Ratlines (20 page)

Skorzeny didn’t know how long had passed before he realised Ryan and his companion were missing.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

C
ELIA HAD LEFT
first, not a word as she edged towards the open patio doors and slipped out. Ryan followed and found her standing in the shadows beneath the eaves of the house, shivering.

“What’s wrong? Why did you sneak out here?”

In the blue darkness, he saw her diaphanous smile. “It was too smoky for me, that’s all. I wanted a little fresh air.”

“You don’t want to be here, do you? I could hear it in your voice when you called. I could see it on you in the car. Tell me what the matter is.”

“Nothing,” she said, but her exhalation turned to a sob. She brought her hand to her lips, sealed her mouth tight.

Ryan stood with his hands at his sides, awkward, useless, an infant in a world of men. Then he raised his hands up to her shoulders, gripped them.

“Tell me.”

He felt her tremble.

She sniffed back tears. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid.”

He slipped his arms around her, brought her close. Her breath warmed his throat.

“You’ve nothing to be afraid of. Not when I’m here.”

She said, “Oh God,” and pressed her eyes against the side of his neck. He felt the movements and the heat of her eyelids, the lashes prickling his skin, the wetness.

“Please tell me.”

Celia pulled her head away from him, sniffed, her shoulders hardening in his arms.

“He sent me to you,” she said.

“Who?” Ryan asked, but he already knew. “Skorzeny.”

“He wanted me to make friends with you, talk with you, tell him if you said anything about the job, to tell him what you were thinking, to make sure he could trust you.”

Ryan’s hands slipped away from her. He stepped back. His heart raced. He leaned against the wall for balance.

“I’m sorry.” She found a tissue and wiped at her cheeks, cutting through the mascara smears. “Please don’t tell him I told you. He’ll …”

“He’ll what?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say exactly.”

The storm at Ryan’s core intensified. “You mean he threatened you?”

She turned away as if it shamed her. “Yes. I think so. I mean, I’m not sure. But yes. It was never like this before. I don’t belong here.” she said. Celia told him of the man she’d accompanied to dinner, how she’s acted impressed with them, encouraged them to tell her their banal secrets. “Can we leave?”

Ryan took her in his arms once more. “Of course we can. We’ll go right now. And don’t worry, I won’t say anything. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

He guided her back towards the patio doors and the laughter and smoke within.

Skorzeny blocked their path.

“Are the young lovers seeking the shadows?” he asked.

“Celia wanted some air,” Ryan said, an arm around her waist, keeping her close.

Skorzeny eyed her from head to toe, letting his gaze linger where it shouldn’t. “Aren’t you feeling well, my dear?”

Celia gave him a weak smile. “The food was a little rich for me, I think. And the smoke.”

Skorzeny nodded, his eyes wary. “I see. I’ll have Esteban fetch you some water.”

“Actually,” Ryan said, “I was about to bring Celia home. But thank you for your hospitality.”

“Leave? Now? Absolutely not. Have you forgotten, Lieutenant Ryan?”

“Forgotten what?”

Skorzeny smiled.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

T
HE DINING ROOM
table had been pushed to the wall, the rug rolled up, leaving the polished wooden floorboards. A selection of swords lay on the tabletop along with two jackets, one white, one black. The chairs had been lined up along the opposite wall. The men and women took their seats, drinks in their hands.

“You’re not serious,” Ryan said.

Skorzeny grinned, his eyes flashing. “Of course I am. Épée or sabre? Foil is for women and little boys.”

Celia stood in the corner, biting her nail.

Ryan felt the gaze of the room on him. “Neither. I won’t do this.”

Haughey laughed. “What’s the matter, Ryan? Where’s your fighting spirit?”

Ryan gave him a hard stare. “Would you like to take my place?”

Haughey choked on his brandy, guffawed. “Holy Christ, big fella, do I look like a fighter?”

“No, Minister. You don’t.”

Haughey’s smile dimmed, his eyes narrowed.

“Choose,” Skorzeny said. “Épée or sabre?”

Ryan looked at the swords lined up on the table. The two sabres had French grips, the épées had pistol grips. He lifted one of each, tested their weight, their balance. The épées were old fashioned pieces, large cupped hand guards, three-pronged tips rather than the buttons used for modern electronic scoring. Ryan chose.

“Épée,” he said.

Skorzeny lifted the black long-sleeved jacket, the master’s colour. “Good. Five touches. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Ryan lifted the white jacket. “Where are the masks?”

“No masks.” Skorzeny took the other sword for himself. “We are not children.”

Ryan slipped his arms into the thick cotton sleeves and fastened the jacket at his side, shortening the straps until the fabric gripped him tight around the midsection. He reached between and behind his legs, fastened the groin strap to the small of his back.

Skorzeny moved to one end of the cleared area of floor, his jacket snug on his barrel torso, his sword ready. “You will keep score, Minister.”

“Right you are,” Haughey said.

Ryan took up his position facing Skorzeny. Each adopted the
En Garde
stance, swords raised, knees bent, feet aligned.

The room hushed.

Skorzeny nodded. Ryan echoed the gesture.

They began, small movements, the épée tips circling inches apart. Skorzeny advanced, testing Ryan’s reflexes with threatened lunges. Ryan responded with his own lunge, committed to the move, but Skorzeny tapped his blade against the other, a beat to throw its aim, and followed through with a jab to Ryan’s hip. The pronged tip tugged on his jacket. He felt the sharp points through the thick fabric.

“Touch,” Ryan said.

They resumed their positions.

“Fifty on Colonel Skorzeny,” Haughey said.

“I’ll take that,” the man from Finance said.

Again Skorzeny came on the offensive, beating and parrying, until Ryan took the blade, circling it, and connected with Skorzeny’s chest.

“Touch,” Skorzeny said.

“A hundred on Ryan,” the store owner said.

This time Ryan led, pushing Skorzeny back, forcing the Austrian to parry until Ryan found an opening. He took it, the tip of his blade landing on Skorzeny’s shoulder.

Skorzeny’s eyes darkened. “Touch.”

He came back hard, one lunge after another, Ryan blocking each, but unable to riposte. Finally, Skorzeny made a violent downward beat, followed through, and the tip of his blade caught the inside of Ryan’s thigh, the prongs piercing the flesh beneath his trousers. He cried out.

Skorzeny stepped back. “Touch, I assume?”

“Yes,” Ryan said.

Heat tricked down his thigh. He took his position, waited for Skorzeny to do the same, then he advanced. Skorzeny met each attack with a parry, three, four, five, then a riposte, coming in at Ryan’s flank, but Ryan sidestepped and caught him beneath the arm.

“Touch,” Skorzeny said.

Now Ryan retreated, Skorzeny pressing hard, allowing him no room to form an attack. Ryan planted his feet firm on the ground, forcing his opponent to come in close. Skorzeny’s forearm slammed into Ryan’s chest, sending him staggering back. Before Ryan could recover, Skorzeny jabbed at the centre of his stomach, the blade twisting.

The prongs scraped at skin beneath the cotton. Ryan hissed through his teeth, said, “Touch.”

“Here now,” Haughey said, standing. “Is that allowed?”

“Épée allows for body contact.” Skorzeny smiled. “That makes three points each, I think.”

“That’s right,” Haughey said as he lowered himself back into his seat.

Ryan looked to Celia. She could not return his gaze. He turned his attention back to Skorzeny.

The Austrian came at him fast and low, using his bulk to power through the attack. Ryan feinted a sidestep. When Skorzeny’s blade followed, Ryan turned his body, and his blade made contact high on Skorzeny’s chest.

“
Schwein
! Touch.”

Skorzeny rubbed at the spot the blade had caught.

“That’s four to Ryan,” Haughey said. “One more and he wins.”

Skorzeny glared at the minister, then retook his position.

They each inched forward, blades touching, scraping. Skorzeny swept his downward, taking Ryan’s with it, tried to come back up with an attack, but Ryan was ready, blocked it, responded with his own lunge. It missed its target, and Skorzeny jabbed forward.

Ryan felt pressure then heat beneath his ear.

The women gasped. The men swore.

Celia said, “Oh, Albert.”

Skorzeny smiled and backed away.

Ryan put his left hand to his neck, felt the slick skin, the sting as his fingertips brushed the cut.

“Touch,” he said.

“Do you wish to concede?” Skorzeny asked.

Celia took a step forward. “Albert, please.”

“No,” Ryan said, taking his position. “I don’t.”

Skorzeny mirrored Ryan’s stance, a smirk on his lips, his eyes blazing.

Ryan wondered for a moment if the Austrian had that same smirk when he had threatened Celia earlier that day. Then he attacked.

Skorzeny parried, tried to take the blade with a circular sweep, but Ryan countered, beating Skorzeny’s blade down before lunging at the big man’s thigh. He missed, his body carrying too much momentum to halt his forward movement. Their swords crossed between them, they came chest to chest.

Skorzeny pushed. Ryan pushed back. Skorzeny rammed his elbow into Ryan’s ribs. Ryan slammed his knee into Skorzeny’s thigh.

They stayed like that, a jerking, jarring dance, their blades locked, until Ryan heaved once more, throwing Skorzeny’s balance. Ryan brought his blade down, aiming for Skorzeny’s midsection, but he saw the Austrian’s left hand rising up to him, clenched in a fist.

His head rocked with the blow, and his legs buckled. He sprawled on the floorboards, the épée clattering away to stop at Haughey’s feet.

Skorzeny stabbed hard at Ryan’s chest with his own sword, bright points of pain above his heart as the prongs speared through the cotton.

“I believe that makes five,” Skorzeny said.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

R
YAN WATCHED HIS
reflection in the bathroom mirror as he dabbed at his reddened lip. The graze on his neck still bled, but the one on his thigh had stopped.

He hadn’t been able to look Celia—or anyone else—in the eye as he left the dining room. He had crept upstairs alone and tried doors until he found this room.

Red swirls circled the plughole. He spat more discoloured sputum into the water and pressed the facecloth to the wound on his neck. The shirt collar bore a dark stain. Ryan wondered if it could be cleaned.

No matter. He hadn’t paid for it.

A small hole had been torn in the trousers, another dark stain spreading from the loose threads. The sad ache this caused in his heart surprised Ryan. It was only a garment, albeit more expensive than any he’d owned before. Money had never mattered a great deal to him, yet he mourned the loss of this sign of wealth, even if it was someone else’s.

Ryan checked the cut on his neck once more. Still a trickle of red. He pressed the facecloth harder against the wound and let himself out of the bathroom.

Célestin Lainé waited in the hallway, leaning against the wall, an almost empty wine bottle clutched to his chest.

“Monsieur Ryan,” he said. “Albert.”

“Célestin.”

“What happen?” Lainé waved his fingers in front of his face. The wine seemed to have blunted his English.

“Colonel Skorzeny challenged me to a duel.”

Lainé smiled. “He beat you?”

“Yes,” Ryan said.

Lainé’s laughter resonated in the hallway as it rose in pitch. It died away as suddenly as it had erupted.

“You see Catherine die.”

“I was there, yes.”

“You did not stop her.”

“I couldn’t. She moved too quickly.”

Lainé raised a finger, pointed it at Ryan. “She do it because of you.”

Ryan resisted the urge to slap Lainé’s hand aside. “No. She did it because she was afraid of Skorzeny.”

“She had not to fear from him.”

“She was suspected as an informant. Skorzeny would have questioned her if I hadn’t.”

Lainé dropped the bottle, lurched forward, shoved Ryan against the wall, the facecloth fluttering to the floor. “Catherine was not informant.”

Ryan did not react. “I know that now.”

“But still she is dead,” Lainé said, his breath sour with wine. “For nothing.”

“I know who the informant is.”

Lainé’s face slackened. “Is Hakon Foss. I question him. He does not confess, but he will.”

“No,” Ryan said. “The informant is you.”

Weiss had first put it in Ryan’s mind. In that workshop, the smell of oil and sweat and chloroform clinging to Ryan’s nostrils, Weiss had dismissed Ryan’s suspicions of Hakon Foss.

“He’s a gardener,” Weiss had said. “He’s a handyman. He trims hedges and repairs broken windows. What kind of information do you think he can give to anybody?”

“There’s no one else so close to them,” Ryan had said. “No one with a reason to turn on them.”

“Yes there is, Albert. Don’t you see?”

“Who?”

“Think, Albert. He’s as close to Skorzeny as anyone right now.”

Ryan’s mouth struggled to keep up with his thoughts. “You mean … Lainé?”

Weiss held his hands up, palms towards the ceiling.

Ryan shook his head. “But he was there when they killed Groix and Murthagh.”

“And yet he lives.”

“He told us what happened. They wanted him to deliver the message.”

“Célestin Lainé has tortured and killed many, many people. What makes you think he’s above telling a lie?”

The logic had grown in Ryan’s mind in the hours since then until he couldn’t avoid its glare. Now Lainé’s eyes widened, his mouth opened, and Ryan knew it was the truth even as he denied it.