Ratlines (38 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO

T
HE 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.

R
YAN 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

W
EISS 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

N
O 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.

T
WO 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.

R
YAN 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.

R
YAN 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

S
KORZENY 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.