Ratlines

by Stuart Neville

  Her hand dipped behind the gingham curtain that hung below the sink. She turned, a small semi-automatic pistol aimed at Ryan’s chest. A .25 ACP, he thought. Her hand quivered, the pistol jittering in her grasp. The other hand gripped the slide assembly, pulled it back.

  Ryan raised his hands as high as his shoulders.

  “Does he know about me?” she asked.

  “I didn’t give him your name,” Ryan said. “But he knows there’s an informant. I found you without any trouble. He can do the same. And he will. Please, let me protect you.”

  Tears sprung from Beauchamp’s wide eyes, heavy, darkening her blouse where they fell from her cheeks. Her breathing quickened with fear, her chest heaving. She wiped at her cheeks, sniffed hard. “They told me I would be safe. They promised me. It was my penance. I told them what they wanted to know so God would forgive me. Has God forgiven me?”

  “I don’t know. Who were they?”

  “They showed me photographs. The children.” Her free hand went to her belly, clutched at the flesh over her womb. “The dead children. The bones. Their dead eyes. Their mouths open. Flies on their lips.”

  “You didn’t do that to them,” Ryan said. He stepped around the table. “Like you said, you didn’t know. Please, put the gun down.”

  “Will God forgive me?”

  “I don’t know. Catherine, please, put the gun down. Talk to me. We can work something out. You can run, get out of the country.”

  She asked again, her voice firm and final. “Will God forgive me?”

  Ryan lowered his hands. “Yes. He will.”

  Catherine Beauchamp smiled. She opened her mouth wide, brought the pistol up, put the muzzle between her teeth and closed her eyes.

  Ryan said, “No,” but it was done before he could take a single step.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CÉLESTIN LAINÉ HAD enjoyed the Penfolds Grange Shiraz so much the night before that he had crept down to the cellar in search of a second bottle. He had descended the wooden steps, feeling the chill of the damp air crawl beneath his clothing, and gasped as his feet touched the concrete floor. Row after row of bottles from all over the world, some shining, some dusted with age. He had wandered between the racks, his tongue squirming behind his teeth, anticipating the delights ahead. It took several minutes to find the second Shiraz.

  Now, in daylight, his brain seemed to grind against the inside of his skull. Of course, the only answer was more wine. He returned to the cellar hoping to find another Penfolds Grange, but there was none. Instead, he settled for an Italian white. It might have benefited from an hour on ice, but it was more than tolerable.

  He wandered the grounds of Martinstown House, the uncorked bottle in one hand, the other holding his jacket closed. Skorzeny’s homestead was certainly impressive. Lainé had never been one for ostentation, displays of wealth—he’d never had the money—but still he had to admire the house with its sprawling wings, its arched windows, the gardens it nestled in. He stood back, surveyed the property.

  Yes, Skorzeny had done well. Perhaps if Lainé had possessed a similar ambition, he could have attained such wealth. But then he’d only have spent it on drink.

  He took a slug from the bottle. The wine cloyed at his throat, treacly sweet.

  One of Skorzeny’s guards ambled past, patrolling the grounds, no attempt to conceal the Kalashnikov automatic rifle. Lainé nodded. The guard grunted some reply in German. A group of five men, refugees from East Germany who had been smuggled into Ireland, shared two rooms in one of the outbuildings.

  Hakon Foss trudged across the front of the house, dressed in mud-caked overalls, a watering can in his hand. Lainé waved. Foss waved back.

  The Norwegian knelt by one of the planters that lined up along the wall, spring flowers bursting like fireworks from the compost. Foss began plucking weeds from amongst them, dropping the scraps on the gravel beside him.

  Lainé crossed the path.

  Foss looked up from his work. “Hallo,” he said.

  Lainé smiled. “You work hard?”

  The Norwegian shrugged. “Not hard. I do this work two days ago. The Colonel, he calls, says come, do this work some more. What for?”

  Lainé extended the bottle towards him. Foss smiled, took the wine from Lainé’s hand, and drank. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He handed the bottle back and wiped his mouth.

  “You don’t want this work?” Lainé asked. “You don’t want the money?”

  Foss returned his stubby fingers to the compost. “Oh, yes, I want work. I want money. Always I want money.”

  Lainé raised the bottle to his lips, swallowed. “To have money is good.”

  Foss laughed, shrugged, nodded. “Yes. Yes. Money is good. And to eat. And a place for sleeping. Money is good for these things.”

  Lainé smiled, patted Foss’s back, and said goodbye. He strolled away from the house, out of the gardens, towards the outbuildings. Chickens roamed and pecked at the earth. He nudged them aside with the toe of his boot.

  He found Tiernan in an open barn, fussing over a roiling mass of fur, cursing. The red-faced man looked up as Lainé entered.

  “How’re ya,” he said, giving a deferential nod.

  One of Tiernan’s collies, a bitch, lay in a bundle of blankets. Half a dozen pups wrestled and ran around her, hemmed in by a makeshift pen of wooden boards.

  “How old?” Lainé asked.

  “Seven weeks,” Tiernan said. “Some stray fucker got to her. Six bloody mongrels, no use to anyone. I should’ve drowned the wee bastards by now, but I didn’t have the heart. They’re just about weaned now, so there’s no avoiding it. It’ll be the sack and the river for them as soon as I gather the nerve to do it.”

  The old man reached out a hand, all sinew and knuckles, and scratched one of the pups behind the ear. It batted at his bony fingers with its paws, nipped his hard skin with needle teeth. Its siblings joined in the game.

  “I will take one,” Lainé said. He hunkered down, placed the bottle by his side, looked from one pup to the next. All but one of them mobbed Tiernan’s hand, a black and brown male, smaller than the others. Lainé dipped his fingers towards it. The pup hesitated, sniffed at his skin, then its tiny tongue lapped at him.

  “This one,” he said.

  “All right, so,” Tiernan said. “But don’t let the missus see it in the house. She’ll have a blue fit.”

  Tiernan’s wife served as Skorzeny’s housekeeper. A German woman, stout and fierce, she had come to Ireland before the war and married the Irishman. She had already scolded Lainé for walking mud into the house.

  “I will hide it from her,” Lainé said.

  He reached down, plucked the pup from the pen, and thanked Tiernan. It squirmed in his hands. He tucked it under his arm, took the wine in his free hand, and set off towards the house.

  When he entered through the kitchen, Mrs. Tiernan stood arguing with the chef who had arrived that morning from the Horcher restaurant in Madrid, Skorzeny’s favourite eatery in Europe. The Spaniard had been flown over to prepare the feast for the following evening. Half a dozen pheasants lay in two rows on the kitchen table. Evidently Mrs. Tiernan and the chef disagreed on how best to prepare the birds, each speaking in their own language, miming their points with their hands, their voices rising.

  Lainé slipped past unnoticed.

  He made his way to the stairs, was half way up when a voice called, “Célestin.”

  Lainé stopped, turned, saw Skorzeny.

  “Yes?”

  “What have you got there?”

  “A pup,” Lainé said. He held the mite up, its little legs thrashing at the air.

  “Don’t let Frau Tiernan find it in your room.”

  “I won’t.”

  Skorzeny pointed. “And that?”

  Lainé’s fingers tightened on the bottle of wine. “I was thirsty.”

  “No more,” Skorzeny said. “I want to begin questioning Hakon Foss tonight. You must be sober
. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Lainé went to his room, placed the wine on the bedside locker and the puppy on the bed. It explored the blanket, sniffing, whimpering. Lainé rolled it on its back, scratched its belly. It boxed his hand with its paws.

  Alongside the puppy, on the bed, sat a worn leather satchel, not unlike the kind of bag a doctor might carry. It contained no medicines, no pills, only tools. Sharp things. Jagged things.

  From outside, below his window, Lainé heard whistling. Foss, cheerful in his labour, even if he believed his services were not truly required today. And he was right, the work was not needed. Skorzeny simply wanted the Norwegian here, on the grounds. At the end of the working day, he would be asked to stay for supper. Perhaps he would protest, say that he should leave for home, but Skorzeny would insist. Foss would eat well, perhaps have some wine.

  Then Foss would be escorted to one of the outbuildings, and Lainé would bring his bag, and all his shining tools. Lainé and Foss would talk long into the night.

  The puppy’s teeth closed on Lainé’s forefinger, causing a bright point of pain. Lainé pulled his hand away, scolded the little dog. He sucked the blood from his finger, tasted salt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  RYAN FLED, LEFT her there.

  He drove for an hour or more, main roads, country lanes, paying no attention to where he was heading as the sun dipped towards the hillsides. The scene played out in his mind, over and over. The muffled pop of the pistol, the shocked look in her eyes. Her body falling.

  The fuel gauge slipped into the red. He took note of road signs and navigated his way towards a village. A petrol station stood at the middle of its one street. He pulled in and told the attendant to fill the tank.

  A phone box stood on the other side of the road.

  Ryan crossed to it. He told the operator what he wanted. The operator hesitated, and Ryan told her to just fucking do it.

  Two more transfers, and he was through to Haughey’s secretary.

  Three minutes later, he had what he wanted, and the secretary was in tears.

  RYAN PULLED TO the curb outside the Royal Hibernian Hotel, its four storeys looming white over Dawson Street. He got out of the car, took the steps up to the hotel entrance two at a time, ignored the doorman beneath the awning.

  Inside, porters and receptionists eyed him with suspicion. A man with a thin moustache asked, “Can I help you, sir?”

  They knew Ryan didn’t belong here, and so did he. The clientele of this place dressed well, lived well, and ate well in its restaurant and tea rooms. They came from the country estates outside Dublin, or the grand city houses with archways leading to stable blocks. They rode horses through Phoenix Park, they went to the races, they took holidays abroad and gave generously to charities.

  Ryan ignored the man with the thin moustache and strode through the foyer to the restaurant. The maitre d’ blocked his path. Ryan shoved him aside.

  Charles J. Haughey looked up from his soup. A young woman, who Ryan guessed was not the minister’s wife, followed his gaze, turned back to Haughey, said something.

  Ryan crossed the room.

  Haughey pulled the napkin from his collar, dropped it on the tablecloth.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Ryan?”

  The restaurant’s patrons craned their necks to see the intruder.

  Ryan straightened his jacket, smoothed his tie. “A word, Minister.”

  Haughey smiled at his companion. “You might have called my secretary and made an appointment.”

  “A word. Now.”

  Haughey’s smile slipped away, the hawk’s glare hard on Ryan. “You might also keep a civil tongue when you talk to me, big fella. Come by my office in the morning if you need to discuss something. Until then, fuck off and leave me in peace. Understood?”

  The maitre d’ appeared at Ryan’s side, addressed the minister. “Sir, is there a problem?”

  “No problem,” Haughey said. “This gentleman was just leaving.”

  The maitre d’ took Ryan’s elbow, tried to guide him away. Ryan shook him off, kept his gaze on Haughey. “Shall we discuss it here in the restaurant? Or somewhere else?”

  The maitre d’ turned his pleading eyes back to the minister. “Sir, really, I must ask you to—”

  “All right, for fuck’s sake.” Haughey stood, pushing his chair back to collide with the diner behind him. “Come on, then.”

  Ryan followed him out of the restaurant. In the foyer, Haughey spotted the cloakroom, steered Ryan towards it.

  The coat check girl said “Tickets, please.”

  Haughey pulled a ten shilling note from his pocket, pushed it into the girl’s hand, said, “Piss off, love, go and have yourself a cigarette or something.”

  She stood open-mouthed for a moment, then looked at the note in her hand, grinned. “Very good, sir.”

  Haughey grabbed Ryan’s sleeve, shoved him into the cloakroom, slammed the door behind them.

  “Right, now what in the name of holy God do you want, you ignorant shite?”

  Ryan prised Haughey’s fingers from his sleeve. “I want off this assignment.”

  “What? You dragged me away from dinner to tell me that? No. No fucking way. You were given a job, now you bloody well do it, do you hear me?”

  “I don’t want your job,” Ryan said. “I won’t do it.”

  Haughey placed the fingertips of his left hand at the centre of Ryan’s chest, raised the forefinger of his right. “Yes you will. You’ll do what you’re told, big fella, or mark my words, I will destroy you. Ask anyone about Charlie Haughey. They’ll all tell you the same. I take shite from no man, least of all a fucking jumped up squaddie like you. Believe me, boy, I’ll make you wish your father had pulled out of your mother, you hear me?”

  “I won’t do—”

  Haughey shoved Ryan back against the coat rail. “You hear me, big fella?”

  Ryan launched his body forward, grabbed Haughey’s tie with one hand, gripped his neck with the other, pinching the windpipe. Haughey fell back into the coats, fur and tweed flapping around him, his eyes bulging.

  “I watched a woman commit suicide today,” Ryan said.

  Haughey’s throat made clicking sounds as his mouth opened and closed.

  “She put the barrel of a pistol in her mouth and pulled the trigger. She did that because she knew what your friend Skorzeny would do to her. I will not protect a man like him. I watched too many good men die fighting his kind. I won’t take orders from scum like that.”

  Haughey dug at Ryan’s fingers with his own. Ryan eased the pressure, let him breathe.

  “I won’t do it,” Ryan said.

  Haughey squirmed in his grasp, choking for air.

  “Get your … fucking … hands off me.”

  Ryan let him go, stepped back.

  Haughey bent over, hands on his knees, coughed, spat on the cloakroom floor. He gulped and swallowed.

  “Jesus Christ, man. What woman? What are you talking about?”

  “Catherine Beauchamp. She was the informant. She told me before she died.”

  Haughey made the sign of the cross, his chest heaving. “Mother of God. Have you told Skorzeny?”

  “No.”

  “All right, I’ll tell him. Did she give you anything?”

  “Nothing,” Ryan said. He would not mention the pictures of the children, or the flies on their dead lips.

  Haughey shook his head. “This is getting out of hand. It needs to stop. You can’t quit now. I won’t allow it.”

  “You have no authority to—”

  “The director put you at my disposal. That means you do whatever the fuck I tell you to do. I know you don’t like it. Neither do I. But I’m the Minister for Justice. Justice, you hear me? Do you understand what that means? You might think Otto Skorzeny is a piece of shit, him and his whole bloody crew, and for all you know I might think the same. You can think what you like, but murder is
murder. I won’t have it. Not in my country. It’s my job to put a stop to it, and that’s what I’ll bloody well do. You have a problem with that, then you can talk to the director.”

  Haughey straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, and went to the door. He turned back to Ryan.

  “This is your country too, you know. You might have been a lickspittle to the Brits at one time, but this is still your country. You remember that.”

  He exited, left Ryan alone with his anger.

  RYAN LEFT THE cloakroom, marched across the foyer, and down to the street beyond. Darkness had fallen on the city, bringing with it a sickly drizzle. He buttoned his jacket, shoved his hands down into his pockets.

  The western end of Molesworth Street faced the Royal Hibernian’s entrance. He decided to leave the car where he’d parked it and walk the two hundred yards or so to Buswells, at the eastern end.

  Ryan kept his head down as he walked. The street was almost empty, but even so, he didn’t want to risk anyone seeing the rage that burned in him.

  He paid no attention to the unmarked van as he passed it. Not until the dark-haired man in the good suit stepped out from in front of it to block his path.

  “Good evening, Lieutenant Ryan,” he said in his not-quite-American accent.

  Ryan stopped, his hands ready. “What do you—”

  The blow came from behind, hard to the base of his skull. His knees gave way and he sprawled on the wet pavement. Before he could recover, someone straddled his back, and a hand pressed a rag to his nose and mouth.

  Cold sweetness swamped Ryan’s skull. He tried to roll, throw his weight to the side, but the man astride his back grew so heavy, and Ryan was so warm here on the ground, and it was so soft.

  Through flickering eyelids, he saw the dark-haired man hunker down in front of him, a smile on his lips.

  Ryan wanted to say something, ask the man something, he couldn’t remember what, but anyway, it was too late.

  The world had already disappeared.

  II

  RÉSISTANT