Ratlines (2 page)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty one
Chapter Twenty two
Chapter Twenty three
Chapter Twenty four
Chapter Twenty five
Chapter Twenty six
Chapter Twenty seven
Chapter Twenty eight
Chapter Twenty nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty one
Chapter Thirty two
Chapter Thirty three
Chapter Thirty four
Chapter Thirty five
Chapter Thirty six
Chapter Thirty seven
Chapter Thirty eight
Chapter Thirty nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty one
Chapter Forty two
Chapter Forty three
Chapter Forty four
Chapter Forty five
Chapter Forty six
Chapter Forty seven
Chapter Forty eight
Chapter Forty nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty one
Chapter Fifty two
Chapter Fifty three
Chapter Fifty four
Chapter Fifty five
Chapter Fifty six
Chapter Fifty seven
Chapter Fifty eight
Chapter Fifty nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty one
Chapter Sixty two
Chapter Sixty three
Chapter Sixty four
Chapter Sixty five
Chapter Sixty six
Chapter Sixty seven
Chapter Sixty eight
Chapter Sixty nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy one
Chapter Seventy two
Chapter Seventy three
Chapter Seventy four
Chapter Seventy five
War-battered dogs are we
,
Gnawing a naked bone
,
Fighting in every land and clime
,
For every cause but our own
.
President John F. Kennedy
Wexford, Ireland, 27th June 1963
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is fiction, not history. Although this novel is inspired by real people and locations, all of the events herein are entirely imagined.
These things are known to be true: Dozens of Nazis and Axis collaborators sought refuge in Ireland following the Second World War; in 1957, Otto Skorzeny was welcomed to a country club reception by the young politician, Charles Haughey; Otto Skorzeny purchased Martinstown House in Kildare in 1959; in 1963, in response to a question by Dr. Noël Browne TD, the Minister for Justice Charles Haughey told the Irish parliament that Otto Skorzeny had never been resident in Ireland.
The rest is just a story.
I
SOLDIER
CHAPTER ONE
“Y
OU DON
’
T LOOK
like a Jew,” Helmut Krauss said to the man reflected in the window pane.
Beyond the glass, rolling white waves threw themselves against the rocks of Galway Bay, the Atlantic glowering beyond. The guesthouse in Salthill was basic, but clean. The small seaside town outside Galway City hosted families from all over Ireland seeking a few days of salt air and sunshine during the summer months. Sometimes it provided beds for unmarried couples, fornicators and adulterers with the nerve to bluff their way past the morally upright proprietors of such establishments.
Krauss knew so because he had enjoyed the company of several ladies in guesthouses like this one, taking bracing walks along the seafront, enduring overcooked meals in mostly empty dining rooms, then finally rattling the headboard of whatever bed they had taken. He carried a selection of wedding rings in his pocket, alongside the prophylactics.
This dreary island, more grey than green, so choked by the Godly, provided him few pleasures. So why not enjoy the odd sordid excursion with a needful woman?
Perhaps Krauss should have allowed himself the luxury of a decent hotel in the city, but a funeral, even if for a close friend, did not seem a fitting occasion. The security might have been better, though, and this visitor might not have gained entry so easily. For a moment, Krauss felt an aching regret, but immediately dismissed it as foolishness. Had he been the kind of man who submitted to regret, he would have hanged himself ten years ago.
“Are you a Jew?” Krauss asked.
The reflection shifted. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“I saw you at the funeral,” Krauss said. “It was a beautiful service.”
“Very,” the reflection said. “You wept.”
“He was a good man,” Krauss said. He watched gulls skate the updrafts.
“He was a murderer of women and children,” the reflection said. “Like you.”
“Murderer,” Krauss said. “Your accent is British. For many people in Ireland, you British are murderers. Oppressors. Imperialists.”
The reflection swelled on the glass as the man approached. “You hide your accent well.”
“I enjoy the spoken word. To a fault, perhaps, but I spend time refining and practicing my speech. Besides, a German accent still draws attention, even in Ireland. They shelter me, but not all make me welcome. Some cling to their British overmasters like a child too old for the teat.”
Krauss had felt the weight of his age more frequently in recent times. His thick black hair had greyed, the sculpted features turned cragged. The veins in his nose had begun to rupture with the vodka and wine. Women no longer stared at him with hungry eyes when he took his afternoon walks through Dublin’s Ringsend Park. But he still had good years ahead of him, however few. Would this man steal them from him?
“Have you come to kill me too?” he asked.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” the reflection said.
“May I take a drink, perhaps smoke a cigarette?”
“You may.”
Krauss turned to him. A man of middle age, between forty and forty five, old enough to have served in the war. He had looked younger across the cemetery, dressed in the overalls of a gravedigger, but proximity showed the lines on his forehead and around his eyes. Sand-coloured hair strayed beneath the woollen cap on his head. He held a pistol, a Browning fitted with a suppressor, aimed squarely at Krauss’s chest. It shook.
“Would you care for a small vodka?” Krauss asked. “Perhaps it will steady your nerve.”
The man considered for a few seconds. “All right,” he said.
Krauss went to the nightstand where a bottle of imported vodka and a tea making set waited next to that morning’s
Irish Times
. The front page carried a headline about the forthcoming visit of President John F. Kennedy, a story concerning a request by the Northern Irish government that he should venture across the border during his days on the island. The Irish worshipped the American leader because he was one of theirs, however many generations removed, and anticipation of his arrival had reached a point of near hysteria. Krauss intended to avoid all radio and television broadcasts for the duration of Kennedy’s stay.
Not that it mattered now.
Krauss turned two white teacups over and poured a generous shot into each. He went to soften one with water from a jug, but the man spoke.
“No water, thank you.”
Krauss smiled as he handed a cup to the man. “No glasses, I’m afraid. I hope you don’t mind.”
The man nodded his thanks as he took the cup with his left hand. Undiluted vodka spilled over the lip. He took a sip and coughed.