The Odessa File

But it was scant comfort. If the Stuttgart police could not find Miller, neither could the Leon group, and the latter could only fear the Odessa would by now be closer than either.

‘He must have known after killing Bayer that he had blown his cover, and therefore reverted to the name of Miller,’ reasoned Leon. ‘So he has to abandon the search for Roschmann, unless he got something out of Bayer that took him to Roschmann.’

‘Then why the hell doesn’t he check in,’ snapped Josef. ‘Does the fool think he can take Roschmann on his own?’

Motti coughed quietly.

‘He doesn’t know Roschmann has any real importance to the Odessa,’ he pointed out.

‘Well, if he gets close enough, he’ll find out,’ said Leon.

‘And by then he’ll be a dead man, and we’ll all be back to square one,’ snapped Josef. ‘Why doesn’t the idiot ring in?’

But the phone lines were busy elsewhere that night, for Klaus Winzer had rung the Werwolf from a small mountain chalet in the Regensburg region. The news he got was reassuring.

‘Yes, I think it’s safe for you to return home,’ the Odessa chief had answered in reply to the forger’s question. ‘The man who was trying to interview you has by now certainly been taken care of.’

The forger had thanked him, settled his overnight bill and set off through the darkness for the north and the familiar comfort of his large bed at home in Westerberg, Osnabrück. He expected to arrive in time for a hearty breakfast, a bath and a long sleep. By Monday morning he would be back in his printing works supervising the handling of the business.

Miller was awoken by a knock at the bedroom door. He blinked, realising the light was still on, and opened. The night porter stood there, Sigi behind him.

Miller quieted his fears by explaining the lady was his wife who had brought him some important papers from home for a business meeting the following morning. The porter, a simple country lad with an indecipherable Hessian accent, took his tip and left.

Sigi threw her arms round him as he kicked the door shut.

‘Where have you been? What are you doing here?’

He shut off the questions in the simplest way and by the time they parted Sigi’s cold cheeks were flushed and burning and Miller was feeling like a fighting rooster.

He took her coat and hung it on the hook behind the door. She started to ask more questions.

‘First things first,’ he said, and pulled her down on to the bed, still warm under the thick feather cushion from where he had lain dozing. She giggled.

‘You haven’t changed.’

She was still wearing her hostess dress from the cabaret, low-cut at the front, with a skimpy sling-bra beneath it. He unzipped the dress down the back and eased the thin shoulder-straps off.

‘Have you?’ he asked quietly.

She took a deep breath and lay back as he bent over her, pushing herself towards his face. She smiled.

‘No,’ she murmured, ‘not at all. You know what I like.’

‘And you know what I like,’ muttered Miller indistinctly.

She squealed.

‘Me first. I’ve missed you more than you’ve missed me.’

There was no reply, only silence disturbed by Sigi’s rising sighs and groans.

It was an hour before they paused, panting and happy, and Miller filled the tooth-glass with brandy and water. Sigi sipped a little, for she was not a heavy drinker despite her job, and Miller took the rest.

‘So,’ said Sigi teasingly, ‘first things having been dealt with …’

‘For a while,’ interjected Miller. She giggled.

‘For a while, would you mind telling me why the mysterious letter, why the six week absence, why that awful skinhead haircut and why a small room in an obscure hotel in Hesse?’