Celia shook her head. Her eyes stayed on him, but her gaze elsewhere. “No. That’s not true. We do things for people. It doesn’t mean we like it. It doesn’t make us the same as them.”
Ryan watched as she returned to herself. “Even if you know it’s wrong?”
Celia turned away, looked towards the kitchen. “I wonder where the food is.”
“We only just ordered. What’s the matter?”
She turned back to him. “Nothing. Albert, I shan’t be able to come to the dinner party tonight.”
Ryan felt something fall away inside him. “Why not?”
“Mrs. Highland needs help around the house. I promised I’d do it for her.”
“When did you promise her?”
“Last week. I forgot. I’m sorry.”
“All right. Maybe we can do something else tomorrow evening.”
“Maybe,” she said with a flicker of a smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Skorzeny was eating alone in the dining room when he heard the telephone ring, followed by Esteban’s soft knock at the door.
“Enter,” Skorzeny said.
“Is Miss Hume,” Esteban said. He pronounced it joom.
Skorzeny wiped his lips with a napkin, then followed the boy out to the hallway where the telephone waited. He lifted the receiver. He heard the distorted noise of a street.
“Miss Hume?”
“Sir, I need to speak with you.”
Her voice resonated in the telephone box.
“Go on,” he said.
“I no longer wish to carry out the assignment you gave me.”
“Why not?”
“I met with Albert Ryan for lunch today. He told me someone has died because of what he’s doing for you. I don’t want to be a part of that.”
Skorzeny lowered himself into the chair that stood beside the telephone table. “Who died?”
“A woman. Near Swords, he said. She committed suicide.”
Skorzeny thought of Catherine Beauchamp, her fine and delicate features, the hard intelligence of her eyes.
“What else did Lieutenant Ryan tell you?”
“Nothing. Only that he’s unhappy doing whatever work it is he’s doing for you. He feels it’s wrong.”
“Lieutenant Ryan is confused. He is protecting people in his work. Saving lives. Perhaps you could remind him of that.”
“No. I won’t see him again.”
“But you must. There’s the dinner tonight.”
“I told him I wasn’t able to come.”
Skorzeny kept his voice even. “That was foolish.”
“I only took this assignment as a favour for Mr. Waugh. I’ve let men take me to dinner before, drinks and such, to find out things about them. But they were diplomats or businessmen; all they talked about were negotiations and deals. Never anything like this. I won’t be a part of it.”
“My dear, you are a part of it whether you wish to be or not. You will carry out the orders you were given.”
“No. You’ll have to find some—”
“Young lady, you misunderstand. You will accompany Lieutenant Ryan to my home this evening. You will continue to see him and report his conversations to me. Do I make myself clear?”
“Sir, you are not my employer. You have no right to—”
“What right do you think I need? What authority?”
“You can’t—”
“Yes, I can. Now listen to me very carefully. You will do as I have instructed or the consequences will be most serious.”
She paused. “In what way?”
“In any way you can imagine.”
Silence for a time, then, “Sir, are you threatening me?”
“Yes.”
A click, and she was gone.
Skorzeny stood, replaced the handset, and became aware of a presence above him. He turned, saw Lainé sitting on the stairs, watching. The pup in his lap, on its back, wriggling as he scratched its belly.
“There is trouble?” Lainé asked.
Skorzeny walked to the foot of the stairs. “No trouble. But there is news you should know. The girl I placed with Ryan. He told her he’d seen a woman commit suicide. A woman near Swords.”
Lainé’s fingers ceased their scratching. “Catherine?”
“I believe so.”
Lainé got to his feet, the pup held close to his chest, turned to go.
Skorzeny said, “Ryan must have suspected her as the informant.”
“No.” Lainé shook his head. “Not Catherine.”
“Foss still denies it. It’s possible I was mistaken.”
Lainé looked back over his shoulder. “No. It is Foss. He will talk. I will make him talk.”
The Breton climbed from Skorzeny’s view.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Ryan slept hard, stretches of black punctuated by ragged and bloody dreams. The telephone kicked him awake, consciousness flooding in, nausea in its wake. He rolled across the bed, lifted the receiver.
“Hello?”
“A call from a Miss Hume. Shall I put her through?”
Ryan sat up, rubbed his face, fresh stubble scratching his palm. “Yes.”
“Albert?” she said.
“Celia. What’s wrong?”
“I was thinking,” she said, a waver in her voice. “I’d very much like to go with you to that dinner this evening.”
In his heart, Ryan rejoiced.
Celia held the map on her knees, navigating for him. She offered little conversation other than the directions. As they passed through Naas, Ryan asked if everything was all right.
She turned to him, her smile prim and polite, and said, “Yes, everything’s fine.”
He did not believe her.
“It’s not too late to turn around,” he said. “I can bring you back to Dublin.”
Celia turned her eyes back to the map. “No. I want to go. Really.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
Time and silence lay thick upon them until she spoke again.
“Up here, I think.” She pointed to the curve ahead, and the stone wall, the map held in her other hand. A gateway came into view. “There.”
Ryan slowed and steered the Vauxhall towards the gateway. Two broad-shouldered men blocked his way. Ryan braked and halted.
One of the men approached the driver’s window. Ryan wound it down.
“Your names,” the man said, his accent thick.
Ryan told him. The man nodded to his colleague, who stepped back. Ryan put the car in gear and moved off, through to a long driveway lined by trees. Among them, he saw another man. Watching from his dark cover, he made no attempt to conceal his weapon.
From the corner of his eye, Ryan saw Celia turn her head, looking at the man as they passed. She touched the fingertips of her left hand to her lips, clenched the right into a fist in her lap.
Ryan realised with a hard certainty that he should not have brought her here. He tried to push the feeling away, dismiss it as a fretful notion, but it lingered in his stomach.
The house rose up ahead, the pitched roofs of its wings, its arched windows, the gardens all around. Other cars lined up beside Skorzeny’s white Mercedes. Two Rovers, a Jaguar, a Bentley. Ryan pulled the Vauxhall alongside them, the other vehicles dwarfing his.
He got out, opened Celia’s door, guided her towards the house. A young olive-skinned boy waited for them in the open doorway. He took Celia’s coat and showed them to the drawing room.
The four couples who stood there, drinks in hand, turned to watch them enter. Ryan recognised one of the men as a prominent solicitor, another as a senior civil servant, something in the Department of Finance, and yet another as the owner of a department store. And there, watching, Charles J. Haughey with the girl who’d been his companion at the restaurant, the girl who was not his wife. In fact, none of the men here looked well matched in age to their partners. The women eyed Celia with dagger glares.