The Odessa File

One end of his short length of red-coated wire he spot-soldered to the positive terminal of the battery. To the negative terminal he soldered one end of the long, blue-coloured wire. To ensure that these wires never touched each other, he drew one down each side of the battery and whipped both wires and battery together with insulating tape.

The other end of the short red wire was twirled round the contact-point on the detonator. To the same contact point was fixed one end of the other, eight-foot, piece of red wire.

He deposited the battery and its wires in the base of the square tin, embedded the detonator deeply into the plastic explosive and smoothed the explosive into the tin on top of the battery until the tin was full.

A near-circuit had now been set up. A

wire went from the battery to the detonator. Another went from the detonator to nowhere, its bare end in space. From the battery another wire went to nowhere, its bare end in space. But when these two exposed ends, one of the eight-foot-long red wire, the other of the blue wire, touched each other the circuit would be complete. The charge from the battery would fire the detonator, which would explode with a sharp crack. But the crack would be lost in the roar as the plastic went off, enough to demolish two or three of the hotel’s bedrooms.

The remaining device was the trigger mechanism. For this he wrapped his hands in handkerchiefs, and bent the hacksaw blade until it snapped in the middle, leaving him with two six-inch lengths, each one perforated at one end by the small hole that usually fixes a hacksaw blade to its frame.

He piled the five rubbers one on top of the other so that together they made a block of rubber. Using this to separate the halves of the blade, he bound them along the upper and lower side of the block of rubber, so that the six-inch lengths of steel stuck out, parallel to each other and one and a quarter inches apart. In outline they looked rather like the jaws of a crocodile. The rubber block was at one end of the lengths of steel, so four inches of the blades were separated only by air. To make sure there was a little more resistance than air to prevent their touching, Mackensen lodged the light-bulb between the open jaws, fixing it in place with a generous blob of glue. Glass does not conduct electricity.

He was almost ready. He threaded the two lengths of wire, one red and one blue, which protruded from the tin of explosive, through the hole in the lid and replaced the lid on the tin, pushing it firmly back into place. Of the two pieces of wire, he soldered the end of one to the upper hacksaw blade, the other to the lower blade. The bomb was now live.

Should the trigger ever be trodden on, or subjected to sudden pressure, the bulb would shatter, the two lengths of sprung steel would close together and the electric circuit from the battery would be complete. There was one last precaution. To prevent the exposed hacksaw blades ever touching the same piece of metal at the same time, which would also complete the circuit, he smoothed all six condoms over the trigger, one on top of the other, until the device was protected from outside detonation by six layers of thin insulating rubber. That at least would prevent accidental detonation.

His bomb complete, he stowed it in the bottom of the wardrobe, along with the binding wire, the clippers and the rest of the sticky tape, which he would need to fix it to Miller’s car. Then he ordered more coffee to stay awake, and settled down at the window to wait for Miller’s return to the parking lot in the centre of the square.

He did not know where Miller had gone, nor did he care. The Werwolf had assured him there were no leads he could pick up to give the whereabouts of the forger, and that was that. As a good technician, Mackensen was prepared to do his job and leave the rest to those in charge. He was prepared to be patient. He knew Miller would return sooner or later.

Chapter Fifteen

THE DOCTOR GLANCED with little favour at the visitor. Miller, who hated collars and ties and avoided wearing them whenever he could, had a white nylon polo-necked sweater and over it a black pullover with a turtle neck. Over the two pullovers he wore a black blazer. For hospital visiting, the doctor’s expression clearly said, a collar and tie would be more appropriate.

‘Her nephew?’ he repeated with surprise. ‘Strange, I had no idea Fräulein Wendel had a nephew.’

‘I believe I am her sole surviving relative,’ said Miller. ‘Obviously I would have come far sooner, had I known of my aunt’s condition, but Herr Winzer only rang me this morning to inform me, and asked me to visit her.’

‘Herr Winzer is usually here himself about this hour,’ observed the doctor.

‘I understand he’s been called away,’ said Miller blandly. ‘At least, that was what he told me on the phone this morning. He said he would not be back for some days, and asked me to visit in his stead.’

‘Gone away? How extraordinary. How very odd.’ The doctor paused for a moment, irresolute, and then added, ‘Would you excuse me?’

Miller saw him go back from the entrance hall where they had been talking to a small office to one side. From the open door he heard snatches of conversation as the clinic doctor rang Winzer’s house.

‘He has indeed gone away? … This morning? … Several days? … Oh, no thank you, Fräulein, I just wanted to confirm that he will not be visiting this afternoon.’

The doctor hung up and came back to the hall.

‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘Herr Winzer has been here regular as clockwork since Fräulein Wendel was brought in. Evidently a most devoted man. Well, he had better be quick if he wishes to see her again. She is very far gone, you know.’

Miller looked sad.

‘So he told me on the phone,’ he lied. ‘Poor Auntie.’

‘As her relative, of course you may spend a short time with her. But I must warn you, she is hardly coherent, so I must ask you to be as brief as you can. Come this way.’

The doctor led Miller down several passages of what had evidently once been a large private house, now converted into a clinic, and stopped at a bedroom door.

‘She’s in here,’ he said, and showed Miller in, closing the door after him. Miller heard his footsteps retreating down the passage.

The room was in semi-darkness and until his eyes had become accustomed to the dull light from the wintry afternoon that came through the gap in the slightly parted curtains, he failed to distinguish the shrivelled form of the woman in the bed. She was raised on several pillows under her head and shoulders, but so pale was her nightdress and the face above it that she almost merged with the bedclothes. Her eyes were closed. Miller had few hopes of obtaining from her the likely bolt-hole of the vanished forger.

He whispered, ‘Fräulein Wendel,’ and the eyelids fluttered and opened.

She stared at him without a trace of expression in the eyes, and Miller doubted if she could even see him. She closed her eyes again and began to mutter incoherently. He leaned closer to catch the phrases coming in a monotonous jumble from the grey lips.