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  Ryan neared the bottom of his second glass of Guinness—a pint this time—while Celia stirred her second rum and Coca Cola.

  “It’s good to meet a man who’s travelled,” she said. “This country is so self-absorbed, our tiny little island. It’s as if we’re surrounded by a wall or a fence, like that one they’ve put up in Berlin, except it’s been built all the way around the coast. The only reason anyone gets on an aeroplane or a boat is to emigrate, and then the only places they can think to go to are England or America.”

  “It’s expensive to travel,” Ryan said. “Who can afford it, unless they do it for a living?”

  Celia leaned forward, pointed a finger, her eyes wide with an idea. “Then everyone should be a soldier or a Third Secretary.”

  Ryan raised his own finger. “Then who would stay at home to tend the fields? Or go to church? We can’t leave all those priests with no one to preach to. Whose confession would they take?”

  Her brow creased. “Clearly, I haven’t thought this through.”

  “Why did you talk to me?”

  Her smile faltered. The question had preyed on him since the night they danced, but he hadn’t meant to ask it aloud.

  “In Malahide, I mean. Why did you come over to me?”

  “That is an improper question, Albert Ryan.”

  She brought her glass to her lips.

  “But I’d like to know,” Ryan said.

  Celia returned the glass to the table, watched the bubbles scale its walls and cling to the melting ice.

  “I saw you walk in,” she said. “I saw the way you carried yourself. I thought: this man is not like the others. All those little boys and old men, politicians, civil servants, chinless pencil pushers and clock watchers. You were clearly not one of them. You were clearly something … else.” She looked up from the glass. “And also a little bit sad.”

  Ryan felt naked, as if her eyes picked over the skin beneath his shirt. He couldn’t have borne it a moment longer if she hadn’t tripped him with a sudden smile.

  “And then you opened your mouth, and you were like a schoolboy at his first dance in the Parochial Hall. I could almost imagine your mother spitting on her hankie and wiping your face before she let you out the door.”

  “It’s a long time since my mother cleaned my face,” Ryan said. “Almost a month, in fact.”

  Her chiming laughter and a hand on his knee caused a fluttering in Ryan’s belly. He excused himself and went looking for the WC. He found it at the rear of the room, the door hidden in a darkened corner, the mixed smell of disinfectant and human waste meeting him as he entered.

  Ryan went to the toilet stall rather than the trough that served as a urinal. He preferred the privacy of the enclosed space over the vulnerability of standing exposed. When he was done, he pulled the chain and heard the roar of the flush.

  He stepped out of the cubicle and saw a man at the washbasin, running water over the teeth of a comb. In the mirror above the basin, the man watched the reflection of the wet comb as it smoothed his thick dark hair to his scalp.

  Ryan knew this man was not local, his charcoal-coloured suit too well cut, his skin too tanned. The man stepped aside to allow Ryan to wash his hands, but he lingered, taking his time over his grooming, watching himself over Ryan’s shoulder.

  The man asked, “Did you enjoy the picture?”

  Ryan took his hands from the water. “Excuse me?”

  “The picture,” the man said, putting his comb in his pocket. “Did you enjoy it?”

  His accent was American, but seasoned by something else. It had that nasal twang, but a depth to the vowels that was more European. His facial expression might have passed for friendly if not for his eyes.

  Ryan shut off the tap and lifted paper towels from the stack above the basin. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  The man smiled. He had good teeth. “No, you don’t. I saw you in the movie house.”

  Ryan estimated the man’s age at forty to forty five. He had small scars on his hands, and what might have been an old burn on the skin of his neck, not quite concealed by his collar.

  “It wasn’t bad,” Ryan said, dropping the paper towels into the bin. “A bit silly. But I enjoyed it.”

  “Silly.” The man weighed the word. “Yes, that’s a good way to describe it. Entertaining, but hardly realistic, don’t you think?”

  Ryan stepped away from the basin, towards the door. “I wouldn’t know. Good night.”

  “She’s very pretty.”

  Ryan stopped, his fingers on the handle. He turned to see the man incline his head towards the door, and the unseen room beyond.

  “The girl. Your date. She’s very pretty.”

  Ryan let his hands drop to his sides, found his balance. “Yes, she is.”

  “You’re punching above your weight a little, though, aren’t you?”

  Ryan did not answer.

  “I mean, you’re getting a little out of your league.”

  “Who are you?”

  The man’s smile broadened. “You don’t want to be out of your league, do you? If you get in over your head, who knows what might happen?”

  Ryan shifted his weight forward on the ball of his right foot. The man braced.

  “Who sent you?” Ryan asked.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you—”

  Ryan moved, one hand going in low, the other high, ready to seize the man, turn him, pin him against the tiled wall. Ryan was quick, but the man was quicker. A hard hand on his wrist, pulling, stealing his momentum, using it against him. The man turned and ducked within Ryan’s reach, nimble like a dancer, the sharp point of his elbow jutting into Ryan’s groin, robbing him of air.

  The tiles slammed into Ryan’s cheek. He tried to push himself away from the wall, but the man kicked at the backs of his knees, taking his legs from under him. Ryan’s kneecaps cracked on the cold wet floor. He felt the other man’s knee press hard between his shoulder blades, pinning his chest to the wall. A hand gripped his hair, pulled his head back.

  Ryan heard a metallic click, saw the tip of a blade close to his right eye, felt it brush his eyelashes, the chill of it against his cheek.

  “Be still, my friend.”

  Ryan put his palms on the tiles, fought the heaving in his chest.

  “I only asked if you enjoyed the picture,” the man said, his voice calm and even. “That’s all. Nothing to get worked up about, is it? Just a friendly question, right?”

  The man released Ryan’s hair, took the knee from his back, the knife from his vision, and stepped away.

  “I’ll see you around, Lieutenant Ryan.”

  The door creaked, the chatter of drinkers swelling for a moment then receding. Ryan looked over his shoulder. Alone, he rested his forehead on the coolness of the tiles for a few seconds before dragging himself to his feet.

  He went to the mirror over the basin, checked for any mark from the blade, saw none. His knees carried damp stains from the moisture on the floor, and his tie hung crooked. He straightened it, wiped at his knees with paper towels. When his breathing steadied, he left the WC.

  Celia looked up as he approached. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” Ryan said. “I promised Mrs. Highland I’d have you back by eleven. We’d better be going.”

  Celia scoffed. “Oh, Mrs. Highland can wait up. That dried up old bag should step out herself now and then. It’d do her the world of good to blow the cobwebs from her knickers.”

  She giggled, brought her fingertips to her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was quite coarse of me, wasn’t it? Perhaps I’ve had one drink too many. You’re right, we should go.”

  Ryan offered her his arm, and they made their way through the smoke and the red-faced men. He watched for dark hair and a well-cut suit, knowing eyes set in a tanned face, and saw no one but the drunken newspapermen.

  THE DRAWING ROOM curtains twitched as they reached the doorstep. Celia rested her hand on his chest.

/>   “I’d invite you in, but I’m afraid we’d have Mrs. Highland for company. Unless you want to watch her knitting, we’ll have to say goodnight here.”

  “Here is fine,” Ryan said. Once more, he found himself short of words. He stood with his arms by his sides, the agony of silence between them. Celia broke it with a smile.

  “I had a very nice time,” she said. “I hope you’ll call me again.”

  “I will. Absolutely.”

  “The restaurant at the Shelbourne isn’t too bad.”

  “Then I’ll take you.”

  Ryan couldn’t help feeling they were negotiating a contract, making promises, reaching accords. He didn’t care, as long as he would see her again.

  “Good,” she said.

  She leaned in, raised herself slightly on her toes, and kissed him. Warm, moist, fragrant lipstick. The tip of her tongue grazed his upper lip. When she moved away, he still felt her there, the heat of her.

  “For God’s sake, Albert, don’t just stand there looking like you’ve seen the Blessed Virgin.”

  He half coughed, half laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect … I didn’t know …”

  She raised her fingertips to his cheek. “Such a saggy face. Goodnight, Albert.”

  Ryan left her there and went to the car. The drive from Rathgar into town took less than fifteen minutes, and he spent it trying to think of the dark-haired man who bested him in the bathroom, and not the feeling of Celia’s lips against his.

  He did not succeed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  SKORZENY LEFT HIS brandy and his guests in the drawing room. He followed Esteban to the darkened study and picked up the telephone receiver. The boy flicked on the lamp, casting a pool of soft light over the desk.

  “Who is this?” Skorzeny asked.

  “Celia Hume.”

  Skorzeny took a cigarette from the case on the desk. “Well?”

  “We had a very pleasant evening. We went to the pictures, then afterwards, a drink.”

  Skorzeny noted the softness of the consonants, the way she enunciated the words with care so as to hide the effects of those drinks.

  Esteban lifted the desk lighter, struck a flame, and held it out. Skorzeny tasted petrol and tobacco, carried to his throat by the heat. He waved Esteban away. The boy left the room, closed the door behind him.

  “Were any sensitive matters discussed?” he asked.

  “No. At least, none that concerned you or the work Lieutenant Ryan is doing for you.”

  “And what were your impressions of him?”

  The girl paused, then said, “He is very sweet. Like a child, in some ways. But there’s something else to him, something I can’t quite describe. I know he’s a soldier, but it’s more than that. Something in his eyes, in the way he holds himself, the way he speaks. But not what he says. Something that frightens me, just a little.”

  Had he felt so inclined, Skorzeny could have put it into words for her. Ryan carried the souls of the dead with him, just as every killer does. However gentlemanly the exterior, no matter how kind the man might appear, those souls will watch from behind his eyes.

  “When will you see him again?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Soon, I think. He promised to call.”

  “Good. Bring him close to you. As close as he desires to be.”

  Silence for a moment, then, “What do you mean?”

  Skorzeny flicked the cigarette against the crystal ashtray. “Do I not pay you well for this service?”

  “Colonel Skorzeny, I am not a prostitute.”

  “Of course not,” he said. “Goodnight, Miss Hume.”

  He hung up and returned to his guests, picking up the story he’d been telling. The one about rescuing Mussolini from the hotel on Gran Sasso that served as the dictator’s prison. Skorzeny’s political guests always enjoyed that one.

  He had told the tale so many times, at so many parties and dinners and banquets, he sometimes struggled to separate truth from fiction. In moments of doubt, he would remind himself that he was not a historian. If the people he met desired to be enthralled by stories of his adventures, who was Otto Skorzeny to deny them their pleasure?

  Luca Impelliteri would deny them, given the chance.

  The morning after the Italian had goaded him on that balcony in Tarragona, he had a message delivered to Skorzeny’s room inviting him to coffee. At noon, Skorzeny found Impelliteri waiting at a table outside a cafe on the Rambla Nova. He wore an open-necked shirt and sunglasses. He clicked his fingers to attract a waiter as Skorzeny approached.

  “Please sit,” he said.

  Skorzeny obliged. “What do you want?”

  “Just a chat,” Impelliteri said, keeping his demeanour friendly. The sunglasses hid his eyes. “Coffee?”

  Skorzeny nodded.

  Impelliteri addressed the waiter. “Two coffees, and bring us a plate of pastries, whatever you recommend.”

  “Not for me,” Skorzeny said.

  “Oh, please, you must. The pastries here are the best I’ve tasted outside of Italy.”

  The waiter went to fetch the order.

  “You wanted to talk,” Skorzeny said. “So get to it.”

  “Colonel Skorzeny, you’re an impatient man.”

  “Amongst other things. Do not test me.”

  The Italian smiled. “Well, then let’s not keep you any longer than necessary. As we discussed last night, I was there on Gran Sasso when you snatched Il Duce. I watched you run around the hotel, trying to find a way in. I saw you scamper away from the guard dogs—lucky for you, they were chained up—and I watched when you couldn’t climb a wall no higher than a metre and a half. You had to use one of your men as a platform to stand on. It was almost comical.”

  The waiter returned, placed a coffee in front of each man, and a plate of pastries at the centre of the table. The confections glistened in the sunlight, red jam and yellow custard set in pastry cases that looked like they might blow away on the breeze. Impelliteri lifted the plate, presented it to Skorzeny.

  “No,” he said.

  Impelliteri shrugged and took one for himself, mimed ecstasy as he ate.

  Skorzeny knocked the table with a knuckle to regain the Italian’s attention. “So you dispute the historical record of Operation Oak, you claim I and many of my Kameraden are liars, that you know better. Why should I care what you believe?”

  Impelliteri dabbed pastry crumbs from his lips with a napkin. “You shouldn’t care what I believe. After all, who am I? But I think you might care what the Generalissimo believes. After all, you are a guest in Spain at his indulgence. If he were to discover you to be a fraud, that you had taken his friendship by deceit, then perhaps his indulgence might not stretch so far. Perhaps you would not find this beautiful country so welcoming. Please do try one of these pastries, they’re quite lovely.”

  He held the plate up once more, and Skorzeny pushed it away.

  “My friend Francisco will not believe such fantasies. He will take the historical record for the truth it is.”

  “Historical record,” Impelliteri echoed. “You keep saying these words as if repeating them will make them real. There is no historical record. There is only SS propaganda, and your own bluster.”

  Skorzeny stood, his chair screeching on the pavement as it slid back. “I’ve heard enough of this. Do not bother me again.”

  He marched towards the hotel, the Mediterranean blue and glassy beyond.

  Impelliteri’s voice called after him. “Wait, Colonel Skorzeny. I haven’t told you what I want, yet.”

  Skorzeny stopped and turned, already sure in his gut what the Italian wanted.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  RYAN SLEPT LITTLE, the hotel bed feeling too narrow for his frame, too short for his legs. If he wasn’t thinking about Celia and the feel of her lips on his, he was brooding on the dark-haired man and his blade.

  He played out scenarios in his mind.

  In one, the man did not get the
better of him, did not have him on his knees on the piss-soaked floor. Instead, Ryan outmanoeuvred the man, disarmed him, had him quaking and talking, telling Ryan everything he wanted to know.

  In another, Celia brought Ryan to the parlour of her boarding house, dismissed Mrs. Highland as if she were a housemaid. And there, on the hard cushions of the settee, Celia kissed him again, this time letting her tongue linger, explore, quick and nimble. And she guided his hands over her body, finding the secret places, warm to his touch.

  When he did sleep, he dreamed of her open mouth and the taste of her lipstick, the tobacco and alcohol on her breath. And as he moved against her, she became one of the whores the boys had brought him to visit in Sicily and Egypt, plump and eager, smelling of sweat and strong soap.

  And the man watched from the corner, his knife held in his hand.

  “She’s very pretty,” he said, the blade held out from his groin, shining and obscene.

  Ryan awoke in the greyness of the dawn, the blankets twisted around his ankles. He freed himself and sat up on the edge of the bed, lifted his watch from the bedside locker. Just gone five. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, yawned, tasted the Guinness from the night before.

  His stomach grumbled. An hour and a half before they served breakfast. Ninety minutes with nothing but his own thoughts. Exercise was the only answer.

  Wearing just his underwear, he stood upright and stretched his arms towards the ceiling, feeling it work the muscles of his back. Then he bent forward, his legs straight, dropping his fingertips towards the floor, down, down, until they touched the carpet’s vulgar pattern.

  Ryan lay on the floor, wedged his feet beneath the bed, twined his fingers behind his head, and started counting sit-ups.

  The effort cleared the jumble from his mind.

  He thought about Otto Skorzeny, once called the most dangerous man in Europe. Now a gentleman farmer. Had the eighteen years between now and the end of the war washed away his sins? True, the respect and admiration other soldiers held him in was deserved to an extent. He was a master tactician, a revolutionary of battle, had changed the way men thought about warfare. But he was also a Nazi. And not some poor man conscripted to that cause by accident of birth. No, he had been a member of the party long before the war, and had volunteered to fight for the Reich, had not been forced into service.