The Odessa File

‘A stubborn young man, truculent and headstrong, probably obstinate, and with an undercurrent of genuine and personal hatred in him for the Kamerad in question, Eduard Roschmann, for which no explanation seems to exist. Unlikely to listen to reason, even in the face of personal threat …’

The Werwolf read the doctor’s summing up again and sighed. He reached for the phone and asked his secretary Hilda for an outside line. When he had it he dialled a number in Düsseldorf.

After several rings it was answered, and a voice said simply, ‘Yes.’

‘There’s a call for Herr Mackensen,’ said the Werwolf.

The voice from the other end said simply, ‘Who wants him?’

Instead of answering the question directly, the Werwolf gave the first part of the identification code.

‘Who was greater than Frederick the Great?’

The voice from the other end replied:

‘Barbarossa.’ There was a pause, then:

‘This is Mackensen,’ said the voice.

‘Werwolf,’ replied the chief of the Odessa. ‘The holiday is over, I’m afraid. There is work to be done. Get over here by tomorrow evening.’

‘When?’ replied Mackensen.

‘Be here at ten,’ said the Werwolf. ‘Tell my secretary your name is Keller. I will ensure you have an appointment in that name.’

He put the phone down. In Düsseldorf, Mackensen rose and went into the bathroom of his flat to shower and shave. He was a big, powerful man, a former sergeant of the Das Reich division of the SS, who had learned his killing when hanging French hostages in Tulle and Limoges, back in 1944.

After the war he had driven a truck for the Odessa, running human cargoes south through Germany and Austria into the South Tyrol province of Italy. In 1946, stopped by an overly suspicious American patrol, he had slain all four occupants of the jeep, two of them with his bare hands. From then on he too was on the run.

Employed later as a bodyguard for senior men of the Odessa, he had been saddled with the nickname ‘Mack the Knife’, although oddly he never used a knife, preferring the strength of his butcher’s hands to strangle or break the necks of his ‘assignments’.

Rising in the esteem of his superiors, he had become in the mid-fifties the executioner of the Odessa, the man who could be relied on to cope quietly and discreetly with those who came too close to the top men of the organisation, or those from within who elected to squeal on their comrades. By January 1964 he had fulfilled twelve assignments of this kind.

The call came on the dot of eight. It was taken by the reception clerk who put his head round the corner of the residents’ lounge, where Miller sat watching television.

He recognised the voice on the end of the phone.

‘Herr Miller? It’s me, Motti. I think I may be able to help you. Rather, some friends may be able to. Would you like to meet them?’

‘I’ll meet anybody who can help me,’ said Miller, intrigued by the manoeuvres.

‘Good,’ said Motti. ‘Leave your hotel and turn left down Schiller Strasse. Two blocks down on the same side is a cake-and-coffee shop called Linde-mann. Meet me in there.’

‘When, now?’ asked Miller.

‘Yes. Now. I would come to the hotel but I’m with my friends here. Come right away.’

He hung up. Miller took his coat and walked out through the doors. He turned left and headed down the pavement. Half a block from the hotel something hard was jabbed into his ribs from behind, and a car slid up to the kerb.

‘Get into the back seat, Herr Miller,’ said a voice in his ear.

The door beside him swung open and with a last dig in the ribs from the man behind, Miller ducked his head and entered the car. The driver was up front, the back seat contained another man who slid over to make room for him. He felt the man behind him enter the car also, then the door was slammed and the car slid from the kerb.

Miller’s heart was thumping. He glanced at the three men in the car with him, but recognised none of them. The man to his right, who had opened

the door for him to enter, spoke first.

‘I am going to bind your eyes,’ he said simply. ‘We would not want you to see where you are going.’