Ratlines (36 page)

“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.”

T
HE 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

R
YAN
’
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.

W
HEN 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

W
EISS
’
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.