It was a simple book code, based on the paperback edition of Webster’s New World Dictionary as published by Popular Library of New York. The first three figures in the group represented the page in the dictionary; the fourth figure could be anything from one to nine. An odd number meant column one, an even number column two. The last two figures indicated the number of words down the column from the top. He worked steadily for half an hour, then read the message through and slowly held his head in his hands.
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 authorized 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, bad 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 teleguidance 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 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!”