The Odessa File

18

IT WAS ten past one when Mackensen’s Mercedes turned off the country road into the gate of the estate. Halfway up the drive to the house he found the way blocked.

The Jaguar bad evidently been blown apart from inside, but its wheels had not left the road. It was still upright, slewed slantwise across the drive. The forward and rear sections were recognizable as those of a car, still held together by the tough steel girders that formed the chassis.

But the center section, including the cockpit, was missing from floor to roof. Bits of this section were scattered in an area around the wreckage.

Mackensen surveyed the skeleton with a grim smile and walked over to the bundle of scorched clothes and their contents on the ground twenty feet away. Something about the size of the corpse caught his attention, and he stooped over it for several minutes. Then he straightened and ran at an easy lope up the rest of the drive toward the house.

He avoided ringing the front doorbell but tried the handle. The door opened, and he went into the hallway. For several seconds he listened, poised like a carnivorous animal by a water hole, sensing the atmosphere for danger. There was no sound. He reached under his left armpit and brought out a long-barreled Luger automatic, flicked off the safety catch, and started to open the doors leading off the hall.

The first was to the dining room, the second to the study. Although he saw the body on the hearthrug at once, he did not move from the half-open door before he had covered the rest of the room. He had known two men to fall for that trick-the obvious bait and the hidden ambush. Before entering, he glanced through the crack between the door’s hinges to make sure no one waited behind it, then entered.

Miller was lying on his back with his head turned to one side. For several seconds Mackensen stared down into the chalky white face, then bent to listen to the shallow breathing. The matted blood on the back of the head told him roughly what had happened.

He spent ten minutes scouring the house, noting the open drawers in the master bedroom, the missing shaving gear from the bathroom. Back in the study, he glanced into the yawning and empty wall safe, then sat himself at the desk and picked up the telephone.

He sat listening for several seconds, swore under his breath, and replaced the receiver. There was no difficulty in finding the tool chest under the stairs, for the cupboard door was still open. He took what he needed and went back down the drive, passing through the study to check on Miller and leaving by the French windows.

It took him almost an hour to find the parted strands of the telephone line, sort them out from the entangling undergrowth, and splice them back together. When he was satisfied with his handiwork he walked back to the house, sat at the desk, and tried the phone. He got the dial tone and called his chief in Nuremberg.

He had expected the Werwolf to be eager to hear from him, but the man’s voice coming down the wire sounded tired and only half-interested. Like a good sergeant, lie reported what he had found: the car, the corpse of the bodyguard, the half-handcuff still linked to the scrollwork by the fire, the blunt hacksaw blade on the carpet, Miller unconscious on the floor. He finished with the absent owner.

“He hasn’t taken much, Chief. Overnight things, probably money from the open safe. I can clear up here; he can come back if he wants to.”

“No, he won’t come back,” the Werwolf told him. “Just before you called, I put the phone down. He called me from Frankfurt airport. He’s got a reservation on a flight to Madrid, leaving in ten minutes. Connection this evening to Buenos Aires-.”

“But there’s no need,” protested Mackensen. “I’ll make Miller talk, we can find where he left his papers. There was no document case in the wreckage of the car, and nothing on him, except a sort of diary lying on the study floor. But the rest of his stuff must be somewhere not far away.”

“Far enough,” replied the Werwolf. “In a mailbox.” Wearily he told Mackensen what Miller had stolen from the forger, and what Roschmann had just told him on the phone from Frankfurt. “Those papers will be in the hands of the authorities in the morning, or Tuesday at the latest. After that everyone on that list is on borrowed time. That includes Roschmann, the owner of the house you’re in, and me. I’ve spent the whole morning trying to warn everyone concerned to get out of the country inside twenty-four hours.”

“So where do we go from here?” asked Mackensen.

“You get lost,” replied his chief. “You’re not on that list. I am, so I have to get out. Go back to your flat and wait until my successor contacts you. For the rest, it’s over. Vulkan has fled and won’t come back.

With his departure his whole operation is going to fall apart unless someone new can come in and take over the project.”

“What Vulkan? What project?”

“Since it’s over, you might as well know. Vulkan was the name of Roschmann, the man you were supposed to protect from Miller…… In a few sentences the Werwolf told the executioner why Roschmann had been so important, why his place in the project and the project itself were irreplaceable.

When he had finished, Mackensen uttered a low whistle and stared across the room at the form of Peter Miller. “That little boy sure fucked things up for everyone,” he said.

The Werwolf seemed to pull himself together, and some of his old authority returned to his voice. “Kamerad, you must clear up the mess over there. You remember that disposal squad you used once before?”

“Yes, I know where to get them. They’re not far from here.”

“Call them up, bring them over.

Have them leave the place without a trace of what happened. The man’s wife must be coming back late tonight; she must never know what happened. Understand?”

“It’ll be done,” said Mackensen.

“Then make yourself scarce. One last thing. Before you go, finish that bastard Miller. Once and for all.”

Mackensen looked across at the unconscious reporter with narrowed eyes.

“It’ll be a pleasure,” he grated.

“Then good-by and good luck.” The phone went dead. Mackensen replaced it, took out an address book, thumbed through it, and dialed a number. He introduced himself to the man who answered and reminded him of the previous favor the man had done for the Comradeship. He told him where to come and what he would find.

“The car and the body beside it have to go into a deep gorge off a mountain road. Plenty of gasoline over it, a real big blaze. Nothing identifiable about the mango through his pockets and take everything, including his watch.”

“Got it,” said the voice on the phone. “I’ll bring a trailer and winch.”

“There’s one last thing. In the study of the house you’ll find another stiff on the floor and a bloodstained hearthrug. Get rid of them. Not in the car-a long, cold drop to the bottom of a long, cold lake. Well weighted. No traces. Okay?”

“No problem. We’ll be there by five and gone by seven. I don’t like to move that kind of cargo in daylight.”

“Fine,” said Mackensen. “I’ll be gone before you get here. But you’ll find things like I said.” He hung up, slid off the desk, and walked over to Miller. He pulled out his Luger and automatically checked the breech, although he knew it was loaded.

“You little shit,” he told the body and held the gun at arm’s length pointing downward, lined up on the forehead.

Years of living like a predatory animal and surviving where others, victims and colleagues, had ended on a pathologist’s slab had given Mackensen the senses of a leopard. He didn’t see the shadow that fell onto the carpet from the open French window; be felt it and spun around, ready to fire. But the man was unarmed.

“Who the hell are you?” growled Mackensen, keeping him covered.

The man stood in the French window, dressed in the black leather leggings and jacket of a motorcyclist.

In his left hand he carried his crash helmet, gripped by the short peak and held across his stomach. The man flicked a glance at the body at Mackensen’s feet and the gun in his hand.

“I was sent for,” he said innocently.

“Who by?” said Mackensen.

“Vulkan,” replied the man. “My Kamerad, Roschmann.”

Mackensen grunted and lowered the gun. “Well, he’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Fucked off. Heading for South America. The whole project’s off. And all thanks to this little bastard reporter.” He jerked the gun barrel toward Miller.

“You going to finish him?” asked the man.

“Sure. He screwed up the project. Identified Roschmann and mailed the information to the police, along with a pile of other stuff. If you’re in that file, you’d better get out too.”

“What file?”

“The Odessa file.”

“I’m not in it,” said the man.

“Neither am I,” growled Mackensen. “But the Werwolf is, and his orders are to finish this one off before we quit.”

“The Werwolf?”

Something began to sound a small alarm inside Mackensen. He had just been told that in Germany no one apart from the Werwolf and himself knew about the Vulkan project. The others were in South America, from where he assumed the new arrival had come. But such a man would know about the Werwolf. His eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re from Buenos Aires?” he asked.

“No.”

“Where from, then?”

“Jerusalem.” It took half a second before the meaning of the name made sense to Mackensen. Then he swung up his Luger 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 nine-millimeter parabellum slug came through the fiberglass 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, spoiled 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 lousy 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 bell couldn’t you let us have it? You’re an ungrateful 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 mad. 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?”

“You don’t know about that. I forgot.”

Josef told Miller about the bomb in it, and the way it went off. “I told you they play rough. The car has been found gutted by fire in a ravine. The body in it is unidentified, but not yours. Your story is that you were flagged down by a hitchhiker, he hit you with an iron bar and went off in it. The hospital will confirm you were brought in by a passing motorcyclist who called an ambulance when he saw you by the roadside. They won’t recognize me again; I was in a helmet and goggles at the time. That’s the official version, and it will stay. To make sure, I rang the German press agency two hours ago, claiming to be the hospital, and gave them the same story. You were the victim of a hitchhiker who later crashed and killed himself.”

Josef stood up and prepared to leave. He looked down at Miller. “You’re a lucky bastard, though you don’t seem to realize it. I got the message your girl friend passed me, presumably on your instructions, at noon yesterday, and by riding like a maniac I made it from Munich to the house on the hill in two and a half hours dead. Which was what you almost were—dead. They bad a guy who was going to kill you. I managed to interrupt him in time.” He turned, hand on the doorknob.

“Take a word of advice. Claim the insurance on your car, get a Volkswagen, go back to Hamburg, marry Sigi, have kids, and stick to reporting. Don’t tangle with professionals again.” Half an hour after he had gone, the nurse came back.

“There’s a phone call for you,” she said.

It was Sigi, crying and laughing on the line. She had received an anonymous call telling her Peter was in Frankfurt General.

“I’m on my way down right this minute,” she said and hung up.

The phone rang again. “Miller? This is Hoffmann. I just saw a piece on the agency tapes. You got a bang on the head. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Herr Hoffmann,” said Miller.

“Great. When are you going to be fit?”

“In a few days. Why?”

“I’ve got a story that’s right up your alley. A lot of daughters of wealthy papas in Germany are going down to the ski slopes and getting screwed by these handsome young ski-instructors. There’s a clinic in Bavaria that gets them back out of trouble-for a fat fee and no word to Daddy about it. Seems some of the young studs take a rake-off from the clinic. A great little story. Sex amid the Snow, Orgies in Oberland. When can you start?” Miller thought. “Next week.”

“Excellent. By the way, that thing you were on. Nazi-hunting. Did you get the man? Is there a story at all?”

“No, Herr Hoffmann,” said Miller slowly. “No story.”

“Didn’t think so. Hurry up and get well. See you in Hamburg.”

Josef’s plane from Frankfurt via London came into Lod Airport, Tel Aviv, as dusk was setting on Tuesday evening. He was met by two men in a car and taken to headquarters for debriefing by the colonel who had signed the cable from Cormorant. They talked until almost two in the morning, a stenographer noting it all down. When it was over, the colonel leaned back, smiled, and offered his agent a cigarette.

“Well done,” he said simply. “We’ve checked on the factory and tipped off the authorities-anonymously, of course. The research section will be dismantled. We’ll see to that, even if the German authorities don’t.

But they will. The scientists apparently didn’t know whom they were working for. We’ll approach them all privately, and most will agree to destroy their records. They know, if the story broke, the weight of opinion in Germany today is pro-Israeli. They’ll get other jobs in industry and keep their mouths shut. So will Bonn, and so will we. What about Miller?”

“He’ll do the same. What about those rockets?” The colonel blew a column of smoke and gazed at the stars in the night sky outside. “I have a feeling they’ll never fly now. Nasser has to be ready by the summer of sixty-seven at the latest, and if the research work in that Vulkan factory is destroyed, they’ll never mount another operation in time to fit the guidance systems to the rockets before the summer of ‘sixty-seven.”

“Then the danger’s over,” said the agent.

The colonel smiled. “The danger’s never over. It just changes shape. This particular danger may be over. The big one goes on. We’re going to have to fight again, and maybe after that, before it’s over. Anyway, you must be tired. You can go home now.” He reached into a drawer and produced a polyethylene bag of personal effects, while the agent deposited on the desk his false German passport, money, wallet, and keys. In a side room he changed clothes, leaving the German clothes with his superior.

At the door the colonel looked the figure up and down with approval and shook hands. “Welcome home, Major Uri Ben-Shaul.” The agent felt better back in his own identity, the one he had taken in 1947 when he first came to Israel and enlisted in the Palmach. He took a taxi back home to his flat in the suburbs and let himself in with the key that had just been returned to him with his other effects.

In the darkened bedroom he could make out the sleeping form of Rivka, his wife, the light blanket rising and falling with her breathing. He peeked into the children’s room and looked down at their two boys: Shlomo, who was six, and the two-year-old baby, Dov.

He wanted badly to climb into bed beside his wife and sleep for several days, but there was one more job to be done. He set down his case and quietly undressed, taking off even the underclothes and socks.

He dressed in fresh ones taken from the clothes chest, and Rivka slept on, undisturbed.

From the closet he took his uniform trousers, cleaned and pressed as they always were when he came home, and laced up the gleaming black calf-boots over them. His khaki shirts and ties were where they always were, with razor-sharp creases down the shirt where the hot iron had pressed. Over them he slipped his battle jacket, adorned only with the glinting steel wings of a paratroop officer and the five campaign ribbons he bad earned in Sinai and in raids across the borders.

The final article was his red beret. When he bad dressed he took several articles and stuffed them into a small bag. There was already a dim glint in the east when he got back outside and found his small car still parked where he had left it a month before in front of the apartment house.

Although it was only February 26, three days before the end of the last month of winter, the air was mild again and gave promise of a brilliant spring.

He drove eastward out of Tel Aviv and took the road to Jerusalem. There was a stillness about the dawn that he loved, a peace and a cleanness that never ceased to cause him wonder. He had seen it a thousand times on patrol in the desert, the phenomenon of a sunrise, cool and beautiful, before the onset of a day of blistering heat and sometimes of combat and death. It was the best time of the day.

The road led across the flat, fertile countryside of the littoral plain toward the ocher hills of Judea, through the waking village of Ramleh.

After Ramleh there was in those days a detour around the Latroun Salient, five miles to skirt the front positions of the Jordanian forces. To his left he could see the morning breakfast fires of the Arab Legion sending up thin plumes of blue smoke.

There were a few Arabs awake in the village of Abu Gosh, and when he had climbed up the last hills to Jerusalem the sun had cleared the eastern horizon and glinted off the Dome of the Rock in the Arab section of the divided city.

He parked his car a quarter of a mile from his destination, the mausoleum of Yad Vashem, and walked the rest, down the avenue flanked by trees planted in memory of the gentiles who had tried to help, and to the great bronze doors that guard the shrine to six million of his fellow Jews who had died in the holocaust.

The old gatekeeper told him it was not open so early in the morning, but he explained what he wanted, and the man let him in. He passed through into the Hall of Remembrance and glanced about him. He had been there before to pray for his own family, and still the massive gray granite blocks of which the hall was built overawed him.

He walked forward to the rail and gazed at the names written in black on the gray stone floor, in Hebrew and Roman letters. There was no light in the sepulcher but that from the Eternal Flame, flickering above the shallow black bowl from which it sprang.

By its light he could see the names across the floor, score upon score: Auschwitz, Treblinka, Belsen, Ravensbruck, Buchenwald…. There were too many to count, but he found the one he sought. Riga.

He did not need a yarmulka to cover himself, for he still wore his red beret, which would suffice. From his bag he took a fringed silk shawl, the tallith, the same kind of shawl Miller had found among the effects of the old man in Altona and had not understood. This he draped around his shoulders.

He took a prayer book from his bag and opened it at the right page. He advanced to the brass rail that separates the hall into two parts, gripped it with one hand, and gazed across it at the flame in front of him.

Because he was not a religious man, he had to consult his prayer book frequently, as he recited the prayer already five thousand years old.

And so it was that, twenty-one years after it had died in Riga, a major of paratroops of the Army of Israel, standing on a hill in the Promised Land, finally said Kaddish for the soul of Salomon Tauber.