The phone went dead. Mackensen replaced it, took out an address book, thumbed through it and dialled a number. He introduced himself to the man who answered and reminded him of the previous favour the man had done for the Comradeship. He told him where to come, and what he would find.
‘The car and the body inside it have to go into a deep gorge off a mountain road. Plenty of petrol over it, a real big blaze. Nothing identifiable about the man – go 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 it. Not in the car, a long cold drop to the bottom of a long cold lake. Well weighted. No traces. OK?’
‘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 Lüger 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 downwards, 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 on to the carpet from the open French window; he felt it and spun round, 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 f
eet 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?’
‘Pissed off. Heading for South America. The whole project’s off. And all thanks to this little bastard reporter.’
He jerked the gun barrel towards Miller.
‘You going to finish him?’ asked the man.
‘Sure. He screwed up the project. Identified Roschmann and posted the lot to the police, along with a pile of other stuff. If you’re on that file, you’d better get out too.’
‘What file?’
‘The Odessa file.’
‘I’m not on 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.’