‘Where from then?’
‘Jerusalem.’
It took half a second before the meaning of the name made sense to Mackensen. Then he swung up his Lüger to fire. Half a second is a long time, long enough to die.
The foam rubber inside the crash helmet was scorched when the Walther went off. But the 9 mm parabellum slug came through the fibreglass without a pause and took Mackensen high in the breastbone with the force of a kicking mule. The helmet dropped to the ground to reveal the agent’s right hand and from inside the cloud of blue smoke the PPK fired again.
Mackensen was a big man and a strong one. Despite the bullet in the chest he would have fired, but the second slug entering his head two finger widths above the right eyebrow spoilt his aim. It also killed him.
Miller awoke on Monday afternoon in a private ward in Frankfurt General Hospital. He lay for half an hour, becoming slowly aware that his head was swathed in bandages and contained a pair of energetic artillery units. He found a buzzer and pressed it, but the nurse who came told him to lie quietly because he had severe concussion.
So he lay, and piece by piece recollected the events of the previous day until the middle of the morning. After that there was nothing. He dozed off and when he woke it was dark outside and a man was sitting by his bed. The man smiled. Miller stared at him.
‘I don’t know you,’ he said.
‘Well, I know you,’ said the visitor.
Miller thought. ‘I’ve seen you,’ he said at length. ‘You were in Oster’s house. With Leon and Motti.’
‘That’s right. What else do you remember?’
‘Almost everything. It’s coming back.’
‘Roschmann?’
‘Yes. I talked with him. I was going for the police.’
‘Roschmann’s gone. Fled back to South America. The whole affair’s over. Complete. Finished. Do you understand?’
Miller slowly shook his head.
‘Not quite. I’ve got one hell of a story. And I’m going to write it.’
The visitor’s smile faded. He leaned forward.
‘Listen, Miller. You’re a bloody amateur, and you’re lucky to be alive. You’re going to write nothing. For one thing you’ve got nothing to write. I’ve got Tauber’s diary and it’s going back home with me, where it belongs. I read it last night. There was a photograph of an army captain in your jacket pocket. Your father?’
Miller nodded.
‘So that was what it was really all about?’ asked the agent.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, in a way I’m sorry. About your father, I mean. I never thought I’d say that to a German. Now about the file. What was it?’
Miller told him.
‘Then why the hell couldn’t you let us have it? You’re an ungrateful little man. We took a lot of trouble getting you in there, and when you get something you hand it over to your own people. We could have used that information to best advantage.’
‘I had to send it to someone, through Sigi. That meant by mail. You’re so clever, you never let me have Leon’s address.’
Josef nodded.
‘All right. But either way you have no story to tell. You have no evidence. The diary’s gone, the file is gone. All that remains is your personal word. If you insist on talking nobody will believe you except the Odessa, and they’ll come for you. Or, rather, they’ll probably hit Sigi or your mother. They play rough, remember?’
Miller thought for a while.
‘What about my car?’