The Odessa File

Thirty minutes later he was with Leon in the latter’s house. The revenge-group leader read the message and swore.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘I couldn’t have known.’

Unknown to either man three tiny fragments of information had come into the possession of the Mossad in the previous six days. One was from the resident Israeli agent in Buenos Aires to the effect that someone had authorised the payment of a sum equivalent to one million German marks to a figure called Vulkan ‘to enable him to complete the next stage of his research project’.

The second was from a Jewish employee of a Swiss bank known habitually to handle currency transfers from secret Nazi funds elsewhere to pay off Odessa men in Western Europe; it was to the effect that one million marks had been transferred to the bank from Beirut, and collected in cash by a man operating an account at the bank for the previous ten years in the name of Fritz Wegener.

The third was from an Egyptian colonel in a senior position in the security apparat around Factory 333, who, for a substantial consideration in money to help him prepare a comfortable retirement, had talked with a man from the Mossad for several hours in a Rome hotel. What the man had to say was that the rocket project was lacking only the provision of a reliable tele-guidance system, which was being researched and constructed in a factory in West Germany and that the project was costing the Odessa millions of marks.

The three fragments, among thousands of others, had been processed in the computer banks of Professor Youvel Neeman, the Israeli genius who had first harnessed science in the form of the computer to intelligence analysis, and who later went on to become the father of the Israeli atomic bomb. Where a human memory might have failed, the whirring micro-circuits had linked the three items, recalled that up to his exposure by his wife in 1955 Roschmann had used the name of Fritz Wegener, and had reported accordingly.

Josef rounded on Leon in their underground headquarters.

‘I’m staying here from now on. I’m not moving out of range of that telephone. Get me a powerful motor-cycle and protective clothing. Have both ready within the hour. If and when your precious Miller checks in, I’ll have to get to him fast.’

‘If he’s exposed, you won’t get there fast enough,’ said Leon. ‘No wonder they warned me to stay away. They’ll kill him if he gets within a mile of his man.’

As Leon left the cellar Josef ran his eye over the cable from Tel Aviv once again. It said:

RED ALERT NEW INFORMATION INDICATES VITAL KEY ROCKET SUCCESS GERMAN INDUSTRIALIST OPERAT(ING) YOUR TERRITORY STOP CODE NAME VULCAN STOP PROBABLY IDENTIFICATION ROSH MAN STOP USE MILLER INSTANTLY STOP TRACE AND ELIMINATE STOP CORMORANT

Josef sat at the table and meticulously began to clean and arm his Walther PPK automatic. From time to time he glanced at the silent telephone.

Over dinner Bayer had been the genial host, roaring with laughter in great gusts as he told his own favourite jokes. Miller tried several times to get the talk round to the question of a new passport for himself.

Each time Bayer clapped him soundly on the back, told him not to worry and added:

‘Leave it to me, old boy, leave it to old Franz Bayer.’

He tapped the right-hand side of his nose with his forefinger, winked broadly and dissolved into gales of merriment.

One thing Miller had inherited from eight years as a reporter was the ability to drink and keep a straight head. But he was not used to the white wine, of which copious draughts were used to wash down the meal. But white wine has one advantage if one is trying to get another man drunk. It comes in buckets of ice and cold water, to keep it chilled, and three times Miller was able to tip his entire glass into the ice bucket when Bayer was looking the other way.

By the dessert course they had demolished two bottles of excellent cold hock, and Bayer, squeezed into his tight horn-buttoned jacket, was perspiring in torrents. The effect was to enhance his thirst, and he called for a third bottle of wine.

Miller feigned to be worried that it would prove impossible to obtain a new passport for him, and that he would be arrested for his part in the events at Flossenburg in 1945.

‘You’ll need some photographs of me, won’t you?’ he asked with concern.

Bayer guffawed.

‘Yes, a couple of photographs. No problem. You can get them taken in one of the automatic booths at the station. Wait till your hair’s a bit longer, and the moustac

he a bit fuller, and no one will ever know it’s the same man.’

‘What happens then?’ asked Miller agog.

Bayer leaned over and placed a fat arm round his shoulders. Miller felt the stench of wine on his face as the fat man chuckled in his ear.

‘Then I send them away to a friend of mine, and a week later back comes the passport. With the passport we get you a driving licence – you’ll have to pass the test, of course – and a social security card. So far as the authorities are concerned, you’ve just arrived back home after fifteen years abroad. No problem, old chap, stop worrying.’

Although Bayer was getting drunk, he was still in command of his tongue. He declined to say more, and Miller was afraid to push him too far in case he suspected something was amiss with his young guest and closed up completely.

Although he was dying for a coffee, Miller declined, in case the coffee should begin to sober up Franz Bayer. The fat man paid for the meal from a well-stuffed wallet and they headed for the coat-check counter. It was half past ten.

‘It’s been a marvellous evening, Herr Bayer. Thank you very much.’

‘Franz, Franz,’ wheezed the fat man as he struggled into his coat.