Ratlines

by Stuart Neville

  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

  THEY 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.”

  THE 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.

  RYAN 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.

  “Where is he?”

  The boy shook his head, his eyes watering. He asked, “Haven’t you heard?”

  RYAN FOLLOWED THE sound of his mother’s weeping through the hospital’s corridors and wards until he found her at his father’s bedside beneath a tall window. He stopped when he saw the purple skin, the puffy swollen fingers protruding from the casts on each arm, the bloodied gauze taped above the eyebrow.

  His mother looked up, her eyes red and wet.

  “Albert. I’ve been trying to get you since last night. I rang the camp. They didn’t know where you were. I’ve been ringing everywhere I can—”

  “What happened?” Ryan asked. He dared not step closer.

  “Men came. IRA, I think. They had hurling sticks and a metal bar. They said it was a message for you. From a friend of yours.”

  A deep chill spread from Ryan’s belly up through his chest and into his throat, the milk he’d drunk threatening to expel itself from his stomach. His hands hung useless by his sides.

  “Dear God, Albert, what have you been involved in? Who did this to my husband?”

  She stood, her shoulders quivering. Ryan wanted to flee, but he kept still and silent. She crossed to him, her gaze flitting over his face, registering the injuries there. Then she opened her right hand and slapped him across the cheek.

  Ryan’s head rocked, the heat and the sting flaring on his skin.

  “What have you got us mixed up in?”

  He had no answer. She slapped him again, harder this time.

  “Who did this to your father?”

  Ryan took her in his arms, wrapped them tight around her. She fought him, tried to pull free, but he would not release her. Her body softened against his and he felt the damp heat of her cheek against his neck, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin.

  Her hand moved across his chest, found the hard butt of the Walther beneath the fabric of his jacket.

  “My God,” she said, her voice muffled by his embrace.

  “I know who did this,” he said. “They won’t touch you again. I promise.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY NINE

  WHEN RYAN PULLED up at the gate of Skorzeny’s property almost three hours later, the package no longer lay on the passenger seat. He had stopped at a telephone box on the journey south and called Celia’s home near Drogheda. Her father had answered, his response curt when Ryan asked to speak with his daughter. She told him she had done as they discussed, and the package and its instructions had been delivered.

  He did not tell her about his own father, or that he was headed for Skorzeny’s farm.

  A heavyset young man stopped Ryan at the gateway. Another lurked in the trees, watching.

  “No one’s coming in,” the young man said. “If you’ve got a delivery, you can leave it here.”

  A local accent. Ryan guessed him to be IRA, a replacement for the guards who had perished a few nights before.

  “My name is Lieutenant Albert Ryan. Tell Colonel Skorzeny I’m here.”

  The young man leaned on the roof of the car, his round boulder o
f a head close enough to Ryan’s to smell his breath.

  “I told you, no one’s coming in. Doesn’t matter a shite who you are.”

  Ryan reached up, slipped his right arm around the young man’s neck, and pulled him down towards the Walther which he held in his left hand. The muzzle made a dimple in the young man’s fleshy cheek.

  The man in the tree line came forward, concern on his face as he tried to see what was happening at the car. Ryan saw the shotgun in his arms.

  “Tell your friend to stay back.”

  The young man waved a hand at his colleague. The other man stopped.

  “Now, please let Colonel Skorzeny know that Lieutenant Ryan is here. Trust me, he’ll want to see me.”

  SKORZENY STOOD WAITING in his study.

  “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Ryan. My gatekeeper informed me that you are armed. He lacked the intelligence to relieve you of your—”

  Ryan’s open palm caught him hard across the mouth. He took one step backward.

  “Don’t touch my family again,” Ryan said, “or I will kill you myself.”

  Skorzeny raised a hand to his lip, checked his fingertips for blood. “It was a warning, nothing more.”

  Ryan drew the Walther from its holster, raised it to aim at Skorzeny’s forehead.

  The Austrian smiled. “As I was saying, my gatekeeper had not the intelligence to take your weapon from you. Good men are hard to find.”

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your brains out right now.”

  “If you had the will to kill me, you would have done it by now.” Skorzeny walked around his desk, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at his lip and sat down. “But I do have a reason.”

  Ryan kept his aim steady. “Let’s have it, then.”

  “In a moment. Please lower your pistol and sit down, Lieutenant Ryan. I really see no need for such dramatics.”

  Ryan held firm for a moment, anger battling reason. He lowered the Walther, but kept his finger on the trigger guard.

  “Sit, please,” Skorzeny said.

  Ryan stayed on his feet.

  “Would you care for a drink?” Skorzeny asked. “You seem stressed. A brandy, perhaps? Or whiskey?”

  “Nothing,” Ryan said.

  “Very well. Now, regarding the injuries to your father. I must apologise. I had asked my contact in the IRA to have some men visit your parents. I wanted only that they should be frightened. It seems matters got out of hand. But the message was necessary.”

  “You had no cause to harm my father.”

  “Oh, but I did.” Skorzeny returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “You see, the situation has changed.”

  “I don’t care.” Ryan raised the pistol for emphasis. “If you, or anyone else, come near my parents again, I promise you will suffer.”

  “I understand your anger,” Skorzeny said. “But if you’ll listen for a moment, you’ll see there’s no reason for anyone else to come to harm.”

  “Go on.”

  “Against my better judgement, I have decided to pay the men who have been causing us such problems. An advertisement will appear in tomorrow’s Irish Times.”

  The Walther grew heavy in Ryan’s hand. He lowered it to his side once more and sat down, jaw clenched against the pain that shifted from his groin to his stomach.

  “There will be one condition,” Skorzeny said.

  “What?”

  “That you, and only you, shall act as courier for the gold. I am confident you won’t try to steal it for yourself.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Skorzeny smiled and said, “How? I can be sure because the men who attacked your father are watching the hospital he’s in. They know which ward and which bed. They know your mother wears a red coat and carries a black leather bag. Do I need to continue?”

  Ryan fought to keep his hands at his sides, to keep his finger off the trigger.

  Skorzeny smirked. “Would you like to point your gun at me again? Or will you agree to my request so we can have this over and done with?”

  Ryan returned the Walther to its holster.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  GOREN WEISS CIRCLED back around to drive past Buswells once more. Yes, the newspaper sat on the dashboard of Ryan’s car. He parked further along the street and walked back to the hotel.

  He gave the receptionist Ryan’s name and room number. She smiled and lifted the telephone.

  “Mr. Ryan will be down presently,” she said, that smile fixed to her face like a man clinging to a cliff edge. “Please take a seat in the lounge.”

  Weiss thanked her and walked through to the high-ceilinged room where a few suited men read newspapers while they drank their tea and coffee. He found a comfortable seat close to the window.

  A pudgy waiter approached. “Can I get you some refreshment, sir?”

  “You got any Jack Daniels?”

  “Sir?” The waiter’s bottom lip drooped, his breath sounding like cough syrup sucked through a straw.

  Weiss sighed. “I guess not. Glenfiddich, then. A double, neat, on ice.”

  The waiter leaned in close, spoke in a confidential tone. “Sir, this is a temperance hotel.”

  “A what?”

  “We don’t serve alcohol. I can get you a nice cup of tea, if you like.”

  Weiss wiped his hand across his eyes. “No, thank you, just a glass of water, please.”

  The water arrived at the same time as Ryan. The Irishman lowered himself onto the chair next to Weiss’s, his features contorting with the pain it caused him.

  “Still hurting, huh?” Weiss asked. “You want some tea? They might even run to something as strong as coffee.”

  “Nothing,” Ryan said.

  “So, what is it?”

  “I saw Skorzeny today.”

  Weiss studied Ryan as he waited for him to continue, saw something hiding behind his eyes. When he remained silent, Weiss said, “Spit it out, Albert. I don’t like it when people keep things from me.”

  Ryan let the air out of his lungs, a long and weary sigh.

  “Skorzeny had my father beaten. As a warning.”

  “And I guess you’re kind of sore about that.”

  Ryan did not answer.

  “That’s understandable. But don’t let your anger get the better of you. So what did the Colonel have to say for himself?”

  “That he’s going to pay. There’ll be an ad in the Irish Times tomorrow.”

  Weiss raised his glass in a toast. “Good news. I told you he’d come around.”

  Ryan shook his head. “It was too easy. Something’s not right.”

  “Oh, come on, Albert. Don’t be so negative. I told you, Otto Skorzeny is a smart man. One and a half million is pocket change to him. Paying up is the only option that makes sense.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Ryan said. “We need to watch our step. He could be setting a trap. He’s too proud to give in like this.”

  “Perhaps the Colonel isn’t as all-powerful as you think he is.” He locked eyes with Ryan.

  “What do you mean?”

  Weiss couldn’t keep the smile from his lips. “Did it ever strike you that Skorzeny’s war record is a little too good to be true?”

  “You know something,” Ryan said. “Tell me.”

  “I have a contact, a former member of Himmler’s staff. He’s given us some good information, so we let him live. Anyway, he was there when they made that film reconstruction of the Gran Sasso raid, where they show Skorzeny and his crew swooping in on their gliders and snatching Mussolini. Thing is, the bold Colonel was only supposed to be there as an observer.”

  “He planned the raid,” Ryan said. “I read about it. There’s books written about—”

  “Propaganda,” Weiss said. “All he did was reconnaissance, and poorly at that. The Reich was in trouble by ’43, and the SS needed a hero. Skorzeny fell ass-backwards into the role. He was supposed to be on one of the last gliders to land, but something fucked
up, and he wound up landing first, right at the front door of the hotel where they were holding Mussolini. Scared the shit out of the carabinieri, and they dropped their weapons right there and then.

  “So, my German friend tells me, the front door of the hotel is barred, and Skorzeny goes running around the building trying to find another way in, dodging guard dogs, trying to climb over walls. In the end, against orders, he got inside, ran up and down corridors until he found Mussolini. Made damn sure he got the credit for it. The Italians put up no resistance, hardly a shot was fired. The only injuries were due to a couple of the gliders crash landing. Hardly the daring feat the SS propaganda team made it out to be. Almost everything you read in those books was fiction, not history. Skorzeny is not Superman. He’s a middle-aged fraud living off a reputation he didn’t earn.”

  “He’s still dangerous,” Ryan said.

  “Yes, he’s dangerous. Very dangerous. But he is not invincible. Just remember that. We can beat him.”

  Ryan took a breath. “He wants me to be the courier.”

  “I have no problem with that. Come on, Albert, lighten up. A few days from now, you’ll be one of the richest men in this godforsaken country. All you got to do is hold your nerve.”

  He stood, reached for the glass, and downed the rest of the water.

  “I need a real drink.” He patted Ryan’s shoulder. “We’re almost home, Albert. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  Weiss left Ryan sitting in the lounge, a warm glow in his chest, despite the lack of whisky and the look of hollow dread on the Irishman’s face.

  WEISS APPROACHED THE cottage at the end of the overgrown lane. He stopped the car short of the clearing when he saw Carter sitting on the doorstep, his head in his hands.

  Weiss climbed out, shut the door.

  Carter looked up at the sound, startled, as if he had been unaware of the car’s approach.

  A queasy knot tightened in Weiss’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

  Carter shook his head and stared off somewhere into the trees. His Browning pistol lay on the worn stone step beside him.