CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
SKORZENY WATCHED HAKON Foss eat the pork schnitzel with a side of potatoes in a cheese sauce. Frau Tiernan had prepared the meal before Skorzeny sent her home with her husband.
Lainé picked at his food. He had smelled of wine and tobacco when he came down to supper. Skorzeny made a point of placing a glass of water in front of him, alongside the glass of beer the Breton poured for himself from the pitcher at the centre of the table.
The dining room with its patio doors overlooking the gardens seemed far too large for the three men who ate there, Skorzeny at the head of the table, Lainé at the far end, the Norwegian midway between them. Foss downed another swallow of beer, mopped up cheese sauce with a chunk of bread.
Lainé cut off a slice of schnitzel, wrapped it in a napkin, and stuffed it into his pocket. He noticed Skorzeny’s attention on him.
“For the puppy,” he said.
Skorzeny gave him a hard stare, then turned his gaze to Foss. “Did you enjoy your meal?”
Foss nodded, his mouth full of bread, cheese sauce dripping from his lip. He sat in his socks. Frau Tiernan had insisted he remove his boots before she would permit him entry to the house.
“Perhaps you would join me for my evening walk. I like to stroll around the gardens after dinner.”
Foss looked towards the patio doors. “It’s raining.”
“Come, a little rain won’t hurt you.”
Foss shrugged.
“Good,” Skorzeny said. He reached for the hand bell, rang it.
Esteban appeared from the hall.
“My coat,” Skorzeny said. “And Mr. Foss’s shoes.”
Esteban fetched them, opened the patio doors, placed Foss’s boots outside, and brought Skorzeny’s coat to him.
As Foss tied his bootlaces, the telephone rang. Esteban left to answer it. He returned a few moments later.
“Is Mr. Haughey,” the boy said. He pronounced it hoy.
Skorzeny buttoned his coat. “Tell the minister I’m unavailable, and I’ll return his call in the morning.”
Esteban bowed and left the room.
Skorzeny nodded to Lainé and followed Foss out into the drizzle and the dark.
Gravel crunched under their shoes as they walked along the path towards the outbuildings. The rain, fine and cold, caused Skorzeny to blink as the drops wet his eyelids. From the corners of his vision, he saw a guard on either side, keeping to the black pools of darkness, shrouded by trees. They kept pace, watching.
Skorzeny asked, “Are you a happy man, Hakon?”
Foss grunted as he pulled up the collar of his overalls. “Yes, I am happy. Sometimes, I miss home. I miss Norge. I want snow, not rain. But here is not bad. Here, they won’t put me in jail. In Norge, they jail me. I don’t want to go to jail.”
They passed the boundary of the garden, the barns and sheds visible ahead, the light from a powerful halogen lamp bleaching the grounds to whites and greys. Rain slashed lines through the light, like comet trails falling to earth. The guards stayed beyond its reach.
Skorzeny asked, “Would you ever betray me?”
Foss stopped walking. Skorzeny turned to regard him and the small quick movements of his eyes. Foss shifted his weight between his feet, soles scraping on the loose earth and stones.
“Why do you ask this?”
Skorzeny smiled, patted Foss’s shoulder. “No reason. You’re a good man. Of course you wouldn’t betray me.”
“No,” Foss said, his shuffling intensifying. “I need for …”
He pointed to his groin. Skorzeny said, “Very well,” and turned his back.
The rustling of clothing, a guttural sigh, then water pouring on the ground. Skorzeny smelled the sour-sweet odour.
“Have men ever come to you, asked you questions? About me, or any of our friends?”
The flow stuttered along with Foss’s breathing.
“What men?”
Skorzeny turned his head, saw Foss’s back, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the splashing on the ground. “Perhaps they offered you money.”
“No,” Foss said. Even though he hadn’t finished, he tucked himself away, urine spilling over his thick fingers.
“Perhaps they said to you, tell us these things, and we will pay you. Did that happen?”
Foss stood for a moment, hands by his sides, liquid dripping from his fingertips.
Then he ran.
Skorzeny watched him barrel into the darkness, whimpering, arms flailing. He could barely make out the shape of a guard stepping into the Norwegian’s path, knocking him to the ground. Foss grunted as he landed and struggled back to his feet. He made off again, but the guard fired a warning shot into the treetops.
Foss threw himself down, his hands over his head. The trees rustled with startled night creatures. Somewhere in the outbuildings, Tiernan’s dogs barked.
The guard grabbed Foss’s collar and pulled him upright, led him back to the light and Skorzeny.
Lainé approached from the house, bag in hand. Foss closed his eyes and muttered a prayer to whichever God he worshipped.
Skorzeny said, “Let’s begin.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
RYAN LISTENED.
His consciousness had ebbed and flowed for time immeasurable, but now, at last, he was able to remain awake. A sickening ache still swelled inside his skull, pressing at the back of his eyes, and that cold sweetness still lingered in his throat and nasal passages. He knew what chloroform felt like, had recognised it as the rag had been pressed to his nose and mouth, but had been unable to fight it.
The climb to wakefulness had been arduous, the constant struggle against the warm pit of sleep. And when he had first opened his eyes, he saw nothing, felt his eyelids rub on fabric. He moved his wrists, found them bound, a metallic clanking as he pulled the cuffs tight. His ankles also.
Ryan took stock. He rolled his shoulders, felt the cotton of his shirt against his skin. Whoever had taken him had not removed his clothing. He shifted his limbs as best he could, wriggled each toe and finger in turn, and none reported injury, other than a tenderness on his palms, that hot sting of grazing one’s skin on the ground.
He moved his head, and it met something solid, he guessed the high back of a chair. His scalp stung where it touched. The blow before he fell.
His tongue moved freely behind his teeth. He opened his mouth. No gag. He swallowed. His throat gritty from thirst.
Should he speak? He decided against it.
He heard a constant soft hiss from his left, felt warmth against his shoulder and thigh. A gas heater, burning.
Water dripped, a steady rhythm, each plink reverberating in an empty space. He raised the toe of his shoe off the ground, brought it down, a sharp tap of the sole on hard floor. Not a large room, but high ceilinged.
He strained to hear. Muffled voices in another room. Men’s voices, he couldn’t tell how many.
The voices ceased. A door opened.
Footsteps, two pairs of feet, approaching across the hard surface.
Something tugged at his head, the blindfold lifted away. Light speared his vision. He closed his eyes against it, turned his head.
“Easy now,” a man said.
Ryan knew the voice.
He heard the squeak of a tap turning, water running for a few seconds. Footsteps came near.
“Here, drink this.”
Something pressed against Ryan’s lips, the hard edge of a cup. He opened his mouth, allowed the water in, swallowed, coughed. The ache in his head shifted, burrowed its way from the base of his skull to his crown.
Ryan let his eyes open to a squint. The man from the pub toilet, his dark hair combed flat and sleek to his head, his jacket and tie removed, shirtsleeves rolled up. He returned the cup to the sink in the corner. Another man beside the sink, shorter, heavier set, casually dressed. A pistol gripped in his right hand.
“How do you feel?” the man from the bathroom asked. “Your head hurts, right? Chl
oroform will do that to you. Please accept my apology. I hope you understand it was the only safe way to transport you here.”
Ryan craned his neck to take in as much of his surroundings as he could. Cement block walls, concrete floor, oil stains, a pit large enough for a man to stand upright. A tall and wide roller door at one end. A windowed office at the other.
“I’m guessing you want to know where you are,” the man said. “Of course, I can’t tell you our exact location, but a car mechanic owned this place. He went out of business, so we’re making temporary use of it.”
The man took a chair from the corner, placed it in front of Ryan, and sat down. He crossed his legs, twined his fingers in his lap.
“Who are you?” Ryan asked, his voice rasping in his throat.
“My name is Goren Weiss. Major, as it happens, back in my army days.”
“Mossad?” Ryan asked.
“Of course.” Weiss indicated the man with the pistol. “Though my colleague Captain Remak here is actually Aman, Directorate of Military Intelligence, not unlike the Irish G2, of which I believe you are a member. Unlike mine, his rank actually means something.”
Weiss’s smile, his tone, would have been friendly if not for the handcuffs that held Ryan’s wrists to the chair.
“What do you want?”
“A chat, that’s all.”
“What if I don’t want to chat?”
Weiss held his hands up. “Please, let’s not be confrontational. I really don’t see any need for this conversation to be hostile, so let’s not begin that way. Don’t assume I’m your enemy, Albert. May I call you Albert?”
Ryan rattled the handcuffs. “You look like an enemy from here.”
Weiss shrugged. “Given the company you’ve been keeping, I think your character judgement might be a little, shall we say, flawed.”
“The company I keep is none of your business.”
“Well, actually, it is.” Weiss leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. “You see, our professional interests somewhat overlap.”
“In what way?”
“In several ways. Primarily, our interest in foreign nationals currently residing in Ireland. Helmut Krauss was one of them, another was Johan Hambro. Do I need to go on?”
“No,” Ryan said.
“And of course there’s Colonel Skorzeny. A remarkable man, wouldn’t you say?”
Ryan did not reply.
“Remarkable for many reasons. His military innovations, his amazing feats of daring in the war—sorry, the Emergency, as you folks call it—and his quite extraordinary ability to influence those around him. But do you know what I find most remarkable about him?”
“No,” Ryan said.
Weiss grinned. “What I find most remarkable about Otto Skorzeny is that he came to be a fucking sheep farmer in the rolling green hills of this fair land.” His smile faded. He raised a finger. “But we’ll come back to that. First, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about Catherine Beauchamp.”
Ryan moistened his lips. “She’s dead.”
“Oh, I know she is, Albert. I know she is. Just this afternoon, I saw her lying on the floor in her cottage, a neat little hole in the roof of her mouth. I found her just the way you left her.”
“I didn’t kill her. She committed suicide.”
“Is that so? I guess we’ll just have to take your word for that, won’t we? We’ve been keeping an eye on you, Albert. Not constant surveillance, a two man team couldn’t do that, but enough to know what you’ve been up to. When Captain Remak saw you were heading for the estuary today, he got in touch with me. We thought we’d better check in on Catherine once you’d left. I have to say, it was a shock to find her like that. I was most upset.”
“Upset?” Ryan couldn’t keep the sneer from his lips. “You seemed happy enough to kill three of her friends.”
Weiss raised his eyebrows, laughed. “You mean Krauss and the rest? Oh no, Albert, you misunderstand. We didn’t kill them.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You believe what you like, Albert, but I tell you with all honesty, we did not harm those men.”
Ryan shook his head. “The woman, she told me she was your informant. The one I was looking for.”
“Yes, Catherine was working for us, passing on information about her associates, but we didn’t use that information to target anyone for termination.”
“Then what did you want the information for?”
Weiss stood up, put his hands in his pockets. “Let me tell you a little about Catherine Beauchamp. She was a nationalist. She was a socialist. But she was not a Nazi. She made some bad judgements in her youth, aligned herself with people she perhaps shouldn’t have, but she was not of the same ideology as others in the Bezon Perrot. You spoke with her. You must have seen that she was a sensitive and intelligent woman.”
“She was terrified,” Ryan said. “She killed herself out of fear.”
“Not of us,” Weiss said. “She understood the wrong she’d done. So when I first approached her, she had no reservations about talking to me, giving me information.”
“She told me you showed her photographs. Dead children. You manipulated her.”
“Look at it that way if you want. I think of it as showing her the truth. If truth is manipulation, then so be it.”
“What did you want from her?”
Weiss paced. “We wanted information on Skorzeny. Who his friends were, who he associated with, who visited him at that big country house of his.”
Ryan watched Weiss stroll the length of the room and back again. “So you could target him and his people. Kill them.”
Weiss stopped. “Oh come, Albert, I thought you were smarter than that.”
“I don’t have to be that smart to see three men have been killed.”
Weiss leaned over Ryan like a patient schoolteacher. “But not by us. I told you already. No, we don’t want Otto Skorzeny dead. He’s no use to us dead.”
“Then what?”
“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that a Lieutenant Colonel of the SS should have sufficient funds to live the way Skorzeny does? He is, by any measure, a very wealthy man, wouldn’t you say? How does a man escape from custody less than fifteen years ago, nothing to his name, then turn up just a few years later a multimillionaire? How does that work?”
“I don’t know.”
Weiss put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “You seem like a calm and rational man, Albert. I think if I take those cuffs off your wrists and ankles, you won’t try anything stupid. Am I right?”
Ryan stayed silent.
Weiss took a set of keys from his pocket and unfastened each of Ryan’s limbs in turn.
“Go on,” Weiss said. “Stand up if you want. Stretch your legs.”
Ryan gripped the chair’s armrests, pushed himself up. His knees buckled, and Weiss seized him in a bear hug.
“Easy, my friend. Put your hand on my shoulder. There you go.”
Ryan stood quite still for a time, breathing hard, before lowering himself back into the chair. Weiss took his seat once more.
“So, we were talking about Colonel Skorzeny’s money. The story is he set up a concrete business in Buenos Aires and got rich. Now, call me an old cynic, but I don’t buy that explanation for one second. If you scrape around in the dirt a little, you dig up all sorts of stories. We know, for example, that Martin Bormann siphoned off a huge fortune right out of Hitler’s pockets. In 1945, when the end came, as far as we know, Bormann never made it out of Berlin. But the money did. Eight hundred million dollars wound up in Eva Perón’s bank account, not to mention the gold bullion and the diamonds. We’re talking enough money to run a small country on. And who do you think was right there, whispering sweet nothings to Evita?”
Ryan remembered what Catherine Beauchamp had told him. “Skorzeny.”
“That’s right. And that’s just the start. Cash, precious metals, diamonds and every other kind of stone, paintings and sculptures. Every da
mn thing he and his friends could steal and smuggle out of Europe. Given what we know of the funds Otto Skorzeny has access to, it’s a wonder he lives as modestly as he does.”
“So what do you want from him?”
“Well, it’s how he uses this money that concerns us. We wouldn’t mind so much if he blew it on racehorses and sports cars and women, all the stuff the average ageing millionaire entertains himself with. But that isn’t what Skorzeny does. You see, strictly speaking, the money isn’t his. He’s more of a caretaker, a trustee if you like. Have you heard of ratlines?”
“No,” Ryan said.
“Most people haven’t. See, right at the end of the war, some Nazis, guys like Skorzeny and Bormann, they saw it coming. They knew that even if they escaped, hundreds of others wouldn’t. They needed to set up routes, channels, ways out for their friends. Ratlines. You know what Europe was like in the couple years after the war. A passport was worth shit. The borders were meaningless. Hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of displaced people wandering around with no place to go, and no way to prove their nationality. And Skorzeny’s kind exploited that. They’d just swap their uniforms for pants and a shirt, walk up to some GI and say, ‘Hey, I’m Hans, and my town got burned to the ground. Show me where to go.’ And they’re home free. Except once they find a place to settle, they need money.”
“Skorzeny’s money,” Ryan said.
“That’s right.” Weiss leaned over and patted Ryan’s thigh. “Well, the money he looks after, at any rate. I could tell you a dozen German and Austrian companies, million dollar international enterprises that were bankrolled by the funds Skorzeny controls. Companies you’ve heard of, companies whose products you’ve bought, household names. Of course, the free-for-all couldn’t last forever. Once the borders firmed up, once the European nations got the passport problem under control, then those routes, those ratlines needed to come into play. A lot of times through the church, or some government official or other. A letter of introduction, a little currency to ease the way, cash to set up a new life. Again, Skorzeny’s money.
“Since the end of the war, Otto Skorzeny and that fund have helped hundreds of murdering bastards escape Europe. And they aren’t all glorified office boys like Helmut Krauss. We’re talking about Adolf Eichmann, Josef Mengele, the worst pieces of filth who ever walked this earth. Now, do you see why Otto Skorzeny is of so much interest to me?”
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