“Come on, Carter. What is it?”
The Englishman jerked a thumb back towards the open door behind him. “In there.”
Weiss crossed the clearing. Carter leaned aside to allow him to step over.
The smell first, the metal odour, then as his eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the cottage, he saw the upended table, the tin plates and cups scattered, the chairs on their backs and sides.
And he saw the bodies.
“Goddamn it,” Weiss said. “Goddamn it.”
Wallace sat propped against the far wall, a chunk of his face and skull ripped away, two holes torn in his chest. The one remaining eye, dull as a raincloud, gazed across the room to the other man.
Gracey lay face down, a neat hole between his shoulder blades, another in the back of his head. His fingers still clutched an automatic rifle.
“Goddamn it,” Weiss said.
He went back outside and sat down on the step beside Carter.
“What happened?”
Carter ran a hand across his face, wiped his mouth and his eyes.
“It was Gracey. Fucking idiot. He’d been quiet since we let Ryan go. But he’s always quiet, even back when we were in North Africa together, so I didn’t think much of it. We’d just eaten a bit of lunch. Wallace cooked it. We’d been talking about the money, divvying it up in our heads, what we were going to do with our shares.
“Then Wallace makes some stupid joke, how Skorzeny had offered a third of the price, and that was more than any of us would get if the whole thing was split five ways. I told him to shut his stupid mouth, it wasn’t funny, but he wouldn’t let up. Gracey just sat there saying nothing, pushing his food around his plate.
“Then he grabs for his rifle and lets Wallace have it. Only I had my Browning out for cleaning, I would’ve got it too. Fucking idiot.”
“Yeah,” Weiss said. “A fucking idiot. Skorzeny agreed to pay.”
Carter turned his head to Weiss, his eyes wide.
“Yep. Ryan just told me. There’ll be an ad in the paper tomorrow morning. You got any of that good vodka left?”
Carter climbed to his feet and went inside. He returned a minute later with two bottles, one almost empty, the other almost full. He gave the first to Weiss.
They sat in silence for a time, Weiss sipping at his drink, Carter swigging mouthfuls of his.
“I used to be a soldier,” Carter said.
Weiss shrugged. “So did I.”
“It used to mean something. For king and country, all that. You give your life to it. Then one day there’s no more wars to fight and you’re left sitting on your hands, counting the days, no bloody use to anyone.”
Weiss felt the vodka warm his chest and his tongue. “My war never ends. I fight for a tiny patch of land surrounded by a dozen nations that want to scorch every trace of us from the face of the earth. If it wasn’t for the fact they hate each other almost as much as they hate us, they’d have driven us into the sea ten years ago. Be grateful for the peace you’ve found, my friend. Not everyone gets to go home alive.”
He clinked his bottle against Carter’s.
“And what happens if your war does end?” Carter asked. “Or you’re too old to fight anymore? What do you do with the rest of your life?”
Weiss thought about it. He had done so many times, but never during daylight, only in the dark hours as he chased sleep. He returned to the only answer he’d ever found.
“I don’t know,” Weiss said, hoping the terror of it didn’t tell in his voice.
CHAPTER SIXTY ONE
A COPY OF THE Irish Times waited outside Ryan’s hotel room door when he awoke. He brought it inside and leafed through the pages until he found the classified ads. There, in the personals section, between the listings for lonely country gentlemen seeking ladies of good character, he found it.
Constant Follower: I agree to your terms, but with conditions. I await your instructions.
“Too easy,” he said, his voice sounding brittle in the small room.
He set the paper aside and went to the full length mirror and studied the burn on his cheek. It had scabbed over, the healing begun. Aches still lumbered through his body, pains whose location he could not pinpoint, seeming to shift from one part of him to another.
Ryan went to the bathroom on the next floor up to empty his bladder. He felt a quiet relief when his urine ran clear, not the muddy reddish brown of the last two days. Perhaps, if he was fortunate, his bowel movement might too be clear of blood. He did not relish finding out, given the pain it caused to pass anything more than water.
He plugged the bathtub and turned the taps, stopping the flow of water when it was deep enough for him to kneel in and cleanse his wounds. That done, he dried himself off and shaved, careful of the raw and tender parts of his skin.
Once dressed, he returned to his room, sat on the edge of the bed, and dialled an outside line.
Celia’s father answered, gruff and obstreperous.
“Is this Ryan?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure if she’s available at the—”
A rustling, muffled voices, the sound of the receiver passing from hand to hand.
“Bertie?” she asked.
“What? No, Albert.”
“I think you should be a Bertie.”
“And what if I don’t want to be a Bertie?”
“I shall call you what I like.” The teasing in her voice pleased him. She said, “That’s settled, then. Bertie it is.”
“Have you seen the paper?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, the teasing gone. “Daddy, can I speak in private?”
Ryan heard an offended grumbling, then the closing of a door.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“They’ll have me deliver the instructions to Skorzeny. He wants me to be the courier.”
“No. It’s too dangerous.”
“I can’t refuse.”
“Yes you can. You can tell him—”
“No, I can’t.”
“But what if something happens to you?”
“It won’t,” Ryan said, though he didn’t believe it.
“But what if it does?”
“Then you go to the travel agent like we talked about, but you buy a ticket just for you.”
She fell silent, but he knew her thoughts as he knew his own. If something went wrong, if he did not return, then Skorzeny would not spare her. Neither he nor Celia had said it aloud, but they both knew it to be true.
“Promise me you’ll go,” he said.
“I promise.”
“Good. It’s nearly over.”
“I hope so. Call me soon.”
“I will,” he said. He hung up.
Before he’d taken a breath, the telephone jangled. He lifted the receiver.
“A caller for you, Mr. Ryan,” the receptionist said. “He refuses to give his name, but he sounds American.”
“Put him through.”
“Good morning, Albert,” Weiss said. He sounded hoarse, but it might have been the line. “Looks like we’re in business.”
“I saw the ad.”
“Just like you said. Now, here’s how we’ll play this out. You and I will have no more face-to-face contact. Every communication will be by telephone or letter drop. We play it for real from here on. At eleven AM, there’ll be a note waiting under the windscreen wiper of your car. You will be surprised to find it there. You will read it, then bring it your superiors. Are we clear?”
“We’re clear.”
“Good. Hold your nerve, Albert. We’re almost there.”
AT FIVE MINUTES past eleven, Ryan left his hotel room and went downstairs. He exited onto the street and walked the few yards from the hotel entrance to his car.
A brown business-sized envelope curled in the breeze, held in place by the windscreen wiper.
Ryan lifted the wiper blade and retrieved the envelope. The words LIEUTENANT ALBERT RYAN were typewritten across its
face. He slipped his fingertip beneath the flap and tore the envelope open.
CHAPTER SIXTY TWO
ONCE AGAIN, SKORZENY travelled into the city and Charles Haughey’s office. The minister greeted him at the door with a firm and serious handshake.
“I’m glad you took the sensible course,” Haughey said.
“I simply want an end to the bloodshed, Minister.”
Haughey ushered him inside. Ryan waited facing Haughey’s desk, his back to the door. He did not turn to acknowledge Skorzeny’s entrance.
Haughey took his seat behind the desk. Skorzeny sat next to Ryan.
The minister placed an envelope on the desk in front of Skorzeny. He lifted it and removed the single page from within.
At dawn two days from today, you will deliver the agreed payment to us. It will be carried aboard a small-engined boat that will anchor at the following co-ordinates:
“Where is this?” Skorzeny asked.
“About five miles off the east coast,” Haughey said, “South of Dublin.”
The boat will carry no more than two people: your courier, Asif Hussein, and the boat’s pilot. They will place a light at the boat’s fore and stern, and they will wait on the deck in plain sight with their hands on their heads.
If they follow these instructions, they will not come to harm. Otherwise, they will be killed. Both men will be aware of the danger of the situation. If they follow instructions, they will each be paid from the cargo.
If any other person is found to be aboard the boat, everyone aboard will be killed.
We will approach the boat from the west. The cargo will be transferred to our vessel. We will have other boats in the area. If any attempt is made to attack our vessel, the consequences will be serious.
Lieutenant Ryan will wait at the telephone kiosk in the foyer of the Royal Hibernian Hotel at 3:00 P.M. today to confirm details of delivery.
Skorzeny folded the paper and returned it to the envelope. “Lieutenant Ryan, you will tell them I agree to all their instructions with the one exception we discussed: you will act as courier, not Mr. Hussein.”
“And if they don’t want me?”
“Then they will not be paid. You will observe everything that happens, how many men, their appearance, their accents. What kind of boat, its name, its markings.”
“What for?” Haughey asked. “Once the gold’s handed over, that’s that. You won’t be chasing after them, I can tell you that for nothing.”
“Of course not, Minister. But still I would like to know who has robbed me. For my own curiosity, you understand.”
Haughey gave him a long stare. He raised a finger. “It goes any further than curiosity, I’ll have you out of this country and packed off back to Spain.”
Skorzeny smiled and bowed his head in deference. “You need not worry, Minister.”
Haughey’s held Skorzeny’s gaze, the mockery of the gesture not lost on him. He turned his attention to Ryan.
“Are you happy to go along with this, Lieutenant Ryan?”
Ryan held his silence, his gaze still fixed on the window.
“Well?”
“Yes, Minister,” Ryan said.
CHAPTER SIXTY THREE
RYAN ENTERED THE telephone kiosk at one minute to three and sat on the leather upholstered stool. A folded scrap of paper peeked out from beneath the receiver’s earpiece. He pulled it free, unfolded it.
Telephone box at the northern end of Kildare Street. You have two minutes.
He exited the kiosk and ran.
THE TELEPHONE RANG as he approached, running with a lopsided gait, ten yards between him and the box. A young man smoking on the corner turned and reached for the door.
“It’s for me,” Ryan called.
The young man let go of the door and backed away.
Ryan slipped inside, lifted the receiver, and spoke his name.
“Does Colonel Skorzeny agree to our instructions?”
Weiss’s voice. Play it for real, he’d said. Assume they’re watching and listening to everything. Act like we’ve never met.
“Yes,” Ryan said. “But one change.”
“What?”
“I will act as courier.”
“Our instructions are to be followed to the letter. No variation.”
“I’m the courier. That’s what Skorzeny wants. If not, then no deal.”
Silence for a moment, then, “Very well. You have the co-ordinates. You know what will happen if you try anything. Dawn day after tomorrow.”
A click, and the line died.
CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR
OUTSIDE THE AIRPORT terminal, Asif Hussein waited in a grey Citroën van, its headlights glaring.
“Mr. Ryan?” he asked.
Hussein wore a well cut suit that clung to his wiry body, and a silk tie loosened at the open collar of his shirt. His jaw was clean shaven, but a thick moustache covered his lip.
Hussein reached over and opened the passenger door. Ryan climbed in. He had carried no luggage from Dublin, flying first to London, then on to Zurich.
As Ryan settled into the passenger seat, Hussein slipped his hand across, felt around his torso, down to his thighs.
“I’m not armed,” Ryan said.
Hussein did not reply. He continued his search until he gave a satisfied grunt.
A metal wall separated the van’s cabin from its rear, a hinged door open at the centre. In the dimness beyond, Ryan saw two hulking dark-skinned men, their eyes reflecting the bright lights of the terminal building as they stared back at him.
“Habib and Munir,” Hussein said. “They will look after us until we reach Camaret-sur-Mer.”
Sheets of steel had been welded to the van’s interior walls, armouring it from within, slots cut in those that covered the rear windows allowing spindles of light through.
Hussein lit a cigarette, its smoke thick and pungent. He put the van in gear and pulled away.
THE HEIDEGGER BANK stood enclosed by a high wall on the outskirts of a village hidden in the forested hills that overlooked Lake Zurich, less than forty minutes from the airport. A solid metal gate sealed the only entrance, an archway in the stonework. A guard with a pistol holstered at his hip examined the letter that Hussein handed to him, reading it by torchlight. He shone the torch’s beam at each of the van’s occupants in turn. Satisfied, he nodded, and spoke into a radio.
The gate opened outward. Hussein eased the van through the archway and parked by the plain single storey building that stood at the centre of the compound. He checked his reflection in the rear view mirror, buttoned his collar, straightened his tie. He took a comb from his pocket and smoothed the wild curls of his hair.
“Come,” he said, returning the comb to his pocket, and climbed out of the van.
Ryan followed.
A thin, smartly dressed man waited at the building’s entrance. He extended his hand as the Arab approached.
Hussein shook it. “Monsieur Borringer, please forgive the lateness of the hour.”
“Monsieur Hussein, it is a pleasure to see you at any time.” He glanced at Ryan, but did not greet him. “I feared I might not be able to source sufficient gold in time, but I called on some colleagues in other institutions for assistance. The Heidegger family is held in high regard in our industry, so my colleagues were glad to help.”
Borringer turned and lead Hussein and Ryan inside the building, Habib and Munir following behind. The foyer was modern but tasteful, with a large reception desk facing the entrance. Doors led to offices beyond, two guards barring entry. Portraits of grey-haired men lined the walls, all of them carrying the same stern expressions, long noses and pale blue eyes. Eight in total, the mode of dress going back from twentieth to eighteenth century.
Ryan could make out small brass plates beneath each of them, all bearing the name Heidegger.
“Please follow me,” Borringer said.
“Wait here,” Hussein said to his bodyguards. He turned back to Borringer. “Mr. Ryan will j
oin us.”
Borringer looked first to Ryan’s shoes, then his watch, before settling on his face. Ryan saw the measures and valuations working behind his eyes.
“As you wish,” Borringer said, making no effort to hide his distaste, and walked towards a gated elevator. He pushed the gate aside and waved Hussein and Ryan in before following after and pulling the gate closed.
Borringer pulled a silver chain from around his neck and selected one of the keys that were attached to it. He inserted the key into the elevator’s control panel, turned it, and pressed the single button.
The elevator lurched downward, brickwork sliding past its cage, before coming to a halt below ground. Borringer removed the key and placed the chain around his neck once more before opening the gate.
A guard sat at a small desk in the centre of the room. He stood, his hands rigid at his sides, and stared straight ahead. Nine steel doors, three to a wall, each bearing a combination lock and a heavy handle.
Borringer walked to the centre door on the wall facing the elevator. He stood with his body between the lock and the visitors as he worked. Ryan listened to the clicks and ticks as the dial turned, the solid clank as tumblers aligned. Borringer stood back to allow the guard to haul the door open.
“Gentlemen, your cargo.”
Countless numbered drawers lined the vault, all with pairs of locks, many with wax seals across them. On the floor stood a flatbed trolley laden with wooden crates. Dozens of them, each no more than a six or seven inch cube.
Borringer cleared his throat before he spoke. “Eighty nine crates, each containing fifteen gold kilobars, a value of sixteen thousand, nine hundred and twenty two dollars per crate, making a total of one million, five hundred and six thousand, and fifty eight dollars.”
His voice thinned as he ran out of breath. He took a deep inhalation before speaking again.
“Monsieur Hussein, please inspect the crates before the remaining few are sealed.”
Hussein and Ryan stepped forward. Ryan caught sight of the glistening within the five open boxes on top of the stack, saw the words Credit Suisse stamped in the metal. His heart quickened.
Ratlines Page 26
