A middle aged man spoke in Haughey’s ear, the minister’s face pale, his brow furrowed. Haughey turned to Skorzeny, repeated whatever he’d been told. Skorzeny’s face remained a mask of calm. Only his eyes moved, seeking Ryan out. The music dimmed in Ryan’s ears, his feet ceased their awkward shuffling.
“What’s the matter, do you think?” Celia asked.
Haughey marched to the dance floor.
“I don’t know,” Ryan said.
The minister took Ryan’s elbow, led him away from Celia. “Looks like you’ve got what you wanted,” Haughey said.
It took a moment for Ryan to understand that the politician did not mean his dancing partner. “What?” he asked.
“A witness.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RYAN STRUGGLED TO keep up with Skorzeny’s Mercedes-Benz 300SL as it coursed through the countryside. Its white body disappeared behind hedgerows and reappeared on crests, dazzling in the Vauxhall’s headlights. Ryan felt the tires of his own car skitter on the road surface, barely clinging to the bends while the Mercedes seemed to float ahead.
Skorzeny hardly slowed as they passed through Kildare town. Ryan heard the Mercedes roar above the sound of his own engine as it turned up the incline towards Dunmurry. As the town’s buildings gave way to farmland, Ryan finally lost sight of the other car. He accelerated, leaning forward, peering through the windscreen for any sign of the Austrian.
Haughey had stayed at the party, thought it best not to get too involved. Yes, Ryan had agreed, keep your distance from the blood.
The road rose for half a mile ahead. Trees and gates whipped by, branches reaching out to skiff and clang the Vauxhall’s doors and wing mirrors. The brow came rushing up, and Ryan’s stomach floated with him as the car lost contact with the tarmac.
Searing red lights filled his vision as the Vauxhall slammed down. He stamped on the brake pedal, his body thrown forward, jamming his foot down again and again. The car groaned and juddered as it slowed, the Mercedes only yards ahead.
Skorzeny pulled away, exhaust bellowing. His hand slipped out of the driver’s window, waving, come on, keep up. Ryan cursed as he brought the Vauxhall under control.
He kept the Mercedes within sight until it turned into a lane so narrow Ryan hadn’t seen its mouth in the hedgerow. The single track cut through fields for a mile or more, the pocked surface jarring Ryan’s spine until the lane ended at a gateway barely wide enough for Skorzeny’s car to slip through. Ryan followed and parked alongside the Mercedes as Skorzeny climbed out.
“Who taught you to drive?” the Austrian asked as Ryan walked around the Vauxhall. “Your mother? You’d have lost me if I hadn’t waited.”
Before Ryan could agree or argue, a thin man stepped out from the side of the cottage, an oil lamp hanging from his fingers.
“This way,” he said, his accent thick.
This was Lainé, Ryan thought, the Frenchman. Skorzeny went first, shook the man’s hand, old friends.
“Who is this?” Lainé asked.
“Lieutenant Ryan of the Directorate of Intelligence,” Skorzeny said. “He’s helping us get to the bottom of this. He’ll want to speak with you.”
Ryan approached, extended his hand. Lainé ignored it and pinched a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips. He held the lamp up, let the tobacco dip into the flame. It flared, revealing the hollows of his face, the sunken eyes.
“Come,” Lainé said.
They followed him to the rear of the cottage. Skorzeny paused inside the doorway. Ryan reached the threshold and saw why.
A dead man lay on the stone floor, flat on his back. One neat hole in his forehead, another in his knitted pullover, the wool tattered and scorched. A broken shotgun and two unspent shells lay beside him.
Muddy boot prints crisscrossed the floor, circled the body. Ryan noted the damp soil caked on the Frenchman’s boots. The dead man’s shoes were dirty but dry.
Lainé indicated the corpse. “This is Murtagh. They kill him first.”
Skorzeny moved further into the cottage. Ryan followed.
Another man sat at the table, his head at an unnatural angle, a flap of scalp peeled back.
“This is Groix,” Lainé said.
The Frenchman walked to the other side of the table, pulled the chair out, and sat down. He shook, coughed, his eyes welling. Mud and what appeared to be blood dappled his cardigan. He set the gas lamp at the centre of the table. It threw yellow light around the room. Lainé’s tears sparkled.
“They kill Hervé. She only barks. She never bites. And they kill her.”
Skorzeny rounded the table, placed his large hand on Lainé’s bony shoulder. “Tell us what happened.”
The Frenchman sniffed, dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve, and talked.
GROIX HAD GONE to the window, leaned over the sink, peered out. He had craned his neck, explored every part of the small yard within reach of his gaze. The dog’s chain hadn’t moved for more than a minute.
“I see nothing,” he said in French.
It disappointed Lainé that for all Groix’s zeal he had never learned to speak Breton to any degree of competency.
Lainé stood behind him. “They’ve come down the hillside, to the back of the cottage. Do you have a weapon?”
“No. Nothing.”
Lainé had a pistol, an old Smith and Wesson that had once belonged to a GI. It lay beneath his pillow.
He turned to Murtagh, said in English, “There are men come and kill us.” He indicated the shotgun on the table. “Can you shoot this gun?”
Murtagh stood, his chair rattling across the floor. “What?”
“Can you shoot this gun?” Lainé repeated.
“Who’s coming?”
Lainé decided not to waste any more breath on the young idiot. He moved to the back of the room, as far from the door as he could get, while Groix stood useless at the window.
Murtagh reached for the shotgun, broke it, made a show of checking the shells. He spun around as something slammed into the back door, tearing the bolt from the frame. Two plosive sounds, like balloons popping, and Murtagh fell.
The men entered, one, two, three of them, weapons raised and ready.
Lainé froze. Groix whimpered and raised his hands as fluid trickled over his shoes to puddle on the floor.
The second man who entered said, “Good evening, Célestin.”
Groix turned his confused face towards Lainé.
The man said, “I don’t know your friend. Who is he?”
“Elouan Groix,” Lainé said.
“Both of you sit.”
Groix obeyed.
“You too,” the man said to Lainé.
Lainé crossed the room, skirted Groix’s urine, and sat down.
“Hands flat on the table.”
Lainé and Groix splayed their fingers on the wood.
The three men wore dark overalls, woollen caps rolled down to their eyebrows, leather gloves. Two carried Browning pistols with suppressors. The third carried an automatic rifle. One took up a position at Groix’s right, the rifle levelled at his temple. The other came to Lainé’s left, aimed his weapon.
The leader pulled up the chair Murtagh had sat in, placed his Browning on the tabletop, one hand resting upon it.
“So here we are,” he said, his accent English.
Tears rolled from Groix’s eyes. He sniffed.
“Here we are,” Lainé said. “Et maintenant?”
“A quick chat,” the man said.
“I say nothing.”
Groix spoke up, fear in his voice, hope in his wet eyes. “I will say. You ask. I will say.”
The man lifted the Browning from the table, aimed, squeezed the trigger. Groix’s head jerked as if pulled by a marionette string. Bone and skin came away, hair flaming and smoking. He said no more.
The man turned his attention back to Lainé. “You misunderstand. I’m not looking for any more information. I already know everything I need to know. You don�
��t have to say anything. Not to me. I will talk. You will listen.”
Lainé watched a dark line trace its way around Groix’s ear and down his neck towards his collar.
“So talk,” he said.
The man placed the pistol back on the tabletop. Points of red dotted his cheek. “You will pass a message to Otto Skorzeny.”
Lainé smiled, though it felt more like a grimace on his lips. “Like Krauss?”
“Not necessarily. I’d prefer you pass the message on in person. I want you to be able to tell Skorzeny how serious we are. How efficient. If you agree to do so, I’ll take you at your word and allow you to live. Will you pass on this message?”
Lainé reached for the tobacco pouch and papers, set about making a cigarette. “D’accord.”
The man nodded. “Good. Repeat these words to Skorzeny exactly as I say them. Only three words. Are you listening?”
Lainé leaned into the gas lamp and lit the cigarette. “Ouais.”
“Tell him: You will pay.”
Lainé snorted, picked tobacco from his lip. “This will scare Otto Skorzeny, you think?”
The man raised the Browning, pressed the suppressor to Lainé’s cheek. The heat of it made his eyelid flicker.
“Just repeat those words to him. That’s all.”
Lainé nodded.
“Good.” The man lifted the Browning and stood.
The other two men backed towards the door.
“Be seeing you.”
They pulled the door closed behind them.
The shaking started then, and Lainé was barely able to bring the cigarette to his lips. Even so, he smoked it until it burned his fingers then dropped it to the floor.
He did not look at Groix’s or Murtagh’s bodies as he left the cottage. The chain lay loose on the ground. He followed it until he found Hervé lying curled on herself. In the dimness, her eyes wavered in their sockets, seeking the source of his scent.
“There, baby,” he said as he crouched down beside her.
Two holes in her flank. He placed his hand there, felt the warm wetness and the faint insistence of her heart. She exhaled, a bubbling deep in her chest. Lainé lay down in the dirt and held her, whispering stories of heaven, until the bubbling ceased and her heart stilled. He kissed her once then got to his feet.
Ten minutes took him across the fields to Caoimhín Murtagh’s farmhouse. He rapped the door. Mrs. Murtagh answered.
“I need your telephone,” Lainé said.
She looked back over her shoulder, called her husband.
RYAN ASKED, “DOES Murtagh know what happened here?”
“Non. He asks, but I say nothing. When you go, I tell him.”
“Good,” Skorzeny said, squeezing Lainé’s shoulder. “You did well. After you tell him, you will also leave this place. Take everything, leave no trace of yourself. Let this Murtagh deal with the police. Tell him he must not mention you to them. Offer him money if you have to.”
“Where do I go?”
Skorzeny considered it for a moment. “You may take a room at my house.”
“Merci.” Lainé’s voice turned to a wavering hiss.
“How old was the man with the pistol?” Ryan asked.
“I think forty five. The others, one was also this age, one was younger.”
“The other men didn’t speak?”
“Non.”
“So we can’t tell if they were British or not.”
“They look, how to say …” Lainé waved his open palm across his face. “Pale, like English men. Not like Spanish or Italian. Not …”
“Not Jews,” Skorzeny said.
“Non.”
Ryan said, “The Browning is a British service weapon.”
“You think SAS? MI5?” Skorzeny asked.
“I see no reason why British forces would target you. And if they wanted you dead, you would be.”
Skorzeny smiled, creasing his scar. “Perhaps. Then tell me, Lieutenant Ryan, who are these men, and what do they want?”
“I don’t know who they are. And only you can say what they want. One thing is clear, though.”
“What is this?”
“They must have an informant. If they know so much about you and your … friends, then someone must have passed this information to them. Maybe even working with them.”
Skorzeny went to the window, stared out into the darkness. “Then I will make enquiries. You will also. If you find this person before I do, you will notify me immediately.”
“And then?”
“Then you will bring him to me.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHARLES J. HAUGHEY sat at his desk, a cup of coffee and a glass of fizzing Alka Seltzer in front of him. Ryan sat opposite.
“So what do you need?” Haughey asked.
“I need the names and locations of all the foreign nationals who were Nazis or collaborators and are now resident in Ireland.”
“No,” Haughey said.
“Minister, I need this information if I’m going to find whoever has been working with these men.”
Haughey took a swig of the Alka Seltzer, belched, and said, “There are currently well over a hundred such people resident in Ireland. That we know of. There are very likely others that have sneaked in through some back door. I can’t go handing that kind of information out, even if I had it to hand. Besides, how many of them do you think know Colonel Skorzeny?”
“All right,” Ryan said. “Compile a list of those who have direct contact with Skorzeny. I can start there.”
Haughey leaned forward, his forearms nudging the coffee cup, making it rattle in its saucer. “What am I, your fucking secretary?”
“Minister, it is vital I find the informant before Skorzeny does.”
“Why?” Haughey asked. “Why can’t you just let him deal with it?”
“Because if Skorzeny finds the informant, I believe he will torture him. Then I believe he will kill him.”
HAUGHEY’S SECRETARY SMILED as Ryan passed through the outer office. He paused at the door, turned, came back to her.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Last night, I saw you speaking with a woman. Her name was Celia Hume.”
The secretary’s lips curled in a smirk. She let her gaze travel the length of Ryan, took her time about it. “Yes, I know Celia.”
Sweat chilled Ryan’s brow and back as his cheeks smouldered. “Do you know where I could contact her?”
The secretary’s smirk blossomed into a crooked grin. “And what would a nice man like you want with our Celia?”
A small but bright flash of anger at the girl’s intrusion. He quelled it, returned her smile. “Just to say hello.”
“I see.” She scribbled a telephone number on a pad, tore off the sheet, handed it to him. “If she doesn’t want to say hello back, you can always give me a try.”
Ryan took the paper from her fingers, held her gaze despite how it burned his skin.
LATE IN THE afternoon, a messenger boy brought a thick manila envelope to Ryan’s hotel room. A note inside said: Here’s your list of names. Be careful with them and destroy it when you’re finished.
It was signed, C.J.H.
Ryan pulled three sheets of paper from the envelope and spread them out on the bed. A dozen typewritten names in total, addresses, some of them only townlands. Ryan pictured those places, low cottages or grand houses at the ends of single track lanes, roads without names, places known only to the postmen who delivered to them.
One name seemed familiar to Ryan: Luykx, who had made his fortune with restaurants and bars. Beside that name, a scribbled note.
Don’t go near Albert Luykx. He’s a personal friend of mine. I don’t want him bothered.
Haughey had written elsewhere on the paper. Nationalities, organisations, ranks, relationships, professions. Some were businessmen, one of them a writer, one a schoolmaster, two doctors, more of them wealthy than not.
Ryan paid attention to those who were not.
; Catherine Beauchamp, a novelist, a Breton nationalist like Lainé. She worked for a charity, a normal salaried job. But a decent job, nonetheless. She made a living. Would she crave more? Enough to turn on her friends?
And here was Hakon Foss. A Norwegian nationalist who had found work as a gardener and handyman, much of that work for Skorzeny and his associates. He would be in a position to see much of their comings and goings, perhaps enough to foster jealousy and rage at what they possessed and he did not.
Ryan scanned the list once more. The businessmen had all prospered in Ireland. Property, hospitality, a printing business, one of them a breeder of racehorses.
All endeavours that required capital, money, and plenty of it. These men fled the Continent with enough cash, or access to it, to establish comfortable lives. Why would they risk what they’d built for themselves? He thought once more about Catherine Beauchamp and Hakon Foss.
He would start with them.
Ryan checked his watch. Almost six. He took the folded sheet of notepaper from his pocket. The name Celia written in a fluid script, and the numbers.
He sat on the edge of the bed, lifted the receiver, dialled an outside line, then turned the wheel of numbers, heard the whirr of the mechanism as it returned to zero after each one.
The dial tone repeated in his ear five times before a gravel-voiced woman answered.
“I’d like to speak with Celia Hume,” Ryan said.
“She’s not here,” the woman said. “If you want to leave a message, I’ll make sure she gets it.”
“Please tell her Albert Ryan called.” He gave the hotel’s number, and his room, and she promised to pass the message on.
Ryan sat silent and alone for thirty minutes before the telephone rang.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
OTTO SKORZENY COUNTED the money as Pieter Menten sipped coffee. Five thousand in American dollars, ten thousand in British pounds, and a further thirty thousand in Irish currency laid out on the desk in Skorzeny’s study. Menten had travelled by ferry and train, carrying the suitcase of money from Rotterdam to Harwich in England, then from the Welsh port of Holyhead across to Dun Laoghaire where Skorzeny collected him in his Mercedes.
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