Ratlines (16 page)

Haughey dug at Ryan’s fingers with his own. Ryan eased the pressure, let him breathe.

“I won’t do it,” Ryan said.

Haughey squirmed in his grasp, choking for air.

“Get your … fucking … hands off me.”

Ryan let him go, stepped back.

Haughey bent over, hands on his knees, coughed, spat on the cloakroom floor. He gulped and swallowed.

“Jesus Christ, man. What woman? What are you talking about?”

“Catherine Beauchamp. She was the informant. She told me before she died.”

Haughey made the sign of the cross, his chest heaving. “Mother of God. Have you told Skorzeny?”

“No.”

“All right, I’ll tell him. Did she give you anything?”

“Nothing,” Ryan said. He would not mention the pictures of the children, or the flies on their dead lips.

Haughey shook his head. “This is getting out of hand. It needs to stop. You can’t quit now. I won’t allow it.”

“You have no authority to—”

“The director put you at my disposal. That means you do whatever the fuck I tell you to do. I know you don’t like it. Neither do I. But I’m the Minister for Justice. Justice, you hear me? Do you understand what that means? You might think Otto Skorzeny is a piece of shit, him and his whole bloody crew, and for all you know I might think the same. You can think what you like, but murder is murder. I won’t have it. Not in my country. It’s my job to put a stop to it, and that’s what I’ll bloody well do. You have a problem with that, then you can talk to the director.”

Haughey straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, and went to the door. He turned back to Ryan.

“This is your country too, you know. You might have been a lickspittle to the Brits at one time, but this is still your country. You remember that.”

He exited, left Ryan alone with his anger.

R
YAN LEFT THE
cloakroom, marched across the foyer, and down to the street beyond. Darkness had fallen on the city, bringing with it a sickly drizzle. He buttoned his jacket, shoved his hands down into his pockets.

The western end of Molesworth Street faced the Royal Hibernian’s entrance. He decided to leave the car where he’d parked it and walk the two hundred yards or so to Buswells, at the eastern end.

Ryan kept his head down as he walked. The street was almost empty, but even so, he didn’t want to risk anyone seeing the rage that burned in him.

He paid no attention to the unmarked van as he passed it. Not until the dark-haired man in the good suit stepped out from in front of it to block his path.

“Good evening, Lieutenant Ryan,” he said in his not-quite-American accent.

Ryan stopped, his hands ready. “What do you—”

The blow came from behind, hard to the base of his skull. His knees gave way and he sprawled on the wet pavement. Before he could recover, someone straddled his back, and a hand pressed a rag to his nose and mouth.

Cold sweetness swamped Ryan’s skull. He tried to roll, throw his weight to the side, but the man astride his back grew so heavy, and Ryan was so warm here on the ground, and it was so soft.

Through flickering eyelids, he saw the dark-haired man hunker down in front of him, a smile on his lips.

Ryan wanted to say something, ask the man something, he couldn’t remember what, but anyway, it was too late.

The world had already disappeared.

II
RÉSISTANT

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

S
KORZENY WATCHED
H
AKON
Foss eat the pork schnitzel with a side of potatoes in a cheese sauce. Frau Tiernan had prepared the meal before Skorzeny sent her home with her husband.

Lainé picked at his food. He had smelled of wine and tobacco when he came down to supper. Skorzeny made a point of placing a glass of water in front of him, alongside the glass of beer the Breton poured for himself from the pitcher at the centre of the table.

The dining room with its patio doors overlooking the gardens seemed far too large for the three men who ate there, Skorzeny at the head of the table, Lainé at the far end, the Norwegian midway between them. Foss downed another swallow of beer, mopped up cheese sauce with a chunk of bread.

Lainé cut off a slice of schnitzel, wrapped it in a napkin, and stuffed it into his pocket. He noticed Skorzeny’s attention on him.

“For the puppy,” he said.

Skorzeny gave him a hard stare, then turned his gaze to Foss. “Did you enjoy your meal?”

Foss nodded, his mouth full of bread, cheese sauce dripping from his lip. He sat in his socks. Frau Tiernan had insisted he remove his boots before she would permit him entry to the house.

“Perhaps you would join me for my evening walk. I like to stroll around the gardens after dinner.”

Foss looked towards the patio doors. “It’s raining.”

“Come, a little rain won’t hurt you.”

Foss shrugged.

“Good,” Skorzeny said. He reached for the hand bell, rang it.

Esteban appeared from the hall.

“My coat,” Skorzeny said. “And Mr. Foss’s shoes.”

Esteban fetched them, opened the patio doors, placed Foss’s boots outside, and brought Skorzeny’s coat to him.

As Foss tied his bootlaces, the telephone rang. Esteban left to answer it. He returned a few moments later.

“Is Mr. Haughey,” the boy said. He pronounced it
hoy
.

Skorzeny buttoned his coat. “Tell the minister I’m unavailable, and I’ll return his call in the morning.”

Esteban bowed and left the room.

Skorzeny nodded to Lainé and followed Foss out into the drizzle and the dark.

Gravel crunched under their shoes as they walked along the path towards the outbuildings. The rain, fine and cold, caused Skorzeny to blink as the drops wet his eyelids. From the corners of his vision, he saw a guard on either side, keeping to the black pools of darkness, shrouded by trees. They kept pace, watching.

Skorzeny asked, “Are you a happy man, Hakon?”

Foss grunted as he pulled up the collar of his overalls. “Yes, I am happy. Sometimes, I miss home. I miss
Norge
. I want snow, not rain. But here is not bad. Here, they won’t put me in jail. In
Norge
, they jail me. I don’t want to go to jail.”

They passed the boundary of the garden, the barns and sheds visible ahead, the light from a powerful halogen lamp bleaching the grounds to whites and greys. Rain slashed lines through the light, like comet trails falling to earth. The guards stayed beyond its reach.

Skorzeny asked, “Would you ever betray me?”

Foss stopped walking. Skorzeny turned to regard him and the small quick movements of his eyes. Foss shifted his weight between his feet, soles scraping on the loose earth and stones.

“Why do you ask this?”

Skorzeny smiled, patted Foss’s shoulder. “No reason. You’re a good man. Of course you wouldn’t betray me.”

“No,” Foss said, his shuffling intensifying. “I need for …”

He pointed to his groin. Skorzeny said, “Very well,” and turned his back.

The rustling of clothing, a guttural sigh, then water pouring on the ground. Skorzeny smelled the sour-sweet odour.

“Have men ever come to you, asked you questions? About me, or any of our friends?”

The flow stuttered along with Foss’s breathing.

“What men?”

Skorzeny turned his head, saw Foss’s back, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the splashing on the ground. “Perhaps they offered you money.”

“No,” Foss said. Even though he hadn’t finished, he tucked himself away, urine spilling over his thick fingers.

“Perhaps they said to you, tell us these things, and we will pay you. Did that happen?”

Foss stood for a moment, hands by his sides, liquid dripping from his fingertips.

Then he ran.

Skorzeny watched him barrel into the darkness, whimpering, arms flailing. He could barely make out the shape of a guard stepping into the Norwegian’s path, knocking him to the ground. Foss grunted as he landed and struggled back to his feet. He made off again, but the guard fired a warning shot into the treetops.

Foss threw himself down, his hands over his head. The trees rustled with startled night creatures. Somewhere in the outbuildings, Tiernan’s dogs barked.

The guard grabbed Foss’s collar and pulled him upright, led him back to the light and Skorzeny.

Lainé approached from the house, bag in hand. Foss closed his eyes and muttered a prayer to whichever God he worshipped.

Skorzeny said, “Let’s begin.”

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

R
YAN LISTENED
.

His consciousness had ebbed and flowed for time immeasurable, but now, at last, he was able to remain awake. A sickening ache still swelled inside his skull, pressing at the back of his eyes, and that cold sweetness still lingered in his throat and nasal passages. He knew what chloroform felt like, had recognised it as the rag had been pressed to his nose and mouth, but had been unable to fight it.

The climb to wakefulness had been arduous, the constant struggle against the warm pit of sleep. And when he had first opened his eyes, he saw nothing, felt his eyelids rub on fabric. He moved his wrists, found them bound, a metallic clanking as he pulled the cuffs tight. His ankles also.

Ryan took stock. He rolled his shoulders, felt the cotton of his shirt against his skin. Whoever had taken him had not removed his clothing. He shifted his limbs as best he could, wriggled each toe and finger in turn, and none reported injury, other than a tenderness on his palms, that hot sting of grazing one’s skin on the ground.

He moved his head, and it met something solid, he guessed the high back of a chair. His scalp stung where it touched. The blow before he fell.

His tongue moved freely behind his teeth. He opened his mouth. No gag. He swallowed. His throat gritty from thirst.

Should he speak? He decided against it.

He heard a constant soft hiss from his left, felt warmth against his shoulder and thigh. A gas heater, burning.

Water dripped, a steady rhythm, each plink reverberating in an empty space. He raised the toe of his shoe off the ground, brought it down, a sharp tap of the sole on hard floor. Not a large room, but high ceilinged.

He strained to hear. Muffled voices in another room. Men’s voices, he couldn’t tell how many.

The voices ceased. A door opened.

Footsteps, two pairs of feet, approaching across the hard surface.

Something tugged at his head, the blindfold lifted away. Light speared his vision. He closed his eyes against it, turned his head.

“Easy now,” a man said.

Ryan knew the voice.

He heard the squeak of a tap turning, water running for a few seconds. Footsteps came near.

“Here, drink this.”

Something pressed against Ryan’s lips, the hard edge of a cup. He opened his mouth, allowed the water in, swallowed, coughed. The ache in his head shifted, burrowed its way from the base of his skull to his crown.

Ryan let his eyes open to a squint. The man from the pub toilet, his dark hair combed flat and sleek to his head, his jacket and tie removed, shirtsleeves rolled up. He returned the cup to the sink in the corner. Another man beside the sink, shorter, heavier set, casually dressed. A pistol gripped in his right hand.

“How do you feel?” the man from the bathroom asked. “Your head hurts, right? Chloroform will do that to you. Please accept my apology. I hope you understand it was the only safe way to transport you here.”

Ryan craned his neck to take in as much of his surroundings as he could. Cement block walls, concrete floor, oil stains, a pit large enough for a man to stand upright. A tall and wide roller door at one end. A windowed office at the other.

“I’m guessing you want to know where you are,” the man said. “Of course, I can’t tell you our exact location, but a car mechanic owned this place. He went out of business, so we’re making temporary use of it.”

The man took a chair from the corner, placed it in front of Ryan, and sat down. He crossed his legs, twined his fingers in his lap.

“Who are you?” Ryan asked, his voice rasping in his throat.

“My name is Goren Weiss. Major, as it happens, back in my army days.”

“Mossad?” Ryan asked.

“Of course.” Weiss indicated the man with the pistol. “Though my colleague Captain Remak here is actually Aman, Directorate of Military Intelligence, not unlike the Irish G2, of which I believe you are a member. Unlike mine, his rank actually means something.”

Weiss’s smile, his tone, would have been friendly if not for the handcuffs that held Ryan’s wrists to the chair.

“What do you want?”

“A chat, that’s all.”

“What if I don’t want to chat?”

Weiss held his hands up. “Please, let’s not be confrontational. I really don’t see any need for this conversation to be hostile, so let’s not begin that way. Don’t assume I’m your enemy, Albert. May I call you Albert?”

Ryan rattled the handcuffs. “You look like an enemy from here.”

Weiss shrugged. “Given the company you’ve been keeping, I think your character judgement might be a little, shall we say, flawed.”

“The company I keep is none of your business.”

“Well, actually, it is.” Weiss leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. “You see, our professional interests somewhat overlap.”

“In what way?”

“In several ways. Primarily, our interest in foreign nationals currently residing in Ireland. Helmut Krauss was one of them, another was Johan Hambro. Do I need to go on?”

“No,” Ryan said.

“And of course there’s Colonel Skorzeny. A remarkable man, wouldn’t you say?”

Ryan did not reply.

“Remarkable for many reasons. His military innovations, his amazing feats of daring in the war—sorry, the Emergency, as you folks call it—and his quite extraordinary ability to influence those around him. But do you know what I find most remarkable about him?”

“No,” Ryan said.

Weiss grinned. “What I find most remarkable about Otto Skorzeny is that he came to be a fucking sheep farmer in the rolling green hills of this fair land.” His smile faded. He raised a finger. “But we’ll come back to that. First, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about Catherine Beauchamp.”