Ratlines

by Stuart Neville

  Ryan shook his head once more. “But you said … your mission.”

  “My mission still stands,” Weiss said. “This is just a little side project. I’m not on company time, as it were. This project was undertaken initially by Captain Carter, he recruited his team, and I came onboard last. I still get control of Skorzeny’s ratlines, and I add a little something to my pension pot. Where’s the harm in that?”

  “But those people. They died for this?”

  Weiss smiled. “They were fucking Nazis, Albert. They did not deserve to walk and breathe among human beings.”

  “Catherine Beauchamp. She didn’t deserve to die.”

  Weiss shrugged in acceptance. “Maybe so, but she died by her own hand. If you hadn’t called at her door, she’d still be alive. You can’t hold that over me.”

  “All this. For money.”

  “Of course. What other reason do you need?”

  Ryan did not answer. Instead, he asked, “Why did you bring me into this?”

  “I didn’t. Charles Haughey brought you into this.”

  “But you contacted me. You came at me in that bar.”

  “True. When I found out you were sniffing around, I wanted to get the measure of you. Then I thought, why not draw you in? You were my inside man, Albert, the best kind. The kind who doesn’t even know it. So I dropped a few crumbs for you along the way. We’d gotten everything we could from Célestin Lainé. You would have figured out he was the informant eventually, and I wanted to see if that would lead you to Carter’s doorstep. I wanted to see if you could possibly endanger this project. Turns out you could, and I’m glad I reined you in before you did any more damage. And you might be of use to me yet.”

  Weiss leaned across the gap between them, held the newspaper in front of Ryan’s eyes. Ryan squinted at the page, his mouth hanging open.

  Weiss leaned back. “All right, I’ll read it for you.” He drew a breath and began. “ ‘To Constant Follower’—that’s us, by the way—‘I do not agree to your terms. I will, however, agree to one third of the amount for whichever one of you can prove he is the last of his kind.’ ”

  Weiss looked over the top of the newspaper. “Do you understand what this means?”

  “No,” Ryan said.

  “It means that Colonel Skorzeny is clever, but perhaps not as clever as he thinks. In thinly veiled terms, he has said that he will pay half a million dollars to whichever one of us is willing to betray the others, kill them, and bring proof of such to him.”

  Ryan’s gaze travelled between each man in the room.

  Weiss tapped his knee to regain his attention. “But of course I anticipated this. We have discussed it in detail, and agreed against any such betrayal.”

  Ryan laughed, winced at whatever pains it stoked. “Do you really think you can trust these men?”

  “Trust has nothing to do with it. It’s a matter of logic. Say I kill everyone in this room and bring their heads to Skorzeny. You think he’ll honour his offer? Or do you think he’ll cut my balls off and choke me with them? I suspect the latter. No, the smart strategy is for us to stick together. As a unit, we can break him. If one man goes it alone, then Skorzeny will destroy him. Don’t you agree?”

  “It’s insane. You’re all crazy.”

  “Maybe so. But if I was given to entirely rational thinking, I’d still be managing my father’s drugstore in Brooklyn instead of fighting for Israel.”

  “This isn’t fighting for Israel. This is greed.”

  “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that point. We have a more urgent question at hand.”

  Ryan waited.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what the question is?”

  “I don’t care,” Ryan said.

  Weiss leaned forward. “Well, you really should. You see, the question is this: What shall we do with Lieutenant Albert Ryan?”

  CHAPTER FORTY NINE

  RYAN KNEW WEISS wanted him to react, to make some angry or fearful reply. He kept his mouth shut.

  “Of course,” Weiss said, “the smart thing to do would be to kill you and dump your corpse on Skorzeny’s doorstep. Let him know he can’t bargain with us.”

  Wallace grinned. Carter and Gracey stared.

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Ryan asked.

  “Well, that was the plan,” Weiss said.

  Carter stood up from the windowsill. “It still is.”

  Weiss raised a hand to silence him. “Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Bollocks to that.” Carter came to Weiss’s side. “We agreed on this. We put a bullet in his head and a note in his pocket. We’ve been over and over it for two days, for Christ’s sake.”

  Ryan watched the anger burn on Carter’s face, the cool calm on Weiss’s. Which of these men held command?

  “Let’s go over it one more time,” Weiss said, his voice even and smooth like still water.

  Carter put his hands on his hips. “No. There’s been enough talk already. Do it, Wallace.”

  Wallace snapped into action, raised his pistol, marched towards Ryan, aim centring on his chest.

  Weiss moved with such speed, Ryan couldn’t be sure what he’d seen. The agent had been seated, hands and newspaper in his lap, as Wallace came alongside him. Then he was upright. Ryan’s eyes followed the newspaper’s drift towards the floor, only caught an impression of Weiss seizing Wallace’s outstretched arm with one hand, the pistol with the other. When Ryan looked back up, Weiss held the suppressor’s muzzle to the Rhodesian’s forehead.

  Carter stepped back. Gracey went to raise his own weapon. Carter waved a hand to stop him.

  Weiss spoke, his voice soft and gentle, carrying only the slightest tremor from the exertion. “Like I said: Let’s go over it one more time.”

  Wallace backed away, his hands flexing, his face flushed with anger.

  “Leave it, Wallace,” Carter said.

  Wallace bared his teeth. “I’m going to kill the Jew bastard.”

  “I said leave it. That’s an order.”

  Wallace clenched his fists.

  Carter crossed the room and put a hand on Wallace’s shoulder. “Step outside and cool off. Now. Gracey, you go with him.”

  Gracey holstered his weapon and took Wallace by the arm. As they left the room, Ryan heard Wallace whisper, “I’ll fucking kill that Jew bastard.”

  Carter and Weiss stood in silence for a time before Weiss smiled and said, “Got a little heated, there, didn’t it?”

  He handed Wallace’s pistol over.

  Carter took the weapon, stowed it in his waistband, and pointed a finger at Weiss. He stabbed the air as he spoke. “Don’t you dare undermine me in front of my men again. Ever. I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

  “Your men?” A wide grin cracked across Weiss’s face. “You don’t own them. You bought them, but they have no loyalty to you. They’d cut your throat for a dollar. Don’t forget that.”

  “I’ve had just about enough of your mouth. Now say whatever you’ve got to say so I can shoot this bastard.”

  “All right. Just hear me out. If you still don’t see things my way, then by all means, do what you have to do.”

  Carter returned to his seat on the windowsill. “Let’s have it, then.”

  Weiss paced the room as he spoke. “So, poor Tommy MacAuliffe’s demise has left us a man down. Not only that, our only other man on the inside has been compromised. Célestin Lainé gave you up the second Ryan here got hold of him. He’s no good to us anymore. He’ll tell Skorzeny everything sooner or later.”

  “Then we kill him,” Carter said.

  “Is that your answer for everything? Actually, in this instance, it’s probably the best option. But here’s the thing: We’ve got a great big hole in our operation now. And I know how to fill it.”

  Ryan watched the workings of Carter’s mind play out on his face. Eventually, his features hardened. “No,” Carter said.

  “Yes,” Weiss said. He aimed a finger at Ryan. “This
man right here.”

  “No,” Carter said again, shaking his head.

  “Don’t you see? It’s the perfect solution. He can get right next to Skorzeny, tell us what he’s thinking. More than that, he can influence Skorzeny, push him in whatever direction we want him to go.”

  “It’s madness,” Carter said. “He’ll turn us over.”

  “I don’t think so. You won’t, will you, Albert?”

  Ryan had no reply. He stared up at the men, blinking.

  “Of course he will. He’s taking his orders from a Nazi bastard, him and that politician. He’s one of them.”

  Weiss turned back to Ryan, leaned over, hands on his knees. “Is that so, Albert? Are you in bed with the infamous Nazi Otto Skorzeny? Are you a collaborator?”

  The word stung Ryan. “No,” he said.

  “Yes you are,” Weiss said. “A collaborator. Just like Elouan Groix was, or Hakon Foss. Or Catherine Beauchamp.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Ryan said, the words hissing between his teeth. “I am not one of them. I am not a collaborator.”

  “But you take orders from Otto Skorzeny.”

  “I take my orders from the Directorate of Intelligence. I was given a job to do.”

  Weiss straightened. “Funny, a lot of people said that after the war. It was only a job.”

  “I was given an assignment. I wish I hadn’t taken it, but I had no choice. I fought men like Skorzeny in Europe and North Africa. It cost me everything, but I did it anyway. I am not one of them.”

  “You hear that, Captain Carter? Lieutenant Albert Ryan is not a collaborator. He’s a soldier. Like you. Like I used to be. He might have fought alongside you, for all we know.”

  Carter folded his arms across his chest. “What, should we give him a medal?”

  “No. We should give him a place in our team.”

  “My arse, we should.”

  Weiss hunkered down in front of Ryan. “What do you say, Albert? You want to regain your honour by shafting Skorzeny? And get filthy fucking rich in the process, I should add.”

  Carter leapt from the windowsill. “Now hold on a bloody minute. There’s no way he’s getting a piece of this.”

  Weiss ignored him. “What do you think, Albert? It’s time to take a side. Do you want to help me bring Skorzeny down? Do you want to make more money than you’ve ever seen before?”

  Ryan looked from one man to the other, Carter furious, Weiss smiling.

  “What are you doing, Weiss?” Carter asked. “My boys won’t have it.”

  Weiss placed his hand on Ryan’s knee, words soft as air. “What’s it to be, Albert? Are you with me?”

  “Yes,” Ryan said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  LAINÉ SAID, “NO, I won’t.”

  “Why not?” Skorzeny asked as he took his seat across the desk.

  Lainé couldn’t meet the Austrian’s gaze. He drew deep on one of Skorzeny’s cigarettes. “She is innocent. She has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Celia Hume took the assignment. She willingly involved herself.”

  “I don’t care. I won’t help you question her.”

  “Come, Célestin, questioning women has never troubled you before.”

  Lainé looked up through the smoke. “It troubles me now. Interrogate her yourself. I want nothing more to do with it.”

  Skorzeny leaned back in his chair, lips upturned in a mockery of a smile. “I’m beginning to question your loyalty, Célestin. Have I not been generous towards you?”

  “You have. And I’m grateful. But I will not torture this woman for you.”

  Skorzeny’s face darkened. He went to speak, but the telephone’s clamour stopped his tongue. He lifted the handset, said,

  “Yes?”

  Lainé watched as Skorzeny’s eyes made tiny quick movements, his lips parted as he listened.

  “Very well,” Skorzeny said. “I will expect the minister’s call tomorrow.”

  He replaced the receiver and gave Lainé a slithering smile.

  “It seems we no longer require Miss Hume’s assistance. That was Charles Haughey’s secretary. Lieutenant Ryan has surfaced. He wishes to debrief the Minister for Justice tomorrow afternoon. After that, I will see to it that I question Lieutenant Ryan myself, in private. Do you object to assisting me in his interrogation?”

  Lainé said, “No, I do not.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

  A KNOCKING AT THE hotel room’s door pulled Ryan from the swirling terrors of his dreams. He started awake, cried out at the pain that tore through him. Darkness filled the room. How long had he slept?

  “Albert?” she called.

  “Celia,” he said.

  The door opened, a slash of light, Celia held within it. She found him with her eyes.

  “My God, Albert.”

  She entered, closed the door behind her.

  “Lock it,” he said.

  Ryan listened to her fumble with the bolt and chain until they clicked and rattled into place. The light came on, burning from the ceiling. Through the glare, he saw her frozen by the door, one hand on the switch.

  “Christ, Albert, what happened to you?”

  He lay on top of the bedclothes, naked but for a towel he had draped around his waist. Bruises like maps of foreign lands, purples and browns and yellows, flared across his torso. Dried blood crusted in the folds of his skin, under his arms, around his neck. And the burns, blistered and red, dotted across his chest, his belly, his thighs, his face. The worst of them on his stomach, a scorched cluster by his navel. He could smell his own seared flesh.

  Celia came to the bedside and knelt. Fat tears fell from her eyes onto his forearm, warm and heavy.

  “Oh God, Albert, what did they do to you?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said.

  Her fingertips skimmed his stomach and chest, circled the charred places. “You need a doctor. We’ll get a taxi to the hospital.”

  “No.” Ryan tried to sit up, managed only to lift his head. “No doctor. No hospital.”

  “But you must—”

  “No.” He took her wrist in his hand. “Help me up.”

  Celia slipped an arm under his back and supported him as he hoisted himself up on the bed. He lowered his feet to the floor, fought the nausea and dizziness that swelled in him.

  “Are these burns?” she asked. “We need to clean them.”

  Celia noticed the pistol resting on the bedside locker. Weiss had returned the Walther to Ryan, along with his car keys and wallet, before they pushed him out of the van. She opened the drawer, set the pistol inside, and pushed it closed.

  She sniffed back tears and went to the washbasin in the corner, put the plug in its hole, turned the taps. She came back to him, bent down, put her arms beneath his.

  “Come on,” she said. “Up you get.”

  Ryan pushed up with his legs, allowing her to take the weight of his torso. They staggered together to the corner. Celia dipped a hand in the water to test the temperature, then shut off the taps.

  She soaked a facecloth and reached for the towel at his waist. “Take that off.”

  Ryan held it in place. She pulled harder. He resisted.

  “I have three brothers and a subscription to National Geographic,” she said, forcing a scolding smile. “There’s nothing under there I haven’t seen before.”

  Ryan let her pull the towel away. She dropped it to the floor, brought a hand to her mouth to smother the gasp. He covered the burnt skin of his scrotum with his hands as she sobbed.

  “I want to kill them,” Ryan said.

  Celia wiped the tears from her cheeks and wrung out the facecloth.

  “I know,” she said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

  GOREN WEISS SAT across the table from Carter, studying the Englishman. The stuttering light of the kerosene lamp made him look older, the lines on his face deeper. A bottle of vodka, half empty, sat between them. Weiss lifted it, poured a measure into each of the two shot glasses.r />
  Carter reached for his, brought it to his lips, downed the alcohol, and coughed.

  Something rustled and scratched in the darkness around them, some vermin seeking shelter in the old derelict cottage. Gracey and Wallace slept in the room at the other end of the building.

  “You think you’re smart,” Carter said, his words dulled by the vodka.

  “Yes, I do,” Weiss said.

  It was not a lie. Goren Weiss knew he was smarter than just about anybody he’d ever met. Not smart in the way a studious schoolboy is—he’d never passed a real exam in his life—but he possessed an intelligence born of instinct and experience.

  His instinct told him Carter was a good soldier, but incapable of pulling off this job on his own. Wallace and Gracey were nothing more than infantrymen, albeit highly-trained infantrymen. MacAuliffe had been the best of Carter’s men. It had made Weiss sad to put a bullet in his head.

  Carter sneered at him from across the table. “Not smart enough to set this job up.”

  “But smart enough to see it works.”

  Weiss had stopped over for a couple of days in West Berlin on his way to Dublin to meet with Thomas de Groot, the South African. Weiss enjoyed Berlin every time he visited. He liked the idea of its suspension, a bubble of Western decadence trapped inside a hostile communist power. The barrier that split the city in two fascinated him. The brutal obscenity of it. He walked long stretches of the construction, wire fence and crude concrete blocks. Dour-faced GDR soldiers watched him as he passed, automatic rifles slung across their stomachs.

  Even though he knew the true geography of the land did not allow for it, he imagined the city of his birth lay on the other side of the barrier. Zwickau, where they now made rickety Trabant cars for those East Germans privileged enough to be able to purchase one. Weiss’s father had left for America the moment he sensed the coming storm that would sweep away so many of his kind, and settled in Brooklyn. Benjamin Weiss had left behind two brothers and his wife’s grave to find a new beginning across the Atlantic.