Hakon Foss and Catherine Beauchamp.
He repeated the woman’s address in his mind and went to the map that lay on the desk.
Ryan had washed, shaved and dressed in his old suit, and was about to go for breakfast when the telephone rang. The receptionist asked if he could put a call through. The caller had declined to identify himself. A foreign gentleman, the receptionist said.
“Yes,” Ryan said, knowing.
“Good morning, Lieutenant Ryan,” Otto Skorzeny said.
“Good morning, sir.”
“What have you to report?”
Ryan told him he had two names he wanted to investigate further, people close to Skorzeny.
“Who are they?”
Ryan paused, said, “I’d rather not say.”
“No?”
“No.”
“And if I insist?”
“I will refuse,” Ryan said.
Skorzeny remained silent for some time before he said, “Very well.”
Ryan considered whether he should tell the Austrian about the dark-haired man. He saw no advantage in keeping the information secret, but neither could he see a way to impart the information without revealing to Skorzeny that Ryan had been left on his knees in the toilet of a public house. He knew by instinct and experience that to show such weakness to a man like Otto Skorzeny could be fatal. Should he take that risk?
Before he could decide, Skorzeny said, “I would like to extend an invitation.”
Ryan blinked. “Oh?”
“To my home. I’m hosting a small gathering tomorrow evening. You will know some of the people. Our friend the minister, for one. Tell me, do you have a sweetheart?”
Ryan hesitated. “I know a young lady,” he said eventually, then cursed himself for the way it sounded. He could hear the smirk in Skorzeny’s reply.
“Then, please, bring along this young lady whom you know.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And one more thing. Be ready for a match.”
“Sir?”
“We shall fence. I told you I’ve been seeking a reasonable opponent. You might be that man. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
The telephone clicked and died.
Ryan enjoyed a substantial breakfast before dropping his good suit off at a cleaner’s, then walked to Capel Street where McClelland’s Tailors had just opened. Lawrence McClelland stood arranging shirt boxes on a shelf when Ryan entered. He turned to see the visitor, his face blank for a moment before recognition burst upon it.
“Ah, sir, how is the Canali doing for you?”
“Very well,” Ryan said.
McClelland circled the table stacked with garments and fabrics. “And what can I do for you this morning?”
“I’d like to see some ties,” Ryan said. “And maybe a couple of shirts.”
McClelland nodded, his chest deflating. “And should these also be added to Mr. Haughey’s account?”
Ryan did not hesitate.
“Yes, please,” he said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ryan drove north out of Dublin, heading for Swords. The city thinned and gave way to green fields. Within a few minutes, the white hulk of the airport terminal came into view, an Aer Lingus craft leaping skywards from the near horizon. The airport had expanded apace since the terminal had been built in the early forties, routes to almost anywhere you could imagine.
The map lay open on the passenger seat next to Ryan, a circle drawn in pencil where he believed the home of Catherine Beauchamp to be.
He passed through Swords and its quiet Main Street, then the council housing of Seatown. Dirty-faced boys paused their soccer games to watch him pass. A gang of dogs chased the car, barking. They let him go after a hundred yards or so, satisfied they had protected their domain.
Ryan held the map across the steering wheel, his attention flitting between it and the way ahead. The road narrowed to a short bridge that crossed the river. On the other side, he turned right, the trail barely wide enough for the Vauxhall. Branches clanged on the metalwork.
He followed the road, hedgerows and trees to his left, water to his right. The spindle of a river broadened as he drove, at first only half a dozen yards wide, then a dozen, then fifty, then a hundred, until it swelled into the estuary.
Swans gathered in the reeds and wandered onto the road, blocking Ryan’s path. Fearless, they ignored the car as he inched towards them. He half-clutched, nudging forward, the swans merely waddling a few inches further along the track, no notion of making way for him.
Ryan got out of the car, tried to shoo them away. They hissed at him, then resumed their loitering. Ryan opened his jacket wide, like wings, and flapped at them, made himself as big as he could. At last, the swans were sufficiently annoyed to return to the water. He got back into the car and set off again.
Up ahead, the road arced out towards the water where the land formed a miniature peninsula. Water lapped on to the track, and the Vauxhall’s tires whooshed through it. As the wheels once more found a dry surface to cling to, a wall seemed to grow out of the hedgerow. Within it, set into an archway, a gate. Ryan slowed as he checked the map.
Yes, he believed this was it, the small nub of land stretching away to the estuary opposite the gate.
He pulled the car onto the coarse grass that grew between the road and the shore, applied the hand brake, and took the key from the ignition. A sharp wind blew in from the open expanse of water. Across the estuary, hazed in the distance, he could see Malahide.
Ryan walked back to the gate, found it locked. He peered through the bars, saw a low cottage beyond a beautifully tended garden and a gravel path, and off to the side, a barn that served as a stable.
A slender woman, a bucket of feed in her hands, stared back at him from the barn door. A horse ate from the bucket, its long neck reaching over a gate that had been cobbled together from wood and corrugated metal sheets.
“Catherine Beauchamp?” Ryan asked.
The woman put the bucket down, slipped her hands into her trouser pockets, and walked towards him.
“Who are you?” she asked, her French accent delicate as a petal.
“My name is Albert Ryan. I work for the Directorate of Intelligence.” He held up his identification. She stopped half way across the garden, too far away to see the card. “I’d like to speak with you,” he said.
“I’m not sure I wish to speak with you,” she said, her English perfect, a layer of grit in her voice. She wore her greying hair in a bob, held back with clips. Ryan could make out her fine features, now turning jagged with age, and the heavy smoker’s lines on her upper lip.
“I’m working for Otto Skorzeny.” It was barely a lie, and worth the telling, because her expression shifted when she heard the name. “I’m investigating the killings of Alex Renders, Johan Hambro and Helmut Krauss. And Elouan Groix.”
She flinched. Hadn’t she known of the Breton’s death?
“I don’t know anything about that,” she said, keeping her distance, a waver creeping into her voice. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted a journey.”
“Even so, I’d like to speak with you. It won’t take long.” He considered a gamble, decided to risk it. “I’d rather not tell Colonel Skorzeny you refused to cooperate.”
Her face hardened. She marched towards the gate.
“Threats might gain you some advantage in the short term, but they will cost you more in the long run, mister … what did you say?”
“Ryan. Lieutenant Albert Ryan.”
She fished a key from her pocket and unlocked the gate.