Ratlines

by Stuart Neville

  “Inside,” he’d said. “We don’t want to be late.”

  Now Ryan checked his watch again. The minute hand ticked over to the hour.

  He’d heard the stories about the minister. A politician with boundless ambition and the balls to back it up. The upstart had even married the boss’s daughter, become son-in-law to the Taoiseach, Ireland’s prime minister. Some called him a shining star in the cabinet, a reformist kicking at the doors of the establishment; others dismissed him as a shyster on the make. Everyone reckoned him a chancer.

  The door opened, and Charles J. Haughey entered.

  “Sorry for keeping you waiting, lads,” he said as Fitzpatrick stood. “It was sort of a late breakfast. Come on through.”

  “Coffee, Minister?” the secretary asked.

  “Christ, yes.”

  Ryan got to his feet and followed Haughey and Fitzpatrick into the minister’s office. Once inside, Haughey shook the director’s hand.

  “Is this our man Lieutenant Ryan?” he asked.

  “Yes, Minister,” Fitzpatrick said.

  Haughey extended his hand towards Ryan. “Jesus, you’re a big fella, aren’t you? I’m told you did a good job against those IRA bastards last year. Broke the fuckers’ backs, I heard.”

  Ryan shook his hand, felt the hard grip, the assertion of dominance. Haughey stood taller than his height should have allowed, and broad, his dark hair slicked back until his head looked like that of a hawk, his eyes hunting weakness. He had only a couple of years seniority over Ryan, but his manner suggested an older, worldlier man, not a young buck with a higher office than his age should merit.

  “I did my best, Minister,” Ryan said.

  It had been a long operation, men spending nights dug into ditches, watching farmers come and go, noting the visitors, sometimes following them. The Irish Republican Army’s Border Campaign had died in 1959, its back broken long ago, but Ryan had been tasked with making sure its corpse remained cold and still.

  “Good,” Haughey said. “Sit down, both of you.”

  They took their places in leather upholstered chairs facing the desk. Haughey went to a filing cabinet, whistled as he fished keys from his pocket, unlocked a drawer, and extracted a file. He tossed it on the desk’s leather surface and sat in his own chair. It swivelled with no hint of creak or squeak.

  An Irish tricolour hung in the corner, a copy of the Proclamation of the Irish Republic on the wall, along with pictures of racehorses, lean and proud.

  “Who made your suit?” Haughey asked.

  Ryan sat silent for a few seconds before he realised the question had been spoken in his direction. He cleared his throat and said, “The tailor in my home town.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Carrickmacree.”

  “Jesus.” Haughey snorted. “What’s your father, a pig farmer?”

  “A retailer,” Ryan said.

  “A shopkeeper?”

  “Yes,” Ryan said.

  Haughey’s smile split his face, giving his mouth the appearance of a lizard’s, his tongue wet and shining behind his teeth.

  “Well, get yourself something decent. A man should have a good suit. You can’t be walking around government offices with the arse hanging out of your trousers, can you?”

  Ryan did not reply.

  “You’ll want to know why you’re here,” Haughey said.

  “Yes, Minister.”

  “Did the director tell you anything?”

  “No, Minister.”

  “Proper order,” Haughey said. “He can tell you now.”

  Fitzpatrick went to speak, but the secretary bustled in, a tray in her hands. The men remained silent while she poured coffee from the pot. Ryan refused a cup.

  When she’d gone, Fitzpatrick cleared his throat and turned in his seat. “The body of a German national was found in a guesthouse in Salthill yesterday morning by the owner. It’s believed he died the previous day from gunshot wounds to the stomach and head. The Garda Síochána were called to the scene, but when the body’s identity was established, the matter was referred to the Department of Justice, and then to my office.”

  “Who was he?” Ryan asked.

  “Here, he was Heinrich Kohl, a small businessman, nothing more. He handled escrow for various import and export companies. A middle man.”

  “You say ‘Here’,” Ryan said. “Meaning elsewhere, he was something different.”

  “Elsewhere, he was SS-Hauptsturmführer Helmut Krauss of the Main SS Economic and Administrative Department. That sounds rather more impressive than it was in reality. I believe he was some sort of office worker during the Emergency.”

  Government bureaucrats seldom called it the war, as if to do so would somehow dignify the conflict that had ravaged Europe.

  “A Nazi,” Ryan said.

  “If you want to use such terms, then yes.”

  “May I ask, why aren’t the Galway Garda Síochána dealing with this? It sounds like a murder case. The war ended eighteen years ago. This is a civilian crime.”

  Haughey and Fitzpatrick exchanged a glance.

  “Krauss is the third foreign national to have been murdered within a fortnight,” the director said. “Alex Renders, a Flemish Belgian, and Johan Hambro, a Norwegian. Both of them were nationalists who found themselves aligned with the Reich when Germany occupied their respective countries.”

  “And you assume the killings are connected?” Ryan asked.

  “All three men were shot at close range. All three men were involved to some extent in nationalist movements during the Emergency. It’s hard not to make the logical conclusion.”

  “Why were these men in Ireland?”

  “Renders and Hambro were refugees following the liberation of their countries by the Allies. Ireland has always been welcoming to those who flee persecution.”

  “And Krauss?”

  Fitzpatrick went to speak, but Haughey interrupted.

  “This case has been taken out of the Guards’ hands as a matter of sensitivity. These people were guests in our country, and there are others like them, but we don’t wish to draw attention to their presence here. Not now. This is an important year for Ireland. The President of the United States will visit these shores in just a few weeks. For the first time in the existence of this republic, a head of state will make an official visit, and not just any head of state. The bloody leader of the free world, no less. Not only that, he’ll be coming home, to the land of his ancestors. The whole planet will be watching us.”

  Haughey’s chest seemed to swell as he spoke, as if he were addressing some rally in his constituency.

  “Like the director said, these men were refugees, and this state offered them asylum. But even so, some people, for whatever reason, might take exception to men like Helmut Krauss living next door. They might make a fuss about it, the kind of fuss we could be doing without while we’re getting ready for President Kennedy to arrive. There’s people in America, people on his own staff, saying coming here’s a waste of time when he’s got Castro in his back yard, and the blacks causing a ruckus. They’re advising him to cancel his visit. They get a sniff of trouble, they’ll start insisting on it. So it’s vital that this be dealt with quietly. Out of the public gaze, as it were. That’s where you come in. I want you to get to the bottom of this. Make it stop.”

  “And if I don’t wish to accept the assignment?”

  Haughey’s eyes narrowed. “I must not have made myself clear, Lieutenant. I’m not asking you to investigate this crime. I’m ordering you.”

  “With all due respect, Minister, you don’t have the authority to order me to do anything.”

  Haughey stood, his face reddening. “Now hold on, big fella, just who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”

  Fitzpatrick raised his hands, palms up and out. “I’m sorry, Minister, all Lieutenant Ryan means is that such an order should come from within the command structure of the Directorate of Intelligence. I’m sure he mean
t no disrespect.”

  “He better not have,” Haughey said, lowering himself back into his chair. “If he needs an order from you, then go on and give it.”

  Fitzpatrick turned back to Ryan. “As the Minister said, this is not a voluntary assignment. You will be at his disposal until the matter is resolved.”

  “All right,” Ryan said. “Are there any suspects in the killings?”

  “Not as yet,” Haughey said. “But the obvious train of thought must be Jews.”

  Ryan shifted in his seat. “Minister?”

  “Jewish extremists,” Haughey said. “Zionists out for revenge, I’d say. That will be your first line of inquiry.”

  Ryan considered arguing, decided against it. “Yes, Minister.”

  “The Guards will give assistance where needed,” the director said. “We’d prefer that be avoided, of course. The fewer people involved in this the better. You will also have the use of a car, and a room at Buswells Hotel when you’re in the city.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Haughey opened the file he had taken from the cabinet. “There’s one more thing you should be aware of.”

  He lifted an envelope from the file, gripping it by its corner. One end of it was a deep brownish red. Ryan took the envelope, careful to avoid the stained portion. It had been cut open along its top edge. He turned the envelope to read the words typed on its face.

  Otto Skorzeny.

  Ryan said the name aloud.

  “You’ve heard of him?” Haughey asked.

  “Of course,” Ryan said, remembering images of the scarred face in the society pages of the newspapers. Any soldier versed in commando tactics knew of Skorzeny. The name was spoken with reverence in military circles, regardless of the Austrian’s affiliations. Officers marvelled at Skorzeny’s exploits as if recounting the plot of some adventure novel. The rescue of Mussolini from the mountaintop hotel that served as his prison stirred most conversation. The daring of it, the audacity, landing gliders on the Gran Sasso cliff edge and sweeping Il Duce away on the wind.

  Ryan slipped his fingers into the envelope and extracted the sheet of paper, unfolded it. The red stain formed angel patterns across the fabric of the page. He read the typewritten words.

  SS-Obersturmbannführer Skorzeny,

  We are coming for you.

  Await our call.

  “Has Skorzeny seen this?” Ryan asked.

  Fitzpatrick said, “Colonel Skorzeny has been made aware of the message.”

  “Colonel Skorzeny and I will be attending a function in Malahide in a few days,” Haughey said. “You will report to us there with your findings. The director will give you the details. Understood?”

  “Yes, Minister.”

  “Grand.” Haughey stood. He paused. “My tailor,” he said, tearing a sheet from a notepad. He scribbled a name, address and phone number. “Lawrence McClelland on Capel Street. Go and see him, have him fit you up with something. Tell him to put it on my account. Can’t be putting you in front of a man like Otto Skorzeny wearing a suit like that.”

  Ryan dropped the bloody envelope on the desk and took the details from Haughey. He kept his face expressionless. “Thank you, Minister,” he said.

  Fitzpatrick ushered Ryan towards the door. As they went to exit, Haughey called, “Is it true what I heard? That you fought for the Brits during the Emergency?”

  Ryan stopped. “Yes, Minister.”

  Haughey let his gaze travel from Ryan’s shoes to his face in one long distasteful stare. “Sort of young, weren’t you?”

  “I lied about my age.”

  “Hmm. I suppose that would explain your lack of judgement.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE SUN HUNG low in the sky by the time Ryan drove into Salthill. His buttocks ached from the journey, cutting west across the country, pausing outside Athlone to relieve his bladder by the roadside. On three occasions he had to stop and wait while a farmer herded cattle from one field to another. He saw fewer cars as he travelled further from Dublin, driving miles at a time without seeing anything more advanced than a tractor or a horse and cart.

  He parked the Vauxhall Victor in the small courtyard adjoining the guest house. Fitzpatrick had handed him the keys along with a roll of pound and ten shilling notes, telling him not to go mad on it.

  Ryan climbed out of the car and walked around to the entrance. A hardy wind carried salt spray up from the rocks. He tasted it on his lips. Gulls called and circled. Their excrement dotted the low wall that fronted the house.

  The sign above the door read ST. AGNES GUEST HOUSE, PROPRIETRESS MRS. J. D. TOAL. He rang the bell and waited.

  A white form appeared behind the frosted glass, and a woman called, “Who’s there?”

  “My name is Albert Ryan,” he said. “I’m investigating the crime that occurred here.”

  “Are you with the Guards?”

  “Not quite,” he said.

  The door cracked open, and she peeked out at him. “If you’re not the Guards, then who are you?”

  Ryan took his wallet from his pocket and held up the identification card.

  “I’ll need my glasses,” she said.

  “I’m from the Directorate of Intelligence.”

  “The what?”

  “Like the Guards,” he said. “But I work for the government. Are you Mrs. Toal?”

  “Yes,” she said. She looked back to the card. “I can’t read that. I need to find my glasses.”

  “Can I come in while you look for them?”

  She hesitated, then closed the door. Ryan heard a chain slide back. She opened the door and allowed him to enter.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” she said as he followed her into the dim hallway. “It’s just I’ve been plagued with all sorts of people since the news got out. Newspaper men, mostly, and others who just want to see if the body’s still here. Monsters, all of them. Ah, here we are.”

  She lifted her spectacles from a table and perched them on her nose. “Let me see that again.”

  Ryan handed her the card. She studied it, reading every word, before handing it back.

  “I’ve already told the Guards everything I know. I’m not sure I can tell you anything different.”

  “Maybe not,” Ryan said. “But I’d like to speak with you anyway.”

  He looked to the room to his left where a middle-aged couple and a young priest took their leisure. The lady read a paperback book, while the gentleman smoked a pipe. The priest studied the racing pages of the Irish Times, marking the listings with a stubby pencil. Mrs. Toal reached in and pulled the door closed.

  “I’d rather you didn’t disturb my guests,” she said.

  “I won’t. Perhaps I could take a look at the room where the body was found. Then maybe we could have a chat.”

  She turned her gaze to the stairs, as if some terrible creature listened from the floors above. “I suppose.”

  Mrs. Toal went ahead. Old photographs of Salthill and Galway City hung on the walls alongside prints of Christ and the Virgin, and what appeared to be family portraits of generations past.

  “It’s a shocking thing,” she said, her breath shortening as she climbed. “He seemed a nice enough man. Why someone would want to do that to him, I really don’t know. He may have been a foreigner, but that doesn’t account for it. And there’s me all booked out for next month, all them people coming in to see President Kennedy when he visits—they’re landing the helicopters just up the road, you know—and now I’ve got blood all over my carpet. I’ll have to do that room top to bottom. How can I expect anyone to stay in there with blood on the carpet? Here we are.”

  She stopped at a door bearing the number six and fished a ring of keys from a pocket in her skirt. “I’ll not go in with you, if you don’t mind,” she said as she turned the key in the lock.

  “That’s fine,” Ryan said.

  He put his fingers to the handle, but Mrs. Toal seized his wrist.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,”
she said, her voice dropping low. “There was drink taken. I found a bottle on the bedside locker. I don’t know what sort of drink it was, but they’d been at it when it happened.”

  “Is that right?” Ryan asked.

  “Oh, it is. And he wouldn’t be the first man to meet his death when drink was taken. I know. My husband was one of them. He died right outside my front door. He had a bellyful of whiskey and porter one night, then he fell on those rocks out there. Split his head open and drowned when the tide came in.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” Ryan said, meaning it. “I’ll come and find you when I’m finished here.”

  “All right, so.” She nodded and went to the stairs. “Call me if you need anything.”

  Alone, Ryan turned the handle and entered the room.

  The smell came first, like metal and meat gone bad. He coughed and brought one hand up to cover his nose and mouth. With the other, he felt for the light switch and flicked it on.

  A simple guesthouse room like any he’d ever stayed in. Tasteful floral wallpaper, patterned carpet, a washbasin in one corner, a wardrobe in another. A single bed with one locker beside it, and a chair facing them both.

  And a reddish-brown cluster on the wall, small pieces of solid matter barely visible from this side of the room.

  Ryan took slow steps towards the foot of the bed. Beyond it, a dark pool on the carpet, the vague shape of a folded body scraped in chalk. Powder dusted the surfaces of the windowsill and the bedside locker, ghosts of fingertips scattered through it.

  A small suitcase sat open on the floor at the foot of the bed. Ryan crouched down next to it and sorted through the items within. Underwear, socks, three packets of Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes, and a bottle of imported vodka. He stood. A wash bag sat on the edge of the basin, a shaving brush and a razor, a toothbrush and cologne.

  He caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror above them. Tiredness weighed on his features. He had been jowly since his late twenties. Now aged thirty six, he sometimes felt he looked like a forlorn bloodhound, especially when fatigue darkened his eyes.

  A movement in the reflection startled him.

  “Are you the G2 fella?” a voice asked.