From outside, below his window, Lainé heard whistling. Foss, cheerful in his labour, even if he believed his services were not truly required today. And he was right, the work was not needed. Skorzeny simply wanted the Norwegian here, on the grounds. At the end of the working day, he would be asked to stay for supper. Perhaps he would protest, say that he should leave for home, but Skorzeny would insist. Foss would eat well, perhaps have some wine.
Then Foss would be escorted to one of the outbuildings, and Lainé would bring his bag, and all his shining tools. Lainé and Foss would talk long into the night.
The puppy’s teeth closed on Lainé’s forefinger, causing a bright point of pain. Lainé pulled his hand away, scolded the little dog. He sucked the blood from his finger, tasted salt.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Ryan fled, left her there.
He drove for an hour or more, main roads, country lanes, paying no attention to where he was heading as the sun dipped towards the hillsides. The scene played out in his mind, over and over. The muffled pop of the pistol, the shocked look in her eyes. Her body falling.
The fuel gauge slipped into the red. He took note of road signs and navigated his way towards a village. A petrol station stood at the middle of its one street. He pulled in and told the attendant to fill the tank.
A phone box stood on the other side of the road.
Ryan crossed to it. He told the operator what he wanted. The operator hesitated, and Ryan told her to just fucking do it.
Two more transfers, and he was through to Haughey’s secretary.
Three minutes later, he had what he wanted, and the secretary was in tears.
Ryan pulled to the curb outside the Royal Hibernian Hotel, its four storeys looming white over Dawson Street. He got out of the car, took the steps up to the hotel entrance two at a time, ignored the doorman beneath the awning.
Inside, porters and receptionists eyed him with suspicion. A man with a thin moustache asked, “Can I help you, sir?”
They knew Ryan didn’t belong here, and so did he. The clientele of this place dressed well, lived well, and ate well in its restaurant and tea rooms. They came from the country estates outside Dublin, or the grand city houses with archways leading to stable blocks. They rode horses through Phoenix Park, they went to the races, they took holidays abroad and gave generously to charities.
Ryan ignored the man with the thin moustache and strode through the foyer to the restaurant. The maitre d’ blocked his path. Ryan shoved him aside.
Charles J. Haughey looked up from his soup. A young woman, who Ryan guessed was not the minister’s wife, followed his gaze, turned back to Haughey, said something.
Ryan crossed the room.
Haughey pulled the napkin from his collar, dropped it on the tablecloth.
“What do you think you’re doing, Ryan?”
The restaurant’s patrons craned their necks to see the intruder.
Ryan straightened his jacket, smoothed his tie. “A word, Minister.”
Haughey smiled at his companion. “You might have called my secretary and made an appointment.”
“A word. Now.”
Haughey’s smile slipped away, the hawk’s glare hard on Ryan. “You might also keep a civil tongue when you talk to me, big fella. Come by my office in the morning if you need to discuss something. Until then, fuck off and leave me in peace. Understood?”
The maitre d’ appeared at Ryan’s side, addressed the minister. “Sir, is there a problem?”
“No problem,” Haughey said. “This gentleman was just leaving.”
The maitre d’ took Ryan’s elbow, tried to guide him away. Ryan shook him off, kept his gaze on Haughey. “Shall we discuss it here in the restaurant? Or somewhere else?”
The maitre d’ turned his pleading eyes back to the minister. “Sir, really, I must ask you to—”
“All right, for fuck’s sake.” Haughey stood, pushing his chair back to collide with the diner behind him. “Come on, then.”
Ryan followed him out of the restaurant. In the foyer, Haughey spotted the cloakroom, steered Ryan towards it.
The coat check girl said “Tickets, please.”
Haughey pulled a ten shilling note from his pocket, pushed it into the girl’s hand, said, “Piss off, love, go and have yourself a cigarette or something.”
She stood open-mouthed for a moment, then looked at the note in her hand, grinned. “Very good, sir.”
Haughey grabbed Ryan’s sleeve, shoved him into the cloakroom, slammed the door behind them.
“Right, now what in the name of holy God do you want, you ignorant shite?”
Ryan prised Haughey’s fingers from his sleeve. “I want off this assignment.”
“What? You dragged me away from dinner to tell me that? No. No fucking way. You were given a job, now you bloody well do it, do you hear me?”
“I don’t want your job,” Ryan said. “I won’t do it.”
Haughey placed the fingertips of his left hand at the centre of Ryan’s chest, raised the forefinger of his right. “Yes you will. You’ll do what you’re told, big fella, or mark my words, I will destroy you. Ask anyone about Charlie Haughey. They’ll all tell you the same. I take shite from no man, least of all a fucking jumped up squaddie like you. Believe me, boy, I’ll make you wish your father had pulled out of your mother, you hear me?”
“I won’t do—”
Haughey shoved Ryan back against the coat rail. “You hear me, big fella?”
Ryan launched his body forward, grabbed Haughey’s tie with one hand, gripped his neck with the other, pinching the windpipe. Haughey fell back into the coats, fur and tweed flapping around him, his eyes bulging.
“I watched a woman commit suicide today,” Ryan said.
Haughey’s throat made clicking sounds as his mouth opened and closed.
“She put the barrel of a pistol in her mouth and pulled the trigger. She did that because she knew what your friend Skorzeny would do to her. I will not protect a man like him. I watched too many good men die fighting his kind. I won’t take orders from scum like that.”
Haughey dug at Ryan’s fingers with his own. Ryan eased the pressure, let him breathe.
“I won’t do it,” Ryan said.
Haughey squirmed in his grasp, choking for air.
“Get your … fucking … hands off me.”
Ryan let him go, stepped back.
Haughey bent over, hands on his knees, coughed, spat on the cloakroom floor. He gulped and swallowed.
“Jesus Christ, man. What woman? What are you talking about?”
“Catherine Beauchamp. She was the informant. She told me before she died.”
Haughey made the sign of the cross, his chest heaving. “Mother of God. Have you told Skorzeny?”
“No.”
“All right, I’ll tell him. Did she give you anything?”
“Nothing,” Ryan said. He would not mention the pictures of the children, or the flies on their dead lips.
Haughey shook his head. “This is getting out of hand. It needs to stop. You can’t quit now. I won’t allow it.”
“You have no authority to—”
“The director put you at my disposal. That means you do whatever the fuck I tell you to do. I know you don’t like it. Neither do I. But I’m the Minister for Justice. Justice, you hear me? Do you understand what that means? You might think Otto Skorzeny is a piece of shit, him and his whole bloody crew, and for all you know I might think the same. You can think what you like, but murder is murder. I won’t have it. Not in my country. It’s my job to put a stop to it, and that’s what I’ll bloody well do. You have a problem with that, then you can talk to the director.”
Haughey straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, and went to the door. He turned back to Ryan.