Ratlines

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

Goren Weiss watched Ryan blink, his face contorted with confusion, his eyes unfocused. The Irishman shook his head as if trying to dislodge some veil.

Weiss asked, “How are you holding up?”

“I … I don’t …”

Weiss raised a hand, silenced him. “Okay, save your energy.”

Carter came to Weiss’s side, spoke in a low voice. “What are you doing? Let’s just finish him and get out of here.”

“No,” Weiss said. “Bear with me just a little while. Let me have a word with him.”

Carter looked from Weiss to Ryan and back again. “All right. Five minutes, then I’m putting him out of his misery.”

Weiss nodded. Carter went to the window and sat on the sill, glowering like a wilful child who thought he’d got his way.

Ryan’s eyelids rose and fell like heavy curtains. “What’s happening?” he asked.

Weiss placed his free hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Albert. I just want to have a talk with you. Take your time. Gather yourself. These gentlemen will wait.”

Ryan closed his eyes. Weiss fetched the chair from the far side of the room, dragged it back and sat down in front of Ryan, the newspaper in his lap.

“Seems like we’ve been here before,” Weiss said. “The last time wasn’t quite so trying, though, was it?”

“What’s happening?” Ryan asked again.

“Captain Carter insisted on questioning you in his own particular way. I regret allowing him to do so, Albert, but I had to know if you’d give me up or not. Please accept my apology.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure things don’t get out of hand. I probably should have stepped in sooner. But you conducted yourself well, Albert. I’m impressed.”

“Tell me what’s going on. Please.”

Weiss nodded. “Okay. So you know what all this is about by now. It’s a business enterprise. Otto Skorzeny is sitting on a great big pile of money, and we want some of it. Not all, not even most of it. Just a taste.”

Ryan shook his head once more. “But you said … your mission.”

“My mission still stands,” Weiss said. “This is just a little side project. I’m not on company time, as it were. This project was undertaken initially by Captain Carter, he recruited his team, and I came onboard last. I still get control of Skorzeny’s ratlines, and I add a little something to my pension pot. Where’s the harm in that?”

“But those people. They died for this?”

Weiss smiled. “They were fucking Nazis, Albert. They did not deserve to walk and breathe among human beings.”

“Catherine Beauchamp. She didn’t deserve to die.”

Weiss shrugged in acceptance. “Maybe so, but she died by her own hand. If you hadn’t called at her door, she’d still be alive. You can’t hold that over me.”

“All this. For money.”

“Of course. What other reason do you need?”

Ryan did not answer. Instead, he asked, “Why did you bring me into this?”

“I didn’t. Charles Haughey brought you into this.”

“But you contacted me. You came at me in that bar.”

“True. When I found out you were sniffing around, I wanted to get the measure of you. Then I thought, why not draw you in? You were my inside man, Albert, the best kind. The kind who doesn’t even know it. So I dropped a few crumbs for you along the way. We’d gotten everything we could from Célestin Lainé. You would have figured out he was the informant eventually, and I wanted to see if that would lead you to Carter’s doorstep. I wanted to see if you could possibly endanger this project. Turns out you could, and I’m glad I reined you in before you did any more damage. And you might be of use to me yet.”

Weiss leaned across the gap between them, held the newspaper in front of Ryan’s eyes. Ryan squinted at the page, his mouth hanging open.

Weiss leaned back. “All right, I’ll read it for you.” He drew a breath and began. “ ‘To Constant Follower’—that’s us, by the way—‘I do not agree to your terms. I will, however, agree to one third of the amount for whichever one of you can prove he is the last of his kind.’ ”

Weiss looked over the top of the newspaper. “Do you understand what this means?”

“No,” Ryan said.

“It means that Colonel Skorzeny is clever, but perhaps not as clever as he thinks. In thinly veiled terms, he has said that he will pay half a million dollars to whichever one of us is willing to betray the others, kill them, and bring proof of such to him.”

Ryan’s gaze travelled between each man in the room.

Weiss tapped his knee to regain his attention. “But of course I anticipated this. We have discussed it in detail, and agreed against any such betrayal.”

Ryan laughed, winced at whatever pains it stoked. “Do you really think you can trust these men?”

“Trust has nothing to do with it. It’s a matter of logic. Say I kill everyone in this room and bring their heads to Skorzeny. You think he’ll honour his offer? Or do you think he’ll cut my balls off and choke me with them? I suspect the latter. No, the smart strategy is for us to stick together. As a unit, we can break him. If one man goes it alone, then Skorzeny will destroy him. Don’t you agree?”

“It’s insane. You’re all crazy.”

“Maybe so. But if I was given to entirely rational thinking, I’d still be managing my father’s drugstore in Brooklyn instead of fighting for Israel.”

“This isn’t fighting for Israel. This is greed.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that point. We have a more urgent question at hand.”

Ryan waited.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what the question is?”

“I don’t care,” Ryan said.

Weiss leaned forward. “Well, you really should. You see, the question is this: What shall we do with Lieutenant Albert Ryan?”

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

Ryan knew Weiss wanted him to react, to make some angry or fearful reply. He kept his mouth shut.

“Of course,” Weiss said, “the smart thing to do would be to kill you and dump your corpse on Skorzeny’s doorstep. Let him know he can’t bargain with us.”

Wallace grinned. Carter and Gracey stared.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Ryan asked.

“Well, that was the plan,” Weiss said.

Carter stood up from the windowsill. “It still is.”

Weiss raised a hand to silence him. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“Bollocks to that.” Carter came to Weiss’s side. “We agreed on this. We put a bullet in his head and a note in his pocket. We’ve been over and over it for two days, for Christ’s sake.”

Ryan watched the anger burn on Carter’s face, the cool calm on Weiss’s. Which of these men held command?

“Let’s go over it one more time,” Weiss said, his voice even and smooth like still water.

Carter put his hands on his hips. “No. There’s been enough talk already. Do it, Wallace.”

Wallace snapped into action, raised his pistol, marched towards Ryan, aim centring on his chest.

Weiss moved with such speed, Ryan couldn’t be sure what he’d seen. The agent had been seated, hands and newspaper in his lap, as Wallace came alongside him. Then he was upright. Ryan’s eyes followed the newspaper’s drift towards the floor, only caught an impression of Weiss seizing Wallace’s outstretched arm with one hand, the pistol with the other. When Ryan looked back up, Weiss held the suppressor’s muzzle to the Rhodesian’s forehead.

Carter stepped back. Gracey went to raise his own weapon. Carter waved a hand to stop him.

Weiss spoke, his voice soft and gentle, carrying only the slightest tremor from the exertion. “Like I said: Let’s go over it one more time.”

Wallace backed away, his hands flexing, his face flushed with anger.

“Leave it, Wallace,” Carter said.

Wallace bared his teeth. “I’m going to kill the Jew bastard.”

“I said leave it. That’s an order.”

Wallace clenched his fists.

Carter crossed the room and put a hand on Wallace’s shoulder. “Step outside and cool off. Now. Gracey, you go with him.”

Gracey holstered his weapon and took Wallace by the arm. As they left the room, Ryan heard Wallace whisper, “I’ll fucking kill that Jew bastard.”

Carter and Weiss stood in silence for a time before Weiss smiled and said, “Got a little heated, there, didn’t it?”

He handed Wallace’s pistol over.

Carter took the weapon, stowed it in his waistband, and pointed a finger at Weiss. He stabbed the air as he spoke. “Don’t you dare undermine me in front of my men again. Ever. I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

“Your men?” A wide grin cracked across Weiss’s face. “You don’t own them. You bought them, but they have no loyalty to you. They’d cut your throat for a dollar. Don’t forget that.”

“I’ve had just about enough of your mouth. Now say whatever you’ve got to say so I can shoot this bastard.”

“All right. Just hear me out. If you still don’t see things my way, then by all means, do what you have to do.”

Carter returned to his seat on the windowsill. “Let’s have it, then.”

Weiss paced the room as he spoke. “So, poor Tommy MacAuliffe’s demise has left us a man down. Not only that, our only other man on the inside has been compromised. Célestin Lainé gave you up the second Ryan here got hold of him. He’s no good to us anymore. He’ll tell Skorzeny everything sooner or later.”

“Then we kill him,” Carter said.

“Is that your answer for everything? Actually, in this instance, it’s probably the best option. But here’s the thing: We’ve got a great big hole in our operation now. And I know how to fill it.”

Ryan watched the workings of Carter’s mind play out on his face. Eventually, his features hardened. “No,” Carter said.

“Yes,” Weiss said. He aimed a finger at Ryan. “This man right here.”

“No,” Carter said again, shaking his head.

“Don’t you see? It’s the perfect solution. He can get right next to Skorzeny, tell us what he’s thinking. More than that, he can influence Skorzeny, push him in whatever direction we want him to go.”

“It’s madness,” Carter said. “He’ll turn us over.”

“I don’t think so. You won’t, will you, Albert?”

Ryan had no reply. He stared up at the men, blinking.

“Of course he will. He’s taking his orders from a Nazi bastard, him and that politician. He’s one of them.”

Weiss turned back to Ryan, leaned over, hands on his knees. “Is that so, Albert? Are you in bed with the infamous Nazi Otto Skorzeny? Are you a collaborator?”

The word stung Ryan. “No,” he said.

“Yes you are,” Weiss said. “A collaborator. Just like Elouan Groix was, or Hakon Foss. Or Catherine Beauchamp.”

“Shut your mouth,” Ryan said, the words hissing between his teeth. “I am not one of them. I am not a collaborator.”

“But you take orders from Otto Skorzeny.”

“I take my orders from the Directorate of Intelligence. I was given a job to do.”

Weiss straightened. “Funny, a lot of people said that after the war. It was only a job.”

“I was given an assignment. I wish I hadn’t taken it, but I had no choice. I fought men like Skorzeny in Europe and North Africa. It cost me everything, but I did it anyway. I am not one of them.”

“You hear that, Captain Carter? Lieutenant Albert Ryan is not a collaborator. He’s a soldier. Like you. Like I used to be. He might have fought alongside you, for all we know.”

Carter folded his arms across his chest. “What, should we give him a medal?”

“No. We should give him a place in our team.”

“My arse, we should.”

Weiss hunkered down in front of Ryan. “What do you say, Albert? You want to regain your honour by shafting Skorzeny? And get filthy fucking rich in the process, I should add.”

Carter leapt from the windowsill. “Now hold on a bloody minute. There’s no way he’s getting a piece of this.”

Weiss ignored him. “What do you think, Albert? It’s time to take a side. Do you want to help me bring Skorzeny down? Do you want to make more money than you’ve ever seen before?”

Ryan looked from one man to the other, Carter furious, Weiss smiling.

“What are you doing, Weiss?” Carter asked. “My boys won’t have it.”

Weiss placed his hand on Ryan’s knee, words soft as air. “What’s it to be, Albert? Are you with me?”

“Yes,” Ryan said.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Lainé said, “No, I won’t.”

“Why not?” Skorzeny asked as he took his seat across the desk.

Lainé couldn’t meet the Austrian’s gaze. He drew deep on one of Skorzeny’s cigarettes. “She is innocent. She has nothing to do with any of this.”

“Celia Hume took the assignment. She willingly involved herself.”

“I don’t care. I won’t help you question her.”

“Come, Célestin, questioning women has never troubled you before.”

Lainé looked up through the smoke. “It troubles me now. Interrogate her yourself. I want nothing more to do with it.”

Skorzeny leaned back in his chair, lips upturned in a mockery of a smile. “I’m beginning to question your loyalty, Célestin. Have I not been generous towards you?”

“You have. And I’m grateful. But I will not torture this woman for you.”

Skorzeny’s face darkened. He went to speak, but the telephone’s clamour stopped his tongue. He lifted the handset, said,

“Yes?”

Lainé watched as Skorzeny’s eyes made tiny quick movements, his lips parted as he listened.

“Very well,” Skorzeny said. “I will expect the minister’s call tomorrow.”

He replaced the receiver and gave Lainé a slithering smile.

“It seems we no longer require Miss Hume’s assistance. That was Charles Haughey’s secretary. Lieutenant Ryan has surfaced. He wishes to debrief the Minister for Justice tomorrow afternoon. After that, I will see to it that I question Lieutenant Ryan myself, in private. Do you object to assisting me in his interrogation?”

Lainé said, “No, I do not.”

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

A knocking at the hotel room’s door pulled Ryan from the swirling terrors of his dreams. He started awake, cried out at the pain that tore through him. Darkness filled the room. How long had he slept?

“Albert?” she called.

“Celia,” he said.

The door opened, a slash of light, Celia held within it. She found him with her eyes.

“My God, Albert.”

She entered, closed the door behind her.

“Lock it,” he said.

Ryan listened to her fumble with the bolt and chain until they clicked and rattled into place. The light came on, burning from the ceiling. Through the glare, he saw her frozen by the door, one hand on the switch.

“Christ, Albert, what happened to you?”

He lay on top of the bedclothes, naked but for a towel he had draped around his waist. Bruises like maps of foreign lands, purples and browns and yellows, flared across his torso. Dried blood crusted in the folds of his skin, under his arms, around his neck. And the burns, blistered and red, dotted across his chest, his belly, his thighs, his face. The worst of them on his stomach, a scorched cluster by his navel. He could smell his own seared flesh.

Celia came to the bedside and knelt. Fat tears fell from her eyes onto his forearm, warm and heavy.

“Oh God, Albert, what did they do to you?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

Her fingertips skimmed his stomach and chest, circled the charred places. “You need a doctor. We’ll get a taxi to the hospital.”

“No.” Ryan tried to sit up, managed only to lift his head. “No doctor. No hospital.”

“But you must—”

“No.” He took her wrist in his hand. “Help me up.”

Celia slipped an arm under his back and supported him as he hoisted himself up on the bed. He lowered his feet to the floor, fought the nausea and dizziness that swelled in him.

“Are these burns?” she asked. “We need to clean them.”

Celia noticed the pistol resting on the bedside locker. Weiss had returned the Walther to Ryan, along with his car keys and wallet, before they pushed him out of the van. She opened the drawer, set the pistol inside, and pushed it closed.

She sniffed back tears and went to the washbasin in the corner, put the plug in its hole, turned the taps. She came back to him, bent down, put her arms beneath his.

“Come on,” she said. “Up you get.”

Ryan pushed up with his legs, allowing her to take the weight of his torso. They staggered together to the corner. Celia dipped a hand in the water to test the temperature, then shut off the taps.

She soaked a facecloth and reached for the towel at his waist. “Take that off.”

Ryan held it in place. She pulled harder. He resisted.

“I have three brothers and a subscription to National Geographic,” she said, forcing a scolding smile. “There’s nothing under there I haven’t seen before.”

Ryan let her pull the towel away. She dropped it to the floor, brought a hand to her mouth to smother the gasp. He covered the burnt skin of his scrotum with his hands as she sobbed.

“I want to kill them,” Ryan said.

Celia wiped the tears from her cheeks and wrung out the facecloth.

“I know,” she said.

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

Goren Weiss sat across the table from Carter, studying the Englishman. The stuttering light of the kerosene lamp made him look older, the lines on his face deeper. A bottle of vodka, half empty, sat between them. Weiss lifted it, poured a measure into each of the two shot glasses.

Carter reached for his, brought it to his lips, downed the alcohol, and coughed.

Something rustled and scratched in the darkness around them, some vermin seeking shelter in the old derelict cottage. Gracey and Wallace slept in the room at the other end of the building.

“You think you’re smart,” Carter said, his words dulled by the vodka.

“Yes, I do,” Weiss said.

It was not a lie. Goren Weiss knew he was smarter than just about anybody he’d ever met. Not smart in the way a studious schoolboy is — he’d never passed a real exam in his life — but he possessed an intelligence born of instinct and experience.

His instinct told him Carter was a good soldier, but incapable of pulling off this job on his own. Wallace and Gracey were nothing more than infantrymen, albeit highly-trained infantrymen. MacAuliffe had been the best of Carter’s men. It had made Weiss sad to put a bullet in his head.

Carter sneered at him from across the table. “Not smart enough to set this job up.”

“But smart enough to see it works.”

Weiss had stopped over for a couple of days in West Berlin on his way to Dublin to meet with Thomas de Groot, the South African. Weiss enjoyed Berlin every time he visited. He liked the idea of its suspension, a bubble of Western decadence trapped inside a hostile communist power. The barrier that split the city in two fascinated him. The brutal obscenity of it. He walked long stretches of the construction, wire fence and crude concrete blocks. Dour-faced GDR soldiers watched him as he passed, automatic rifles slung across their stomachs.

Even though he knew the true geography of the land did not allow for it, he imagined the city of his birth lay on the other side of the barrier. Zwickau, where they now made rickety Trabant cars for those East Germans privileged enough to be able to purchase one. Weiss’s father had left for America the moment he sensed the coming storm that would sweep away so many of his kind, and settled in Brooklyn. Benjamin Weiss had left behind two brothers and his wife’s grave to find a new beginning across the Atlantic.

At one time, before the war when Goren Weiss was still a feckless kid bottling pills and potions for his father, he had entertained ideas of socialism. He had even attended a few Communist Party meetings at Brooklyn College. Mostly, he went so he could ogle college girls. Something in their serious and sincere demeanours caused heat in him, the creases in their brows as they listened to the speeches and made astute observations on the cost of capitalism to the American working classes.

When he had gathered sufficient nerve, he asked one of the girls out. Ice cream, he had said. She had blonde hair tied back tight to her head and a scattering of pimples on her chin. He thought her name was Melissa. She had politely said that’s sweet, but no, thank you, and returned to her cluster of friends. He had stood with a bundle of pamphlets in his sweating fingers as they walked away giggling.

He heard the word ‘kike’ and they erupted in laughter, glancing back over their shoulders at him. Young Weiss tore the pamphlets up and dumped them in the nearest garbage can. He was no longer a communist.

By the time Weiss first visited Berlin, he had lost any notions of either the left or right having a moral superiority. He earned that knowledge as he fought his way across Europe, the hardest lesson learned a few miles from the city of Weimar, in what first appeared to be some kind of fenced-in village. The men fell silent as they neared the place, Buchenwald as Weiss learned, and above the thrumming of their engines, they heard the thin and pitiful cries.

Weiss had felt for a moment that he had lost his sanity, that the stick figures beyond the fence were night terrors escaped from his mind into the waking world. Men and women and children, so shrivelled he couldn’t fathom how they still lived.

The soldiers, his comrades, gasped and wept, covered their mouths and noses against the stench. They stepped down from their vehicles and walked amongst the shambling hordes, the mounds of bodies discarded by the Germans who had fled minutes before.

Weiss took photographs with the small Brownie Six-16 folding camera he carried, images of children staring at the sky, flies on their dead lips.

When the Germans had surrendered, Weiss learned the Soviets were every bit as cruel as the common Nazi enemy. Barbarians, a member of Weiss’s regiment had said. Goddamn animals. He saw the evidence of it himself in the weeks after Berlin fell, heard the stories from the mouths of those Russian soldiers who had fled to the Americans, and the civilians surviving among the ruins of the city. Women cowered in basements and attics, dreading the roving parties of drunken Soviet men who would rape anything that breathed.

Not long after the Allies had carved up Germany’s corpse, the Soviets took over Buchenwald labour camp and put it to much the same use as it had been built for.

In the end, for all of Hitler’s deranged evil, Stalin proved little better. So Weiss had learned that fascism and communism were brother and sister, each born of the same poison seed. And when those creeds met with nationalism, only bloodshed could follow.

As it did in 1948 when Weiss fought for the creation of the state that was now his home. He had spent a year back in Brooklyn, helping his father around the drugstore, but he passed every moment of his spare time at meetings around the city, young men like him talking about Palestine and their brothers who fought there. Soon he travelled back to Europe, through Italy, ferried across the Mediterranean to be smuggled under the noses of the British. He joined the swelling ranks of the Haganah and was soon a member of the elite Palmach fighting force. He had shed joyful tears with his comrades as they listened to the radio broadcast of David Ben-Gurion reading Israel’s Declaration of Independence, the words that made his country real. He had fought for Israel’s existence ever since.

Six months ago, Weiss had met Thomas de Groot in a cafe on Kochstrasse, not far from Checkpoint Charlie. De Groot was a large man, tall and generous at the waist, who sweated a great deal. One would have thought a South African used to the arid heat of his homeland might have found early winter in West Berlin to be cool. Weiss certainly did, but de Groot’s shirt was darkened by perspiration nonetheless.

Thomas de Groot did not work for any government. At least, not any single government. He had neither allegiances nor enemies. He simply provided a service to anyone willing to pay. That service was the sourcing of information.

De Groot handed a manila file across the cafe table. Weiss opened it, leafed through the contents, and closed it again. He passed a fat envelope back to de Groot.

“You’ve been a good client,” de Groot said.

“I know. I’m surprised that hasn’t qualified me for a discount.”

De Groot smiled, showed his small blunt teeth. “Not a discount. A free gift, more like.”

Weiss studied the South African for a moment. “Oh?”

“You know I like to avoid disagreements, conflicts of interest, that sort of thing. Doesn’t do anyone any good to be tripping over each other out in the field.”

Weiss nodded. “Indeed it doesn’t.”

“Well, something came up, and I thought it best to make you aware of it. Just in case.”

“What is it?”

A waitress set about cleaning the table next to them. They held their silence until she had finished.

“Someone else has been asking after Otto Skorzeny,” de Groot said.

“Who? Which agency?”

De Groot shook his head. “No agency. No government. No one official.”

“A freelancer?”

“An Englishman. Captain John Carter, formerly of the SAS. He’s been seeking information on Skorzeny and his associates in Ireland. Not directly from me, you understand, but a friend of mine in Amsterdam was approached some time ago. I wouldn’t have been too concerned, after all information is information, I just find it lying around and store it up to save men like you the trouble of finding it for yourself.”

“But?”

“But it seems Captain Carter has also been spending time in procurement and recruitment.”

“Weapons?”

“Small arms. Clean, never used in anger. My friend was able to help him with that. And manpower. He was looking for someone to complete a team. Someone experienced in commando operations. He let it be known it was interesting work and potentially lucrative.”

“I see. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll arrange for a small bonus to be wired to you.”

De Groot smiled and stood. “Not too small, I hope.”

Weiss shook his hand. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It took a month of investigation to track Carter down, and another six weeks of observation before Weiss was confident of his next move: introducing himself.

Carter had been flying back and forth between Dublin and London, a week in one city, a fortnight in the other. He had been eating alone in a pub on the Vauxhall Bridge Road when Weiss first approached him.

The first conversation had not gone well. In fact, it had developed into a fist fight on a path by the Thames riverbank, but eventually, with a knee planted between the Englishman’s shoulder blades, Weiss had been able to convince Carter to see things his way.

Carter’s original plan had been a mess. It had involved little more than storming Skorzeny’s farm, taking him prisoner, and convincing him to hand over the money. The subtlety, if such a word could be applied, of using Skorzeny’s Kameraden as statements of intent had been Weiss’s contribution to the plan. Carter and his men were excellent soldiers, Weiss had no doubt of that, but they were not tacticians. Not like him.

Now, in this damp and stinking cottage, Carter glared across the table at Weiss with all the hatred of a man who knows the object of his attention is better than him.

“You’re not so clever,” he said, reaching for the vodka bottle.

Weiss snatched it away from his grasp. “Go easy, my friend.”

Carter bared his teeth, his breathing deepened, then a grin spread across his face. “You know, Wallace wanted to kill you today. He took me aside. He said, why don’t we just blow that Jew bastard’s head off? And I thought about it. I really did. You and that Mick you’re so fond of. We could have got rid of both of you, left you out here in the arsehole of nowhere. We could see this thing through ourselves.”

“So why didn’t you?”

Weiss took a sip of vodka while he waited for Carter to think his answer through.

Carter sat back and spread his arms wide, a gesture of magnanimity. “Because I am a man of my word. I agreed to your bloody scheme, fool that I was, so now I’m going to stick to it.” He leaned forward, waved his forefinger at Weiss. “But don’t push me. You pull another stunt like you did today, and I’m going to start seeing things Wallace’s way.”

“That would be a mistake, my friend.” Weiss poured Carter another shot of vodka. “I have concerns about young Mr. Wallace.”

Carter took the glass, downed the vodka. “Stop calling me your friend. Wallace is a good lad. He’s hot-headed, but he’s tough and he follows orders. He’s loyal.”

“So loyal he wouldn’t give you up to Skorzeny?”

“Bollocks.” Carter slammed the glass down on the table. “He’s a good soldier. Him and Gracey. And so was MacAuliffe.”

“Not anymore.”

Weiss almost regretted saying it, but then the look of hurt on Carter’s face turned to anger, and the Englishman stood, throwing the chair back to clatter against the wall. He hovered there for a moment, his chest rising and falling, his cheeks reddening, before leaving the room, cursing under his breath.

In the warm yellow glow of the lamplight, Goren Weiss smiled.

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

Fitzpatrick followed Haughey into Ryan’s hotel room.

The director stopped in the doorway, his mouth agape. “Dear God, Ryan, what happened to you?”

Ryan lay on the bed wearing a vest and trousers. Celia sat alongside him, a bowl of warm water on the bedside locker, muslin cloths ready to dab at his wounds. They had discussed this for some time, the effect, how disabled he should appear.

“Close the door,” Ryan said.

Fitzpatrick obliged.

Haughey scowled. “I don’t like this, Ryan.” He gave the director a sideways glance. “When someone calls me to a hotel, I expect to have my lunch bought for me, not to wind up at somebody’s sickbed.”

“He needs to rest,” Celia said.

Haughey shot her a hard look. “And what are you doing here? Aside from playing doctors and nurses.”

“This concerns Celia as much as anyone,” Ryan said.

“My arse, it does.”

Celia stood. “Minister, if you remember, it was you who involved me in the first place by asking Mr. Waugh to approach me.”

Fitzpatrick’s face paled. “Waugh’s department is mixed up in this?”

Haughey dismissed the director’s concern with a wave of his hand. “I asked him for a favour, that’s all.” He turned back to Ryan. “Either way, I don’t think Miss Hume needs to be here.”

Ryan paused, then reached out to touch Celia’s hand. She nodded and went to the door and exited the room.

“Now can we get on with this?” Haughey asked. “Where in the name of Christ have you been?”

Ryan kept his gaze fixed on the minister, his voice flat. “I located the men who’ve been carrying out attacks on Colonel Skorzeny’s associates. I had them under surveillance when they captured me. They tortured me for two days before releasing me with a message for Colonel Skorzeny.”

Haughey looked from Ryan to Fitzpatrick and back again. “Tortured you?”

“Yes, Minister. First they beat me, then they used an electrical device, something like a small cattle prod.”

Fitzpatrick winced.

“Christ Almighty.” Haughey shook his head.

“Minister,” Fitzpatrick said, “I would not have put one of my men under your command if I’d thought there was the slightest chance of—”

“Who were they?” Haughey asked.

Fitzpatrick stepped between Haughey and Ryan. “Minister, at this point I’m more concerned about the wellbeing of Lieutenant Ryan.”

“Who were they?” Haughey asked again.

Ryan answered. “Three men. Two English, one Rhodesian. All military. All skilled and experienced. The senior man, English, was around forty five years old, an officer. The other two aged around thirty and forty, the Rhodesian the youngest. They did not address each other by name in my presence.”

“How did you find them?”

“Catherine Beauchamp told me they were based somewhere close to Croke Park stadium. I scouted the area over two days until I found them.”

Haughey’s eyes narrowed. “I think that’s a lie.”

“That’s right.” Ryan met Haughey’s hawk gaze. “But that’s all I’m going to tell you. Director, Minister, I’d like to be clear about something.”

Fitzpatrick said, “Go on.”

Ryan did not avert his eyes from Haughey’s. “I have witnessed Colonel Skorzeny and his associate Célestin Lainé torture and kill a Norwegian national whom they suspected of being an informant.”

Haughey could not hold Ryan’s stare.

Ryan continued. “I have reason to believe that at some point in the next twenty four hours, Colonel Skorzeny will try to imprison me, and he will torture me to learn anything that I have not told you this afternoon.”

Haughey wetted his lips. “That’s a hell of an accusation, Lieutenant Ryan.”

“There is also a risk that Colonel Skorzeny may try to do the same to Miss Hume in order to coerce me into providing him with more information.”

“So what do you want from me?” Haughey asked.

“I expect the protection of the Department of Justice and the Directorate of Intelligence. If any harm should come to me or Celia Hume in the coming days, if any accident should occur, or if either of us should go missing, your first line of enquiry should be with Colonel Skorzeny.”

Ryan stopped talking and let the silence thicken between them.

Eventually, Haughey nodded and cleared his throat. “All right. I’ll tell Colonel Skorzeny he’s to have no direct contact with you. If he wants to talk to you, it’ll be through me. Good enough?”

“No, Minister. I want your guarantee that I have the protection of your department, and of the Directorate of Intelligence.”

Haughey and Fitzpatrick exchanged a glance.

“Fine,” Haughey said. “You have my word. If anything happens to you or Miss Hume, then Colonel Skorzeny will answer to me. So, what message did these boys send back?”

“They rejected the Colonel’s counter offer.”

Fitzpatrick’s eyebrows rose. “Counter offer?”

“Colonel Skorzeny made a thinly veiled suggestion that one of them would receive a payment only if he betrayed the others. If he killed them, and presented proof to Skorzeny.”

“Is this true, Minister?” Fitzpatrick asked.

Haughey’s face reddened. “An advertisement was placed in the Irish Times. I did not approve, I made that clear to the Colonel.”

“My God, you knowingly allowed Skorzeny to place an ad soliciting murder?”

Haughey fidgeted. “Like I said, I did not approve. Perhaps in hindsight I should have made my objection more strongly.”

“I’ll say. I’ve a good mind to go to the Taoiseach about this. I imagine your father in law might have something to say about it.”

Haughey moved close to Fitzpatrick, their bodies almost touching. “Now hold on, Director. Don’t go thinking you can threaten Charlie Haughey. Push me, and I’ll have you run out of your fucking job by the end of the day.”

Fitzpatrick stepped away, straightened his tie, smoothed his suit jacket. “Gentlemen, I think I’ve contributed all I can to this discussion. If you’ll excuse me, I have quite an amount of paperwork to see to.”

He walked to the bed and placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder.

“Come to me if you need anything, Ryan. Anything at all.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Fitzpatrick left the room. Haughey watched the door close.

“So, what now?” he asked.

“Make sure Skorzeny pays them,” Ryan said.

Haughey sighed, his shoulders falling, his body seeming to deflate. “I don’t know if he’ll agree. He’s a stubborn bastard.”

“It’s either that, or you let them fight it out. These men are serious. They won’t give up. I’ve done everything I can for you, Minister, and more. You have twenty four hours to convince Skorzeny. If you can’t, you’ll have my final report and then you’re on your own.”

Haughey walked to the door. “I’ll see what I can do. Stay out of trouble, Ryan.”

He nodded at Celia as he left. She entered and closed the door.

Ryan eased his legs off the bed, every part of him protesting at the effort, and sat upright. He placed one hand on the bedside locker to support himself.

Celia came to the bed, got down on her knees. She reached beneath and slid out the portable Grundig tape recorder she had purchased that morning with the last of the money Ryan had been given by the director. She pressed the stop button and the reels ceased spinning. A small microphone peeked out from its hiding place between the pillows on the bed, the cable snaking down behind the headboard.

She got back to her feet, went to the wardrobe, and opened the mirrored door. She crouched down, reached inside.

“Careful, it’s heavy,” Ryan said.

“I know it is,” she said. “I bloody carried it here all the way from the office. I’ll be in terrible trouble if anyone notices it’s missing.”

She kept her back straight, lifted with her legs, and brought the Olivetti typewriter to the bed.

“Can you type?” Ryan asked.

“Of course I can.” She took a stack of paper from the wardrobe, sat on the bed, fed a sheet into the typewriter. “Now, what date is it today?”

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

Skorzeny had been waiting almost half an hour in Haughey’s office before the minister returned. He did not greet the politician as he entered, nor when he sat down.

Haughey sat in silence for a time. Skorzeny lit another cigarette and waited, enjoying the quiet and the gritty heat of the tobacco in his chest.

Eventually, Haughey said, “What a fucking mess.”

Skorzeny did not respond. He took another draw on the cigarette, exhaled a pungent cloud, watched it hang in the air, drifting with the currents of the room.

“A disaster. That’s what you’ve landed me in. A bloody disaster.” “Lieutenant Ryan did not bear good news?”

Haughey glared from across the desk. “No he did not.”

He told Skorzeny about Ryan’s condition, about his capture, his torture, the rejection of the offer. And that the head of the Directorate of Intelligence now knew too much.

When he finished, Skorzeny said, “The Directorate of Intelligence is your concern, Minister, not mine. I will speak with Lieutenant Ryan myself. I’m sure I can persuade him to be more open with me than he was with you.”

“No,” Haughey said, pointing a finger. “Not a bloody chance. You stay away from Ryan, and that fancy piece of his. I gave him my word. Now, I want this business over with.”

“Be patient, Minister. Their greed will overcome them. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow. But soon. And the problem will have disappeared.”

Haughey got to his feet. “No, my problem won’t have disappeared. It’ll still be sitting there smoking its bloody cigarettes.” He paced the room, his hands in his pockets. “Old Dev should never have let any of you boys set foot in Ireland. And I’ll tell you what, it’s not too late to turf the lot of you out. Go back to Spain or Argentina or whatever stone you came out from under.”

“What do you suggest, Minister? Should I give in to extortion?”

Haughey stabbed a finger at him. “Yes you bloody should. And that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

Skorzeny stubbed the cigarette out. “I beg your pardon?”

“Pay the bastards. Ryan’s right. Give them what they want and be done with it.”

“Minister, do you think I’m the kind of man who surrenders to his enemies?”

“Oh, give over with this battlefield shit. This is not a warzone, and I won’t let you turn it into one. We have the President of the United States coming in a few weeks, and I won’t have any more bodies showing up on account of you and your bloody Nazi friends.”

Skorzeny stood, used his full height to tower over the politician. “Minister, please do not push me. You have been a good friend to me, and I to you. We should not become enemies.”

“Enemies?” Haughey gave a hard laugh. “I’ve no shortage of enemies, Colonel, and one more won’t cost me any sleep.” His forefinger jabbed Skorzeny’s chest. “Now you listen to me, and you listen well. Stay away from Ryan. You go near him and I’ll put you on the next flight to Spain myself.”

Skorzeny smiled, buttoned his jacket, and walked towards the door.

“You have my word, Minister. Good day.”

He passed Haughey’s secretary without acknowledging her, an angry laugh trapped in his throat. The very idea that he would give in to blackmail.

The last man to try such a foolish thing had died badly.

Along with the head of Franco’s personal security team, Skorzeny had inspected the hotel room where Impelliteri had met his end. Sebastian Arroyo stood over the bloodstains on the carpet, shaking his head.

“She stabbed him in the gut,” Arroyo said. “Tore him right open. The Generalissimo’s own doctor tended to him, but it was no good. Señor Impelliteri died in great pain.”

Skorzeny was careful to show no pleasure at that observation.

“An assassination, pure and simple,” Arroyo continued. “They were both naked. My guess is she meant to kill him in his sleep, but he woke up, and there was a struggle. We trapped her in the stairwell. A beautiful girl. Who would think she could do a thing like this?”

“Did she say anything?” Skorzeny asked.

“I shot her before she could speak,” Arroyo said. “The kindest thing, really. She would have suffered terribly if she’d been captured.”

Skorzeny nodded in agreement. “True.”

“An odd thing, though.”

The sweat on Skorzeny’s back chilled. “What’s that?”

“I had the room at her hotel searched. She had packed for a holiday, it seems, some clothes, swimwear and so on. She travelled on a Swiss passport, by the way. The odd thing was a note she had tucked inside some underwear in her suitcase.”

Skorzeny shifted his weight on his feet. “A note?”

“A small piece of paper. It had your name and the telephone number of this hotel written on it. Oh, and your room number.”

Skorzeny said nothing.

“I did not like Señor Impelliteri,” Arroyo said. “The Generalissimo made me hire him. As if I didn’t know my own job.”

Arroyo turned and walked to the door. He paused.

“Colonel Skorzeny, you would be wise to return to Ireland and stay there for a while.”

Skorzeny nodded. “Perhaps so.”

A month later, he made a generous gift to Arroyo. After all, there was a clear distinction between bribery and blackmail.

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

Ryan found Weiss sitting on a pew in the Unitarian Church, on the western side of St Stephen’s Green. He noted the concern on Weiss’s face as he approached.

“Is it bad?” Weiss asked.

“I’ll live,” Ryan said. He eased himself down onto the wooden bench, straining to keep the pain from showing on his face.

“Is this a more suitable place than the University Church?” Weiss asked. “It’s non-denominational, you know. Both of us are welcome here. What are you? Anglican, Baptist, Methodist?”

“Presbyterian,” Ryan said. “I don’t go to church much.”

“Me neither. I guess we don’t belong here after all. So how did your little meeting go?”

“I gave them twenty four hours to get Skorzeny to agree.”

“You think he will?”

Ryan shook his head. “I don’t know if his pride will allow it.”

“Yes, he’s stubborn and proud, but he’s also smart. He knows this isn’t a war worth fighting. Mark my words, he’ll have agreed by this time tomorrow.”

Ryan turned to look at Weiss. “Can you keep control of Carter and his men that long?”

“Of course I can. They’re a good team.”

Weiss looked up at the stained glass windows above the pulpit, his eyes betraying the doubt in his own words.

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

Weiss followed the single track road as the white sheet of sky overhead darkened to grey. The raindrops on his windscreen fattened. He flicked the wipers on. They smeared the water across the glass.

He had left Remak at the airport. A few days’ furlough, Weiss had said. Get some rest while he revised his notes for presenting to their superiors back in Tel Aviv. Next week, he told him, when they had final approval from the top, they’d move on Skorzeny. He’d booked the flight out of his own pocket. First class.

The cottage appeared through the trees ahead, a low tumbledown building, whitewash turned to grey and brown, the paint on the door reduced to a few flakes of green on bare wood. He pulled the car onto the small patch of clear ground in front of the house, alongside the Bedford van. When the engine shuddered and died, he heard the voices.

Hard, angry voices.

He recognised Carter’s first, the harsh barks, like a guard dog that had caught scent of an intruder. Then Wallace, his mocking tone, his arrogance.

Weiss put a hand to his pistol and climbed out of the car. He closed the door over, pressed it gently until it sealed shut. The voices rose in pitch and volume.

“He’ll shaft us.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but I say what goes, and I say we wait it out.”

“You say what goes? Under what authority?”

“I’m your superior officer, I don’t need any other authority.”

“Superior officer? I’m not in your bloody army. You’ve got no bloody say over me or him.”

“If you want paid, you’ll do what I tell you.”

“Yeah, I want paid, but what with? Where’s the fucking money? Eh? You told me you’d make me rich, and I haven’t seen a bloody penny yet.”

Weiss opened the cottage door, stepped inside. The damp in the air fell on him like a chilled cloak.

Carter and Wallace stood toe-to-toe at the centre of the room. They both turned to look at Weiss, shame on their faces, like children caught in mischief. Gracey watched from the corner, weariness in his eyes.

Weiss took a wad of bills from his pocket, held tight by a money clip. He counted out five, ten, twenty of them and held the money out to Wallace.

“A thousand dollars,” Weiss said. “You want to be paid? Okay, then take it as a severance package and get the hell out of here.”

Wallace looked at the cash, then back at Weiss.

“Take it.” Weiss shook the bills at him. “Or shut the hell up.”

“So now you think you’re in charge, eh?”

“Captain Carter and I are running this operation. You don’t like it, here’s the money, there’s the door.”

Wallace sneered. “If I wanted the money out of your pocket, I’d kill you and take it. That’s not what this is about. I’m sick of sitting on my arse waiting for something to happen. If we’d stuck with the original plan, we’d have been out of this shit pile of a country weeks ago.”

“If you’d stuck with your original plan, you’d have got nothing, except maybe a bullet up your ass.” Weiss stuffed the cash back into his jacket pocket. “This is the only show in town. Either you’re with us or you’re out of here.”

Wallace took a step closer. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. Might be I’m still considering Skorzeny’s offer. If I have to sit around here much longer, I might have to serve you bastards up to—”

Weiss snatched his pistol from its holster as he crossed the few feet between him and Wallace. Before Wallace could raise his hands, Weiss whipped it across his cheek. He felt the force of the blow in his wrist, charging up through his elbow to his shoulder.

Wallace spun around, staggered two steps, then landed hard on all fours. Weiss swung his shoe into the Rhodesian’s gut. He curled into a ball on the floor, face red, coughing.

“That’s enough,” Carter said.

Gracey straightened, his hand going to his trouser pocket. He produced a lock knife, flicked open the blade.

Weiss looked at Carter. “Tell your boy to put that knife away.”

Carter kept his voice steady. “Do as he says.”

Gracey hesitated for a moment, then closed the blade and returned it to his pocket. He kept his arms by his sides, hands open and ready, his weight on both feet.

Weiss knelt down beside Wallace. “Now let’s get something straight, my friend. You talk like that one more time, even as a joke, and I will kill you right where you stand. Are we clear?”

Wallace spat on the floor. “Jew bast—”

Weiss placed the Glock’s muzzle against Wallace’s eye. He froze.

“Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

Weiss stood upright. Wallace crawled away, reached the wall, rested his back against it as he rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand.

“All right,” Weiss said. “Now, if you ladies can keep from scratching each other’s eyes out for a couple days, then we might just see this thing through.”

Carter held Wallace in his hard gaze for a moment before turning to Weiss. “Well? What did your friend Ryan say?”

“He gave Skorzeny twenty four hours to agree to our terms or he’d quit the assignment.”

“And if he doesn’t agree?”

“Then we’re no worse off than we were before, are we?”

Wallace wiped spit and snot from his chin. “We should’ve got rid of Ryan. He’s going to shaft us.”

“Ryan’s tougher than you think,” Weiss said. “Carter put him through hell and he didn’t give me up. Frankly, I don’t give a shit if you trust him or not. That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“That’s the trouble, isn’t it? We’re the ones risking our arses. Not you.”

Weiss put his hands in his pockets. “Right now, Lieutenant Ryan is risking more than any of us.”

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

From his window, Célestin Lainé watched the sun move across the sky, dipping closer the treetops. He had remained in his room, emerging only to fetch food for himself and the dog, and several bottles of wine, for the last few days.

The puppy whimpered with boredom almost constantly. A mound of excrement had gathered in the corner, and the smell had become unbearable. After a day of it, Lainé had resorted to scooping the foulness up and throwing it out of the window. He had stolen towels to soak up the urine.

Still the room stank, but until now, Lainé had no wish to venture out. To do so would have meant facing Skorzeny, and he felt sure the Colonel would see the betrayal written clear on his face.

He had slept for no more than one or two hours every night, the fear and anger keeping him awake and shivering. The fear of Skorzeny, and the anger of knowing that Carter, and now Ryan, had abandoned him.

The Englishman had promised money, more than Lainé had ever imagined he could possess. He had spent days and weeks dreaming of it, how he would spend it, the life he would have. A cottage by the sea, somewhere perhaps that Catherine could have visited him, and they would have passed hour after hour smoking cigarettes, drinking wine and speaking in Breton while the sea spray hissed on the windows.

All gone.

So he had confessed his sins to Ryan, expecting the Irishman to hand Carter and his men over to Skorzeny. Days had passed, and still nothing. One betrayal after another had been rewarded with betrayal in return.

So Lainé had stayed in this shit-smelling box, feasting on his own rage, until he resolved to act the traitor one last time.

He closed his eyes, uttered a prayer for courage, then let himself out of the room. He descended the stairs and went to Skorzeny’s study, stopped outside the door, listened to the Colonel’s hard voice on the other side of the wood. He opened the door without knocking.

Skorzeny sat at his desk, the telephone receiver pressed to his ear. He watched Lainé enter, close the door behind him, and take a seat. He finished his conversation and hung up.

“Célestin. You look unwell.”

Lainé said, “We need to talk.”

Skorzeny nodded. He offered a cigarette. Lainé accepted, unable to quell the shaking in his hands as he brought a flame to the tobacco.

“So, what is it?” Skorzeny asked as he lit his own cigarette.

Lainé coughed, his eyes watering. “I want to tell you something.”

“Oh?”

“But first, I need you to make an oath.”

Skorzeny’s eyes glittered. “Tell me the oath, and we’ll see.”

Lainé went to flick ash into the ashtray, but the tremor of his hand sent the powdery flakes drifting to the floor.

“You must promise to let me live.”

A sharp bark of a laugh escaped Skorzeny. “How can I make such a promise?”

“You must, or I won’t tell you.”

“Célestin, there’s nothing you can keep from me. You know I’ll torture you if I must.”

With his free hand, Lainé reached into his pocket and retrieved the filleting knife he had taken from the kitchen the day before. He brought the blade to his throat. He felt the cold of it, then the hot sting as it pierced his skin.

“Promise me,” he said, holding Skorzeny’s gaze firm. “Make an oath that you will let me live, that you won’t allow anyone else to kill me, or you will never know what I had to tell you.”

The laughter faded from Skorzeny’s eyes. “Célestin, you’re bleeding. Put the knife away.”

“Promise or you’ll never know.”

Anger flashed on Skorzeny’s face, then faded as his cold calm returned. He nodded once. “As you wish. I give you my word you will not be killed by me or anyone else.”

Lainé took the blade away from his throat, felt something warm trickle down inside his shirt to his chest.

He talked.

He told Skorzeny everything. He talked about the sick anger that haunted his days in Ireland, the hatred of his own impoverished life, the jealousy that bit at him when he saw the riches men like Skorzeny enjoyed. Then he spoke of the Englishman who came to him with promises of wealth beyond imagining, the things the man wanted to know, the van they drove him away in, the secrets Lainé whispered to him.

And he talked about the deaths of Elouan Groix and Catherine Beauchamp, and how they tormented him.

Finally Lainé told how Lieutenant Albert Ryan had cornered him on the landing upstairs, how he knew Lainé was the traitor they sought, that Ryan knew the identities of the killers who had picked off Skorzeny’s Kameraden, and how the Irishman had conspired to keep it secret.

When Lainé had finished talking, Skorzeny sat still and quiet for a time. He had finished one cigarette and started another, but it now burned forgotten between his fingers.

Eventually, Skorzeny stubbed out the cigarette, stood and said, “Thank you, Célestin.”

He walked around the table and came to Lainé’s side. There, he lifted the heavy crystal ashtray from the desktop. Lainé opened his mouth to speak, but the ashtray slammed into his jaw.

Consciousness flickered like a faulty light bulb as the floor rushed up to meet him. In the dim swirl of his mind, he became aware of hard jagged things on his tongue, fragments of teeth. He spat them out, saw the yellowed enamel’s dull sheen amongst the blood.

Skorzeny, his voice thick with rage, hunkered down beside him and said, “I’ll keep my promise. You’ll live. But when this is settled, you will leave this house and never return. You will have no contact with me or anyone who calls me their friend. Do you understand?”

Lainé spat blood and nodded.

Skorzeny straightened. “Now leave me. I have some calls to make.”

Lainé made his way back upstairs, returned to his room, and lay down on the bed. He ran his tongue around his mouth, seeking out the jagged remains of the broken teeth. The puppy nestled beside him, licked at his fingers, whimpering in sympathy.

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

They worked until long after dark, listening, transcribing, Ryan dictating, Celia typing. Now they lay on the bed, fully clothed except for the shoes they’d kicked off.

“Charlie Haughey will never forgive you,” Celia said, her breath warm on Ryan’s neck.

“I don’t care,” Ryan said.

“He’ll never forgive me. He’ll run me out of my job.”

“Not if we play it right.”

Her lips pressed against his ear. He turned his head, kissed her. Her fingertips skated across the stubble on his cheek.

“If we get it wrong,” she said, “Skorzeny will kill us both.”

The following morning, Ryan headed north out of the city, the package on the passenger seat beside him. He had kissed Celia goodbye at Amiens Street Station, a similar package held under her arm. They had agreed she would stay with her parents until it was over. When they had stopped off at the boarding house for Celia to collect a few things, Mrs. Highland had scowled and told her she would no longer be welcome there.

Celia had smiled and said, “Fine. Albert and I have decided to live in sin, anyway.”

On the way out, Celia had taken Mrs. Highland’s hand, leaned in close, and whispered, “He’s an extraordinary lover.”

Mrs. Highland had gasped as Celia giggled. She laughed all the way to the station.

The world turned from grey to green as Ryan left Dublin behind, and with it, the grind of recent days. Wind from the broken driver’s window swept across his face. As the car crested each rise, weightless for those moments, Ryan’s spirit remained suspended.

He knew it was an illusion, a temporary respite from fear as he chose a course and acted on it. The crushing pressure of it all would come back soon enough. For now, he savoured the lightness of being that came with the rise and fall of the road.

Ryan parked behind his father’s delivery van in the alleyway to the rear of the shop. The back gate stood locked, so he walked around to the street. It seemed strange to approach the place in the morning light after so many years of slipping in and out at dusk or dawn.

The bell above the door jangled as Ryan entered. The place seemed smaller now than it had when he was a boy, as if the walls had closed in. His confrontation with Mahon appeared to have worked. The shelves were well-stocked, no shortage of bread, bottles of milk filling the large cooler.

But no one behind the counter.

Ryan stood for a moment, held still by the quiet, before he called, “Hello?”

He listened.

Nothing. He moved deeper into the shop, its warm light turning to gloom. The cooler thumped and hummed as its thermostat kicked in. Ryan started at the noise. The milk bottles rattled against one another. He lifted one, burst the foil cap with his thumb, took a long swallow, felt the chill run down his throat to his stomach.

“Hello? Da? Ma?”

A feeling of childishness came over him as he called, as if he had just got off the bus from the school he’d attended in Monaghan town. Once when he was twelve or thirteen he had come home from Monaghan Collegiate and found the shop empty like this. He had walked around the counter and pulled aside the curtain that cloaked the doorway to the back room. He had found his parents in there, knotted together. His mother had squealed and pushed his father away with one hand while she fumbled at the buttons of her blouse with the other. His father had clipped him round the ear, hard enough for it to sting for half an hour. Since then, he had always made a point of calling out for them if he found the shop empty.

Ryan called once more. When still no answer came, a crackle of worry mixed with the childishness. He set the milk bottle on the counter and went around. He reached for the curtain, pushed it aside, and stepped through.

The back room stood empty save for the sparse furnishings and the stacked boxes of tinned and packet goods. A small table and two chairs took up the centre of the floor. A long white enamel sink and drainer clung to the far wall, the cold tap hissing and dripping as it had done for as long as Ryan could remember.

“Anyone here?”

Ryan’s worry might have turned to fear, might have set him running up the stairs shouting for his parents, had he not heard the clattering flush of the privy out in the yard. He exhaled and cursed.

The back door opened and the young boy who worked for Ryan’s father after school and on Saturdays entered. Barry something, Ryan thought. A good wee grafter, his father had said. He was fond of the lad and paid him more than he should.

The boy stopped in the doorway, stared at Ryan.

“Where’s my father?” Ryan asked.

The boy kept staring, his lip trembling.

“Where is he?”

The boy shook his head, his eyes watering. He asked, “Haven’t you heard?”

Ryan followed the sound of his mother’s weeping through the hospital’s corridors and wards until he found her at his father’s bedside beneath a tall window. He stopped when he saw the purple skin, the puffy swollen fingers protruding from the casts on each arm, the bloodied gauze taped above the eyebrow.

His mother looked up, her eyes red and wet.

“Albert. I’ve been trying to get you since last night. I rang the camp. They didn’t know where you were. I’ve been ringing everywhere I can—”

“What happened?” Ryan asked. He dared not step closer.

“Men came. IRA, I think. They had hurling sticks and a metal bar. They said it was a message for you. From a friend of yours.”

A deep chill spread from Ryan’s belly up through his chest and into his throat, the milk he’d drunk threatening to expel itself from his stomach. His hands hung useless by his sides.

“Dear God, Albert, what have you been involved in? Who did this to my husband?”

She stood, her shoulders quivering. Ryan wanted to flee, but he kept still and silent. She crossed to him, her gaze flitting over his face, registering the injuries there. Then she opened her right hand and slapped him across the cheek.

Ryan’s head rocked, the heat and the sting flaring on his skin.

“What have you got us mixed up in?”

He had no answer. She slapped him again, harder this time.

“Who did this to your father?”

Ryan took her in his arms, wrapped them tight around her. She fought him, tried to pull free, but he would not release her. Her body softened against his and he felt the damp heat of her cheek against his neck, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin.

Her hand moved across his chest, found the hard butt of the Walther beneath the fabric of his jacket.

“My God,” she said, her voice muffled by his embrace.

“I know who did this,” he said. “They won’t touch you again. I promise.”

CHAPTER FIFTY NINE

When Ryan pulled up at the gate of Skorzeny’s property almost three hours later, the package no longer lay on the passenger seat. He had stopped at a telephone box on the journey south and called Celia’s home near Drogheda. Her father had answered, his response curt when Ryan asked to speak with his daughter. She told him she had done as they discussed, and the package and its instructions had been delivered.

He did not tell her about his own father, or that he was headed for Skorzeny’s farm.

A heavyset young man stopped Ryan at the gateway. Another lurked in the trees, watching.

“No one’s coming in,” the young man said. “If you’ve got a delivery, you can leave it here.”

A local accent. Ryan guessed him to be IRA, a replacement for the guards who had perished a few nights before.

“My name is Lieutenant Albert Ryan. Tell Colonel Skorzeny I’m here.”

The young man leaned on the roof of the car, his round boulder of a head close enough to Ryan’s to smell his breath.

“I told you, no one’s coming in. Doesn’t matter a shite who you are.”

Ryan reached up, slipped his right arm around the young man’s neck, and pulled him down towards the Walther which he held in his left hand. The muzzle made a dimple in the young man’s fleshy cheek.

The man in the tree line came forward, concern on his face as he tried to see what was happening at the car. Ryan saw the shotgun in his arms.

“Tell your friend to stay back.”

The young man waved a hand at his colleague. The other man stopped.

“Now, please let Colonel Skorzeny know that Lieutenant Ryan is here. Trust me, he’ll want to see me.”

Skorzeny stood waiting in his study.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Ryan. My gatekeeper informed me that you are armed. He lacked the intelligence to relieve you of your—”

Ryan’s open palm caught him hard across the mouth. He took one step backward.

“Don’t touch my family again,” Ryan said, “or I will kill you myself.”

Skorzeny raised a hand to his lip, checked his fingertips for blood. “It was a warning, nothing more.”

Ryan drew the Walther from its holster, raised it to aim at Skorzeny’s forehead.

The Austrian smiled. “As I was saying, my gatekeeper had not the intelligence to take your weapon from you. Good men are hard to find.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your brains out right now.”

“If you had the will to kill me, you would have done it by now.” Skorzeny walked around his desk, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at his lip and sat down. “But I do have a reason.”

Ryan kept his aim steady. “Let’s have it, then.”

“In a moment. Please lower your pistol and sit down, Lieutenant Ryan. I really see no need for such dramatics.”

Ryan held firm for a moment, anger battling reason. He lowered the Walther, but kept his finger on the trigger guard.

“Sit, please,” Skorzeny said.

Ryan stayed on his feet.

“Would you care for a drink?” Skorzeny asked. “You seem stressed. A brandy, perhaps? Or whiskey?”

“Nothing,” Ryan said.

“Very well. Now, regarding the injuries to your father. I must apologise. I had asked my contact in the IRA to have some men visit your parents. I wanted only that they should be frightened. It seems matters got out of hand. But the message was necessary.”

“You had no cause to harm my father.”

“Oh, but I did.” Skorzeny returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “You see, the situation has changed.”

“I don’t care.” Ryan raised the pistol for emphasis. “If you, or anyone else, come near my parents again, I promise you will suffer.”

“I understand your anger,” Skorzeny said. “But if you’ll listen for a moment, you’ll see there’s no reason for anyone else to come to harm.”

“Go on.”

“Against my better judgement, I have decided to pay the men who have been causing us such problems. An advertisement will appear in tomorrow’s Irish Times.”

The Walther grew heavy in Ryan’s hand. He lowered it to his side once more and sat down, jaw clenched against the pain that shifted from his groin to his stomach.

“There will be one condition,” Skorzeny said.

“What?”

“That you, and only you, shall act as courier for the gold. I am confident you won’t try to steal it for yourself.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Skorzeny smiled and said, “How? I can be sure because the men who attacked your father are watching the hospital he’s in. They know which ward and which bed. They know your mother wears a red coat and carries a black leather bag. Do I need to continue?”

Ryan fought to keep his hands at his sides, to keep his finger off the trigger.

Skorzeny smirked. “Would you like to point your gun at me again? Or will you agree to my request so we can have this over and done with?”

Ryan returned the Walther to its holster.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Goren Weiss circled back around to drive past Buswells once more. Yes, the newspaper sat on the dashboard of Ryan’s car. He parked further along the street and walked back to the hotel.

He gave the receptionist Ryan’s name and room number. She smiled and lifted the telephone.

“Mr. Ryan will be down presently,” she said, that smile fixed to her face like a man clinging to a cliff edge. “Please take a seat in the lounge.”

Weiss thanked her and walked through to the high-ceilinged room where a few suited men read newspapers while they drank their tea and coffee. He found a comfortable seat close to the window.

A pudgy waiter approached. “Can I get you some refreshment, sir?”

“You got any Jack Daniels?”

“Sir?” The waiter’s bottom lip drooped, his breath sounding like cough syrup sucked through a straw.

Weiss sighed. “I guess not. Glenfiddich, then. A double, neat, on ice.”

The waiter leaned in close, spoke in a confidential tone. “Sir, this is a temperance hotel.”

“A what?”

“We don’t serve alcohol. I can get you a nice cup of tea, if you like.”

Weiss wiped his hand across his eyes. “No, thank you, just a glass of water, please.”

The water arrived at the same time as Ryan. The Irishman lowered himself onto the chair next to Weiss’s, his features contorting with the pain it caused him.

“Still hurting, huh?” Weiss asked. “You want some tea? They might even run to something as strong as coffee.”

“Nothing,” Ryan said.

“So, what is it?”

“I saw Skorzeny today.”

Weiss studied Ryan as he waited for him to continue, saw something hiding behind his eyes. When he remained silent, Weiss said, “Spit it out, Albert. I don’t like it when people keep things from me.”

Ryan let the air out of his lungs, a long and weary sigh.

“Skorzeny had my father beaten. As a warning.”

“And I guess you’re kind of sore about that.”

Ryan did not answer.

“That’s understandable. But don’t let your anger get the better of you. So what did the Colonel have to say for himself?”

“That he’s going to pay. There’ll be an ad in the Irish Times tomorrow.”

Weiss raised his glass in a toast. “Good news. I told you he’d come around.”

Ryan shook his head. “It was too easy. Something’s not right.”

“Oh, come on, Albert. Don’t be so negative. I told you, Otto Skorzeny is a smart man. One and a half million is pocket change to him. Paying up is the only option that makes sense.”

“I’m not so sure,” Ryan said. “We need to watch our step. He could be setting a trap. He’s too proud to give in like this.”

“Perhaps the Colonel isn’t as all-powerful as you think he is.” He locked eyes with Ryan.

“What do you mean?”

Weiss couldn’t keep the smile from his lips. “Did it ever strike you that Skorzeny’s war record is a little too good to be true?”

“You know something,” Ryan said. “Tell me.”

“I have a contact, a former member of Himmler’s staff. He’s given us some good information, so we let him live. Anyway, he was there when they made that film reconstruction of the Gran Sasso raid, where they show Skorzeny and his crew swooping in on their gliders and snatching Mussolini. Thing is, the bold Colonel was only supposed to be there as an observer.”

“He planned the raid,” Ryan said. “I read about it. There’s books written about—”

“Propaganda,” Weiss said. “All he did was reconnaissance, and poorly at that. The Reich was in trouble by ’43, and the SS needed a hero. Skorzeny fell ass-backwards into the role. He was supposed to be on one of the last gliders to land, but something fucked up, and he wound up landing first, right at the front door of the hotel where they were holding Mussolini. Scared the shit out of the carabinieri, and they dropped their weapons right there and then.

“So, my German friend tells me, the front door of the hotel is barred, and Skorzeny goes running around the building trying to find another way in, dodging guard dogs, trying to climb over walls. In the end, against orders, he got inside, ran up and down corridors until he found Mussolini. Made damn sure he got the credit for it. The Italians put up no resistance, hardly a shot was fired. The only injuries were due to a couple of the gliders crash landing. Hardly the daring feat the SS propaganda team made it out to be. Almost everything you read in those books was fiction, not history. Skorzeny is not Superman. He’s a middle-aged fraud living off a reputation he didn’t earn.”

“He’s still dangerous,” Ryan said.

“Yes, he’s dangerous. Very dangerous. But he is not invincible. Just remember that. We can beat him.”

Ryan took a breath. “He wants me to be the courier.”

“I have no problem with that. Come on, Albert, lighten up. A few days from now, you’ll be one of the richest men in this godforsaken country. All you got to do is hold your nerve.”

He stood, reached for the glass, and downed the rest of the water.

“I need a real drink.” He patted Ryan’s shoulder. “We’re almost home, Albert. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

Weiss left Ryan sitting in the lounge, a warm glow in his chest, despite the lack of whisky and the look of hollow dread on the Irishman’s face.

Weiss approached the cottage at the end of the overgrown lane. He stopped the car short of the clearing when he saw Carter sitting on the doorstep, his head in his hands.

Weiss climbed out, shut the door.

Carter looked up at the sound, startled, as if he had been unaware of the car’s approach.

A queasy knot tightened in Weiss’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

Carter shook his head and stared off somewhere into the trees. His Browning pistol lay on the worn stone step beside him.

“Come on, Carter. What is it?”

The Englishman jerked a thumb back towards the open door behind him. “In there.”

Weiss crossed the clearing. Carter leaned aside to allow him to step over.

The smell first, the metal odour, then as his eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the cottage, he saw the upended table, the tin plates and cups scattered, the chairs on their backs and sides.

And he saw the bodies.

“Goddamn it,” Weiss said. “Goddamn it.”

Wallace sat propped against the far wall, a chunk of his face and skull ripped away, two holes torn in his chest. The one remaining eye, dull as a raincloud, gazed across the room to the other man.

Gracey lay face down, a neat hole between his shoulder blades, another in the back of his head. His fingers still clutched an automatic rifle.

“Goddamn it,” Weiss said.

He went back outside and sat down on the step beside Carter.

“What happened?”

Carter ran a hand across his face, wiped his mouth and his eyes.

“It was Gracey. Fucking idiot. He’d been quiet since we let Ryan go. But he’s always quiet, even back when we were in North Africa together, so I didn’t think much of it. We’d just eaten a bit of lunch. Wallace cooked it. We’d been talking about the money, divvying it up in our heads, what we were going to do with our shares.

“Then Wallace makes some stupid joke, how Skorzeny had offered a third of the price, and that was more than any of us would get if the whole thing was split five ways. I told him to shut his stupid mouth, it wasn’t funny, but he wouldn’t let up. Gracey just sat there saying nothing, pushing his food around his plate.

“Then he grabs for his rifle and lets Wallace have it. Only I had my Browning out for cleaning, I would’ve got it too. Fucking idiot.”

“Yeah,” Weiss said. “A fucking idiot. Skorzeny agreed to pay.”

Carter turned his head to Weiss, his eyes wide.

“Yep. Ryan just told me. There’ll be an ad in the paper tomorrow morning. You got any of that good vodka left?”

Carter climbed to his feet and went inside. He returned a minute later with two bottles, one almost empty, the other almost full. He gave the first to Weiss.

They sat in silence for a time, Weiss sipping at his drink, Carter swigging mouthfuls of his.

“I used to be a soldier,” Carter said.

Weiss shrugged. “So did I.”

“It used to mean something. For king and country, all that. You give your life to it. Then one day there’s no more wars to fight and you’re left sitting on your hands, counting the days, no bloody use to anyone.”

Weiss felt the vodka warm his chest and his tongue. “My war never ends. I fight for a tiny patch of land surrounded by a dozen nations that want to scorch every trace of us from the face of the earth. If it wasn’t for the fact they hate each other almost as much as they hate us, they’d have driven us into the sea ten years ago. Be grateful for the peace you’ve found, my friend. Not everyone gets to go home alive.”

He clinked his bottle against Carter’s.

“And what happens if your war does end?” Carter asked. “Or you’re too old to fight anymore? What do you do with the rest of your life?”

Weiss thought about it. He had done so many times, but never during daylight, only in the dark hours as he chased sleep. He returned to the only answer he’d ever found.

“I don’t know,” Weiss said, hoping the terror of it didn’t tell in his voice.

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE

A copy of the Irish Times waited outside Ryan’s hotel room door when he awoke. He brought it inside and leafed through the pages until he found the classified ads. There, in the personals section, between the listings for lonely country gentlemen seeking ladies of good character, he found it.

Constant Follower: I agree to your terms, but with conditions. I await your instructions.

“Too easy,” he said, his voice sounding brittle in the small room.

He set the paper aside and went to the full length mirror and studied the burn on his cheek. It had scabbed over, the healing begun. Aches still lumbered through his body, pains whose location he could not pinpoint, seeming to shift from one part of him to another.

Ryan went to the bathroom on the next floor up to empty his bladder. He felt a quiet relief when his urine ran clear, not the muddy reddish brown of the last two days. Perhaps, if he was fortunate, his bowel movement might too be clear of blood. He did not relish finding out, given the pain it caused to pass anything more than water.

He plugged the bathtub and turned the taps, stopping the flow of water when it was deep enough for him to kneel in and cleanse his wounds. That done, he dried himself off and shaved, careful of the raw and tender parts of his skin.

Once dressed, he returned to his room, sat on the edge of the bed, and dialled an outside line.

Celia’s father answered, gruff and obstreperous.

“Is this Ryan?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure if she’s available at the—”

A rustling, muffled voices, the sound of the receiver passing from hand to hand.

“Bertie?” she asked.

“What? No, Albert.”

“I think you should be a Bertie.”

“And what if I don’t want to be a Bertie?”

“I shall call you what I like.” The teasing in her voice pleased him. She said, “That’s settled, then. Bertie it is.”

“Have you seen the paper?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, the teasing gone. “Daddy, can I speak in private?”

Ryan heard an offended grumbling, then the closing of a door.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“They’ll have me deliver the instructions to Skorzeny. He wants me to be the courier.”

“No. It’s too dangerous.”

“I can’t refuse.”

“Yes you can. You can tell him—”

“No, I can’t.”

“But what if something happens to you?”

“It won’t,” Ryan said, though he didn’t believe it.

“But what if it does?”

“Then you go to the travel agent like we talked about, but you buy a ticket just for you.”

She fell silent, but he knew her thoughts as he knew his own. If something went wrong, if he did not return, then Skorzeny would not spare her. Neither he nor Celia had said it aloud, but they both knew it to be true.

“Promise me you’ll go,” he said.

“I promise.”

“Good. It’s nearly over.”

“I hope so. Call me soon.”

“I will,” he said. He hung up.

Before he’d taken a breath, the telephone jangled. He lifted the receiver.

“A caller for you, Mr. Ryan,” the receptionist said. “He refuses to give his name, but he sounds American.”

“Put him through.”

“Good morning, Albert,” Weiss said. He sounded hoarse, but it might have been the line. “Looks like we’re in business.”

“I saw the ad.”

“Just like you said. Now, here’s how we’ll play this out. You and I will have no more face-to-face contact. Every communication will be by telephone or letter drop. We play it for real from here on. At eleven AM, there’ll be a note waiting under the windscreen wiper of your car. You will be surprised to find it there. You will read it, then bring it your superiors. Are we clear?”

“We’re clear.”

“Good. Hold your nerve, Albert. We’re almost there.”

At five minutes past eleven, Ryan left his hotel room and went downstairs. He exited onto the street and walked the few yards from the hotel entrance to his car.

A brown business-sized envelope curled in the breeze, held in place by the windscreen wiper.

Ryan lifted the wiper blade and retrieved the envelope. The words LIEUTENANT ALBERT RYAN were typewritten across its face. He slipped his fingertip beneath the flap and tore the envelope open.

CHAPTER SIXTY TWO

Once again, Skorzeny travelled into the city and Charles Haughey’s office. The minister greeted him at the door with a firm and serious handshake.

“I’m glad you took the sensible course,” Haughey said.

“I simply want an end to the bloodshed, Minister.”

Haughey ushered him inside. Ryan waited facing Haughey’s desk, his back to the door. He did not turn to acknowledge Skorzeny’s entrance.

Haughey took his seat behind the desk. Skorzeny sat next to Ryan.

The minister placed an envelope on the desk in front of Skorzeny. He lifted it and removed the single page from within.

“Where is this?” Skorzeny asked.

“About five miles off the east coast,” Haughey said, “South of Dublin.”

Skorzeny folded the paper and returned it to the envelope. “Lieutenant Ryan, you will tell them I agree to all their instructions with the one exception we discussed: you will act as courier, not Mr. Hussein.”

“And if they don’t want me?”

“Then they will not be paid. You will observe everything that happens, how many men, their appearance, their accents. What kind of boat, its name, its markings.”

“What for?” Haughey asked. “Once the gold’s handed over, that’s that. You won’t be chasing after them, I can tell you that for nothing.”

“Of course not, Minister. But still I would like to know who has robbed me. For my own curiosity, you understand.”

Haughey gave him a long stare. He raised a finger. “It goes any further than curiosity, I’ll have you out of this country and packed off back to Spain.”

Skorzeny smiled and bowed his head in deference. “You need not worry, Minister.”

Haughey’s held Skorzeny’s gaze, the mockery of the gesture not lost on him. He turned his attention to Ryan.

“Are you happy to go along with this, Lieutenant Ryan?”

Ryan held his silence, his gaze still fixed on the window.

“Well?”

“Yes, Minister,” Ryan said.

CHAPTER SIXTY THREE

Ryan entered the telephone kiosk at one minute to three and sat on the leather upholstered stool. A folded scrap of paper peeked out from beneath the receiver’s earpiece. He pulled it free, unfolded it.

He exited the kiosk and ran.

The telephone rang as he approached, running with a lopsided gait, ten yards between him and the box. A young man smoking on the corner turned and reached for the door.

“It’s for me,” Ryan called.

The young man let go of the door and backed away.

Ryan slipped inside, lifted the receiver, and spoke his name.

“Does Colonel Skorzeny agree to our instructions?”

Weiss’s voice. Play it for real, he’d said. Assume they’re watching and listening to everything. Act like we’ve never met.

“Yes,” Ryan said. “But one change.”

“What?”

“I will act as courier.”

“Our instructions are to be followed to the letter. No variation.”

“I’m the courier. That’s what Skorzeny wants. If not, then no deal.”

Silence for a moment, then, “Very well. You have the co-ordinates. You know what will happen if you try anything. Dawn day after tomorrow.”

A click, and the line died.

CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR

Outside the airport terminal, Asif Hussein waited in a grey Citroën van, its headlights glaring.

“Mr. Ryan?” he asked.

Hussein wore a well cut suit that clung to his wiry body, and a silk tie loosened at the open collar of his shirt. His jaw was clean shaven, but a thick moustache covered his lip.

Hussein reached over and opened the passenger door. Ryan climbed in. He had carried no luggage from Dublin, flying first to London, then on to Zurich.

As Ryan settled into the passenger seat, Hussein slipped his hand across, felt around his torso, down to his thighs.

“I’m not armed,” Ryan said.

Hussein did not reply. He continued his search until he gave a satisfied grunt.

A metal wall separated the van’s cabin from its rear, a hinged door open at the centre. In the dimness beyond, Ryan saw two hulking dark-skinned men, their eyes reflecting the bright lights of the terminal building as they stared back at him.

“Habib and Munir,” Hussein said. “They will look after us until we reach Camaret-sur-Mer.”

Sheets of steel had been welded to the van’s interior walls, armouring it from within, slots cut in those that covered the rear windows allowing spindles of light through.

Hussein lit a cigarette, its smoke thick and pungent. He put the van in gear and pulled away.

The Heidegger bank stood enclosed by a high wall on the outskirts of a village hidden in the forested hills that overlooked Lake Zurich, less than forty minutes from the airport. A solid metal gate sealed the only entrance, an archway in the stonework. A guard with a pistol holstered at his hip examined the letter that Hussein handed to him, reading it by torchlight. He shone the torch’s beam at each of the van’s occupants in turn. Satisfied, he nodded, and spoke into a radio.

The gate opened outward. Hussein eased the van through the archway and parked by the plain single storey building that stood at the centre of the compound. He checked his reflection in the rear view mirror, buttoned his collar, straightened his tie. He took a comb from his pocket and smoothed the wild curls of his hair.

“Come,” he said, returning the comb to his pocket, and climbed out of the van.

Ryan followed.

A thin, smartly dressed man waited at the building’s entrance. He extended his hand as the Arab approached.

Hussein shook it. “Monsieur Borringer, please forgive the lateness of the hour.”

“Monsieur Hussein, it is a pleasure to see you at any time.” He glanced at Ryan, but did not greet him. “I feared I might not be able to source sufficient gold in time, but I called on some colleagues in other institutions for assistance. The Heidegger family is held in high regard in our industry, so my colleagues were glad to help.”

Borringer turned and lead Hussein and Ryan inside the building, Habib and Munir following behind. The foyer was modern but tasteful, with a large reception desk facing the entrance. Doors led to offices beyond, two guards barring entry. Portraits of grey-haired men lined the walls, all of them carrying the same stern expressions, long noses and pale blue eyes. Eight in total, the mode of dress going back from twentieth to eighteenth century.

Ryan could make out small brass plates beneath each of them, all bearing the name Heidegger.

“Please follow me,” Borringer said.

“Wait here,” Hussein said to his bodyguards. He turned back to Borringer. “Mr. Ryan will join us.”

Borringer looked first to Ryan’s shoes, then his watch, before settling on his face. Ryan saw the measures and valuations working behind his eyes.

“As you wish,” Borringer said, making no effort to hide his distaste, and walked towards a gated elevator. He pushed the gate aside and waved Hussein and Ryan in before following after and pulling the gate closed.

Borringer pulled a silver chain from around his neck and selected one of the keys that were attached to it. He inserted the key into the elevator’s control panel, turned it, and pressed the single button.

The elevator lurched downward, brickwork sliding past its cage, before coming to a halt below ground. Borringer removed the key and placed the chain around his neck once more before opening the gate.

A guard sat at a small desk in the centre of the room. He stood, his hands rigid at his sides, and stared straight ahead. Nine steel doors, three to a wall, each bearing a combination lock and a heavy handle.

Borringer walked to the centre door on the wall facing the elevator. He stood with his body between the lock and the visitors as he worked. Ryan listened to the clicks and ticks as the dial turned, the solid clank as tumblers aligned. Borringer stood back to allow the guard to haul the door open.

“Gentlemen, your cargo.”

Countless numbered drawers lined the vault, all with pairs of locks, many with wax seals across them. On the floor stood a flatbed trolley laden with wooden crates. Dozens of them, each no more than a six or seven inch cube.

Borringer cleared his throat before he spoke. “Eighty nine crates, each containing fifteen gold kilobars, a value of sixteen thousand, nine hundred and twenty two dollars per crate, making a total of one million, five hundred and six thousand, and fifty eight dollars.”

His voice thinned as he ran out of breath. He took a deep inhalation before speaking again.

“Monsieur Hussein, please inspect the crates before the remaining few are sealed.”

Hussein and Ryan stepped forward. Ryan caught sight of the glistening within the five open boxes on top of the stack, saw the words Credit Suisse stamped in the metal. His heart quickened.

Borringer held a hand up. “Monsieur Hussein only, if you please.”

“Wait there,” Hussein said at the vault’s threshold.

Ryan obeyed.

The skin beneath Hussein’s chin glowed yellow with reflected light. He must like butter, Ryan thought, the foolish memory of a fairytale flitting through his mind before he chased it out. Hussein examined each of the open crates in turn while Ryan listened to the low insistent thrum of air vents. A draught cooled his neck.

“They’re good,” Hussein said. “You may seal them.”

Borringer nodded, and the guard lifted the hammer that sat next to the stacked wooden lids. He set about nailing them in place, three firm taps for each nail, six nails for every crate.

Ryan couldn’t help but feel he was witnessing a ceremony, some obscene communion in a church of concrete and steel, the blood of Christ turned gold.

Habib and Munir loaded the crates onto the van while Borringer stood with his hands folded at the small of his back. Ryan stood alongside him, stifling yawns.

Hussein conferred with the driver of the first escort car, tracing a route on the map with a pencil. Two cars, one ahead, one following, would accompany them to the French border. Once there, the armoured van and its load would travel on guarded mostly by Hussein’s men. Two more cars would occasionally pass them on the French roads, Hussein explained, just to ensure no one followed.

When the crates were aboard, Habib and Munir climbed in and closed the rear doors behind them.

Borringer shook Hussein’s hand before the Arab climbed into the driver’s seat. Ryan took the passenger seat with no farewell.

Stars glittered above the walls of the compound, and before Hussein fired the van’s engine, Ryan shivered at the silence that lay across the world. He checked his watch. Approaching two in the morning.

The convoy left the walls of the Heidegger bank behind in the darkness. Ryan watched the lead car’s lights wavering ahead as the Citroën’s engine droned. His eyelids dropped and his head nodded forward before jerking up.

Hussein blew cigarette smoke from his nostrils. “Get some sleep, Mr. Ryan. We have a long journey ahead.”

Ryan leaned back into the corner formed by the passenger seat and the door, allowed the engine’s drone to soothe his mind. He dreamed of gold stolen from skeletal corpses and pulled from dead men’s teeth, and how heavy it weighed in his hand.

The sound of the driver’s door slamming shut pulled him from his unsettled sleep. The sky had lightened from black to deep blue, but the sun remained hidden beyond the horizon.

The van stood at the side of a narrow road, one of the escort cars parked some yards ahead. Ryan could barely make out the driver leaning against its roof. He guessed the second car had parked behind the van. Trees surrounded them, stretching into the distance as far as Ryan could see.

Hussein’s guards joined him at the roadside, each of the three men carrying rolled rugs. Habib or Munir, Ryan couldn’t be sure which was which, set a plastic gallon drum on the verge. They kicked off their shoes and socks, rolled up their sleeves, put woollen caps on their heads. They doused their hands with water from the drum, rinsed their faces, their heads, their arms up to their elbows, and finally their feet.

Ryan watched as they unrolled their rugs on the ground, stood with their hands lifted to heaven, and chanted. He had seen the ritual in Egypt as a young soldier. There, he had observed some perform the ritual ablutions with sand when no water was available.

He listened to the drone of their prayers and watched the orange glow on the horizon burn away the darkness.

The air had developed an icy chill by the time the lead car had pulled over and stopped. Its driver waved as the Citröen van passed. Hussein raised his hand in return before turning onto a path so slender and overgrown it could barely have been described as a track, let alone a road. Ryan braced his hands against the dashboard as the van juddered and lurched over the rough ground. By the time the wheels found good footing on a decent surface, they had crossed into France.

The mountains rose up beyond Ryan’s vision, mist veiling the slopes. He had not seen another car since the last village they had passed through, a loose gathering of chalets and farm buildings. Goats and horned cattle had watched them drive by. Now a vehicle appeared up ahead, travelling slow enough for Hussein to catch it up.

When the car was close enough, Hussein raised a forefinger from the steering wheel, a small gesture, but enough to tell the driver of the car to accelerate away.

Ryan felt pressure in his ears as they climbed. Hussein had not spoken since they left the bank’s compound, but now he took a breath.

“Soon, you will drive. We will stop and eat, then you will take us to Crozon.”

“All right,” Ryan said.

Eighteen years since he’d been in France, and like today, he’d mostly seen it from the inside of a vehicle. He thought of Celia, and the time she had spent in Paris, and the smoky look of her eyes when she talked about it.

Perhaps they would return here, when it was all over. Part of Ryan rejoiced at the idea, while another told him it was a foolish notion. He could not think beyond the rendezvous, handing over the crates to Weiss and the others.

In his mind, Ryan’s life ended at that point, though he did not imagine his own death. He simply could not conceive of an existence that stretched further, a time after the act.

Fear would be the proper emotion. But he did not feel fear, or excitement, only the cold that leaked through the seals of the Citroën’s doors.

He pulled his coat tight around himself, folded his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes.

CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE

They reached Camaret-Sur-Mer at dusk. That afternoon, they had pulled in at a village cafe and taken it in turns to leave the van to eat. Ryan had chosen a rabbit stew with chunks of coarse bread. The meat had been dry and bland, the stew watery, but hunger had made him devour it all the same. Now his stomach grumbled, eager for food once again.

Habib and Munir passed some form of flatbread back and forth, cutting chunks with a vicious-looking knife. They offered none to Ryan. Hussein seemed able to exist purely on tobacco and prayer.

Despite the evening chill, Ryan had rolled down the window to release the pent odours of men and cigarettes. As he pulled up to the small harbour, he smelled salt and heard the tide pushing against its walls, gulls calling as they scavenged the last of the day. Fishing vessels and pleasure boats swayed on the dark water.

“There,” Hussein said, pointing to the aged fishing boat moored closest to a set of steps that descended into the water. Weathered blue paint flaked on its wooden hull. A heavyset man with wiry grey hair and florid cheeks watched from its bow, one hand leaning on a rusted winch. He touched a finger to his brow in a casual salute.

“His name is Vandenberg,” Hussein said. “He is not a friendly man.”

Given how little the Arab had spoken on the journey, Ryan wondered what his idea of friendly was.

They climbed out of the van. Ryan stretched his back and arms.

“Who is the passenger?” Vandenberg asked, his sing-song accent sounding to Ryan like Dutch or Flemish, possibly Danish.

“This man,” Hussein said, indicating Ryan. “Come help us. The cargo is heavy.”

Vandenberg shook his head. “No. I am paid to sail the boat, not to lift things. You lift things.”

Hussein grumbled and spat. He tugged Ryan’s sleeve, guided him to the back of the vehicle. Soon, they had established a chain, Habib bringing each crate from the van to Ryan’s hands, Ryan passing it to Munir, who then descended the steps and handed it to Hussein, who stood on the boat, stacking each box as it arrived.

Ryan’s hands were raw and bloody by the time it was done, his back aching, sweat slicking the skin beneath his clothes. He considered crying off, telling them of the injuries he’d received only a few days ago, but his pride would not allow it.

As the sun kissed the horizon, Hussein pulled a fat envelope from his pocket and tossed it to Vandenberg. He opened the envelope and thumbed through its contents. Satisfied, he stashed it inside his coat and nodded to Hussein.

Without a word to Ryan as he passed, Hussein returned to the van’s driver’s seat while Habib and Munir climbed into the back. The Citroën’s engine barked as it caught, then pulled away from the harbour.

Ryan watched its taillights fade.

“Come,” Vandenberg called from the boat. “Is time for going.”

Ryan huddled on the cabin’s single bunk, wishing he had brought warmer clothes as Vandenberg navigated the channels and sandbanks from Camaret-sur-Mer, away from the Crozon peninsula, towards the open sea.

The crates had been covered in a canvas tarpaulin and lashed in place with ropes and hooks. The tarpaulin’s corners fluttered in the breeze.

Soon, the boat gathered speed as it moved into open water, rising and falling with the waves.

Ryan had never minded travelling by boat. Back in the war, he had found the movement soothing, even while many among his comrades hung retching over the sides. The boat creaked and groaned as its wooden hull cut through the waves.

Above, visible through the cabin’s grimy windows, the sky cleared, a sheet of deepest black, a hint of orange and blue on the far horizon. Stars emerged, hard bright points beyond number, made clear away from the haze and the lights of mankind. Ryan picked out constellations, searching his memory for their names.

A brilliant streak shot across the black, and he wished for the warmth of Celia’s body next to his.

He awoke with the sensation of drifting. The boat rose and fell, but there was no sense of speed, no forward movement. Ryan opened his eyes, saw the deck outside the cabin doused in blue moonlight.

There, Vandenberg pulling back the tarpaulin to expose a crate. He tried its lid with his thick fingers, found it solid. He harrumphed and opened a long box on the deck. He rummaged through its contents until he found a short crowbar. Ryan watched as Vandenberg began prising the crate open.

“Leave it alone.”

Vandenberg spun to Ryan’s voice.

Ryan got to his feet, went to the cabin’s doorway, steadied himself against the boat’s sway.

“Is my boat,” Vandenberg said. “I will know what I carry.”

“The Arab paid you. That’s all you need to know.”

Vandenberg straightened, puffed out his chest, the crowbar held at his side. “He is no Arab. He is Algerian. I will know what I carry.”

“I don’t care what he is. Those crates are none of your concern. Your job is to sail this boat. I suggest you do it.”

“No,” Vandenberg said, turning back to the crates. “I am the captain. I will look inside.”

Ryan stepped towards him. “Leave them alone.”

Vandenberg raised the crowbar. “You go away from me.”

“Put it down,” Ryan said, taking another step.

Vandenberg swiped the air between them.

Ryan moved closer. He smelled whisky.

“Go away from me.” Vandenberg held the crowbar high, ready to bring it down on Ryan’s head.

“I’ll tell you once more,” Ryan said. “Put it down.”

Vandenberg swung the crowbar, and Ryan raised his left forearm to block it. Metal displaced air by Ryan’s ear as he seized Vandenberg’s wrist, took his balance. Ryan’s right fist connected with Vandenberg’s jaw, and the sailor sprawled on the deck.

Reaching down, Ryan grabbed the crowbar with his right hand. Vandenberg crawled past him, towards the cabin, panting and gasping. Ryan followed. Vandenberg clambered to his feet and stumbled through the doorway, grasping for something beneath the radio set.

Ryan brought the crowbar down hard on Vandenberg’s outstretched hand, felt bones give under the force of it, saw the small pistol fall to the floor.

Vandenberg screamed and dropped to his knees as Ryan kicked the gun away. The sailor cowered on the cabin floor and clutched his ruined hand to his chest.

Ryan held the blade of the crowbar to the other man’s jaw. Vandenberg blinked up at him, sucking air through his rotted teeth.

“Enough,” Ryan said. “Now do what you were paid to do.”

The sky lightened on the far horizon and the stars faded, lost behind thickening cloud. In the distance, Ryan imagined he saw a vague dark band of land, but he could not be sure.

Vandenberg slowed the engine to a halt, struggling with one hand held in an improvised sling at his chest. Ryan watched from the deck as he checked his maps and instruments for a time before emerging.

“Is here,” Vandenberg said. “What now?”

Ryan rested against the crates. “We wait.”

Weariness invaded Ryan’s limbs, and the world seemed quieter, even the sound of the water muted by the stillness and the grey. Vandenberg placed a kerosene lamp at one end of the boat, a battery powered light at the other. Ryan fought to keep his eyes open, his head nodding with the gentle rise and fall of the sea.

His mind had begun to drift, flitting through images of slender freckled wrists and glistening lips, when Vandenberg said, “They come.”

CHAPTER SIXTY SIX

Ryan’s hand went to the pistol that nestled in his coat pocket.

He scanned the expanse of grey until he spotted the boat to the northwest, circling around towards them.

A white plume of foam arced in the cabin cruiser’s wake, matching the boat’s paintwork, the powerful engine’s thrum audible across the waves. As the cruiser drew closer, Ryan made out the shape of a man at the wheel. He studied the form until he was sure it was Carter.

Ryan checked his watch. Seven thirty five. He remembered his thoughts of the day before, that he could not imagine a time beyond this exchange. Unease gnawed at his gut. He put his hand back in his coat pocket, felt the hard lines of the pistol, the curve of the trigger.

The boat’s engine dropped in pitch as it slowed. In the cabin window, the silhouette of a man who could only be Goren Weiss.

Ryan turned his gaze to Vandenberg, who watched the cruiser with worry in his eyes. He rubbed his lips with his uninjured hand. He noticed Ryan’s attention on him.

“What is in these boxes?” Vandenberg asked. “Will men kill to have it?”

“Yes,” Ryan said.

“You have my gun?”

“Yes.”

“Is must be careful.”

Ryan nodded.

Carter steered the boat away in a wide circle, then brought it around so its port side aligned with Vandenberg’s starboard. He slowed it further and manoeuvred alongside. Weiss climbed up and out of the cabin, fixed a rope to a cleat on the side of the boat, then threw the other end up and over to Ryan. Ryan pulled, brought the two vessels together, and tied the rope to his own side. The fishing boat sat higher in the water than the cabin cruiser.

Carter lifted an automatic rifle and trained it on Vandenberg. “Stay where I can see you.”

Vandenberg raised his one good hand. “Where do I go?”

Weiss asked, “Is everything in order?”

“Yes,” Ryan said.

“What happened to his hand?”

Ryan sensed the truth would not do well for Vandenberg. “He fell.”

“Shit,” Weiss said. “Step away.”

“Why?”

“Just do it, Albert.”

Ryan took two steps away from Vandenberg. Weiss looked to Carter and nodded.

A burst of rifle fire, and Vandenberg fell.

Ryan closed his eyes, swallowed, opened them again. “You didn’t need to do that.”

Weiss hoisted himself up onto the fishing boat. “I wouldn’t have if he’d had two good hands to help us move these crates.”

“So when I’m no more use to you,” Ryan said, “you’ll shoot me too?”

Weiss laughed. “Really, Albert, is that what you think of me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m hurt, I truly am. Now let’s get to work.”

Carter left the wheel and Weiss started handing crates over to him. Carter carried each one down into the cabin while Ryan scanned the horizon, from the strip of land in the northeast, to the west, to the south.

“It’s clear,” Weiss said. “We’ve been circling for an hour. There’s no one else out here. Help me with these, goddamn it.”

“It’s too easy,” Ryan said.

“Stop worrying, Albert. We’re almost home and dry. Now shut up and start moving these crates.”

The grey sheet of sky faded to dingy white above them as they stowed the cargo.

Carter passed a canister across to Weiss.

“I’d stand clear if I were you,” Weiss said. He splashed liquid onto the deck, over the walls of the cabin, across Vandenberg’s body.

Ryan smelled petrol. He climbed over to the other boat, hurrying to avoid Weiss’s aim. Weiss followed Ryan, taking the canister with him. He untied the rope from the cruiser’s port side, and tossed it towards Carter to hold Vandenberg’s fishing boat close by.

Weiss pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, tipped up the canister to wet the fabric, then stuffed the handkerchief into its neck. Next, he produced a Zippo lighter, touched its flame to the handkerchief, recoiled as it caught, then tossed the canister across to the other boat.

The petrol on the deck ignited with a soft whump!, and Weiss said to Carter, “You might want to let go now.”

Carter dropped the rope and gave Vandenberg’s boat a shove. The two vessels drifted apart, five feet, ten feet, before the petrol canister blew. Carter went to the wheel and restarted the engine. Ryan felt its grumble through the soles of his shoes, and the boat pulled away.

He watched the growing tower of smoke as they gathered speed, black climbing to the sky, chased by dirty orange flames. Finally, the dull thump as the boat’s fuel tank exploded. Ryan felt the rush of hot air, saw timbers and sparks scatter.

Weiss came to his side. “How does it feel to be a rich man, Albert?”

His hand felt cold on Ryan’s shoulder.

“Where are Wallace and Gracey?” Ryan asked.

When they moored at the rear wall of Balbriggan harbour a little more than an hour later, a mist lay heavy over land and water. The Bedford van stood waiting above, parked sidelong to the sea, the raised bridge of the railway line climbing beyond it, dark grey concrete and stone surrounding them on three sides.

Quiet hung over the harbour, the local fishing boats gone to sea, the pleasure boats tied up and idle. Ryan guessed Weiss and Carter had stolen the cabin cruiser from here. Waves hissed and rumbled against the beach beyond the northern wall.

Carter climbed the rusted ladder, and Ryan hoisted crates up to him. His shoulders and back screamed with pain by the time they had all been loaded onto the back of the van. The three men leaned against the van for a time, chasing their breath.

Carter said, “If I’d known it was going to be such hard work, I never would have started this.”

Weiss spat on the ground. “You’ll never have to work again. Come on, let’s see what we’ve got.”

Carter packed his rifle into a canvas sack and stowed it beside the crates. They stood at the rear doors of the van, each regarding the load.

Weiss took a last look around, then climbed up into the van. He pulled a long-bladed screwdriver from the small toolbox that rested on the plywood flooring. He wedged it beneath the lid of the nearest crate and pulled up.

Ryan heard wood creak and crack.

The lid fell away and he saw the colour drain from Weiss’s face. His smile widened for a moment, flickered, then faded. He shook his head.

Carter asked, “What’s wrong?”

Weiss lifted a dim grey obelisk from the crate, then another.

Carter leaned in. “What in the name of …”

Weiss dropped them to the van’s floor. They clanked together. Carter lifted them, tested their weight.

“What’s this?” he said. He turned to Ryan. “What the fuck is this?”

Weiss laughed once, a deep guffaw that rose from his belly. But it rang hollow in the van. He laughed again, a high peal edged with madness.

Carter’s voice wavered as if he verged on tears. “What’s going on? Where’s the fucking gold?”

Weiss brought his hands to his face, the laughter coming thick and strong now, rolling from him, his shoulders shuddering.

“Where is it?” Carter asked.

But Ryan knew. Before Weiss reached down into the crate, Ryan knew, but he had no desire to laugh.

Carter leaned into the van, grabbed the edge of the crate, pulled it away from Weiss. “For Christ’s sake, where’s the gold?”

He peered into the crate, shook his head. “No.”

Weiss hooted and cackled. “Oh, yes, my friend. Oh, yes.”

He lifted another two bars of lead from the crate, clanked them together, and laughed until his eyes watered.

CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN

Weiss’s sides ached and his vision blurred with tears.

Giddiness washed through him and his stomach threatened to empty itself.

He dropped the bars to the van’s plywood floor and pushed the crate away. It toppled and spilled onto the ground outside, Carter and Ryan skipping aside to save their toes. Fifteen blocks of worthless metal scattered on the ground.

Weiss grabbed the next crate, rammed the screwdriver beneath its lid, and heaved. The wood splintered and cracked. Inside, the same, nothing glittering, only the dull sheen of lead.

He collapsed back against the van’s wall, the air gone from his lungs, the strength deserting his legs. Still he laughed, wave after ridiculous wave, he couldn’t stop it, even as it all went to shit before his eyes, all he could do was laugh.

A sharp hot sting across his cheek.

He wondered for a moment who had struck him before realising it had been his own open hand. He slapped himself again, bit down on the clarity it brought.

“Goddamn it,” he said.

He reached beneath his coat, seized his pistol, and brought it up to aim at Ryan’s forehead. He blinked the tears away.

“Goddamn it, Albert, didn’t you check?”

Ryan’s face showed no emotion, not even surprise.

“I only saw a few crates. I saw the gold. It said Credit Suisse on them. Skorzeny’s courier checked. I wasn’t allowed into the vault to see them up close.”

Carter fought his own breathing. “I knew he’d shaft us. I told you, didn’t I? I told you, but you—”

Weiss shifted his aim to Carter. “Shut up.”

“I knew it was too easy,” Ryan said.

“Don’t point that at me,” Carter said.

Weiss held his aim steady. “Both of you, shut up and let me think.”

“I said, don’t point that at me.”

“Shut your mouth, Carter, or I swear I will shoot you in the face.”

Carter grabbed for Weiss’s wrist, but Weiss snatched his arm away. He brought the pistol back around, squared it on Carter’s forehead, pressure on the trigger.

“Don’t push me, Carter. You know I’ll—”

“Everyone away from the van.”

The voice came from above, a harsh distorted bark followed by a squall of feedback.

“This is Chief Inspector Michael Rafferty, Garda Síochána. You’re surrounded. I’ve got a dozen Guards here, all armed, and an army sniper team. Any messing about, and I’ll give the order to fire. Now, everyone out of the van.”

Weiss leaned out, looked up, saw the hulk of a man standing on the railway bridge above, a loudhailer in his hand. Two policemen stood alongside him, pistols drawn and aimed, the mist hazing them.

Further along the bridge, a prone man, a rifle’s telescopic sight trained on them. In the shadows beneath the bridge, in the dark pools between the arches, more cops, more weapons.

“Lieutenant Albert Ryan, make yourself known.”

“Bastard,” Carter said. “You bastard.”

Weiss looked at Ryan, saw the shock on his face, and said, “He didn’t know.”

Carter glared. “My arse, he didn’t.”

Ryan said nothing. He stepped away from the van, his hands up.

Carter’s eyes went to the canvas bag he’d wrapped his automatic rifle in.

“Don’t,” Weiss said. He dropped his pistol, put his own hands above his head, and edged towards the van’s rear.

“Bastard,” Carter said.

The loudhailer crackled again.

“Down on your knees, Ryan, your hands on your head. The rest of you, step away from the van.”

Carter kept his back to the cops, his hands busy undoing the canvas.

“Don’t,” Weiss said. “They’ll kill us both.”

Carter freed the rifle from the bag, hoisted it up, spun towards Ryan, his finger going for the trigger.

His skull cracked open a fraction of a second before Weiss heard the shot and felt the warm spatter on his face. Carter fell, his limbs loose, his eyes and mouth wide open.

“All right,” Weiss called. “I’m coming out.”

The loudhailer squealed. “How many are there?”

“Just Ryan and me. That’s all.”

“Get out of the van, your hands on top of your head.”

Weiss eased out, got his feet under him, and took half a dozen steps, avoiding Carter’s blood on the wet concrete.

“On your knees, beside Ryan.”

He did as he was told. Ryan stared ahead, his expression blank.

“I have a suite at the Shelbourne,” Weiss said, his voice low. Ryan turned his head towards him. “Under the name of David Hess. Everything I have on Skorzeny is there, locked in a metal file box. If I don’t get out of custody, if they deport me, you go there, you get it. Bring it to Hedder and Rosenthal, a law firm in Ballsbridge. Give it to Simon Rosenthal. No one but him. You hear me?”

Ryan did not reply.

Policemen advanced from the shadows, fear on their faces, their weapons quivering in their hands.

“You hear me, Ryan? Bring the information to Simon Rosenthal. Get Skorzeny for me.”

“No,” Ryan said. “I’ll get him for myself.”

CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT

Rafferty lowered his bulk into the chair opposite Ryan, huffing as he did so, his face red. He set one mug of steaming tea on the table, took a sip from the other.

“Jesus, this is a bit too much like hard work,” he said. He nodded at the mug in front of Ryan. “Go on, drink up.”

Ryan reached for it, brought it to his lips.

“There, now, isn’t that better?”

The policeman fell silent, watching from across the table. Moisture beaded on the bare concrete walls of the interview room. A tape recorder sat idle between them, no reels loaded on its spindles.

“Your friend, the American fella. Or Israeli or whatever the hell he is.” Rafferty placed his mug back on the table and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. “All he’ll tell me is his name. He keeps asking for some lawyer called Rosenthal. What’s he up to? What’s he doing here?”

“He’s Mossad,” Ryan said.

“He’s what?”

“Mossad. Israeli intelligence.”

“Like a spy?”

“Something like that.”

Rafferty snorted. “Holy Mother of God. Here?” He pulled a cigarette from the packet and lit it. “I tell you, this is too much excitement for me. The worst I’m used to dealing with is a spot of livestock theft or a fight in a pub. Not this sort of carry on. I don’t get paid enough to be doing with spies and smuggled gold. Well, more lead than gold, as it happens. Five of the crates had three gold bars on the top. Anyway, my point is, do I look like James bleeding Bond?” He leaned forward, his cigarette held between fat fingers. “Did you see that film?”

“Yes,” Ryan said.

“I took the missus. She put her hand over my eyes when that lass came out of the sea, all wet like. I gave her something to smile about that night, I can tell you.”

Rafferty’s belly jiggled as he laughed, smoke leaking out between his teeth.

Ryan cleared his throat. “I need to speak with Ciaran Fitzpatrick at the Directorate of Intelligence”

“I was told you’d say that.” Rafferty took a folded piece of paper from the cigarette packet. “Unfortunately, Mr. Fitzpatrick isn’t available at the moment. But you do have friends in high places.”

He unfolded the piece of paper, revealing a few typewritten sentences and a looping signature.

“This here is a note from none other than the Minister for Justice, Mr. Charles J. Haughey, the very same man who ordered that van to be followed and its occupants to be arrested after they came back ashore. This arrived by courier about twenty minutes ago. It says you aren’t to be questioned about all this, that no statement of any kind should be recorded, and I should release you at my own discretion. He wants things to be handled on the quiet. Just in case we upset the Americans and they decide President Kennedy isn’t going to pay us a visit after all. What do you think of that?”

“I think you should let me go.”

Rafferty nodded. “I could do, I suppose. But it does say at my discretion, and my discretion says not just yet. I think I’ll let you stew a while, Mr. Ryan.”

The policeman hauled his bulk out of the chair, wheezing at the strain.

“Why?” Ryan asked. “You can’t question me, so why keep me here?”

Rafferty leaned across the table until Ryan felt the heat of his breath.

“Because I don’t like trouble on my doorstep, and I especially don’t like government bastards telling me my job in my own bloody station. But mostly, I’m going to keep you here just because I can. Is that good enough for you?”

CHAPTER SIXTY NINE

The opening of the cell door shook Goren Weiss from his shallow slumber. He turned his head, expecting to see the fat cop back for more clumsy attempts at interrogation. Instead, three suited men entered, none of whom he recognised.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Stand up,” the eldest said. He closed the door behind him. A man of around fifty, cropped hair greying, his charcoal-coloured suit neat across his broad shoulders. The other two were younger, mid thirties, but had that same physique.

Weiss’s gut tightened as he stood. “I want to speak with my lawyer, Simon Rosenthal at Hedder and Rosenthal.”

The two younger men each came to Weiss’s sides, each took a wrist.

“I suggest you contact him right now, or I can promise you, there will be trouble.”

The younger men tightened their grips on Weiss’s arms. The older man went to the bed Weiss had just got up from. He tugged at the sheet until it came free.

Weiss tried to jerk his right arm away, but the young man’s grip was solid like a manacle.

“Goddamn you, the Israeli government will not sit still for this. You are bringing a war upon yourself.”

The older man stretched the sheet out and rolled it into a thick rope.

Weiss kicked at one of the younger men’s legs. They shifted their feet, avoided his, then pushed him down on the floor. Concrete slammed into his cheek.

The older man made a loop at one end of the sheet, tied a crude slipknot.

“Hold him steady,” he said as he crouched down.

Weiss screamed. He threw his weight to one side, then the other. A knee pressed into his back, pinning his chest to the floor. He screamed again, a word that might have been “No.”

The loop slipped over his head, snagging on his nose and mouth. Cool fabric tightened beneath his chin, choking the curses from his mouth.

The noose gripped his neck, closing his throat. Pressure built inside his head. He felt it swell behind his eyes. His vision reddened. A roaring in his ears.

The cell door opened. Weiss saw the fat cop’s boots, along with two other pairs.

The pressure in Weiss’s head eased.

The fat cop asked, “What in the name of Christ is going on?”

CHAPTER SEVENTY

“We have a mutual friend,” the man said.

He stood with his hands in his pockets. Ryan noticed the grime on his knees.

He had entered the interview room alone, carrying a leather satchel, closed the door behind him, and grunted as he hoisted the satchel on the table. It had settled on the wood with a muted clunk.

“Who are you?” Ryan asked.

“My name is James Waugh. Your young lady friend Celia Hume has run a few errands for me in the past.”

The words glided across the soft contours of his accent, southwest of Dublin, northeast of Cork.

“She mentioned you,” Ryan said. “You told her to report on me.”

Waugh sat down across the table, the satchel between them. “Truth be told, I wish I hadn’t. If I’d known the kind of mess the minister was getting mixed up in, I wouldn’t have allowed it.”

“Who do you work for?” Ryan asked.

“I run my own department, very small, less than two dozen on the staff. We don’t answer to the Directorate of Intelligence or the Department of Justice, but we do odd jobs for them now and again. Imagine us as handymen, doing the dirty work for other departments so they don’t have to.”

“What do you want?”

“To tell you you’re free to go, for one thing.”

“What about Weiss?”

Waugh pursed his lips. “Mr. Weiss attempted suicide in his cell about an hour ago. He tried to hang himself with a bed sheet. Thankfully we intervened in time to save him.”

Anger flared in Ryan’s chest. “I think that’s a lie.”

Waugh’s eyelid flickered. He took a breath. “Mr. Weiss has been taken to hospital for treatment. Now, the Minister for Justice has asked that you bring all materials relating to your investigation to his office tomorrow afternoon at two. You will give your final debriefing, and that will be an end of it.”

“Does Haughey know you tried to kill Weiss?”

Waugh smiled. “As I explained, Mr. Weiss attempted suicide. But I’ll repeat, neither I nor my staff report to the Department of Justice. I act independently with my own objectives. Does that answer your question?”

Ryan watched Waugh’s face, the eyes grey and cold like slate. “You said ‘for one thing.’ What else did you want?”

Waugh stood and fetched a business card from his pocket. He placed it face up on the table, next to the satchel, pushed it towards Ryan with his fingertips. It bore only Waugh’s name and a telephone number.

“I have an opening in my department,” he said, a warm smile on his lips that did not soften his stare. “More interesting work than the Directorate of Intelligence has to offer. I could use a man like you.”

Ryan looked down at the card. He pushed it away. “No thank you.”

Waugh pushed it back. “Think about it.”

He went to the door, paused, turned, as if he had remembered some minor detail. He pointed to the satchel.

“I wasn’t sure what to do with that. I suppose you ought to take care of it.”

Waugh exited, closed the door behind him.

The satchel’s leather glowered in the interview room’s fluorescent lighting. Ryan undid the single buckle, pulled back the flap.

He saw the yellow glistening within, felt his mouth dry.

CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE

“I thought you Irish cops didn’t carry guns,” Weiss said. The words rasped in his throat like sandpaper.

Rafferty sat down at the foot of the hospital bed, the only other person on the ward. He had dismissed the lone Garda officer as he entered. His hand went to the pistol at his hip.

“We do the odd time,” he said. “If the situation calls for it.”

“And this one does?”

Rafferty smiled. “I’d say so, wouldn’t you?”

“I would.”

Weiss put his right hand behind his head, lay back on the bed. A pair of handcuffs bound his left hand to the bed frame. He wore his vest and trousers, socks on his feet. His neck had already begun to bruise.

“So when are you going to let me go?” he asked.

“You can stay here until the quack says you’re fit,” Rafferty said. “After that, you’ll come back to the shop with me. Then we’ll have to see. That government fella didn’t seem too impressed at there being a … what you call it? Mossad? That’s it. He didn’t like there being a Mossad man arsing about this part of the world. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone wanted you put on a plane out of here, would you?”

“I guess not. What about Lieutenant Ryan?”

“He’s gone. That government fella gave him a leather bag and told me to turn him out.”

Weiss wet his lips. “A leather bag?”

“That’s right.” Rafferty nodded, the folds under his chin squashing and bulging.

“What do you suppose was in it?”

“I couldn’t say. It looked right and heavy, though.”

Weiss’s gaze flitted once more to the revolver at Rafferty’s hip.

“Here’s a funny thing,” Rafferty said. “After the government fella left, I put in a call to that Rosenthal chap you were busting to talk to. The lawyer. He knew who you were, all right, said you were a client and all, but when I told him where I’d picked you up, what you’d been up to. Well, he seemed a bit surprised, like. And maybe annoyed, too. Why would that be, do you think?”

“No idea,” Weiss said.

“Want to know what I reckon?”

“Not really.”

“I reckon this Rosenthal is your contact here in Ireland. Seeing as Israel has no embassy in Dublin, you’d need someone to run to when things go tits up. Am I near the mark?”

Weiss did not reply.

“Anyway, I think you’ve been up to badness behind your man’s back. I think you’ve shit in the nest, as we say around here. Otherwise, I reckon your man Rosenthal would’ve been down here screaming for your release the second I put the phone down. Is that about the size of it?”

Before Weiss could respond, the doctor entered the ward.

“Are you the officer in charge of the patient?” he asked Rafferty.

“That’s right,” Rafferty said, standing.

“He’s got some bruising to the neck, but I don’t think there’s any damage to the larynx or the windpipe. You got to him before he did any real harm. I’m happy to hand Mr. Weiss back to you now.”

“All right, so,” Rafferty said. “Thanks.”

The doctor left, and the fat cop approached the bedside. He fished a set of keys from his pocket and set about loosening the handcuffs.

Only when he reached for them, he discovered they were already undone. They had been for some time. Weiss had taken the paperclip from the doctor’s desk in the examination room, simple as that.

Rafferty’s eyes widened as Weiss seized his wrist. His free hand grabbed for the revolver at his hip, but it was already too late for him.

CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO

The receptionist, a skeletal man of middle years, watched Ryan approach the desk with something close to horror on his face.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“You have a guest by the name of David Hess,” Ryan said.

The receptionist flicked through page after page of the registration book until he found what he was looking for. “Yes, Mr. Hess. But I’m afraid he hasn’t been here for a few days. Can I take a message?”

Ryan noted the room number written next to Mr. Hess’s registration.

“No, thank you,” Ryan said.

He walked away from the desk, waited until another customer claimed the receptionist’s attention, and went to the stairs.

Ryan looked both ways along the corridor, then wedged the screwdriver’s sharpened blade between the door and its frame where the lock joined the two. He put his weight behind the handle, pushed, pulled it back, pushed again. Wood splintered and cracked.

The door opened, and Ryan stepped inside. He returned the screwdriver to his pocket and pressed the door back into its frame.

A couch and two armchairs surrounded a coffee table, a sideboard against one wall, a writing desk at another. Every surface sparkled, not a trace of dust or use. He toured the room, checking drawers, lifting cushions, and found nothing.

The bedroom was just as immaculate, the blankets and sheets crisp and undisturbed.

Ryan went to the large wardrobe and opened it. A suit wrapped in cleaner’s plastic and half a dozen ironed shirts hung inside. At the bottom, a metal filebox. He lifted it out and placed it on the bed.

A lock held the box closed. Ryan took the screwdriver from his breast pocket once more and forced the blade beneath the clasp. He prised outward until the lock gave, and then returned the screwdriver to his pocket. Inside, a cluster of suspended files, folders and loose sheets of paper. He sorted through them, lifting pages out, scanning them, returning them to their places. Two passports, one German, the other American, both under the name of David Hess.

Towards the back, he found what he wanted: a file containing the facsimiles of Skorzeny’s accounts. Ryan ran a finger down the columns, tracing the movements of money from one account to another, interest accruing, a few tens of thousands slipping away here, another hundred thousand or so turning up there.

He folded the pages, slipped them into his jacket pocket, and closed the file box before returning it to the wardrobe. Fatigue dragged on his arms and legs as he straightened and went to the bedroom door. He stepped through to the sitting room.

Goren Weiss stood at its centre, a revolver in his hand, its muzzle pointed at the floor.

“What are you doing here, Albert?” he asked.

CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE

Weiss let the pistol hang loose at his side. No need for things to turn ugly. Not yet.

Ryan’s face remained impassive. “I wanted those papers you told me about.”

“Did you get them?”

Ryan’s right hand went slowly to his breast pocket, beneath his jacket. “Yes.”

“That’s all right,” Weiss said. “They’re no good to me now. You going after Skorzeny?”

“Maybe,” Ryan said, easing his hand away from his pocket.

“Good luck,” Weiss said.

Ryan stood still in the bedroom doorway, did not reply.

“There’s something I do need from you, though.” Weiss took a step closer, kept the pistol lowered.

Ryan visibly tensed. “What’s that?”

“You were given a satchel. What was in it?”

“I think you know.”

“I guess I do. Where is it?”

Ryan shook his head. “It’s not here.”

Weiss laughed and raised the pistol to aim at Ryan’s heart. “I guessed as much, Albert. I didn’t ask you where it’s not. I asked you where it is. This is not the right time to play stupid, my friend.”

“It’s not here.” Ryan held his hands out from his sides. “I don’t have it.”

Weiss took two steps forward, the muzzle of the revolver a foot from Ryan’s chest. He thumbed the hammer, cocked it.

“I need that bag, Albert. How much do you think was in it? Whatever they used to cover the lead in those crates. I’d guess fifteen, sixteen thousand’s worth, maybe more. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m a dead man without that bag, Albert. My superiors know what I was up to. They’ll take me for treason. I have to run, and I need that gold to do it. I want you to know how important this is to me, Albert, so you know I won’t give up on it. Now tell me where it is.”

“No,” Ryan said. “I won’t.”

Another step, the pistol’s sight aligned on Ryan’s forehead. Inches away.

“I bet it’s in your room at Buswells. Am I right? It’s there with your girl, that redhead. If I have to, I’ll put a bullet in your brain. Then I’ll walk to your hotel, go to your room, and take it from her. And you know I won’t be able to let her live. Don’t make me do that, Albert. Please.”

Ryan took a step to the side, away from the door, his left hand raised in front of his face, his right still held out from his side.

“I can’t make you do anything,” he said. “If you pull that trigger, it’ll be your own choice.”

“Goddamn you, Albert.” Weiss increased the pressure on the trigger. Cocked, the pistol would fire with the slightest twitch of his finger. “Goddamn y—”

The movement of Ryan’s hand was so small, hardly anything at all, just a tap to the inside of Weiss’s wrist, and the shot missed Ryan’s head, buried the bullet in the wall.

And that deep hot pain in Weiss’s belly.

As the strength ran from his legs into the floor, he looked down, saw the screwdriver in Ryan’s grip. Had his mind worked faster, he might have brought the pistol back around, taken Ryan’s head off, but instead the blade of the screwdriver pierced his flesh once more, higher this time, beneath his sternum.

Weiss dropped to his knees, clutching at himself, feeling the warmth spread across his stomach, spilling into his lap. The pistol fell useless beside him, out of his reach. He rolled onto his side, his legs no longer able to support him.

Ryan backed away. He went to the window, wiped the screwdriver’s blade clean on the curtains before returning it to his pocket.

“Albert,” Weiss said.

Ryan paused on his way to the door.

“Get me a doctor, Albert. I don’t want to die. Please, Albert.”

Ryan came back, stopped short of the red creeping across the carpet. He hunkered down.

“You let them torture me,” Ryan said. “You watched them do it.”

“Albert.” Weiss reached for more words, but they were lost in the storm that raged behind his eyes. His head grew heavy, and he lowered it to the carpet.

He watched as Ryan examined his clothing, then left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR

No one observed Ryan as he left Weiss’s room, no one ventured into the corridor to investigate the sound of the gunshot. He exited on to St. Stephen’s Green, his ears ringing from the pistol’s roar, dropped the screwdriver into the first litter bin he found.

A few minutes’ walk brought him to the car outside Buswells. He climbed in, started the engine.

Ryan paused, closed his eyes, slowed his breathing. He steadied his mind by reciting the things he needed to do.

He took control.

Two hours had passed by the time Ryan returned to Buswells. Celia waited for him in the room. It seemed dowdy and cramped compared to the suite Weiss had kept at the Shelbourne just a few streets away, but Celia brightened it, the late morning light catching fire in her hair.

She reclined on the bed, her long body stretched out.

“Did you get it?” she asked.

“All of it.” He took off his jacket, hung it up in the wardrobe.

“Any trouble?”

“None at all,” he said.

Celia reached up her hand, beckoned him down to the bed. He lay down beside her, his chest against her back, slipped an arm around her waist. She took his hand in hers, guided it to the hollow between her breasts.

“How long do you have the room for?” she asked.

“Until the meeting this afternoon,” he said. “After that, they’ll kick me out.”

She turned onto her back, pushed his hand down between her thighs.

“We’d best make the most of it, then,” she said.

Ryan walked through Haughey’s outer office, did not wait for the secretary to announce his arrival, opened the door without knocking.

Haughey and Fitzpatrick looked up at him, surprise on the director’s face, anger on the minister’s.

“You’re forgetting yourself, big fella,” Haughey said. “Or didn’t your mother teach you to knock?”

Ryan closed the door behind him then dropped the file on Haughey’s desk.

“Is this everything?”

“All of it,” Ryan said, feeling no shame in the lie.

“All right, sit down.”

Ryan took the chair next to Fitzpatrick.

Haughey gave him a hard stare, the hawk eyes blazing. “So, what have you got to say for yourself?”

“Nothing, Minister. Everything you need to know is in the file.”

Haughey nodded. “I wish I could say it was a job well done. But it’s over with, that’s the important thing.”

Fitzpatrick held out a hand. “I’ll have the keys to the car, thank you.”

Ryan said, “I think I’ll hold on to the car, thank you, sir. It’s got a broken window anyway.”

Fitzpatrick’s mouth drooped open. He looked to Haughey.

“Look here, big fella, I don’t like your cheek.”

“Minister, I don’t care what you like. I no longer answer to you.”

Haughey stood, his face reddening. “Now listen to me, Ryan, you’re heading for a fall, I’ll tell you that for nothing. I’ll fucking destroy you.”

“Minister, two solicitors are currently in possession of identical packages. Those packages each contain a recording of the conversation we had in Buswells a few days ago. The conversation in which you admit to allowing Colonel Skorzeny to place an ad in the Irish Times inviting persons unknown to commit murder. The packages also contain a signed letter in which I describe the nature of the work I carried out on behalf of this office. These solicitors are under instruction to pass the contents of these packages along to the press, the Garda Síochána, and Matt McCloskey, the American ambassador, in the event of any injury befalling me, or at any time of my choosing.”

“You dirty little bastard,” Haughey said. “You will rue the day, big fella. Mark my words.”

Ryan stood. “Any time I choose, Minister. Remember that. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

He left them there, staring after him.

Ryan took his time walking back through St. Stephen’s Green towards Buswells. He felt the warmth of the sun on his skin, relished it, and the clarity of the air. Passersby glanced at the still healing burn on his cheek, the slight awkwardness of his step, but he did not mind.

It seemed like weeks since he had last been able to breathe freely, no tightening ring of guilt and fear around his chest. He was no longer beholden to Haughey and his money, no longer frightened and awed by Skorzeny’s strength.

Despite their power, their contacts, their spheres of influence, they were only men.

He did not think of Goren Weiss at all.

Ryan walked north along Kildare Street, seeing the gardens of Trinity College up ahead, the university standing beyond like some royal palace, indifferent to the traffic that streamed around it, the people who milled in its shadow, but who would never step inside. He turned left into Molesworth Street, and entered the hotel.

“Mr. Ryan,” the receptionist called.

Ryan approached the desk. The receptionist gave a regretful smile.

“Mr. Ryan, I’ve received a call from Mr. Haughey’s office, and they wish your stay with us to end today.”

Ryan nodded. “That’s fine. My bag’s already packed.”

The receptionist’s smile grew more pained. “Unfortunately, checkout time is twelve noon, and it’s now past three. Can I ask you to vacate the room as soon as possible so it can be cleaned?”

“Of course,” Ryan said. “I wouldn’t want to cost Mr. Haughey any more money than absolutely necessary.”

He turned to go, but the receptionist called, “Sir, one more thing.”

Ryan stopped.

“You have a caller,” the receptionist said. “A Mr. Skorzeny. He’s waiting in the lounge.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE

Skorzeny waited in the same chair Goren Weiss had sat in just a few days before, close to the window overlooking Molesworth Street. The leather satchel rested on the table in front of him. Only two other patrons sat in the lounge, an elderly couple on the far side of the room.

From the chair next to Skorzeny, Celia watched Ryan approach, her lower lip reddened and swollen. She wrapped her arms around her body. “Bertie, I’m sorry. I thought it was the maid when he came to the room.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ryan said. He quelled the anger that burned in his heart. “What did he do to you?”

She brought her fingertips to her lip. “I’m all right.”

“Miss Hume did not wish to cooperate,” Skorzeny said. “I was forced to use more physical persuasion.”

Ryan asked, “What do you want?”

Skorzeny laughed. “What do you think? You betrayed me, Lieutenant Ryan. Célestin told me everything. That you knew who was trying to blackmail me, and you kept the information to yourself. Then I learned that you aligned yourself with a Zionist against me, and that same Zionist came ashore with the cargo you were to deliver.”

“Goren Weiss is dead.”

“As he should be,” Skorzeny said. “You would have stolen from me too if Célestin had not repented, if Monsieur Borringer had not followed my instructions, if Mr. Haughey had not mobilised the police against you and your friends.”

“So you want me dead,” Ryan said.

“Of course. But not now, not here. Besides, there is more I need to know. Please sit.”

Ryan took the chair across the table from Skorzeny and Celia. She reached for his hand, let her fingertips graze his.

A waiter walked towards them, but Skorzeny waved him away.

“Go on,” Ryan said. “Ask your questions.”

“The Zionist, Weiss. He worked for the Mossad. The Mossad are many things, but they are not thieves. Why was he on that boat? What was their involvement?”

“Weiss had his own agenda. He found out what Carter was up to, and he wanted a taste for himself.”

“Greed,” Skorzeny said, his eyes glittering as he smiled. “I told Mr. Haughey greed would destroy them. But tell me, Lieutenant Ryan, how did this Weiss come to know of Carter’s plan to blackmail me?”

“He was leading a Mossad team in an operation against you. His investigation led him to Carter.”

Skorzeny’s smile faded. He leaned forward. “A Mossad operation against me? What was this operation? Did they plan to assassinate me?”

“No,” Ryan said. “Weiss didn’t want to kill you. He said you were no good to him dead.”

“Then what?”

Now Ryan smiled. He held Skorzeny’s brilliant gaze, spared him none of the savage pleasure in his heart.

Skorzeny leaned closer, casually pulled his jacket aside to reveal the butt of a pistol. “Tell me.”

“The operation was successful,” Ryan said.

Skorzeny sat back, took Celia’s hand in his. The fingers dwarfed hers. Celia winced as he squeezed. “Tell me.”

“They know about the money,” Ryan said.

A furrow appeared on Skorzeny’s smooth brow. “Money?”

“The money you’ve been channelling away from the escape fund. Millions upon millions. I’ve seen the accounts myself. You’ve been robbing your Kameraden blind for years. Skimming off the top, Weiss called it. He had the proof.”

Skorzeny sat in silence for a moment, his mind working behind his eyes. “So he had proof. What does this matter to me?”

“It matters to your friends in South America. The rest of the Nazi scum you handle the funds for. If they find out you’ve been stealing from them, there won’t be a safe place on God’s green earth for you. Not even Franco could protect you.”

“So he would have my Kameraden kill me rather than do it himself? Was he such a coward?”

Ryan shook his head. “I told you, he didn’t want you dead. He wanted something far more valuable than your life.”

“What?”

“The ratlines. He wanted to know about every piece of filth you helped get out of Europe, all of them, going right back. Either you turned on your friends, or he’d make sure they turned on you.”

Skorzeny gave a laugh, the sound of it leaping high and shrill from his barrel chest. “Now Weiss is dead. His proof cannot help him.”

“Oh, but it can,” Ryan said. He spoke slowly and clearly, relishing every tic on Skorzeny’s face. “You see, he told me where to find the information he had on you. This morning, I took it to his contact at a legal firm in Dublin. They’re a front for the Israelis. The mission still stands, only with one change.”

Skorzeny released Celia’s hand. “Go on.”

“That if anything happens to me, or anyone close to me, the information will be passed to your friends. If you kill me, they will kill you.”

“Do you think this makes you safe?” Skorzeny smiled. “Why do you believe I would rather live as a slave to Jews than die by the hands of my Kameraden?”

“Because of your pride.”

Skorzeny’s head tilted. “Pride?”

“I think you would rather live under the Mossad’s thumb than let your friends know you stole from them. You won’t have that stain on your memory.”

“You seem very sure of this, Lieutenant Ryan. Are you willing to wager your life on it?”

Ryan asked, “Are you?”

They held each other’s gaze, Skorzeny seeming to stare into Ryan’s soul.

“When they write the books about you,” Ryan said, “What should the final chapter be? That in the end, you were nothing but a thief?”

Skorzeny sat frozen, his breathing the only sound in the room.

Evetnually, he stood.

“You will never be at peace, Lieutenant Ryan. You might be safe for now, perhaps for a year or two, maybe more, but you must know this: one day, I will make you suffer.”

Skorzeny reached for the bag.

“Weiss told me something else,” Ryan said.

Skorzeny paused, his fingers on the handle of the satchel.

“He told me about the raid on Gran Sasso you’re so famous for, Mussolini’s rescue. He told me it wasn’t true, any of it. He told me it was all propaganda, that you’ve been living a lie.”

Skorzeny went to lift the bag.

“Leave it there,” Ryan said.

Skorzeny paused.

“I said, leave it.”

Skorzeny straightened. “Now you are the thief,” he said, his voice wavering.

“I can live with that.” Ryan got to his feet. “You can go now.”

Skorzeny held his ground for a moment, then he smiled at Celia.

“Good day, Miss Hume.”

He left them there.

Celia crumbled, the tears soaking Ryan’s shoulder as he embraced her.