The guards had brought Foss to the barn and sat him down at an old wooden table, holes drilled in its top to allow the leather straps to be passed through and hold his wrists in place, fingers splayed on the surface. Skorzeny had sat opposite and talked to Foss in his calmest, softest voice while Lainé readied the kerosene blowtorch.
“Please speak honestly,” Skorzeny said. He enunciated slowly, clearly. “It would be best for all of us, but most especially for you. We can avoid any unpleasantness if you answer my questions truthfully.”
Foss’s fingers twitched on the tabletop. He watched as Lainé lit the small reserve of fuel in the blowtorch’s drip pan.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Lainé left the torch to heat and began arranging his tools on the table. A sturdy penknife, a pair of sharpened secateurs, a scalpel, a set of dental pliers.
The pliers were mostly for effect, to frighten the subject under interrogation. Lainé had only resorted to using them on a subject’s teeth on a handful of occasions. It was far too difficult to hold the head in place, and his or her jaw open, to make an extraction worthwhile under all but the most extreme circumstances.
Often, and to Lainé’s disappointment, the subject would offer up the required information the moment he or she saw the tools and the blowtorch. The anticipation of pain is a far greater torment than pain itself. All skilled interrogators know this.
Skorzeny said, “I want to know who you have been talking to.”
Foss shook his head. “I talk to no one. Who says I talk?”
Lainé opened the blowtorch’s fuel valve. The blue flame burst to life with a pop and a hiss. Foss jumped in his seat, a high yelp escaping him. Lainé lifted his penknife, opened its blade, and held the steel to the flame.
“How long?” Skorzeny asked.
“A minute, no more,” Lainé said.
Skorzeny turned his attention back to Foss. “A minute. You have this time to tell me the truth, Hakon. Who have you talked to about me?”
The Norwegian’s face creased with fear. “No one. I talk to no one. Why do you ask this?”
“I ask this because I know someone close has betrayed me. I know someone has passed on information to others. Information about me, about my associates. My friends, Hakon. Your friends.”
“Not me,” Hakon said. “I talk to no one.”
“If you have not talked to anyone, then why did you run?”
Foss had no other response to offer than to open his mouth, the corners turned down, the rapid blinks of his glistening eyes.
“I will ask you once more. If you do not answer truthfully, Célestin will cause you great pain.”
“I talk to no—”
“Who have you talked to about me?”
“No one. I talk to no one.”
Skorzeny gave a small nod, and Lainé seized Foss’s thumb. He took the glowing blade from the flame and began his work.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Weiss handed Ryan two photographs. One was a grainy head-and-shoulders image of a man, mid to late twenties, a beret on his head, the collar of his combat uniform open. He had the hard-jawed expression of a man uncomfortable with having his portrait taken. Ryan looked at the second photograph. A group picture, a dozen uniformed men, one of them circled: the same image, blown up.
“Who is this?” Ryan asked.
“This is Captain John Carter,” Weiss said. “He wasn’t a captain at the time that photograph was taken, but he was by the time he left the British Army.”
Ryan studied the group picture. The men lined up against a rough wall, short sleeves and trousers, some with handkerchiefs held in place by their hats to protect their necks from the sun. Sand dusted their boots.
“Special Air Services,” Weiss said, completing Ryan’s thought for him. “Deployed in North Africa. Covert operations, behind enemy lines. The dirty stuff.”
Ryan looked again at the blown up photograph of Carter, the hard features, the cold stare.
“Is he …?”
Weiss nodded. “Yes, I believe he leads the band of merry men who’ve been dealing with Ireland’s Nazi problem.”
“How do you know this?”
“A South African information broker. He let me know that a certain Captain John Carter, quite by coincidence, had been showing an interest in Otto Skorzeny. He had procured some small arms through a mutual contact in the Netherlands. At the same time, Carter let it be known that he had a spot to fill on a small team of former comrades he had gathered. He wouldn’t be drawn on the nature of the team’s work, other than it would be most interesting.”
Ryan traced a fingertip across the image. “It has to be him.”
“Of course. I couldn’t expose my own mission by going to either the British or Irish intelligence services about this. Thus the rather elaborate means of getting you here.”
“Well, you got me here. What now?”
“Now we each set about finding Captain Carter and his men. We’ll continue to keep an eye on you. If you want to make contact, place a copy of the Irish Times on the dashboard of your car wherever you have it parked. I’d appreciate it if you share anything you discover. I will do likewise. But one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t let Skorzeny know about me, or what I’ve told you. Don’t let him know about Carter, or anything we’ve discussed here. If you tell him, he’ll want to know how you found out. If he suspects you’re holding anything back, then believe me, the discussion you have with him will not be as cordial as this one.”
“And what if I don’t want to cooperate with you? What if I tell Skorzeny everything?”
Weiss leaned forward, the broad grin returning to his lips. “Then I’ll kill you and everyone you love.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Foss would not break.
Even as his second thumbnail peeled away, he resisted. He cried, babbling in his native tongue, the dogs across the yard replying with their own howls. He bucked and writhed until the guards had to hold him down. But still he would say nothing. Always the same denial.
Two more fingernails, more screaming, more writhing, and no confession.
“This is going nowhere,” Skorzeny said. “Take a finger.”
Lainé suppressed a smile and placed the penknife back on the table. He lifted the secateurs, gripped the little finger of Foss’s left hand between the blades, just below the knuckle, and squeezed the handle.
Foss opened his mouth, a high whine from his throat, as the blades closed on bone. Lainé applied more pressure until the bone gave way. The amputated finger rolled away from the spray of blood.
Lainé returned the penknife’s blade to the jet of the blowtorch. When it glowed, he pressed it to the stump on Foss’s hand, ignored the smell as it cauterised the wound.
Foss’s head sagged back, his shoulders slumped.
“Have we lost him?” Skorzeny asked.
“I don’t know,” Lainé said. “He is strong, but he is tired. Let me see.”
He rummaged in his bag until he found a small brown glass vial. The ammonia stench made him recoil as he undid the stopper. He held the vial under Foss’s nose.
The Norwegian’s head jerked away from the smelling salts. He gasped, snorted, coughed. A thin stream of bile spilled from his lips, beer and undigested cheese sauce.
Skorzeny stood and walked away from the table, the corners of his mouth downturned in abhorrence.
“Enough,” he said. “We will continue tomorrow. Give him the night to think about his fate.” He addressed the guards. “Don’t let him leave this room. If he tries anything, wound him, but keep him alive.”
The guards nodded their acknowledgement, and Skorzeny marched to the door. Outside, Lainé caught up to him.