“This is your country too, you know. You might have been a lickspittle to the Brits at one time, but this is still your country. You remember that.”
He exited, left Ryan alone with his anger.
Ryan left the cloakroom, marched across the foyer, and down to the street beyond. Darkness had fallen on the city, bringing with it a sickly drizzle. He buttoned his jacket, shoved his hands down into his pockets.
The western end of Molesworth Street faced the Royal Hibernian’s entrance. He decided to leave the car where he’d parked it and walk the two hundred yards or so to Buswells, at the eastern end.
Ryan kept his head down as he walked. The street was almost empty, but even so, he didn’t want to risk anyone seeing the rage that burned in him.
He paid no attention to the unmarked van as he passed it. Not until the dark-haired man in the good suit stepped out from in front of it to block his path.
“Good evening, Lieutenant Ryan,” he said in his not-quite-American accent.
Ryan stopped, his hands ready. “What do you—”
The blow came from behind, hard to the base of his skull. His knees gave way and he sprawled on the wet pavement. Before he could recover, someone straddled his back, and a hand pressed a rag to his nose and mouth.
Cold sweetness swamped Ryan’s skull. He tried to roll, throw his weight to the side, but the man astride his back grew so heavy, and Ryan was so warm here on the ground, and it was so soft.
Through flickering eyelids, he saw the dark-haired man hunker down in front of him, a smile on his lips.
Ryan wanted to say something, ask the man something, he couldn’t remember what, but anyway, it was too late.
The world had already disappeared.
II
RÉSISTANT
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Skorzeny watched Hakon Foss eat the pork schnitzel with a side of potatoes in a cheese sauce. Frau Tiernan had prepared the meal before Skorzeny sent her home with her husband.
Lainé picked at his food. He had smelled of wine and tobacco when he came down to supper. Skorzeny made a point of placing a glass of water in front of him, alongside the glass of beer the Breton poured for himself from the pitcher at the centre of the table.
The dining room with its patio doors overlooking the gardens seemed far too large for the three men who ate there, Skorzeny at the head of the table, Lainé at the far end, the Norwegian midway between them. Foss downed another swallow of beer, mopped up cheese sauce with a chunk of bread.
Lainé cut off a slice of schnitzel, wrapped it in a napkin, and stuffed it into his pocket. He noticed Skorzeny’s attention on him.
“For the puppy,” he said.
Skorzeny gave him a hard stare, then turned his gaze to Foss. “Did you enjoy your meal?”
Foss nodded, his mouth full of bread, cheese sauce dripping from his lip. He sat in his socks. Frau Tiernan had insisted he remove his boots before she would permit him entry to the house.
“Perhaps you would join me for my evening walk. I like to stroll around the gardens after dinner.”
Foss looked towards the patio doors. “It’s raining.”
“Come, a little rain won’t hurt you.”
Foss shrugged.
“Good,” Skorzeny said. He reached for the hand bell, rang it.
Esteban appeared from the hall.
“My coat,” Skorzeny said. “And Mr. Foss’s shoes.”
Esteban fetched them, opened the patio doors, placed Foss’s boots outside, and brought Skorzeny’s coat to him.
As Foss tied his bootlaces, the telephone rang. Esteban left to answer it. He returned a few moments later.
“Is Mr. Haughey,” the boy said. He pronounced it hoy.
Skorzeny buttoned his coat. “Tell the minister I’m unavailable, and I’ll return his call in the morning.”
Esteban bowed and left the room.
Skorzeny nodded to Lainé and followed Foss out into the drizzle and the dark.
Gravel crunched under their shoes as they walked along the path towards the outbuildings. The rain, fine and cold, caused Skorzeny to blink as the drops wet his eyelids. From the corners of his vision, he saw a guard on either side, keeping to the black pools of darkness, shrouded by trees. They kept pace, watching.
Skorzeny asked, “Are you a happy man, Hakon?”
Foss grunted as he pulled up the collar of his overalls. “Yes, I am happy. Sometimes, I miss home. I miss Norge. I want snow, not rain. But here is not bad. Here, they won’t put me in jail. In Norge, they jail me. I don’t want to go to jail.”
They passed the boundary of the garden, the barns and sheds visible ahead, the light from a powerful halogen lamp bleaching the grounds to whites and greys. Rain slashed lines through the light, like comet trails falling to earth. The guards stayed beyond its reach.
Skorzeny asked, “Would you ever betray me?”
Foss stopped walking. Skorzeny turned to regard him and the small quick movements of his eyes. Foss shifted his weight between his feet, soles scraping on the loose earth and stones.
“Why do you ask this?”
Skorzeny smiled, patted Foss’s shoulder. “No reason. You’re a good man. Of course you wouldn’t betray me.”
“No,” Foss said, his shuffling intensifying. “I need for …”
He pointed to his groin. Skorzeny said, “Very well,” and turned his back.
The rustling of clothing, a guttural sigh, then water pouring on the ground. Skorzeny smelled the sour-sweet odour.
“Have men ever come to you, asked you questions? About me, or any of our friends?”
The flow stuttered along with Foss’s breathing.
“What men?”
Skorzeny turned his head, saw Foss’s back, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the splashing on the ground. “Perhaps they offered you money.”
“No,” Foss said. Even though he hadn’t finished, he tucked himself away, urine spilling over his thick fingers.
“Perhaps they said to you, tell us these things, and we will pay you. Did that happen?”
Foss stood for a moment, hands by his sides, liquid dripping from his fingertips.
Then he ran.
Skorzeny watched him barrel into the darkness, whimpering, arms flailing. He could barely make out the shape of a guard stepping into the Norwegian’s path, knocking him to the ground. Foss grunted as he landed and struggled back to his feet. He made off again, but the guard fired a warning shot into the treetops.
Foss threw himself down, his hands over his head. The trees rustled with startled night creatures. Somewhere in the outbuildings, Tiernan’s dogs barked.
The guard grabbed Foss’s collar and pulled him upright, led him back to the light and Skorzeny.
Lainé approached from the house, bag in hand. Foss closed his eyes and muttered a prayer to whichever God he worshipped.
Skorzeny said, “Let’s begin.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Ryan listened.
His consciousness had ebbed and flowed for time immeasurable, but now, at last, he was able to remain awake. A sickening ache still swelled inside his skull, pressing at the back of his eyes, and that cold sweetness still lingered in his throat and nasal passages. He knew what chloroform felt like, had recognised it as the rag had been pressed to his nose and mouth, but had been unable to fight it.
The climb to wakefulness had been arduous, the constant struggle against the warm pit of sleep. And when he had first opened his eyes, he saw nothing, felt his eyelids rub on fabric. He moved his wrists, found them bound, a metallic clanking as he pulled the cuffs tight. His ankles also.