Ratlines

by Stuart Neville

  At one time, before the war when Goren Weiss was still a feckless kid bottling pills and potions for his father, he had entertained ideas of socialism. He had even attended a few Communist Party meetings at Brooklyn College. Mostly, he went so he could ogle college girls. Something in their serious and sincere demeanours caused heat in him, the creases in their brows as they listened to the speeches and made astute observations on the cost of capitalism to the American working classes.

  When he had gathered sufficient nerve, he asked one of the girls out. Ice cream, he had said. She had blonde hair tied back tight to her head and a scattering of pimples on her chin. He thought her name was Melissa. She had politely said that’s sweet, but no, thank you, and returned to her cluster of friends. He had stood with a bundle of pamphlets in his sweating fingers as they walked away giggling.

  He heard the word ‘kike’ and they erupted in laughter, glancing back over their shoulders at him. Young Weiss tore the pamphlets up and dumped them in the nearest garbage can. He was no longer a communist.

  By the time Weiss first visited Berlin, he had lost any notions of either the left or right having a moral superiority. He earned that knowledge as he fought his way across Europe, the hardest lesson learned a few miles from the city of Weimar, in what first appeared to be some kind of fenced-in village. The men fell silent as they neared the place, Buchenwald as Weiss learned, and above the thrumming of their engines, they heard the thin and pitiful cries.

  Weiss had felt for a moment that he had lost his sanity, that the stick figures beyond the fence were night terrors escaped from his mind into the waking world. Men and women and children, so shrivelled he couldn’t fathom how they still lived.

  The soldiers, his comrades, gasped and wept, covered their mouths and noses against the stench. They stepped down from their vehicles and walked amongst the shambling hordes, the mounds of bodies discarded by the Germans who had fled minutes before.

  Weiss took photographs with the small Brownie Six-16 folding camera he carried, images of children staring at the sky, flies on their dead lips.

  When the Germans had surrendered, Weiss learned the Soviets were every bit as cruel as the common Nazi enemy. Barbarians, a member of Weiss’s regiment had said. Goddamn animals. He saw the evidence of it himself in the weeks after Berlin fell, heard the stories from the mouths of those Russian soldiers who had fled to the Americans, and the civilians surviving among the ruins of the city. Women cowered in basements and attics, dreading the roving parties of drunken Soviet men who would rape anything that breathed.

  Not long after the Allies had carved up Germany’s corpse, the Soviets took over Buchenwald labour camp and put it to much the same use as it had been built for.

  In the end, for all of Hitler’s deranged evil, Stalin proved little better. So Weiss had learned that fascism and communism were brother and sister, each born of the same poison seed. And when those creeds met with nationalism, only bloodshed could follow.

  As it did in 1948 when Weiss fought for the creation of the state that was now his home. He had spent a year back in Brooklyn, helping his father around the drugstore, but he passed every moment of his spare time at meetings around the city, young men like him talking about Palestine and their brothers who fought there. Soon he travelled back to Europe, through Italy, ferried across the Mediterranean to be smuggled under the noses of the British. He joined the swelling ranks of the Haganah and was soon a member of the elite Palmach fighting force. He had shed joyful tears with his comrades as they listened to the radio broadcast of David Ben-Gurion reading Israel’s Declaration of Independence, the words that made his country real. He had fought for Israel’s existence ever since.

  Six months ago, Weiss had met Thomas de Groot in a cafe on Kochstrasse, not far from Checkpoint Charlie. De Groot was a large man, tall and generous at the waist, who sweated a great deal. One would have thought a South African used to the arid heat of his homeland might have found early winter in West Berlin to be cool. Weiss certainly did, but de Groot’s shirt was darkened by perspiration nonetheless.

  Thomas de Groot did not work for any government. At least, not any single government. He had neither allegiances nor enemies. He simply provided a service to anyone willing to pay. That service was the sourcing of information.

  De Groot handed a manila file across the cafe table. Weiss opened it, leafed through the contents, and closed it again. He passed a fat envelope back to de Groot.

  “You’ve been a good client,” de Groot said.

  “I know. I’m surprised that hasn’t qualified me for a discount.”

  De Groot smiled, showed his small blunt teeth. “Not a discount. A free gift, more like.”

  Weiss studied the South African for a moment. “Oh?”

  “You know I like to avoid disagreements, conflicts of interest, that sort of thing. Doesn’t do anyone any good to be tripping over each other out in the field.”

  Weiss nodded. “Indeed it doesn’t.”

  “Well, something came up, and I thought it best to make you aware of it. Just in case.”

  “What is it?”

  A waitress set about cleaning the table next to them. They held their silence until she had finished.

  “Someone else has been asking after Otto Skorzeny,” de Groot said.

  “Who? Which agency?”

  De Groot shook his head. “No agency. No government. No one official.”

  “A freelancer?”

  “An Englishman. Captain John Carter, formerly of the SAS. He’s been seeking information on Skorzeny and his associates in Ireland. Not directly from me, you understand, but a friend of mine in Amsterdam was approached some time ago. I wouldn’t have been too concerned, after all information is information, I just find it lying around and store it up to save men like you the trouble of finding it for yourself.”

  “But?”

  “But it seems Captain Carter has also been spending time in procurement and recruitment.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Small arms. Clean, never used in anger. My friend was able to help him with that. And manpower. He was looking for someone to complete a team. Someone experienced in commando operations. He let it be known it was interesting work and potentially lucrative.”

  “I see. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll arrange for a small bonus to be wired to you.”

  De Groot smiled and stood. “Not too small, I hope.”

  Weiss shook his hand. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  It took a month of investigation to track Carter down, and another six weeks of observation before Weiss was confident of his next move: introducing himself.

  Carter had been flying back and forth between Dublin and London, a week in one city, a fortnight in the other. He had been eating alone in a pub on the Vauxhall Bridge Road when Weiss first approached him.

  The first conversation had not gone well. In fact, it had developed into a fist fight on a path by the Thames riverbank, but eventually, with a knee planted between the Englishman’s shoulder blades, Weiss had been able to convince Carter to see things his way.

  Carter’s original plan had been a mess. It had involved little more than storming Skorzeny’s farm, taking him prisoner, and convincing him to hand over the money. The subtlety, if such a word could be applied, of using Skorzeny’s Kameraden as statements of intent had been Weiss’s contribution to the plan. Carter and his men were excellent soldiers, Weiss had no doubt of that, but they were not tacticians. Not like him.

  Now, in this damp and stinking cottage, Carter glared across the table at Weiss with all the hatred of a man who knows the object of his attention is better than him.

  “You’re not so clever,” he said, reaching for the vodka bottle.

  Weiss snatched it away from his grasp. “Go easy, my friend.”

  Carter bared his teeth, his breathing deepened, then a grin spread across his face. “You know, Wallace wanted to kill you today. He took me aside. He said, why don’t we just blo
w that Jew bastard’s head off? And I thought about it. I really did. You and that Mick you’re so fond of. We could have got rid of both of you, left you out here in the arsehole of nowhere. We could see this thing through ourselves.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  Weiss took a sip of vodka while he waited for Carter to think his answer through.

  Carter sat back and spread his arms wide, a gesture of magnanimity. “Because I am a man of my word. I agreed to your bloody scheme, fool that I was, so now I’m going to stick to it.” He leaned forward, waved his forefinger at Weiss. “But don’t push me. You pull another stunt like you did today, and I’m going to start seeing things Wallace’s way.”

  “That would be a mistake, my friend.” Weiss poured Carter another shot of vodka. “I have concerns about young Mr. Wallace.”

  Carter took the glass, downed the vodka. “Stop calling me your friend. Wallace is a good lad. He’s hot-headed, but he’s tough and he follows orders. He’s loyal.”

  “So loyal he wouldn’t give you up to Skorzeny?”

  “Bollocks.” Carter slammed the glass down on the table. “He’s a good soldier. Him and Gracey. And so was MacAuliffe.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Weiss almost regretted saying it, but then the look of hurt on Carter’s face turned to anger, and the Englishman stood, throwing the chair back to clatter against the wall. He hovered there for a moment, his chest rising and falling, his cheeks reddening, before leaving the room, cursing under his breath.

  In the warm yellow glow of the lamplight, Goren Weiss smiled.

  CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

  FITZPATRICK FOLLOWED HAUGHEY into Ryan’s hotel room.

  The director stopped in the doorway, his mouth agape. “Dear God, Ryan, what happened to you?”

  Ryan lay on the bed wearing a vest and trousers. Celia sat alongside him, a bowl of warm water on the bedside locker, muslin cloths ready to dab at his wounds. They had discussed this for some time, the effect, how disabled he should appear.

  “Close the door,” Ryan said.

  Fitzpatrick obliged.

  Haughey scowled. “I don’t like this, Ryan.” He gave the director a sideways glance. “When someone calls me to a hotel, I expect to have my lunch bought for me, not to wind up at somebody’s sickbed.”

  “He needs to rest,” Celia said.

  Haughey shot her a hard look. “And what are you doing here? Aside from playing doctors and nurses.”

  “This concerns Celia as much as anyone,” Ryan said.

  “My arse, it does.”

  Celia stood. “Minister, if you remember, it was you who involved me in the first place by asking Mr. Waugh to approach me.”

  Fitzpatrick’s face paled. “Waugh’s department is mixed up in this?”

  Haughey dismissed the director’s concern with a wave of his hand. “I asked him for a favour, that’s all.” He turned back to Ryan. “Either way, I don’t think Miss Hume needs to be here.”

  Ryan paused, then reached out to touch Celia’s hand. She nodded and went to the door and exited the room.

  “Now can we get on with this?” Haughey asked. “Where in the name of Christ have you been?”

  Ryan kept his gaze fixed on the minister, his voice flat. “I located the men who’ve been carrying out attacks on Colonel Skorzeny’s associates. I had them under surveillance when they captured me. They tortured me for two days before releasing me with a message for Colonel Skorzeny.”

  Haughey looked from Ryan to Fitzpatrick and back again. “Tortured you?”

  “Yes, Minister. First they beat me, then they used an electrical device, something like a small cattle prod.”

  Fitzpatrick winced.

  “Christ Almighty.” Haughey shook his head.

  “Minister,” Fitzpatrick said, “I would not have put one of my men under your command if I’d thought there was the slightest chance of—”

  “Who were they?” Haughey asked.

  Fitzpatrick stepped between Haughey and Ryan. “Minister, at this point I’m more concerned about the wellbeing of Lieutenant Ryan.”

  “Who were they?” Haughey asked again.

  Ryan answered. “Three men. Two English, one Rhodesian. All military. All skilled and experienced. The senior man, English, was around forty five years old, an officer. The other two aged around thirty and forty, the Rhodesian the youngest. They did not address each other by name in my presence.”

  “How did you find them?”

  “Catherine Beauchamp told me they were based somewhere close to Croke Park stadium. I scouted the area over two days until I found them.”

  Haughey’s eyes narrowed. “I think that’s a lie.”

  “That’s right.” Ryan met Haughey’s hawk gaze. “But that’s all I’m going to tell you. Director, Minister, I’d like to be clear about something.”

  Fitzpatrick said, “Go on.”

  Ryan did not avert his eyes from Haughey’s. “I have witnessed Colonel Skorzeny and his associate Célestin Lainé torture and kill a Norwegian national whom they suspected of being an informant.”

  Haughey could not hold Ryan’s stare.

  Ryan continued. “I have reason to believe that at some point in the next twenty four hours, Colonel Skorzeny will try to imprison me, and he will torture me to learn anything that I have not told you this afternoon.”

  Haughey wetted his lips. “That’s a hell of an accusation, Lieutenant Ryan.”

  “There is also a risk that Colonel Skorzeny may try to do the same to Miss Hume in order to coerce me into providing him with more information.”

  “So what do you want from me?” Haughey asked.

  “I expect the protection of the Department of Justice and the Directorate of Intelligence. If any harm should come to me or Celia Hume in the coming days, if any accident should occur, or if either of us should go missing, your first line of enquiry should be with Colonel Skorzeny.”

  Ryan stopped talking and let the silence thicken between them.

  Eventually, Haughey nodded and cleared his throat. “All right. I’ll tell Colonel Skorzeny he’s to have no direct contact with you. If he wants to talk to you, it’ll be through me. Good enough?”

  “No, Minister. I want your guarantee that I have the protection of your department, and of the Directorate of Intelligence.”

  Haughey and Fitzpatrick exchanged a glance.

  “Fine,” Haughey said. “You have my word. If anything happens to you or Miss Hume, then Colonel Skorzeny will answer to me. So, what message did these boys send back?”

  “They rejected the Colonel’s counter offer.”

  Fitzpatrick’s eyebrows rose. “Counter offer?”

  “Colonel Skorzeny made a thinly veiled suggestion that one of them would receive a payment only if he betrayed the others. If he killed them, and presented proof to Skorzeny.”

  “Is this true, Minister?” Fitzpatrick asked.

  Haughey’s face reddened. “An advertisement was placed in the Irish Times. I did not approve, I made that clear to the Colonel.”

  “My God, you knowingly allowed Skorzeny to place an ad soliciting murder?”

  Haughey fidgeted. “Like I said, I did not approve. Perhaps in hindsight I should have made my objection more strongly.”

  “I’ll say. I’ve a good mind to go to the Taoiseach about this. I imagine your father in law might have something to say about it.”

  Haughey moved close to Fitzpatrick, their bodies almost touching. “Now hold on, Director. Don’t go thinking you can threaten Charlie Haughey. Push me, and I’ll have you run out of your fucking job by the end of the day.”

  Fitzpatrick stepped away, straightened his tie, smoothed his suit jacket. “Gentlemen, I think I’ve contributed all I can to this discussion. If you’ll excuse me, I have quite an amount of paperwork to see to.”

  He walked to the bed and placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder.

  “Come to me if you need anything, Ryan. Anything at all.”


  “Thank you, sir.”

  Fitzpatrick left the room. Haughey watched the door close.

  “So, what now?” he asked.

  “Make sure Skorzeny pays them,” Ryan said.

  Haughey sighed, his shoulders falling, his body seeming to deflate. “I don’t know if he’ll agree. He’s a stubborn bastard.”

  “It’s either that, or you let them fight it out. These men are serious. They won’t give up. I’ve done everything I can for you, Minister, and more. You have twenty four hours to convince Skorzeny. If you can’t, you’ll have my final report and then you’re on your own.”

  Haughey walked to the door. “I’ll see what I can do. Stay out of trouble, Ryan.”

  He nodded at Celia as he left. She entered and closed the door.

  Ryan eased his legs off the bed, every part of him protesting at the effort, and sat upright. He placed one hand on the bedside locker to support himself.

  Celia came to the bed, got down on her knees. She reached beneath and slid out the portable Grundig tape recorder she had purchased that morning with the last of the money Ryan had been given by the director. She pressed the stop button and the reels ceased spinning. A small microphone peeked out from its hiding place between the pillows on the bed, the cable snaking down behind the headboard.

  She got back to her feet, went to the wardrobe, and opened the mirrored door. She crouched down, reached inside.

  “Careful, it’s heavy,” Ryan said.

  “I know it is,” she said. “I bloody carried it here all the way from the office. I’ll be in terrible trouble if anyone notices it’s missing.”

  She kept her back straight, lifted with her legs, and brought the Olivetti typewriter to the bed.

  “Can you type?” Ryan asked.

  “Of course I can.” She took a stack of paper from the wardrobe, sat on the bed, fed a sheet into the typewriter. “Now, what date is it today?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

  SKORZENY HAD BEEN waiting almost half an hour in Haughey’s office before the minister returned. He did not greet the politician as he entered, nor when he sat down.