Book Read Free

Ratlines

Page 24

by Stuart Neville


  Haughey sat in silence for a time. Skorzeny lit another cigarette and waited, enjoying the quiet and the gritty heat of the tobacco in his chest.

  Eventually, Haughey said, “What a fucking mess.”

  Skorzeny did not respond. He took another draw on the cigarette, exhaled a pungent cloud, watched it hang in the air, drifting with the currents of the room.

  “A disaster. That’s what you’ve landed me in. A bloody disaster.” “Lieutenant Ryan did not bear good news?”

  Haughey glared from across the desk. “No he did not.”

  He told Skorzeny about Ryan’s condition, about his capture, his torture, the rejection of the offer. And that the head of the Directorate of Intelligence now knew too much.

  When he finished, Skorzeny said, “The Directorate of Intelligence is your concern, Minister, not mine. I will speak with Lieutenant Ryan myself. I’m sure I can persuade him to be more open with me than he was with you.”

  “No,” Haughey said, pointing a finger. “Not a bloody chance. You stay away from Ryan, and that fancy piece of his. I gave him my word. Now, I want this business over with.”

  “Be patient, Minister. Their greed will overcome them. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow. But soon. And the problem will have disappeared.”

  Haughey got to his feet. “No, my problem won’t have disappeared. It’ll still be sitting there smoking its bloody cigarettes.” He paced the room, his hands in his pockets. “Old Dev should never have let any of you boys set foot in Ireland. And I’ll tell you what, it’s not too late to turf the lot of you out. Go back to Spain or Argentina or whatever stone you came out from under.”

  “What do you suggest, Minister? Should I give in to extortion?”

  Haughey stabbed a finger at him. “Yes you bloody should. And that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

  Skorzeny stubbed the cigarette out. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Pay the bastards. Ryan’s right. Give them what they want and be done with it.”

  “Minister, do you think I’m the kind of man who surrenders to his enemies?”

  “Oh, give over with this battlefield shit. This is not a warzone, and I won’t let you turn it into one. We have the President of the United States coming in a few weeks, and I won’t have any more bodies showing up on account of you and your bloody Nazi friends.”

  Skorzeny stood, used his full height to tower over the politician. “Minister, please do not push me. You have been a good friend to me, and I to you. We should not become enemies.”

  “Enemies?” Haughey gave a hard laugh. “I’ve no shortage of enemies, Colonel, and one more won’t cost me any sleep.” His forefinger jabbed Skorzeny’s chest. “Now you listen to me, and you listen well. Stay away from Ryan. You go near him and I’ll put you on the next flight to Spain myself.”

  Skorzeny smiled, buttoned his jacket, and walked towards the door.

  “You have my word, Minister. Good day.”

  He passed Haughey’s secretary without acknowledging her, an angry laugh trapped in his throat. The very idea that he would give in to blackmail.

  The last man to try such a foolish thing had died badly.

  Along with the head of Franco’s personal security team, Skorzeny had inspected the hotel room where Impelliteri had met his end. Sebastian Arroyo stood over the bloodstains on the carpet, shaking his head.

  “She stabbed him in the gut,” Arroyo said. “Tore him right open. The Generalissimo’s own doctor tended to him, but it was no good. Señor Impelliteri died in great pain.”

  Skorzeny was careful to show no pleasure at that observation.

  “An assassination, pure and simple,” Arroyo continued. “They were both naked. My guess is she meant to kill him in his sleep, but he woke up, and there was a struggle. We trapped her in the stairwell. A beautiful girl. Who would think she could do a thing like this?”

  “Did she say anything?” Skorzeny asked.

  “I shot her before she could speak,” Arroyo said. “The kindest thing, really. She would have suffered terribly if she’d been captured.”

  Skorzeny nodded in agreement. “True.”

  “An odd thing, though.”

  The sweat on Skorzeny’s back chilled. “What’s that?”

  “I had the room at her hotel searched. She had packed for a holiday, it seems, some clothes, swimwear and so on. She travelled on a Swiss passport, by the way. The odd thing was a note she had tucked inside some underwear in her suitcase.”

  Skorzeny shifted his weight on his feet. “A note?”

  “A small piece of paper. It had your name and the telephone number of this hotel written on it. Oh, and your room number.”

  Skorzeny said nothing.

  “I did not like Señor Impelliteri,” Arroyo said. “The Generalissimo made me hire him. As if I didn’t know my own job.”

  Arroyo turned and walked to the door. He paused.

  “Colonel Skorzeny, you would be wise to return to Ireland and stay there for a while.”

  Skorzeny nodded. “Perhaps so.”

  A month later, he made a generous gift to Arroyo. After all, there was a clear distinction between bribery and blackmail.

  CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

  RYAN FOUND WEISS sitting on a pew in the Unitarian Church, on the western side of St Stephen’s Green. He noted the concern on Weiss’s face as he approached.

  “Is it bad?” Weiss asked.

  “I’ll live,” Ryan said. He eased himself down onto the wooden bench, straining to keep the pain from showing on his face.

  “Is this a more suitable place than the University Church?” Weiss asked. “It’s non-denominational, you know. Both of us are welcome here. What are you? Anglican, Baptist, Methodist?”

  “Presbyterian,” Ryan said. “I don’t go to church much.”

  “Me neither. I guess we don’t belong here after all. So how did your little meeting go?”

  “I gave them twenty four hours to get Skorzeny to agree.”

  “You think he will?”

  Ryan shook his head. “I don’t know if his pride will allow it.”

  “Yes, he’s stubborn and proud, but he’s also smart. He knows this isn’t a war worth fighting. Mark my words, he’ll have agreed by this time tomorrow.”

  Ryan turned to look at Weiss. “Can you keep control of Carter and his men that long?”

  “Of course I can. They’re a good team.”

  Weiss looked up at the stained glass windows above the pulpit, his eyes betraying the doubt in his own words.

  CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

  WEISS FOLLOWED THE single track road as the white sheet of sky overhead darkened to grey. The raindrops on his windscreen fattened. He flicked the wipers on. They smeared the water across the glass.

  He had left Remak at the airport. A few days’ furlough, Weiss had said. Get some rest while he revised his notes for presenting to their superiors back in Tel Aviv. Next week, he told him, when they had final approval from the top, they’d move on Skorzeny. He’d booked the flight out of his own pocket. First class.

  The cottage appeared through the trees ahead, a low tumbledown building, whitewash turned to grey and brown, the paint on the door reduced to a few flakes of green on bare wood. He pulled the car onto the small patch of clear ground in front of the house, alongside the Bedford van. When the engine shuddered and died, he heard the voices.

  Hard, angry voices.

  He recognised Carter’s first, the harsh barks, like a guard dog that had caught scent of an intruder. Then Wallace, his mocking tone, his arrogance.

  Weiss put a hand to his pistol and climbed out of the car. He closed the door over, pressed it gently until it sealed shut. The voices rose in pitch and volume.

  “He’ll shaft us.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but I say what goes, and I say we wait it out.”

  “You say what goes? Under what authority?”

  “I’m your superior officer, I don’t need any other authority.”


  “Superior officer? I’m not in your bloody army. You’ve got no bloody say over me or him.”

  “If you want paid, you’ll do what I tell you.”

  “Yeah, I want paid, but what with? Where’s the fucking money? Eh? You told me you’d make me rich, and I haven’t seen a bloody penny yet.”

  Weiss opened the cottage door, stepped inside. The damp in the air fell on him like a chilled cloak.

  Carter and Wallace stood toe-to-toe at the centre of the room. They both turned to look at Weiss, shame on their faces, like children caught in mischief. Gracey watched from the corner, weariness in his eyes.

  Weiss took a wad of bills from his pocket, held tight by a money clip. He counted out five, ten, twenty of them and held the money out to Wallace.

  “A thousand dollars,” Weiss said. “You want to be paid? Okay, then take it as a severance package and get the hell out of here.”

  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

  FROM 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.”

&
nbsp; 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.”

 

‹ Prev