Ratlines Read online

  “Which department?” Ryan asked.

  “The Directorate of Intelligence,” Hughes said. “G2, they call it.”

  “So he was trying to recruit you?”

  “No,” Hughes said. “He knew I was in for life. But he wanted me to whisper in a few ears, talk to any lads that might be good material for them.”

  “Like me,” Ryan said.

  Hughes smiled, took a swig of ale, and fetched a pencil from his jacket pocket. He scribbled a name and a telephone number on a beer mat, slid it across the table.

  “Think about it,” Hughes said.

  Ryan hardly thought about it at all. He called the number the very next morning.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  SKORZENY WOKE EARLY, bathed, and ate a stout breakfast with good coffee. He walked in the fields for an hour or so, watched the sheep graze, observed Tiernan working on exercises with his dogs.

  Lainé had kept himself out of sight since the night before last, holed up in his room, empty bottles gathering by the kitchen door the only visible sign of his presence. Skorzeny occasionally heard the pup’s mewling, but little else.

  In truth, he was glad of it. He did not find Célestin Lainé at all agreeable, but the Breton was useful, so he tolerated his presence in the house. Frau Tiernan found him less tolerable, had complained about Lainé several times since his arrival, but Skorzeny assured her he would move on before long, and she wouldn’t have to worry about the messes he and that damned pup left behind.

  Skorzeny had spent much of the last thirty six hours in thought, considering options, entertaining suspicions. Of course Ryan was correct; Skorzeny should simply board a flight to Madrid and stay there enjoying the sunshine until this foolishness was over. But if he had been the type to back down, to flee when danger thundered in the distance, he would not be Otto Skorzeny. He would never have tasted the glory, or the women, or enjoyed the power and the riches at his disposal. He would still be an engineer, toiling at a desk in Vienna, waiting for a pension or a heart attack, whichever came first.

  Whoever these terrorists—yes, terrorists was the correct word—whoever they were, and whatever they wanted, he would stand here on his land, would not be dislodged by threat or action. If they wanted to come at him, they had better be prepared for a fight.

  And Otto Skorzeny had never lost a fight.

  Besides, Madrid might not be that welcoming for the time being, given recent events.

  In Tarragona, Luca Impelliteri had sat across the table from Skorzeny eight hours after making his demands, smiling that damned smile of his as the rest of Franco’s guests chattered around them. A young Spanish woman had sat by the Italian’s side, her hand constantly brushing the tanned skin of his forearm.

  Occasionally, Impelliteri spoke into her ear, causing her to smile and blush. Then he glanced up at Skorzeny, his looks a barbed reminder of the prize he believed he had won from the older man.

  But he had won nothing other than the fate he deserved.

  In the small hours of the following morning, Skorzeny was woken by a telephone call to his hotel room.

  “SS-Obersturmbannführer Skorzeny?”

  A woman’s voice.

  “Who is this?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

  “I have come at the request of your old friend.”

  “Good,” Skorzeny said. “Where are you?”

  “In a hotel at the far end of the Rambla Nova.”

  “Do you know what I want from you?”

  “I know what, but not who.”

  As the Mediterranean lapped at the rocks beneath his window, Skorzeny gave her a name.

  HE MADE HIS way back to the house, cleaned his boots outside the door, and entered through the kitchen.

  Frau Tiernan stood at the sink washing the breakfast things.

  “I would like some coffee in my study,” he said in German. “Have Esteban bring it to me when it’s ready.”

  She looked up from her scrubbing. “Yes, sir. The post is on your desk.”

  Skorzeny went to the study, sat behind his desk, and lit a cigarette. He leafed through the five envelopes. A letter from Pieter Menten in Holland, one from a bishop in Portugal, two from old Kameraden in Argentina.

  And one with a Dublin postmark, the address typewritten to SS-Obersturmbannführer Otto Skorzeny.

  His mouth dried. He drew hard on the cigarette, placed it in the ashtray, and opened the envelope.

  One page, typewritten.

  He read. Anger simmered in his gut. He clenched a fist, read the letter once more.

  Then he laughed.

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  RYAN READ THROUGH his notes from the night before, though there had been little to write about as the dark hours dragged on. Somewhere he had heard a baby cry every few hours, demanding its feed. A couple had argued loud and fierce on past midnight. A dog barked every so often. In the house closest to him, Ryan heard the rattle of a headboard through the open bedroom window, the grunts of a man’s climax, the closing of a door, a woman’s tears.

  Ryan moved a few feet away from his nest when he needed to relieve his bladder, crawling slow and careful through the ivy.

  As the night deepened, Ryan fought sleep with coffee. Still it slipped over him. He awoke from a nightmare, walls collapsing around him, burying him, as the dawn train screamed past. Once he’d gathered his senses, he checked his wristwatch. Not quite six thirty.

  Life stirred in the houses around him. The baby crying, dogs barking, mothers shouting at their children. Soon he spotted men leaving for work, trudging along the street, their jackets held tight around them against the early chill, cigarettes hanging from their lips, lunches wrapped in newspaper beneath their arms.

  A milk float hummed onto the street. Ryan lost it behind the houses, but he heard the clinking of bottles and the milkman’s whistling.

  The corner shop below Ryan’s vantage point opened not long past seven thirty. The proprietor wiped down the windows and swept the floor.

  A movement at the house caught Ryan’s attention. He checked his watch: just past eight. A short, stocky man stepped out of the gated yard. He walked along the alleyway, coming directly towards Ryan. A soldier, there could be no question, with that hair, that gait. One who’d seen action. Ryan guessed him at around thirty years old, too young to have been in the Second World War, but very likely Korea.

  The man rounded the corner and entered the shop. Barely visible through the glass, Ryan saw him nod at the shopkeeper, speaking as few words as he could get away with. He emerged with a packet of cigarettes and a box of kitchen matches, stuffing his change into his pocket, and jogged back up the alley to the gate.

  Ryan had been correct about one thing: he came and went by the rear of the house, not the front.

  Ten minutes later, two more men emerged. Ryan brought the field glasses to his eyes. He recognised one of them as Captain John Carter. Fuller in the face, his hair thinner on top, but it was him. The other stood a good five or six inches taller, and gave sharp deferential nods as Carter spoke. The face triggered Ryan’s memory: one of the men standing alongside Carter in the photograph Weiss had given him. Carter went to the driver’s side, unlocked the door, slid it back, and climbed into the cabin. He reached across and unlocked the passenger door. The other man finished his cigarette before getting in.

  The clatter of the Bedford’s engine echoed between the houses and the railway arches. Carter watched his side mirrors, the alleyway barely wide enough to allow the van to pass.

  Ryan shrank back into the ivy as it approached. Through the vines and leaves he could make out the lines on Carter’s face, and the other’s. The tall man looked a similar age to his leader, around forty five.

  The van pulled out of the alley, and rounded the corner onto the avenue. The engine puttered and barked as it gathered speed on its way to Jones’s Road and turned right towards the city centre.

  Ryan noted the time.

  All remained still until eleven t
hirty when the shorter man left the house once more, again via the rear gate. He walked in the direction of Ryan’s position, turned towards the corner shop, and came out a minute later with a bottle of lemonade.

  Ryan held his breath as the man paused in the street below and unscrewed the cap. He brought the bottle to his lips, threw his head back, and gulped the fizzy liquid down. Wiping his chin, he let out a long belch. He went to the alleyway’s entrance and leaned against the wall. There, he fished a packet of cigarettes from his pocket—the same one he’d bought earlier—and lit one.

  The man remained at the end of the alley, sipping at his lemonade, long enough to smoke three cigarettes. All the while, he cast his gaze around, along the alley, up and down the street.

  Ryan recognised the behaviour of a man not dealing well with being cooped up in his quarters. He had seen it everywhere he’d served, men finding any excuse they could to get outdoors, even if it meant simply walking circles around their barracks.

  Finally, the man trudged back towards the house, taking his lemonade with him, and let himself through the gate.

  More than two hours passed before the van reappeared at the far end of the alleyway. It halted at the rear of the house, and the two men alighted without speaking to each other. They entered through the gate.

  Three men in total. Ryan scribbled a brief description of each on his notepad. Height, build, hair colour.

  The sun came out, warming Ryan’s back.

  On the street below, a group of five young boys rounded the corner, one of them carrying a soccer ball and a piece of chalk. He came to the gable wall of the house next to Ryan and disappeared from view. Ryan heard the scratching of the chalk on the wall, pictured the boy drawing a goal mouth.

  One boy volunteered as goalkeeper, and the others split into pairs. Soon the sound of panting, kicking, leather scuffing on tarmac. Ryan watched them shove one another, their feet tangling over the ball. Every minute or two he heard the hard slap of its leather against the wall, the hollow ring as it bounced away, and one of the pairs would cheer.

  Now and then the shopkeeper came to his window, glared out at them, shook his head, and retreated back to his counter.

  They played for more than an hour without a break, each pair’s score reaching the dozens, before they stopped, breathless and sweating.

  “I’m sitting down for a minute,” the boy who owned the ball said.

  “Me too,” another said. “I’m fucking knackered.”

  The five sat on the footpath, in the shade, their backs against the red-brick gable wall opposite Ryan. They talked about school, and which of the Christian Brothers was the biggest bastard, and what they’d do when they were older and bigger and found one of the worst Brothers alone on the street. They talked about their mothers and fathers, and the girls they knew.

  “Did you hear about Sheila McCabe and Paddy Gorman?”

  “No, what?”

  “She showed him her tits.”

  “Fuck off. Sure, she’s got no tits to show.”

  “Yeah, she has, I saw her in town with her ma, they were buying her a bra.”

  “Aw, shite, no you didn’t.”

  “I did. Anyway, she showed ’em to Paddy. He told me she let him have a suck on ’em and everything.”

  The boys roared with laughter.

  The shopkeeper came out onto the street. “Here now, lads, I won’t have that dirty talk outside my shop. Go on, the lot of you, before I go and tell your mothers what you were mouthing about.”

  The boys stood, dropped their gazes to the ground, shuffled their feet. The shopkeeper went back inside. The boys laughed and recommenced their game.

  They hadn’t been playing long when the shorter man emerged from the house and walked down the alleyway. The boys glanced at him as he walked to the shop, and again when he left, a chocolate bar in his fingers. He went back to the mouth of the alley, unwrapped the bar, and ate. When the chocolate was done, he took his cigarettes from his pocket.

  The boys paused their play. They huddled around their leader, then parted.

  The leader said, “Here, mister.”

  The man lit his cigarette, drew on it. The breeze carried away the smoke as he exhaled.

  “Here, mister.”

  He looked at the boy.

  “Give us a couple of them, will you?”

  The man hesitated then took two cigarettes from the packet and held them out. The boy approached and took them from his fingers.

  “Thanks, mister.”

  The boys ran off, taking their ball with them, their footsteps reverberating underneath the bridge as they went.

  “What was that?”

  The voice took Ryan by surprise as much as it did the man below.

  Carter stood behind the man, his face hard with anger.

  “Just some kids,” the man said, his accent Rhodesian or South African, Ryan couldn’t tell which.

  “We talked about this, Wallace.” Carter spoke through tight lips. “Didn’t we talk about this?”

  “They’re only kids. I didn’t—”

  Carter slapped Wallace’s forehead with his open palm. “I don’t care if they’re fucking leprechauns. You’re drawing attention. How many times have you been at that shop today?”

  Wallace scowled. “A couple, that’s all. I’m sick of sitting around that bloody house all day.”

  “You’ll sit wherever I fucking tell you to sit. Understand?”

  Wallace sighed and nodded.

  Carter leaned in close. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right.” Carter stepped away. “Now get back in the house. Go on, double.”

  Wallace trotted away towards the gate.

  Carter stood with his hands on his hips, watching him go. Then he looked in each direction along the street.

  Ryan froze when Carter’s gaze settled on the cluster of ivy at the top of the wall above. The Englishman stepped onto the road, squinting. Ryan held his breath.

  Carter shook his head, spat on the ground, and followed Wallace towards the house. Ryan let the air out of his lungs.

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  “I CAN’T REACH HIM,” Haughey said, his voice crackling in the telephone’s earpiece.

  A soft ache settled behind Skorzeny’s forehead. “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is he hasn’t been at the hotel since yesterday. Fitzpatrick, his boss, tried Gormanston Camp, and he hasn’t been back there since all this started. I even had my secretary call that shop his father owns in Carrickmacree, she pretended to be his sweetheart, and they’ve seen no sign of him. In short, I don’t have a baldy notion where the fucker is.”

  Skorzeny drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Minister, I don’t believe I can stress the urgency of speaking with Lieutenant Ryan enough. This letter changes the nature of the work he is doing for us, and more importantly, the nature of the enemy we face.”

  “You face, Colonel.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We don’t face any enemy,” Haughey said. “That letter was addressed to you and nobody else. Your enemies are your own.”

  “Trust me, Minister, you do not want to be one of them.”

  “Likewise, Colonel. Think twice before threatening me. I can make Ireland a very cold house for you and your kind. But let’s not go down that road just yet. No need to fall out over Lieutenant Ryan. I’m sure he’ll turn up before too long.”

  Skorzeny returned the receiver to its cradle and rang the hand bell.

  Esteban entered and lifted the telephone. He went to leave, but Skorzeny said, “Wait.”

  He sat silent for a few seconds, thinking, before he said, “Fetch my coat, Esteban. I need to drive to the city.”

  THE WOMAN ASKED, “Is Celia expecting you?”

  “No, madame,” Skorzeny said.

  She smiled at the courtesy. “Well, you’d better come in. You can w
ait in the parlour.”

  He followed her through the hall and into the room.

  “I won’t be a minute,” she said, and left him there.

  She returned two minutes later. “Here she is.”

  Celia entered. She stopped, one foot in front of the other, when she saw Skorzeny.

  “Miss Hume,” he said.

  Celia did not reply.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” the landlady said.

  “No,” Celia said. “I’d rather you stayed.”

  The landlady hesitated.

  “It is a private matter,” Skorzeny said.

  Celia gave a polite smile. “Even so, I’d rather Mrs. Highland stayed. Please sit down.”

  The girl sat in the armchair opposite. Mrs. Highland took the other chair. Skorzeny remained standing.

  After seconds of silence, Mrs. Highland asked, “Would you like a cup of tea, mister … Pardon me, I didn’t quite get your name.”

  “No thank you,” Celia said. “Colonel Skorzeny doesn’t need anything.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Highland folded her hands in her lap. When no one else spoke, she said, “Changeable weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

  They both ignored her.

  “What did you want to see me about, Colonel Skorzeny?”

  “Our mutual friend,” he said, taking a seat on the couch. “Lieutenant Ryan. I need to speak with him urgently, but I have been unable to reach him. I hoped you might know of his whereabouts.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  Skorzeny fixed his gaze on the girl. “I must stress, Miss Hume, how important my business with Lieutenant Ryan is.”

  “Again, I don’t know where he is. I am sorry, but that’s all I can tell you.”

  He pinned her with his eyes. She looked to her lap. “Miss Hume, I will spare no effort—no effort at all—in finding Lieutenant Ryan. Do you understand my meaning?”

  He watched her throat tighten, her hands tremble.

  “I spoke with Albert yesterday. He told me he had to go away for a day or two. For work. He wouldn’t tell me where or what for. That’s all I know.”