Ratlines

by Stuart Neville

  Ryan held his gaze. “Then why didn’t you go after him instead of those others? How did killing Helmut Krauss help you?”

  “Albert, I’ve told you twice already, but let me tell you again. We did not kill Helmut Krauss, Johan Hambro or Alex Renders. Their deaths have rather compromised us, in fact. This business has spooked Skorzeny. If he wasn’t such a stubborn bastard, he’d have cleared out by now, gone back to Madrid and his buddy Franco. And our mission would be over. A failure.”

  “So what is your mission?”

  “We want those ratlines.”

  Ryan smiled. “It seems to me the quickest way to close them down would be to kill Skorzeny.”

  Weiss cringed. “You disappoint me, Albert. If Skorzeny died, control of the money and the ratlines would simply pass to someone else. No, I didn’t say we wanted to close down the ratlines. We want control of them. We want Skorzeny under our thumb, and we want to know every single person who tries to escape through the network, and everyone who got through in the past. We can let most of them go, the nobodies, but we can grab the big fish. We want them on trial. Failing that, we want them dead. Either way, we want justice to be done.”

  “Why would Skorzeny ever give them up? You’ve got nothing to threaten him with.”

  “Ah, but I do.” Weiss’s grin spread so wide it seemed to glow. “Skorzeny lives damn well on what he draws from the fund for himself. His friends gave him a pretty good allowance, plus he earned some on the side, running those mercenary training courses in Spain and so on. A CIA friend of mine attended one, said he learned a lot.

  “But Skorzeny got greedy. We acquired some paperwork from Heidegger Bank, a little family-run institution just outside of Zurich. Some statements that were mislaid and found their way to me. You see, about seven or eight years ago, Skorzeny started channelling a little of his Kameraden’s money away. Not much at any one time, a few thousand from an interest dividend here, a hundred thousand from a lodgement there. Pretty soon, he’s got a few million stacking up in a little side account that his buddies don’t know about. He’s been skimming off the top, as they call it in Las Vegas.”

  “You’re going to blackmail him?”

  “Exactly. Now, we’ve spent a lot of time and resources on this mission, and we don’t want it destroyed by some hotheads with a grudge. Is that unreasonable?”

  “No,” Ryan said.

  “No, indeed. Some gang of rogues comes along and starts picking off Skorzeny’s friends. Skorzeny gets worried, involves the government, and here you are. Right in the middle of it all.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “The same thing your friend the Minister for Justice wants. I want it stopped.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CÉLESTIN LAINÉ KNEW Hakon Foss was strong, but still, he was shocked at the Norwegian’s resilience.

  The guards had brought Foss to the barn and sat him down at an old wooden table, holes drilled in its top to allow the leather straps to be passed through and hold his wrists in place, fingers splayed on the surface. Skorzeny had sat opposite and talked to Foss in his calmest, softest voice while Lainé readied the kerosene blowtorch.

  “Please speak honestly,” Skorzeny said. He enunciated slowly, clearly. “It would be best for all of us, but most especially for you. We can avoid any unpleasantness if you answer my questions truthfully.”

  Foss’s fingers twitched on the tabletop. He watched as Lainé lit the small reserve of fuel in the blowtorch’s drip pan.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  Lainé left the torch to heat and began arranging his tools on the table. A sturdy penknife, a pair of sharpened secateurs, a scalpel, a set of dental pliers.

  The pliers were mostly for effect, to frighten the subject under interrogation. Lainé had only resorted to using them on a subject’s teeth on a handful of occasions. It was far too difficult to hold the head in place, and his or her jaw open, to make an extraction worthwhile under all but the most extreme circumstances.

  Often, and to Lainé’s disappointment, the subject would offer up the required information the moment he or she saw the tools and the blowtorch. The anticipation of pain is a far greater torment than pain itself. All skilled interrogators know this.

  Skorzeny said, “I want to know who you have been talking to.”

  Foss shook his head. “I talk to no one. Who says I talk?”

  Lainé opened the blowtorch’s fuel valve. The blue flame burst to life with a pop and a hiss. Foss jumped in his seat, a high yelp escaping him. Lainé lifted his penknife, opened its blade, and held the steel to the flame.

  “How long?” Skorzeny asked.

  “A minute, no more,” Lainé said.

  Skorzeny turned his attention back to Foss. “A minute. You have this time to tell me the truth, Hakon. Who have you talked to about me?”

  The Norwegian’s face creased with fear. “No one. I talk to no one. Why do you ask this?”

  “I ask this because I know someone close has betrayed me. I know someone has passed on information to others. Information about me, about my associates. My friends, Hakon. Your friends.”

  “Not me,” Hakon said. “I talk to no one.”

  “If you have not talked to anyone, then why did you run?”

  Foss had no other response to offer than to open his mouth, the corners turned down, the rapid blinks of his glistening eyes.

  “I will ask you once more. If you do not answer truthfully, Célestin will cause you great pain.”

  “I talk to no—”

  “Who have you talked to about me?”

  “No one. I talk to no one.”

  Skorzeny gave a small nod, and Lainé seized Foss’s thumb. He took the glowing blade from the flame and began his work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  WEISS HANDED RYAN two photographs. One was a grainy head-and-shoulders image of a man, mid to late twenties, a beret on his head, the collar of his combat uniform open. He had the hard-jawed expression of a man uncomfortable with having his portrait taken. Ryan looked at the second photograph. A group picture, a dozen uniformed men, one of them circled: the same image, blown up.

  “Who is this?” Ryan asked.

  “This is Captain John Carter,” Weiss said. “He wasn’t a captain at the time that photograph was taken, but he was by the time he left the British Army.”

  Ryan studied the group picture. The men lined up against a rough wall, short sleeves and trousers, some with handkerchiefs held in place by their hats to protect their necks from the sun. Sand dusted their boots.

  “Special Air Services,” Weiss said, completing Ryan’s thought for him. “Deployed in North Africa. Covert operations, behind enemy lines. The dirty stuff.”

  Ryan looked again at the blown up photograph of Carter, the hard features, the cold stare.

  “Is he …?”

  Weiss nodded. “Yes, I believe he leads the band of merry men who’ve been dealing with Ireland’s Nazi problem.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “A South African information broker. He let me know that a certain Captain John Carter, quite by coincidence, had been showing an interest in Otto Skorzeny. He had procured some small arms through a mutual contact in the Netherlands. At the same time, Carter let it be known that he had a spot to fill on a small team of former comrades he had gathered. He wouldn’t be drawn on the nature of the team’s work, other than it would be most interesting.”

  Ryan traced a fingertip across the image. “It has to be him.”

  “Of course. I couldn’t expose my own mission by going to either the British or Irish intelligence services about this. Thus the rather elaborate means of getting you here.”

  “Well, you got me here. What now?”

  “Now we each set about finding Captain Carter and his men. We’ll continue to keep an eye on you. If you want to make contact, place a copy of the Irish Times on the dashboard of your car wherever you have it parked. I’d appreciate it
if you share anything you discover. I will do likewise. But one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t let Skorzeny know about me, or what I’ve told you. Don’t let him know about Carter, or anything we’ve discussed here. If you tell him, he’ll want to know how you found out. If he suspects you’re holding anything back, then believe me, the discussion you have with him will not be as cordial as this one.”

  “And what if I don’t want to cooperate with you? What if I tell Skorzeny everything?”

  Weiss leaned forward, the broad grin returning to his lips. “Then I’ll kill you and everyone you love.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  FOSS WOULD NOT break.

  Even as his second thumbnail peeled away, he resisted. He cried, babbling in his native tongue, the dogs across the yard replying with their own howls. He bucked and writhed until the guards had to hold him down. But still he would say nothing. Always the same denial.

  Two more fingernails, more screaming, more writhing, and no confession.

  “This is going nowhere,” Skorzeny said. “Take a finger.”

  Lainé suppressed a smile and placed the penknife back on the table. He lifted the secateurs, gripped the little finger of Foss’s left hand between the blades, just below the knuckle, and squeezed the handle.

  Foss opened his mouth, a high whine from his throat, as the blades closed on bone. Lainé applied more pressure until the bone gave way. The amputated finger rolled away from the spray of blood.

  Lainé returned the penknife’s blade to the jet of the blowtorch. When it glowed, he pressed it to the stump on Foss’s hand, ignored the smell as it cauterised the wound.

  Foss’s head sagged back, his shoulders slumped.

  “Have we lost him?” Skorzeny asked.

  “I don’t know,” Lainé said. “He is strong, but he is tired. Let me see.”

  He rummaged in his bag until he found a small brown glass vial. The ammonia stench made him recoil as he undid the stopper. He held the vial under Foss’s nose.

  The Norwegian’s head jerked away from the smelling salts. He gasped, snorted, coughed. A thin stream of bile spilled from his lips, beer and undigested cheese sauce.

  Skorzeny stood and walked away from the table, the corners of his mouth downturned in abhorrence.

  “Enough,” he said. “We will continue tomorrow. Give him the night to think about his fate.” He addressed the guards. “Don’t let him leave this room. If he tries anything, wound him, but keep him alive.”

  The guards nodded their acknowledgement, and Skorzeny marched to the door. Outside, Lainé caught up to him.

  “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Of course,” Skorzeny said. “He pissed on himself and ran. He is guilty. And you will make him talk.”

  “I’ll try,” Lainé said. “But he’s strong.”

  “Even the strongest man has a breaking point. You will find that point. Good night.”

  Lainé watched Skorzeny stride towards the house, the Austrian’s head held high, his shoulders back, his coat-tails billowing behind him. Lainé hated and admired his arrogance in equal measure.

  He went back to the outbuilding and found one of the guards giving Foss water. The Norwegian pulled his head away from the cup.

  “Célestin,” he said. “Please, Célestin.”

  Lainé ignored him as he washed the penknife in the bucket of water that sat on the ground. He scraped the blade on the bucket’s lip, charred flesh falling away.

  “Célestin, help. Help. My friend. Help.”

  Lainé rinsed the secateurs clean of Foss’s blood. He gathered the tools and returned them to the leather bag, then extinguished the blowtorch’s flame.

  “Help, Célestin. I talk to no one. Tell him. Célestin.”

  Lainé set the blowtorch on a shelf and carried his bag to the door.

  “Célestin, please.”

  He walked from the light to the darkness, back to the house. The kitchen stood dark and empty. He lifted a small plate from the drainer on his way to the cellar. He emerged a few minutes later with a 1950 Charmes-Chambertin under his arm. He carried the wine, the plate and his bag upstairs to his small room.

  The puppy pawed at Lainé’s shins when he entered. It had messed in the corner, but he didn’t mind the smell. It would do until morning. He set the plate on the floor, then placed the piece of schnitzel he had saved from dinner upon it. The puppy sniffed and licked the meat.

  Lainé used the corkscrew he kept in the top drawer of his bedside locker to open the bottle. Perhaps he should have let it breathe, but thirst insisted that he drink now. As he did so, he noticed the puppy struggling with the pork, the piece too large for it.

  He reached down, lifted the schnitzel, bit off a piece of grey meat and breadcrumb, and chewed. When the meat had turned to a warm mush, he spat it onto his fingers and lowered it to the puppy.

  Lainé smiled as it ate.

  He hardly thought of Hakon Foss at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  RYAN CHECKED THE time as he entered his hotel room. Half past one in the morning. He didn’t undress, just removed his tie and lay down on the bed.

  Weiss had reapplied the blindfold, guided Ryan outside and into the van. They had driven for at least forty minutes, but Ryan had felt his weight shift from side to side with constant turns, so he guessed the garage to which they’d brought him was much closer to the city centre.

  When the van stopped, the blindfold was removed. Weiss crouched beside Ryan.

  “Remember what we agreed, Albert. You help me, I’ll help you.”

  Ryan did not reply. They left him in an alley off Grafton Street, a few minutes’ walk from Buswells.

  The night porter opened the locked doors of the hotel for him. Ryan gave him the room number, and the porter fetched the key from behind the desk.

  “Rough night, was it?” the porter asked.

  Now Ryan lay in the dark, his head throbbing, the room swaying around him in sickly waves. He tried to think only of Celia, but sleep crept up on him like a thief, and he dreamed of children and the flies on their dead lips.

  BATHED AND SHAVED, but weary—he had been woken by the light from his window not long after seven—Ryan walked the paths of St. Stephen’s Green, thinking. He found a quiet spot, a bench shaded by trees, overlooking the pond and the ducks swimming there.

  Weiss had let him keep the photographs. He studied them now. The men in the group portrait—were any of them part of Colonel John Carter’s team? Ryan looked at each man in turn, committing their faces to his memory. The photograph was marked June 1943 on the back. Carter, all of them, would be twenty years older than in this picture.

  He had spent the morning turning it over in his mind. How to find one man who could be hiding anywhere in the entire country?

  Carter had left the military two years ago, Weiss said. He had married a woman from Liverpool, fathered a boy, but the mother and child had perished in a car accident. The last twenty years of his duty had been as part of the Special Air Service, the most secretive branch of the British Army. Any attempt to trace him through his service record would be futile.

  But Weiss had dropped a thread for Ryan, something to tug at. The Isreali had made it appear incidental, a throw away comment, so that it would plant a seed in Ryan’s mind. But Ryan knew it had been deliberate. When he drove to Otto Skorzeny’s country home this evening, he would see whether or not the thread led to the destination he imagined.

  “Albert.”

  Celia’s voice startled him, first in the fright it lit in him, then the pleasure it brought. He looked up, saw her approach from the western end of the park, dressed in a manner that would have seemed businesslike on any other woman. She had been placed in one of the nearby government offices while she awaited a new foreign posting. Practically a secretary, she’d said, and deathly dull.

  Ryan tucked the photographs into his pocket and got to his feet. Celia stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, h
er hand on his arm for balance, warm and delicate.

  “You were looking terribly thoughtful,” she said.

  “Was I?”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  Ryan smiled. “You.”

  Celia blushed.

  SHE ORDERED EGGS Benedict. When the waiter reminded her that the Shelbourne Hotel’s breakfast service ended at ten o’clock, Celia pouted.

  The waiter crumbled. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “And for you, sir?”

  Ryan ordered the salmon, and the waiter left.

  She sipped her gin and tonic. He took a mouthful of Guinness.

  Celia asked, “Really, what were you thinking about in the park?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Work, that’s all.”

  “You looked troubled.”

  Ryan couldn’t hold her gaze. He studied the fibres of the tablecloth.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “I don’t like the job I’m doing.”

  She laughed. “Nobody likes their job. Apart from me, but I’m an exception. Everybody hates getting up in the morning and going to work.”

  “I don’t mean it that way,” Ryan said. “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Not even to me?”

  “The job I’ve been ordered to do. It’s wrong.”

  “How?”

  “I can’t say any more.”

  She reached out and placed her hand on top of his. The slenderness of her fingers made them appear brittle, fragile things. He turned his palm upwards, let her fingers slip between his.

  “If it’s in service of your country, how can it be wrong?” she asked.

  Ryan met her eyes. “You’re not that naive.”

  “No, I suppose not. If you really can’t bear it, then tell them no, you won’t do it.”