Ratlines (26 page)

“I fell,” he said.

“Where?”

“In the trees. I was running. I fell. It fucking hurts.”

“At Otto Skorzeny’s farm?”

Tommy grinned. “We’ll scare the shite out of him.”

Ryan returned his smile. “That’s right.”

“We’re going to be rich, boys.”

Ryan felt the smile crumble on his lips. “Yes, we are.”

He thought of the account number scrawled on the notepaper downstairs.

Tommy tried to sit up. “Did you send the letter?”

“Yes.”

“What’d he say?”

Ryan wondered if he should push the limits of Tommy’s delusions any further. “He hasn’t answered yet. What was in the letter?”

Tommy smiled, waved the forefinger of his left hand at Ryan. “Ah, you know.” He tapped the side of his nose with the same finger. “You know, boy.”

“No, I don’t. Tell me.”

“The gold.” Tommy scowled as if talking to a wilfully stupid child. “The fucking gold.”

“How much gold?”

“Fucking millions, boy. We’ll all be rich.”

Ryan stood, his mind churning. Outside, the roar of the stadium rolling through the street.

When the other three men returned, they would see the broken window, know their lair had been discovered. They would surely clear out. What few belongings they had would fit into their van. They would simply load it up and leave. Ryan guessed they could clear the house within five minutes, probably less.

And go where?

They would not abandon their mission and flee the country, Ryan was positive of that. Too much blood had been shed to quit now.

Think, think, think.

If Ryan had been running this mission, he’d have had a backup place, another house in another part of the city. He would get there as fast as he could.

A wave of nauseous fear washed over him. He was out of his depth. He should have told Weiss what he knew, allowed the Mossad agent to take over.

Ryan knew full well what the Isreali would have done if he were here. He would have executed the injured man, lain in wait for the others, and killed them when they returned. That would have been the end of it. Ryan could tell Skorzeny and Haughey the threat has disappeared.

All over, just like that.

Could Ryan do such a thing? He had killed men before. More than he could count. But that had been war. Could he kill men for their greed?

No, he could not.

Yes, he could.

Ryan grabbed the Walther’s slide assembly and chambered a round. He aimed at the centre of Tommy’s forehead.

Tommy stared up at him, his eyes suddenly clear.

“No,” he said, his voice dry and thin like paper.

Ryan put pressure on the trigger, felt its resistance.

“No. Please.”

Dizziness swept over Ryan’s forehead. He blinked it away. Breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. Another rush of noise from the stadium.

“God, please, don’t.”

Ryan thought of Celia and the warmth of her body against his. “Christ,” he said.

He lowered the pistol, his hand shaking.

Tommy’s chest rose and fell, his gaze locked on Ryan’s. “Thank you,” he said.

Ryan went to reply, though he did not know what words he had for this man, but the sound of a key in a lock trapped the breath in his lungs.

The opening of a door below, its banging against a wall.

A harsh whisper, a demand for silence.

Ryan looked back down at Tommy, put his fingers to his lips, shush.

He moved towards the bedroom door, mindful of creaks from the bare floorboards. Stepping out onto the landing, he peered over the banister and listened. He could hear nothing but the noise of the crowds echoing down the street outside.

Then he saw a shadow move on the patch of floor visible inside the lounge.

Ryan stepped back into the bedroom.

Tommy called, “Here! He’s up here!”

Ryan closed the door, slid the small bolt across.

Quick footsteps on the stairs.

Ryan smashed the window pane with the butt of the pistol, swept the muzzle around the frame to clear the fragments, and holstered the Walther as he slipped one leg through.

The door rattled in its frame, once, twice.

Ryan forced his other leg through, let his body follow. He saw the door burst inward, Carter barrelling through, as he let go of the ledge and dropped to the ground.

The pavement slammed into him hard, jarring first his ankles, then his shoulder as he landed on his side. Ryan cried out, rolled onto his belly, clambered to his feet as he heard a key working the lock of the front door.

He ran.

Behind him, the door opened, and footsteps thudded on the road. Ryan ducked left and right, keeping his head low.

“There!” he heard. “Get him!”

The footsteps hammered the road surface. Ryan skidded right and dived towards the shadow under the railway bridge.

Up ahead, Holy Cross Avenue, and his car.

He pushed with his legs, harder than before, his arms churning. A glance over his shoulder—no sign of his pursuers.

The leafy greens of the avenue within reach, he ran.

Now he heard the feet—one pair, he thought—beating the tarmac behind him. He ignored them, kept his pace, crossed Clonliffe Road and into the avenue, the car there, yards away.

Ryan skidded to the side of the Vauxhall, the key already in his hand, unlocked the door, in. He jammed the key into the ignition, turned, held it as the engine sputtered and finally kicked in. A dead end ahead, he jerked the gearstick into reverse, slammed his foot into the accelerator.

The pursuer, Wallace, sidestepped out of Ryan’s path, made a grab for the door handle as he passed. Ryan fought the steering as he gathered speed towards the end of the avenue, straining his neck as he peered out the rear windscreen.

By instinct, he jammed his foot onto the brake pedal as the Bedford van swung into the mouth of the avenue, blocking him. The car’s chassis groaned as it halted.

Wallace was there, at the driver’s window, a Browning in his hand. He hammered at the glass until it shattered, fragments spilling over Ryan. The pistol’s muzzle pressed against Ryan’s temple.

“Don’t fucking move,” Wallace said.

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

H
AUGHEY
’
S TONGUE SLIPPED
across his lips as he read the letter, a deep line between his thin eyebrows. He let out a short crackle of a laugh.

“Cheeky fuckers,” he said.

Skorzeny had driven to the city first thing. The traffic had been light despite it being a Monday morning, and he had made good time. Even so, he had waited close to forty minutes for Haughey to appear in his office. The minister’s eyes looked heavy, and he had made a poor job of shaving, as if in a hurry.

“Are they serious?”

Skorzeny suppressed a sigh. “Minister, they have killed very many men to arrive at this stage in their plan. So yes, I think we can assume they are serious.”

“Holy Jesus.” Haughey snorted, shook his head. “The brass balls on them. One and a half million dollars in gold. How much is that in pounds? Christ, don’t tell me, you’ll make me cry.”

Skorzeny lifted the coffee from the desk, took a bitter sip, returned the cup to its place. “It is a considerable sum.”

Haughey looked over the top of the paper, his eyes narrow. “Can you really put your hands on that much?”

“That is hardly the question, Minister.”

“Fuck, then what is?” Haughey dropped the letter onto the desktop.

Skorzeny reached for the page. “Please mind your language, Minister. It offends me.”

“Fuck yourself,” Haughey said, the consonants wet. “This is my office. If you don’t like how I talk, you can fuck off.”

The fibres of the paper rasped against Skorzeny’s fingertips, the weight of it, the ink heavy on the page. He read it for the hundredth time.

SS-Obersturmbannführer Skorzeny
,

You have seen our work. You have seen what we can do. You have seen that we can get to you
.

The price for your life is $1,500,000 in gold kilobars, delivered in crates containing fifteen kilobars each
.

Signal your intent to comply by placing a personal advertisement in the
Irish Times,
addressed to Constant Follower, no later than five working days from the date of this letter. If no advertisement is placed by this time, you will die as and when we choose
.

Once your signal of compliance has been placed, you will be contacted by other means with instructions for delivery
.

Your life hangs by a thread, SS-Obersturmbannführer Skorzeny. Do not test us. Do not run. We can get to you as easily in Spain or Argentina. No place on this Earth is safe for you now
.

With Respect
,

A large hand-drawn X criss-crossed the paper, a mockery of a signature.

“So?” Haughey leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Are you going to pay them?”

“Perhaps.” Skorzeny folded the page along its creases and set it on the desk next to the coffee cup. “Perhaps not.”

“You can’t be thinking of saying no, can you? My office has done all it can to protect you, but there’s a limit. These boys come after you, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Skorzeny took another sip of coffee. “Minister, you must understand, this letter changes the nature of our situation.”

Haughey’s eyebrows climbed the folds of his forehead. “I’ll say it does.”

“But perhaps not the way in which you think.”

The minister raised his palms. “Then tell me.”

“Until I received this letter we believed we were dealing with fanatics, zealots, men driven by some misguided ideal. Now we know they are driven by greed. Now we know they are thieves.”

Haughey shrugged. “So?”

Skorzeny had predicted the politician would not understand. Because Charles J. Haughey spoke of ideas, dreams, noble goals, but—as is the case with most men who seek power—those words were a shroud, camouflage for the man’s true nature.

“A fanatic cannot be reasoned with,” Skorzeny said in slow, measured words, making sure their meaning penetrated Haughey’s skull. “A zealot has no concern for his own skin. He cannot be bargained with. He cannot be bought. He will have what he wants, or he will die, there is no other outcome. But a thief can be bargained with. A thief can be bought. A thief values his life above his honour.”

“So you’re going to bargain with them? You’re telling me you’re going to haggle with these fuckers?”

“No, Minister. They have shown their weakness. I will use it to destroy them.”

Haughey’s face stilled, became blank, as if he had slipped on a mask moulded from his own features.

“Colonel Skorzeny, there is a limit to my indulgence. I won’t have you starting some fucking war in my country. If you intend on taking these boys on, if you’re going to fight them, then you’d best get on a plane to Madrid and see if Franco feels like putting up with you. Because I won’t put up with it, I’ll tell you that for sweet fuck all.”

Skorzeny smiled. “Come, Minister, there’s no need to talk in such terms. This problem can be resolved with your help. And that of your man Lieutenant Ryan.”

Haughey shifted in his seat, his face mobile once more. “Yes. Ryan. He hasn’t turned up yet.”

“Of course not.”

“I’ll have a few words to say to the bastard when I get my hands on him. I’ll bury my toe up his hole.”

Skorzeny stood, lifted the letter from the desk, slipped it into his pocket. “Lieutenant Ryan will return in good time. He knows more than he has told us. A clever man, and dangerous. I will question him myself.”

Haughey leaned back in his chair. “Question him?”

“Good day, Minister.”

Skorzeny walked towards the door. He gripped the handle, turned it, smiled at the secretary in the outer office.

Haughey called from behind. “Colonel.”

Skorzeny turned. “Yes, Minister?”

“A zealot or a thief.” The politician smiled, his lips thin and slick. “Which are you?”

Skorzeny returned the smile.

“Both,” he said.

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

R
YAN BLINKED IN
the darkness, jarred awake by something, his eyelids clicking wetly. The floor’s chill crept through his skin and into his cheekbone. His bare shoulder and hip ached with the coldness of the packed earth. The fingers of his right hand traced the lines of his face, as if the assurance of touch might confirm that he yet lived.

How long?

The stubble on his chin scratched at his fingertips, heavier than before.

At least a day, maybe thirty six hours.

Ryan searched his mind for the pieces, gathered them, set them in order.

Wallace had dragged him from the car, the Browning’s muzzle jammed hard against his neck. The van’s rear doors had opened, swallowed him, then darkness as something slipped over his head.

They beat him.

First in the back of the van, clumsy blows, angry fists and feet landing on his body, his head, his thighs, his gut. He had tasted blood. He had gagged as it welled in his throat, coughed, felt the hot wetness on the material that covered his face.

Something, someone, had locked his hands behind his back. A bomb had landed on his temple. Buzzing, floating, suspended on the sickly wave of pain. Another explosion, then black nothing for a time that stretched out like spit clinging to a wall.

Vague smears of memories connected then to now. Being dragged from the van, his head still covered, across grass, into a building with wooden floors.

His clothes pulled from his body. A leather strap, maybe a belt, whipping across his naked shoulders and buttocks.

Then falling, weightless for a moment before the floor knocked all the air and sense from him.

He had woken where he fell. He had pulled the canvas sack from his head, looked around, saw nothing he could distinguish from the sea of black. On his hands and knees, he had explored the limits of the room, the dirt floor, the slimy damp of the brickwork.

But no door.

Eventually, it could have been minutes or hours, he slept. Until now, woken by a sound he could not remember. There, a key turning in a lock.