Frederick Forsyth - The Odessa File

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 microcircuits 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 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 motorcycle 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 him to stay away. They’ll kill him if lie 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 OPERATING YOUR TERRITORY STOP CODE NAME VULCAN STOP PROBABLE 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 favorite jokes. Miller tried several times to get the talk around 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 clear head. He was not used to the white wine of which copious drafts 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 bock, 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 Deed 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 little longer, and the mustache a little 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 around his shoulders. Miller smelled the stench of wine 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 license 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 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 wonderful evening, Herr Bayer. Thank you very much.”

“Franz, Franz,” wheezed the fat man as he struggled into his coat.

“I suppose that’s the end of what Stuttgart has to offer in the way of night life,” observed Miller as he slipped into his own.

“Ha, silly boy. That’s all you know. We have a great little city here, you know. Half a dozen good cabarets. You’d like to go on to one?”

“You mean there are cabarets, with stripteases and everything?” asked Miller, pop-eyed.

Bayer wheezed with mirth. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t be against the idea of watching some of the little ladies take their clothes off.” Bayer tipped the coat check girl handsomely and waddled outside.

“What nightclubs are there in Stuttgart?” asked Miller innocently.

“Well, now, let’s see. There’s the Moulin Rouge, the Balzac, the Imperial, and the Sayonara. Then there’s the Madeleine in Eberhardtstrasse-.”

“Eberhardt? Good Lord, what a coincidence. That was my boss in Bremen, the man who got me out of this mess and passed me on to the lawyer in Nuremberg,” exclaimed Miller.

“Good. Good. Excellent. Let’s go there, then,” said Bayer and led the way to his car.

Mackensen reached the Three Moors at quarter past eleven. He inquired of the headwaiter, who was supervising the departure of the last guests.

“Herr Bayer? Yes, he was here tonight. Left about half an hour ago.”

“He had a guest with him? A tall man with short brown hair and a mustache.”

“That’s right. I remember them. Sitting at the comer table over there.” Mackensen slipped a twenty-mark note into the man’s hand without difficulty. “It’s vitally important that I find him. It’s an emergency.

His wife, you know, a sudden collapse…” The headwaiter’s face puckered with concern. “Oh dear, how terrible!”

“Do you know where they went from here?”

“I confess I don’t,” said the headwaiter. He called to one of the junior waiters. “Hans, you served Herr Bayer and his guest at the comer table. Did they mention if they were going on anywhere?”

“No,” said Hans. “I didn’t hear them say anything about going on anywhere.”

“You could try the hat-check girl,” suggested the headwaiter. “She might have heard them say something.” Mackensen asked the girl. Then he asked for a copy of the tourist booklet, What’s Going on in Stuttgart. In the section for cabarets were half a dozen names. In the middle pages of the booklet was a street map of the city center. He walked back to his car and headed for the first name on the list of cabarets.

Miller and Bayer sat at a table for two in the Madeleine nightclub. Bayer, on his second large tumbler of whisky, stared with pop eyes at a generously endowed young woman gyrating her hips in the center of the floor while her fingers unhooked the fasteners of her brassi6re. When it finally came off, Bayer jabbed Miller in the ribs with his elbow. He was quivering with mirth.

“What a pair, eh, lad, what a pair?” He chuckled. It was well after midnight, and he was becoming very drunk.

“Look, Herr Bayer, I’m worried,” whispered Miller. “I mean, it’s me who’s on the run. How soon can you make this passport for me?”

Bayer draped his arm around Miller’s shoulders. “Look, Rolf, old buddy, I’ve told you. You don’t have to worry, see? Just leave it to old Franz.” He winked broadly. “Anyway, I don’t make the passports. I just send off the photographs to the chap who makes them, and a week later, back they come. No problem. Now, have a drink with old pal Franz.” He raised a pudgy hand and flapped it in the air.