The Odessa File

Chapter Eleven

PETER MILLER WROTE HIS letters to his mother and Sigi under the watchful eye of Motti, and finished by mid-morning. His luggage had arrived from his hotel, the hotel bill had been paid, and shortly before noon the two of them, accompanied by the same driver of the previous night, set off for Bayreuth.

With a reporter’s instinct he flashed a glance at the number plates of the blue Opel which had taken the place of the Mercedes that had been used the night before. Motti, at his side, noticed the glance and smiled.

‘Don’t bother,’ he said. ‘It’s a hired car, taken out in a false name.’

‘Well, it’s nice to know one is among professionals,’ said Miller.

Motti shrugged.

‘We have to be. It’s one way of staying alive when you’re up against the Odessa.’

The garage had two berths, and Miller noticed his own Jaguar in the second slot. Half-melted snow from the previous night had formed puddles beneath the wheels, and the sleek black bodywork gleamed in the electric light.

Once in the back of the Opel the black sock was again pulled over his head, and he was pushed down to the floor as the car eased out of the garage, through the gates of the courtyard and into the street. Motti kept the blindfold on him until they were well clear of Munich and heading north up Autobahn E 6 towards Nuremberg and Bayreuth.

When Miller finally lost the blindfold he could see there had been another heavy snowfall overnight. The rolling forested countryside where Bavaria ran into Franconia was clothed in a heavy coat of unmarked white, giving a chunky roundness to the leafless trees of the beech forests along the road. The driver was slow and careful, the windscreen wipers working constantly to clear the glass of the fluttering flakes and the mush thrown up by the lorries they passed.

They lunched at a wayside inn at Ingolstadt, pressed on to skirt Nuremberg to the east and were at Bayreuth an hour later.

Set in the heart of one of the most beautiful areas of Germany, nicknamed the Bavarian Switzerland, the small country town of Bayreuth has only one claim to fame, its annual festival of Wagner music. In earlier years the town had been proud to play host to almost the whole Nazi hierarchy as they descended in the wake of Adolf Hitler, a keen fan of the composer who immortalised the heroes of Nordic mythology.

But in January it is a quiet little town, blanketed by snow, the holly rings only a few days since removed from the door-knockers of its neat and well-kept houses. They found the cottage of Alfred Oster on a quiet by-road a mile beyond the town and there was not another car on the road as the small party went to the front door.

The former SS officer was expecting them, a big bluff man with blue eyes and a fuzz of ginger hair spreading over the top of his cranium. Despite the season, he had the healthy ruddy tan of men who spend their time in the mountains among wind and sun and unpolluted air.

Motti made the introductions and handed Oster a letter from Leon. The Bavarian read it and nodded, glancing sharply at Miller.

‘Well, we can always try,’ he said. ‘How long can I have him?’

‘We don’t know yet,’ said Motti. ‘Obviously, until he’s ready. Also, it will be necessary to devise a new identity for him. We will let you know.’

A few minutes later he was gone.

Oster led Miller into the sitting room and drew the curtains against the descending dusk before he put on the light.

‘So, you want to be able to pass as a former SS man, do you?’ he asked.

Miller nodded.

‘That’s right,’ he said.

Oster turned on him.

‘Well, we’ll start by getting a few basic facts right. I don’t know where you did your military service, but I suspect it was in that ill-disciplined, democratic, wet-nursing shambles that calls itself the new German Army. Here’s the first fact. The new German Army would have lasted exactly ten seconds against any crack regiment of the British, Americans or Russians during the last war. Whereas the Waffen-SS, man for man, could beat the shit out of five times their own number of Allies of the last war.

‘Here’s the second fact. The Waffen-SS were the toughest, best-trained, best-disciplined, smartest, fittest bunch of soldiers who ever went into battle in the history of this planet. Whatever they did can’t change that. so SMARTEN UP, MILLER. So long as you are in this house this is the procedure.

‘When I walk into a room you leap to attention. And I mean LEAP. When I walk past, you smack those heels together and remain at attention until I am five paces beyond you. When I say something to you that needs an answer, you reply:

‘“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmfuehrer.”

‘And when I give an order or an instruction, you reply:

‘“Zu Befehl, Herr Hauptsturmfuehrer.”

‘Is that clearly understood?’