Ratlines (32 page)

Wallace looked at the cash, then back at Weiss.

“Take it.” Weiss shook the bills at him. “Or shut the hell up.”

“So now you think you’re in charge, eh?”

“Captain Carter and I are running this operation. You don’t like it, here’s the money, there’s the door.”

Wallace sneered. “If I wanted the money out of your pocket, I’d kill you and take it. That’s not what this is about. I’m sick of sitting on my arse waiting for something to happen. If we’d stuck with the original plan, we’d have been out of this shit pile of a country weeks ago.”

“If you’d stuck with your original plan, you’d have got nothing, except maybe a bullet up your ass.” Weiss stuffed the cash back into his jacket pocket. “This is the only show in town. Either you’re with us or you’re out of here.”

Wallace took a step closer. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. Might be I’m still considering Skorzeny’s offer. If I have to sit around here much longer, I might have to serve you bastards up to—”

Weiss snatched his pistol from its holster as he crossed the few feet between him and Wallace. Before Wallace could raise his hands, Weiss whipped it across his cheek. He felt the force of the blow in his wrist, charging up through his elbow to his shoulder.

Wallace spun around, staggered two steps, then landed hard on all fours. Weiss swung his shoe into the Rhodesian’s gut. He curled into a ball on the floor, face red, coughing.

“That’s enough,” Carter said.

Gracey straightened, his hand going to his trouser pocket. He produced a lock knife, flicked open the blade.

Weiss looked at Carter. “Tell your boy to put that knife away.”

Carter kept his voice steady. “Do as he says.”

Gracey hesitated for a moment, then closed the blade and returned it to his pocket. He kept his arms by his sides, hands open and ready, his weight on both feet.

Weiss knelt down beside Wallace. “Now let’s get something straight, my friend. You talk like that one more time, even as a joke, and I will kill you right where you stand. Are we clear?”

Wallace spat on the floor. “Jew bast—”

Weiss placed the Glock’s muzzle against Wallace’s eye. He froze.

“Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

Weiss stood upright. Wallace crawled away, reached the wall, rested his back against it as he rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand.

“All right,” Weiss said. “Now, if you ladies can keep from scratching each other’s eyes out for a couple days, then we might just see this thing through.”

Carter held Wallace in his hard gaze for a moment before turning to Weiss. “Well? What did your friend Ryan say?”

“He gave Skorzeny twenty four hours to agree to our terms or he’d quit the assignment.”

“And if he doesn’t agree?”

“Then we’re no worse off than we were before, are we?”

Wallace wiped spit and snot from his chin. “We should’ve got rid of Ryan. He’s going to shaft us.”

“Ryan’s tougher than you think,” Weiss said. “Carter put him through hell and he didn’t give me up. Frankly, I don’t give a shit if you trust him or not. That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“That’s the trouble, isn’t it? We’re the ones risking our arses. Not you.”

Weiss put his hands in his pockets. “Right now, Lieutenant Ryan is risking more than any of us.”

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

F
ROM HIS WINDOW
,
Célestin Lainé watched the sun move across the sky, dipping closer the treetops. He had remained in his room, emerging only to fetch food for himself and the dog, and several bottles of wine, for the last few days.

The puppy whimpered with boredom almost constantly. A mound of excrement had gathered in the corner, and the smell had become unbearable. After a day of it, Lainé had resorted to scooping the foulness up and throwing it out of the window. He had stolen towels to soak up the urine.

Still the room stank, but until now, Lainé had no wish to venture out. To do so would have meant facing Skorzeny, and he felt sure the Colonel would see the betrayal written clear on his face.

He had slept for no more than one or two hours every night, the fear and anger keeping him awake and shivering. The fear of Skorzeny, and the anger of knowing that Carter, and now Ryan, had abandoned him.

The Englishman had promised money, more than Lainé had ever imagined he could possess. He had spent days and weeks dreaming of it, how he would spend it, the life he would have. A cottage by the sea, somewhere perhaps that Catherine could have visited him, and they would have passed hour after hour smoking cigarettes, drinking wine and speaking in Breton while the sea spray hissed on the windows.

All gone.

So he had confessed his sins to Ryan, expecting the Irishman to hand Carter and his men over to Skorzeny. Days had passed, and still nothing. One betrayal after another had been rewarded with betrayal in return.

So Lainé had stayed in this shit-smelling box, feasting on his own rage, until he resolved to act the traitor one last time.

He closed his eyes, uttered a prayer for courage, then let himself out of the room. He descended the stairs and went to Skorzeny’s study, stopped outside the door, listened to the Colonel’s hard voice on the other side of the wood. He opened the door without knocking.

Skorzeny sat at his desk, the telephone receiver pressed to his ear. He watched Lainé enter, close the door behind him, and take a seat. He finished his conversation and hung up.

“Célestin. You look unwell.”

Lainé said, “We need to talk.”

Skorzeny nodded. He offered a cigarette. Lainé accepted, unable to quell the shaking in his hands as he brought a flame to the tobacco.

“So, what is it?” Skorzeny asked as he lit his own cigarette.

Lainé coughed, his eyes watering. “I want to tell you something.”

“Oh?”

“But first, I need you to make an oath.”

Skorzeny’s eyes glittered. “Tell me the oath, and we’ll see.”

Lainé went to flick ash into the ashtray, but the tremor of his hand sent the powdery flakes drifting to the floor.

“You must promise to let me live.”

A sharp bark of a laugh escaped Skorzeny. “How can I make such a promise?”

“You must, or I won’t tell you.”

“Célestin, there’s nothing you can keep from me. You know I’ll torture you if I must.”

With his free hand, Lainé reached into his pocket and retrieved the filleting knife he had taken from the kitchen the day before. He brought the blade to his throat. He felt the cold of it, then the hot sting as it pierced his skin.

“Promise me,” he said, holding Skorzeny’s gaze firm. “Make an oath that you will let me live, that you won’t allow anyone else to kill me, or you will never know what I had to tell you.”

The laughter faded from Skorzeny’s eyes. “Célestin, you’re bleeding. Put the knife away.”

“Promise or you’ll never know.”

Anger flashed on Skorzeny’s face, then faded as his cold calm returned. He nodded once. “As you wish. I give you my word you will not be killed by me or anyone else.”

Lainé took the blade away from his throat, felt something warm trickle down inside his shirt to his chest.

He talked.

He told Skorzeny everything. He talked about the sick anger that haunted his days in Ireland, the hatred of his own impoverished life, the jealousy that bit at him when he saw the riches men like Skorzeny enjoyed. Then he spoke of the Englishman who came to him with promises of wealth beyond imagining, the things the man wanted to know, the van they drove him away in, the secrets Lainé whispered to him.

And he talked about the deaths of Elouan Groix and Catherine Beauchamp, and how they tormented him.

Finally Lainé told how Lieutenant Albert Ryan had cornered him on the landing upstairs, how he knew Lainé was the traitor they sought, that Ryan knew the identities of the killers who had picked off Skorzeny’s
Kameraden
, and how the Irishman had conspired to keep it secret.

When Lainé had finished talking, Skorzeny sat still and quiet for a time. He had finished one cigarette and started another, but it now burned forgotten between his fingers.

Eventually, Skorzeny stubbed out the cigarette, stood and said, “Thank you, Célestin.”

He walked around the table and came to Lainé’s side. There, he lifted the heavy crystal ashtray from the desktop. Lainé opened his mouth to speak, but the ashtray slammed into his jaw.

Consciousness flickered like a faulty light bulb as the floor rushed up to meet him. In the dim swirl of his mind, he became aware of hard jagged things on his tongue, fragments of teeth. He spat them out, saw the yellowed enamel’s dull sheen amongst the blood.

Skorzeny, his voice thick with rage, hunkered down beside him and said, “I’ll keep my promise. You’ll live. But when this is settled, you will leave this house and never return. You will have no contact with me or anyone who calls me their friend. Do you understand?”

Lainé spat blood and nodded.

Skorzeny straightened. “Now leave me. I have some calls to make.”

Lainé made his way back upstairs, returned to his room, and lay down on the bed. He ran his tongue around his mouth, seeking out the jagged remains of the broken teeth. The puppy nestled beside him, licked at his fingers, whimpering in sympathy.

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

T
HEY WORKED UNTIL
long after dark, listening, transcribing, Ryan dictating, Celia typing. Now they lay on the bed, fully clothed except for the shoes they’d kicked off.

“Charlie Haughey will never forgive you,” Celia said, her breath warm on Ryan’s neck.

“I don’t care,” Ryan said.

“He’ll never forgive me. He’ll run me out of my job.”

“Not if we play it right.”

Her lips pressed against his ear. He turned his head, kissed her. Her fingertips skated across the stubble on his cheek.

“If we get it wrong,” she said, “Skorzeny will kill us both.”

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
,
Ryan headed north out of the city, the package on the passenger seat beside him. He had kissed Celia goodbye at Amiens Street Station, a similar package held under her arm. They had agreed she would stay with her parents until it was over. When they had stopped off at the boarding house for Celia to collect a few things, Mrs. Highland had scowled and told her she would no longer be welcome there.

Celia had smiled and said, “Fine. Albert and I have decided to live in sin, anyway.”

On the way out, Celia had taken Mrs. Highland’s hand, leaned in close, and whispered, “He’s an extraordinary lover.”

Mrs. Highland had gasped as Celia giggled. She laughed all the way to the station.

The world turned from grey to green as Ryan left Dublin behind, and with it, the grind of recent days. Wind from the broken driver’s window swept across his face. As the car crested each rise, weightless for those moments, Ryan’s spirit remained suspended.

He knew it was an illusion, a temporary respite from fear as he chose a course and acted on it. The crushing pressure of it all would come back soon enough. For now, he savoured the lightness of being that came with the rise and fall of the road.

R
YAN PARKED BEHIND
his father’s delivery van in the alleyway to the rear of the shop. The back gate stood locked, so he walked around to the street. It seemed strange to approach the place in the morning light after so many years of slipping in and out at dusk or dawn.

The bell above the door jangled as Ryan entered. The place seemed smaller now than it had when he was a boy, as if the walls had closed in. His confrontation with Mahon appeared to have worked. The shelves were well-stocked, no shortage of bread, bottles of milk filling the large cooler.

But no one behind the counter.

Ryan stood for a moment, held still by the quiet, before he called, “Hello?”

He listened.

Nothing. He moved deeper into the shop, its warm light turning to gloom. The cooler thumped and hummed as its thermostat kicked in. Ryan started at the noise. The milk bottles rattled against one another. He lifted one, burst the foil cap with his thumb, took a long swallow, felt the chill run down his throat to his stomach.

“Hello? Da? Ma?”

A feeling of childishness came over him as he called, as if he had just got off the bus from the school he’d attended in Monaghan town. Once when he was twelve or thirteen he had come home from Monaghan Collegiate and found the shop empty like this. He had walked around the counter and pulled aside the curtain that cloaked the doorway to the back room. He had found his parents in there, knotted together. His mother had squealed and pushed his father away with one hand while she fumbled at the buttons of her blouse with the other. His father had clipped him round the ear, hard enough for it to sting for half an hour. Since then, he had always made a point of calling out for them if he found the shop empty.

Ryan called once more. When still no answer came, a crackle of worry mixed with the childishness. He set the milk bottle on the counter and went around. He reached for the curtain, pushed it aside, and stepped through.

The back room stood empty save for the sparse furnishings and the stacked boxes of tinned and packet goods. A small table and two chairs took up the centre of the floor. A long white enamel sink and drainer clung to the far wall, the cold tap hissing and dripping as it had done for as long as Ryan could remember.

“Anyone here?”

Ryan’s worry might have turned to fear, might have set him running up the stairs shouting for his parents, had he not heard the clattering flush of the privy out in the yard. He exhaled and cursed.

The back door opened and the young boy who worked for Ryan’s father after school and on Saturdays entered. Barry something, Ryan thought. A good wee grafter, his father had said. He was fond of the lad and paid him more than he should.

The boy stopped in the doorway, stared at Ryan.

“Where’s my father?” Ryan asked.

The boy kept staring, his lip trembling.