The Odessa File

The man who took the call thanked his informant, put the office phone down, leaned back in his comfortable leather-padded executive chair and gazed out of the window at the snow-covered rooftops of the Old Town.

‘Verdammt and once again verdammt,’ he whispered. ‘Why now of all times? Why now?’

To all of the citizens of his city who knew him he was a clever and brilliantly successful lawyer in private practice. To the score of his senior executive officers scattered across West Germany and West Berlin he was the chief executive inside Germany of the Odessa. His telephone number was strictly ex-directory and his code-name was the Werwolf.

Unlike the monster figure of the mythology of Hollywood and the horror films of Britain and America, the German werwolf is not an odd man who grows hair on the backs of his hands during the full moon. In old Germanic mythology the werwolf is a patriotic figure who stays behind in the homeland when the Teuton warrior-heroes have been forced to flee into exile by the invading foreigner, and who leads the resistance against the invader from the shadows of the great forests, striking by night and disappearing, leaving only the spoor of the wolf in the snow.

At the end of the war a group of SS officers, convinced the destruction of the invading Allies was merely a matter of months, trained and briefed a score of groups of ultra-fanatical teenage boys to remain behind and sabotage the Allied occupiers. They were formed in Bavaria, then being overrun by the Americans. These were the original Werwolves. Fortunately for them, they never put their training into practice, for after discovering Dachau the GIs were just waiting for someone to start something.

When the Odessa began in the late forties to reinfiltrate West Germany their first chief executive had been one of those who had trained the teenage werwolves of 1945. He took the title. It had the advantage of being anonymous, symbolic and sufficiently melodramatic to satisfy the eternal German lust for play-acting. But there was nothing theatrical about the ruthlessness with which the Odessa dealt with those who crossed their plans.

The Werwolf of late 1963 was the third to hold the title and position. Fanatic and astute, constantly in touch with his superiors in Argentina, the man watched over the interests of all former members of the SS inside West Germany, but particularly those formerly of high rank or those high on the wanted list.

He stared out of his office window and thought back to the image of SS-General Gluecks facing him in a Madrid hotel room thirty-five days earlier; and to the general’s warning about the vital importance of maintaining at all costs the anonymity and security of the radio factory owner now preparing, under the code-name Vulkan, the guidance system for the Egyptian rockets. Alone in Germany, he also knew that in an earlier part of his life Vulkan had been better known under his real name of Eduard Roschmann.

He glanced down the jotting pad on which he had scribbled the number of Miller’s car and pressed a buzzer on his desk. His secretary’s voice came through from the next room.

‘Hilda, what was the name of that private investigator we employed last month on the divorce case?’

‘One moment …’ There was a sound of rustling papers as she looked up the file. ‘It was Memmers, Heinz Memmers.’

‘Give me the telephone number, will you? No, don’t ring him, just give me the number.’

He noted it down beneath the number of Miller’s car, then took his finger off the intercom key.

He rose and crossed the room to a wall-safe set in a block of concrete, a part of the wall of the office. From the safe he took a thick, heavy book and went back to his desk. Flicking through the pages he came to the entry he wanted. There were only two Memmers listed, Heinrich and Walter. He ran his finger along the page opposite Heinrich, usually shortened to Heinz. He noted the date of birth, worked out the age of the man in late 1963 and recalled the face of the private investigator. The ages fitted. He jotted down two other numbers listed against Heinz Memmers, picked up the telephone and asked Hilda for an outside line.

When the dialling tone came through he dialled the number she had given him. The telephone at the other end was picked up after a dozen rings. It was a woman’s voice.

‘Memmers Private Inquiries.’

‘Pass me Herr Memmers personally,’ said the lawyer.

‘May I say who’s calling?’ asked the secretary brightly.

‘No, just put him on the line. And hurry.’

There was a pause. The tone of voice took its effect.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

A minute later a gruff voice said, ‘Memmers.’

‘Is that Herr Heinz Memmers?’

‘Yes, who is that speaking?’

‘Never mind my name. It is not important. Just tell me, does the number 245.718 mean anything to you?’

There was a dead silence down the phone, broken only by a heavy sigh as Memmers digested the fact that his SS number had just been quoted at him. The book now lying open on the Werwolf’s desk was a list of every former member of the SS. Memmers’ voice came back, harsh with suspicion.

‘Should it?’

‘Would it mean anything to you if I said that my own corresponding number had only five figures in it … Kamerad?’

The change was electric. Five figures meant a very senior officer.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Memmers down the line.