Frederick Forsyth - The Odessa File

“Waiter, another round.” Miller leaned back and considered. If he had to wait until his hair grew before the passport photographs could be taken, he might wait weeks. Nor was he going to get the name and address of the Odessa passport maker from Bayer by guile. Drunk the man might be, but not so drunk he would give away his contact in the forging business by a slip of the tongue.

He could not get the fat Odessa man away from the club before the end of the first floor show. When they finally made it back to the cold night air outside, it was after one in the morning. Bayer was unsteady on his feet, one arm slung around Miller’s shoulders, and the sudden shock of the cold air made him worse.

“I’d better drive you home,” Miller told him as they approached the car parked by the curb. He took the car keys from Bayer’s coat pocket and helped the unprotesting fat man into the passenger seat. After slamming the door on him, he walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in.

At that moment a gray Mercedes slewed around the comer behind them and jammed on its brakes to stop twenty yards up the road.

Behind the windshield Mackensen, who had already visited five nightclubs, stared at the number plate of the car moving away from the curb outside the Madeleine. It was the number Frau Bayer had given him.

Her husband’s car. Letting in the clutch, he followed it.

Miller drove carefully, fighting his own alcohol level. The last thing he wanted was to be stopped by a patrol car and tested for drunkenness.

He drove not back to Bayer’s house, but to his own hotel. On the way Bayer dozed , -his -head-nodding -forward, -spreading out his multiple chins into an apron of fat over his collar and tie.

Outside the hotel, Miller nudged him awake. “Come on,” he said, “come on, Franz, old pal, let’s have a nightcap.”

The fat man stared about him. “Must get home,” he mumbled. “Wife waiting.”

“Come on, just a little drink to finish the evening. We can have a noggin in my room and talk about the old times.” Bayer grinned drunkenly. “Talk about the old times. Great times we had in those days, Rolf.” Miller climbed out and came around to the passenger door to help the fat man to the pavement.

“Great times,” he said as he helped Bayer across the pavement and through the door. “Come and have a chat about old times.” Down the street the Mercedes had doused its lights and merged with the gray shadows of the street.

Miller had kept his room key in his pocket. Behind his desk the night porter dozed. Bayer started to mumble.

“Ssssh,” said Miller, “got to be quiet.”

“Got to be quiet,” repeated Bayer, tiptoeing like an elephant toward the stairs. He giggled at his own playacting. Fortunately for Miller, his room was on the second floor, or Bayer would never have made it. He eased open the door, flicked on the light, and helped Bayer into the only armchair in the room, a hard upright affair with wooden arms.

Outside in the street, Mackensen stood across from the hotel and watched the blacked-out façade. At two in the morning there were no lights burning.

When Miller’s light came on, he noted it was on the second floor, to the right of the hotel as he faced it.

He debated whether to go straight up and hit Miller as he opened his bedroom door. Two things decided him against it. Through the glass door of the lobby he could see that the night porter, waked by the heavy tread of Bayer past his desk, was puttering around the inside of the foyer. He would undoubtedly notice a nonresident heading up the stairs at two in the morning, and later give a good description to the police.

The other thing that dissuaded him was Bayer’s condition. He had watched the fat man being helped across the pavement, and knew he could never get him out of the hotel in a hurry after killing Miller. If the police got Bayer, there would be trouble with the Werwolf. Despite appearances, Bayer was a much-wanted man under his real name, and important inside the Odessa.

One last factor persuaded Mackensen to go for a window-shot. Across from the hotel was a building halfway through construction. The frame and the floors were in place, with a rough concrete stairway leading up to the second and third floors. He could wait; Miller was not going anywhere.

He walked purposefully back to his car and the hunting rifle locked in the trunk.

Bayer was taken completely by surprise when the blow came. His reactions, slowed by drink, gave him no chance to duck in time. Miller, pretending to search for his bottle of whisky, opened the wardrobe door and took out his spare tie. The only other one he had was around his neck. He took this off too.

He had never had occasion to use the blows he and his fellow rookies had practiced in the gymnasium of their Army training camp ten years before and was not entirely certain how effective they were. The vast bulk of Bayer’s neck, like a pink mountain when seen from behind as the man sat in the chair muttering,

“Good old times, great old times caused him to hit as hard as he could.

It was not even a knockout blow, for the edge of his hand was soft and inexperienced, and Bayer’s neck was insulated by layers of fat. But it was enough. By the time the Odessa contact man had cleared the dizziness from his brain, both his wrists were lashed tightly to the arms of the wooden chair.

“What the shit?” he growled thickly, shaking his head to clear the muzziness. His own tie came off and secured his left ankle to the foot of the chair, and the telephone cord secured the right one.

He looked up owlishly at Miller as comprehension began to dawn in his button eyes. Like all of his kind, Bayer had one nightmare that never quite left him.

“You can’t get me away from here,” he said. “You’ll never get me to Tel Aviv. You can’t prove anything. I never touched you people-” The words were cut off as a rolled-up pair of socks was stuffed in his mouth and a woolen scarf, a present to Miller from his ever-solicitous mother, was wound around his face.

From above the patterned knitting his eyes glared balefully out.

Miller drew up the other chair in the room, reversed it, and sat astride, his face two feet away from that of his prisoner.

“Listen, you fat slug. For one thing, I’m not an Israeli agent. For another, you’re not going anywhere.

You’re staying right here, and you’re going to talk right here. Understand?” For answer Franz Bayer stared back above the scarf. the eyes no longer twinkled with merriment. They were red-tinged, like those of an angry boar in a thicket.

“What I want, and what I’m going to have before this night is through, is the name and address of the man who makes the passports for the Odessa.” Miller looked around, spotted the lamp on the bedside table, unhooked the wall socket, and brought it over.

“Now, Bayer, or whatever your name is, I’m going to take the gag off. You are going to talk. If you attempt to yell, you get this right across the head. I don’t really care if I crack your head or not. Got it?”

Miller was not telling the truth. He had never killed a man before and had no desire to start now.

Slowly he eased off the scarf and pulled the rolled socks out of Bayer’s mouth, keeping the lamp poised in his right hand, high over the fat man’s head.

“You bastard,” whispered Bayer. “You’re a spy. You’ll get nothing out of me.” He hardly got the words out before the socks went back into his bulging cheeks. The scarf was replaced.

“No?” said Miller. “We’ll see. I’ll start on your fingers and see how you like it.” He took the little finger and ring finger of Bayer’s right hand and bent them backward until they were almost vertical. Bayer threw himself about in the chair so that it almost fell over. Miller steadied it and eased the pressure on the fingers.