Ratlines (8 page)

Elouan Groix gave Lainé a weary look. Lainé shrugged, raised a hand to say, what can I do?

Murtagh drew breath and let more of the dirge spill from his mouth. “Throw down your plumes and your golden trophies, give up your arms with a trembling hand.”

As Murtagh inhaled at the end of the couplet, Lainé heard the dog outside in the yard. It jerked on its chain and let loose a torrent of yelps and barks.

He had found the animal at the side of a road two years ago, no more than a pup, its pelt clinging to its ribs, a waist so thin Lainé could encircle it with one hand. A month of nurture, and he had a healthy and devoted companion he called Hervé, a masculine name, even though the dog was a female. And one could not have wished for a more loyal and fearsome guardian.

Murtagh’s voice rose to the next couplet.

Lainé lifted a hand and said, “Quiet.”

Murtagh let his voice fall to a bubbling exhalation, stared at Lainé with confusion and mild hurt on his face.

“Listen,” Lainé said.

Hervé’s cries rose in ferocity. Her chain jangled as she lunged out there in the weakening light.

“What?” Murtagh asked.

Groix placed a hand on the Irishman’s wrist, squeezed, silenced him.

The dog’s barks melded into a furious stream of noise, the chain jerking and snapping.

Lainé turned his head, peered out the window over the sink. He saw the post to which Hervé was tethered. The chain stretched beyond his vision, somewhere to the side of the cottage. The post leaned under the strain.

“We have a visitor,” Lainé said.

He watched the chain tauten and drop, tauten and drop, threatening to uproot the post. Hervé’s voice seemed to crack under the strain of her panic, reaching up and up until Lainé was sure it could climb no higher.

Then the dog fell silent, and the chain sagged to the ground.

CHAPTER NINE

A
FULL LENGTH MIRROR
fronted the wardrobe in Ryan’s hotel room. He stood before it, his shoulders back, chest forward, stomach in. The grey cloth of the suit clung to his body, accentuated the masculine, flattered his frame. Even, dare he think it, made him appear handsome. Ryan smoothed the tie. The silk whispered on his fingertips. The cufflinks sparked like flints on his wrists.

He did not look like a shopkeeper’s son.

“You’ll do,” he said.

T
HE
G
RAND
H
OTEL
overlooked Malahide Estuary, north of Dublin, a broad wedding cake of a building, four storeys high, that had stood for more than a century. A receptionist directed Ryan to the function room. As he approached its doors, he heard a small swing band perform “How High the Moon.”

Waiters cleared away the remains of the meal that had recently been eaten by the guests. Some government affair, Ryan surmised, diplomats, judges, politicians. Men of power enjoying the spoils. They clustered in groups, girls and their suitors, elder men and their greying wives.

Couples danced, most of them stiff-backed, their bodies apart. A few showed less restraint.

For a moment, Ryan felt an imposter, an interloper. He didn’t belong here, amongst these people with their money and their good taste. His hand went to the silk of his tie. Its texture against his fingertips offered a sliver of reassurance.

“Are you lost?” a velvet voice asked.

Ryan turned, saw her. He opened his mouth, but words betrayed him, his tongue a tripwire. She stood with a young woman Ryan recognised as Charles Haughey’s secretary.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’re all charlatans here. Come on. I’ll let you get me a drink.”

She hooked her hand around his elbow, her forearm slender and bare, the skin of her wrist pale and freckled. In her heels, she stood only a few inches shorter than him, the length of her startling, the sleek line of her body drawing his eyes downwards. Deep red hair pinned up, eyes smoky green.

She gave her friend a smile and a wink as she guided Ryan away.

“Who are you with?” she asked.

Ryan gained control of his tongue. “I have to meet someone.”

“Who?”

“The minister.”

She led him deeper into the room’s currents. “Which minister? We have several.”

“The Minister for Justice.”

She smiled. “Charlie? I believe he’s holding court at the bar. Which is handy, seeing as you’re going to get me that drink.”

They walked together from the dimness of one room to the light of another. The music dulled, laughter and chatter swelled.

There was Haughey, perched on a high stool, surrounded by younger men, his face reddened with drink. He fixed Ryan with his hawk’s stare, winked, and continued his story.

“You should’ve seen the fucker,” he said, spittle arcing from his thin lips. “Galloping like his life depended on it. And it did, I’d have shot the bastard myself if he’d lost. Anyway, he’s coming charging up the straight, and wee Turley the jockey, he’s barely hanging on, he looks like he’s shitting himself. That other fucker, I forget his name, he’s looking back over his shoulder, sees my boy coming at him, I swear to God, he near fell off when he seen him.”

The young men laughed the laughter of the beholden.

Ryan felt warm air brush his ear, smelled lipstick. He shivered.

“I’ll have a G and T,” she said. “Lime. Never lemon.”

Ryan reached for his wallet.

Haughey called, “Hey, hey, hey, get your hand out of your pocket, big fella. It’s all taken care of.”

Ryan nodded his thanks and caught the barman’s attention. “Gin and tonic with lime and a half of Guinness.”

She let her fingers drop from his elbow to join with his, pulled his hand close to her, his knuckles brushing her hip. “Come on, a real drink.”

Heat bloomed on Ryan’s cheeks. He coughed. “Make that a brandy and ginger.”

“That’s more like it,” she said. Her fingers tightened on his before releasing them. She turned, leaned her back and elbows on the bar, the silken fabric of her dress telling tales.

The heat on Ryan’s cheeks spread to his neck.

She tilted her head, showing him the smooth place beneath her ear. “You haven’t asked my name.”

Ryan wondered for a moment if he should apologise. Instead, he put his hands in his pockets and feigned confidence. “All right. What’s your name?”

“Celia,” she said, letting the sibilant drip like honey, the vowels thick between her lips. “What’s yours?”

He told her as his assuredness flaked away like weathered paint.

“Well, Mr. Ryan, what business do you have with Charles J. Haughey?”

“Private business,” he said, his voice harder than he intended.

She arched a sculpted eyebrow. “I see.”

The sharp click of glass on marble, the shimmer of ice. Ryan handed Celia the gin and tonic. She held his stare as she sipped. Her tongue sought the glistening droplets on her lips.

Ryan swallowed the brandy’s burn, couldn’t meet her challenge. He might have seen the corner of her mouth curl in amusement as he looked away.

Haughey broke from his pack, the young men staring after him. He let his gaze crawl the length of Ryan’s form, shoe to collar. “McClelland take care of you all right?”

“Yes, Minister.” Ryan measured carefully the bow of his head, balancing deference and pride, the politician and the woman.

“Good.” Haughey nodded. “You’ll do all right. Won’t he, Miss Hume?”

Celia’s lips parted in a conspirator’s smile. “Yes he will,” she said.

Ryan couldn’t be sure whose conspiracy she sided with, only that he desired it to be his own.

“Come on,” Haughey said. “The colonel’s waiting.”

As the minister turned away, Celia’s finger snagged Ryan’s.

“Be careful,” she said, her smile lost.

Ryan followed Haughey to a darkened stairwell. The minister lit a cigarette as he walked, didn’t offer one to Ryan.

Mounting the steps, Haughey said, “Watch yourself with Skorzeny. He’s smart as a whip. Don’t be clever with him. Try it, and he’ll rip the shite out of you.”

“Yes, Minister.”

They exited the stairwell onto a carpeted corridor, numbered doors along the hallway. Haughey approached one set apart from the others. He knocked.

The door opened, swallowed Haughey, leaving Ryan alone in the corridor.

He leaned his back against the wall, not thinking of what waited inside the room. Instead, Ryan pictured the woman, remembered her scent, warm and sweet. Time passed, forgotten.

Haughey opened the door, stepped aside to allow two suited men to leave. They eyed Ryan as they passed. Once they had gone, the minister said, “Come on.”

CHAPTER TEN

A
S
R
YAN ENTERED
the suite, Skorzeny stood up from the leather-upholstered armchair, seeming to fill the room, the breadth and the height of him, the line of his shoulders stretching his pale suit like an oak beam. The scar traced a route from his eyebrow to the corner of his mouth, and onward to his chin, his moustache neat, his gaze bright. His thick greying hair swept back from his forehead.

Haughey stood between them, seemed smaller than he had a few minutes ago, the hawk gone from his eyes.

“Colonel, this is Lieutenant Albert Ryan, G2, Directorate of Intelligence.”

Skorzeny stepped forward, extended a hand so large it swallowed Ryan’s whole. Ryan imagined the hard fingers could have crushed his own had the Austrian felt so inclined.

“Lieutenant,” Skorzeny said, the accent sharp and angular, releasing his grip. “The minister tells me you’re the best he has. Is this so?”

Ryan’s hand tingled deep between the bones. “I don’t think I can answer that, sir.”

“No? Who knows you better than yourself?”

While Ryan searched for a reply, Skorzeny filled two glasses with rich brown liquid from a decanter. He gave one to Haughey, sipped from the other, offered nothing to Ryan.

“Please sit,” he said.

Haughey took the other armchair, leaving Ryan the couch.

“The minister tells me you fought for the British during the war.”

Ryan cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“Why so?”

“I wanted out of my home town,” Ryan said, opting for honesty. He sensed a lie would not be entertained. “I knew it was the only way I’d ever get out of Ireland. I didn’t want the life my father had. So I crossed the border into the North and joined up.”

“Which regiment?”

“The Royal Ulster Rifles.”

“So you were part of Operation Mallard?”

“Yes, sir.”

Skorzeny took a cigarette case from his pocket, white enamel with the
Reichsadler
, the Nazi eagle perched atop an oak-wreathed swastika, embossed in gold. He opened the case, extended it to Haughey. The minister declined. Skorzeny lit a cigarette for himself. Smoke plumed from his lips and nostrils as he sat down.

“And Unternehmen Wacht am Rhein?” he asked.

Haughey looked from one man to the other. “And what?”

“Operation Watch on the Rhein,” Ryan said. “The Allies called it the Battle of the Bulge. I was involved to a lesser extent.”

“And after the war?”

“When I came home, I attended Trinity College, studying English.”

Skorzeny smiled. “Ah, Trinity. So you fenced?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will come to my home so we can duel.”

“Sir?”

“To Martinstown House. I have fenced since my youth. I earned my
Schmiss
in a university match.” He indicated the scar, his eyes cold and glittery like marbles. “But I haven’t found a reasonable opponent in this country. Perhaps that is you. So tell me, how did you apply this education you received?”

“I didn’t. I re-enlisted in the Ulster Rifles and served in Korea as part of the 29th Independent Infantry Brigade. I was selected for special training there.”

“What was this training?”

“Commando tactics,” Ryan said. “Your tactics.”

Skorzeny gave a slight nod in thanks for the acknowledgement.

“Under control of 3 Commando Brigade, I led small units in raids on enemy positions. We slept in the trenches during daylight and worked at night.”

Skorzeny drew long and deep on his cigarette. “How many men did you kill?”

Ryan returned the Austrian’s stare. “I don’t know,” he said. “How many did
you
kill?”

Skorzeny smiled and stood. “We are soldiers. Only murderers keep count.”

He lifted the decanter and poured a third glass, crossed the room, and placed the drink in Ryan’s hand.

“So what do you know of these scoundrels who use dead men for messengers?”

Ryan took a shallow sip of brandy, smoother on his tongue and in his throat than the drink he’d ordered at the bar. “Very little, sir.”

Skorzeny retook his seat, crossed his long legs. “Well, a little is more than nothing. Go on.”

“They are efficient, careful, skilled. They left no traces at the guesthouse in Salthill. I wasn’t able to visit the scenes of the previous killings, but I can only assume they were as clean.”

Haughey spoke up. “I’ve seen the Garda reports. They found nothing useful.” He turned to Ryan. “What about the Jewish angle?”

“There’s nothing to suggest involvement by any group from the Jewish community.”

Haughey sat forward. “Nothing to suggest it? For Christ’s sake, man, there’s everything to suggest it.”

“There are no known organised Jewish groups within Ireland,” Ryan said. “We have only a very small Jewish population. It’s extremely unlikely that such a group exists. Even if it did, it’s less likely that it would have the capability of carrying out such actions.”

“Lieutenant Ryan is correct,” Skorzeny said. “These killings were done by professionals. Trained men.”

“The Israelis, then,” Haughey said. “The Mossad. Or that Wiesenthal fella, the one who got your friend Eichmann executed last year.”

Skorzeny looked hard at Haughey for a moment, then turned his eyes to Ryan. “Speculation aside, you are no closer to finding these men than you were forty-eight hours ago.”

Ryan said, “No, sir.”