennigs were divided disappeared. When he had them all in a line he split them up into groups of six figures. From each six-figure group he subtracted the date, February 20th, 1964, which he wrote as 20264. In each case the result was another six-figure group.

  It was a simple book code, based on the paperback edition of Webster’s New World Dictionary published by the Popular Library of New York. The first three figures in the group represented the page in the dictionary; the fourth figure could be anything from one to nine. An odd number meant column one, an even number column two. The last two figures indicated the number of words down the column from the top. He worked steadily for half an hour, then read the message through and slowly held his head in his hands.

  Thirty minutes later he was with Leon in the latter’s house. The revenge-group leader read the message and swore.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘I couldn’t have known.’

  Unknown to either man three tiny fragments of information had come into the possession of the Mossad in the previous six days. One was from the resident Israeli agent in Buenos Aires to the effect that someone had authorised the payment of a sum equivalent to one million German marks to a figure called Vulkan ‘to enable him to complete the next stage of his research project’.

  The second was from a Jewish employee of a Swiss bank known habitually to handle currency transfers from secret Nazi funds elsewhere to pay off Odessa men in Western Europe; it was to the effect that one million marks had been transferred to the bank from Beirut, and collected in cash by a man operating an account at the bank for the previous ten years in the name of Fritz Wegener.

  The third was from an Egyptian colonel in a senior position in the security apparat around Factory 333, who, for a substantial consideration in money to help him prepare a comfortable retirement, had talked with a man from the Mossad for several hours in a Rome hotel. What the man had to say was that the rocket project was lacking only the provision of a reliable tele-guidance system, which was being researched and constructed in a factory in West Germany and that the project was costing the Odessa millions of marks.

  The three fragments, among thousands of others, had been processed in the computer banks of Professor Youvel Neeman, the Israeli genius who had first harnessed science in the form of the computer to intelligence analysis, and who later went on to become the father of the Israeli atomic bomb. Where a human memory might have failed, the whirring micro-circuits had linked the three items, recalled that up to his exposure by his wife in 1955 Roschmann had used the name of Fritz Wegener, and had reported accordingly.

  Josef rounded on Leon in their underground headquarters.

  ‘I’m staying here from now on. I’m not moving out of range of that telephone. Get me a powerful motor-cycle and protective clothing. Have both ready within the hour. If and when your precious Miller checks in, I’ll have to get to him fast.’

  ‘If he’s exposed, you won’t get there fast enough,’ said Leon. ‘No wonder they warned me to stay away. They’ll kill him if he gets within a mile of his man.’

  As Leon left the cellar Josef ran his eye over the cable from Tel Aviv once again. It said:

  RED ALERT NEW INFORMATION INDICATES VITAL KEY ROCKET SUCCESS GERMAN INDUSTRIALIST OPERAT(ING) YOUR TERRITORY STOP CODE NAME VULCAN STOP PROBABLY IDENTIFICATION ROSH MAN STOP USE MILLER INSTANTLY STOP TRACE AND ELIMINATE STOP CORMORANT

  Josef sat at the table and meticulously began to clean and arm his Walther PPK automatic. From time to time he glanced at the silent telephone.

  Over dinner Bayer had been the genial host, roaring with laughter in great gusts as he told his own favourite jokes. Miller tried several times to get the talk round to the question of a new passport for himself.

  Each time Bayer clapped him soundly on the back, told him not to worry and added:

  ‘Leave it to me, old boy, leave it to old Franz Bayer.’

  He tapped the right-hand side of his nose with his forefinger, winked broadly and dissolved into gales of merriment.

  One thing Miller had inherited from eight years as a reporter was the ability to drink and keep a straight head. But he was not used to the white wine, of which copious draughts were used to wash down the meal. But white wine has one advantage if one is trying to get another man drunk. It comes in buckets of ice and cold water, to keep it chilled, and three times Miller was able to tip his entire glass into the ice bucket when Bayer was looking the other way.

  By the dessert course they had demolished two bottles of excellent cold hock, and Bayer, squeezed into his tight horn-buttoned jacket, was perspiring in torrents. The effect was to enhance his thirst, and he called for a third bottle of wine.

  Miller feigned to be worried that it would prove impossible to obtain a new passport for him, and that he would be arrested for his part in the events at Flossenburg in 1945.

  ‘You’ll need some photographs of me, won’t you?’ he asked with concern.

  Bayer guffawed.

  ‘Yes, a couple of photographs. No problem. You can get them taken in one of the automatic booths at the station. Wait till your hair’s a bit longer, and the moustac
he a bit fuller, and no one will ever know it’s the same man.’

  ‘What happens then?’ asked Miller agog.

  Bayer leaned over and placed a fat arm round his shoulders. Miller felt the stench of wine on his face as the fat man chuckled in his ear.

  ‘Then I send them away to a friend of mine, and a week later back comes the passport. With the passport we get you a driving licence – you’ll have to pass the test, of course – and a social security card. So far as the authorities are concerned, you’ve just arrived back home after fifteen years abroad. No problem, old chap, stop worrying.’

  Although Bayer was getting drunk, he was still in command of his tongue. He declined to say more, and Miller was afraid to push him too far in case he suspected something was amiss with his young guest and closed up completely.

  Although he was dying for a coffee, Miller declined, in case the coffee should begin to sober up Franz Bayer. The fat man paid for the meal from a well-stuffed wallet and they headed for the coat-check counter. It was half past ten.

  ‘It’s been a marvellous evening, Herr Bayer. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Franz, Franz,’ wheezed the fat man as he struggled into his coat.

  ‘I suppose that’s the end of what Stuttgart has to offer in the way of night life,’ observed Miller as he slipped into his own.

  ‘Ha, silly boy. That’s all you know. We have a great little city here, you know. Half a dozen good cabarets. You fancy going on to one?’

  ‘You mean, there are cabarets, with strip-tease and everything?’ asked Miller, pop-eyed.

  Bayer wheezed with mirth.

  ‘Are you talking? I wouldn’t be against the idea of watching some of the little ladies take their clothes off.’

  Bayer tipped the coat-check girl handsomely and waddled outside.

  ‘What night-clubs are there in Stuttgart?’ asked Miller innocently.

  ‘Well now, let’s see. There’s the Moulin Rouge, the Balzac, the Imperial and the Sayonara. Then there’s the Madeleine in Eberhard Strasse …’

  ‘Eberhardt? Good Lord, what a coincidence. That was my boss in Bremen, the man who got me out of this mess and passed me on to the lawyer in Nuremberg!’ exclaimed Miller.

  ‘Good. Good. Excellent. Let’s go there then,’ said Bayer and led the way to his car.

  Mackensen reached the Three Moors at quarter past eleven. He inquired of the head waiter, supervising the departure of the last guests.

  ‘Herr Bayer? Yes, he was here tonight. Left about half an hour ago.’

  ‘He had a guest with him? A tall man with short brown hair and a moustache?’

  ‘That’s right. I remember them. Sitting at the corner table over there.’

  Mackensen slipped a twenty-mark note into the man’s hand without difficulty.

  ‘It’s vitally important that I find him. It’s an emergency. His wife, you know, a sudden collapse …’

  The head waiter’s face puckered with concern.

  ‘Oh dear, how terrible.’

  ‘Do you know where they went from here?’

  ‘I confess I don’t,’ said the head waiter. He called to one of the junior waiters. ‘Hans, you served Herr Bayer and his guest at the corner table. Did they mention if they were going on anywhere?’

  ‘No,’ said Hans. ‘I didn’t hear them say anything about going on anywhere.’

  ‘You could try the hat-check girl,’ suggested the head waiter. ‘She might have heard them say something.’

  Mackensen asked the girl. Then he asked for a copy of the tourist booklet, ‘What’s on in Stuttgart’. In the section for cabarets were half a dozen names. In the middle pages of the booklet was a street map of the city centre. He walked back to his car and headed for the first name on the list of cabarets.

  Miller and Bayer sat at a table for two in the Madeleine night-club. Bayer, on his second large tumbler of whisky, stared with pop eyes at a generously endowed young woman gyrating her hips in the centre of the floor while her fingers unhooked the fasteners of her brassie`re. When it finally came off Bayer jabbed Miller in the ribs with his elbow.

  ‘What a pair, eh, lad, what a pair?’ he chuckled.

  He was quivering with mirth.

  It was well after midnight and he was becoming very drunk.

  ‘Look, Herr Bayer, I’m worried,’ whispered Miller. ‘I mean it’s me who’s on the run. How soon can you make this passport for me?’

  Bayer draped his arm round Miller’s shoulders.

  ‘Look, Rolf, my old buddy, I’ve told you. You don’t have to worry, see? Just leave it to old Franz.’ He winked broadly. ‘Anyway, I don’t make the passports. I just send off the photographs to the chap who makes them, and a week later back they come. No problem. Now, have a drink with old pal Franz.’

  He raised a pudgy hand and flapped it in the air.

  ‘Waiter, another round.’

  Miller leaned back and considered. If he had to wait until his hair grew before the passport photographs could be taken he might wait weeks. Nor was he going to get the name and address of the Odessa passport-maker from Bayer by guile. Drunk he might be, but not so drunk he would give away his contact in the forging business by a slip of the tongue.

  He could not get the fat Odessa man away from the club before the end of the first floor-show. When they finally made it back to the cold night air outside it was after one in the morning. Bayer was unsteady on his feet, one arm slung round Miller’s shoulders, and the sudden shock of the cold air made him worse.

  ‘I’d better drive you home,’ he told Bayer as they approached the car parked by the kerb. He took the car keys from Bayer’s coat pocket and helped the fat man unprotesting into the passenger seat. Slamming the door on him, he walked round to the driver’s side and climbed in. At that moment a grey Mercedes slewed round the corner behind them and jammed on its brakes to stop twenty yards up the road.

  Behind the windscreen Mackensen, who had already visited five night-clubs, stared at the number plate of the car moving away from the kerb outside the Madeleine. It was the number Frau Bayer had given him. Her husband’s car. Letting in the clutch, he followed it.

  Miller drove carefully, fighting his own alcohol level. The last thing he wanted was to be stopped by a patrol car and tested for drunkenness. He drove, not back to Bayer’s house, but to his own hotel. On the way Bayer dozed, his head nodding forward, spreading out his multiple chins into an apron of fat over his collar and tie.

  Outside the hotel Miller nudged him awake.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘come on, Franz old mate, let’s have a night-cap.’

  The fat man stared about him.

  ‘Must get home,’ he mumbled. ‘Wife waiting.’

  ‘Come on, just a little drink to finish the evening. We can have a noggin in my room and talk about the old times.’

  Bayer grinned drunkenly.

  ‘Talk about the old times. Great times we had in those days, Rolf.’

  Miller climbed out and came round to the passenger door to help the fat man to the pavement.

  ‘Great times,’ he said, as he helped Bayer across the pavement and through the door. ‘Come and have a chat about old times.’

  Down the street the Mercedes had doused its lights and merged with the grey shadows.

  Miller had kept his room key in his pocket. Behind his desk the night porter dozed. Bayer started to mumble.

  ‘Ssssh,’ said Miller, ‘got to be quiet.’

  ‘Got to be quiet,’ repeated Bayer, tiptoeing like an elephant towards the stairs. He giggled at his own play-acting. Fortunately for Miller his room was on the first floor or Bayer would never have made it. He eased open the door, flicked on the light and helped Bayer into the only armchair in the room, a hard upright affair with wooden arms.

  Outside in the street Mackensen stood across from the hotel and watched the blacked-out façade. At two in the morning there were no lights burning. When Miller’s light came on he noted it was on the first floor, to
the right of the hotel as he faced it.

  He debated whether to go straight up and hit Miller as he opened his bedroom door. Two things decided him against it. Through the glass door of the lobby he could see that the night porter, woken by the heavy tread of Bayer past his desk, was pottering around the inside of the foyer. He would undoubtedly notice a non-resident heading up the stairs at two in the morning and later give a good description to the police. The other thing that dissuaded him was Bayer’s condition. He had watched the fat man being helped across the pavement, and knew he could never get him out of the hotel in a hurry after killing Miller. If the police got Bayer there would be trouble with the Werwolf. Despite appearances, Bayer was a much-wanted man under his real name, and important inside the Odessa.

  One last factor persuaded Mackensen to go for a window-shot. Across from the hotel was a building halfway through construction. The frame and the floors were in place, with a rough concrete stairway leading up to the first and second floors. He could wait, Miller was not going anywhere. He walked purposefully back to his car and the hunting rifle locked in the boot.

  Bayer was taken completely by surprise when the blow came. His reactions, slowed by drink, gave him no chance to react in time. Miller, pretending to search for his bottle of whisky, opened the wardrobe door and took out his spare tie. The only other one he had was round his neck. He took this off too.

  He had never had occasion to use the blows he and his fellow rookies had practised in the gymnasium of their army training camp ten years before, and was not entirely certain how effective they were. The vast bulk of Bayer’s neck, like a pink mountain when seen from behind as the man sat in the chair muttering, ‘Good old times, great old times …’ caused him to hit as hard as he could.

  It was not even a knock-out blow, for the edge of his hand was soft and inexperienced, and Bayer’s neck was insulated by layers of fat. But it was enough. By the time the Odessa contact man had cleared the dizziness from his brain both his wrists were lashed tightly to the arms of the wooden chair.