Celia seemed to shrink from their gaze, her shoulders hunched. She gripped Ryan’s forearm tight as she smiled back at them.
“There’s the man,” Haughey said.
Ryan nodded. “Good evening, Minister.”
The politician crossed the room to him, studied Ryan from head to foot, the hawk eyes picking over his clothing.
Haughey cleared his throat and winked, said, “Nice tie.”
They were seated around the dining table when Skorzeny appeared. All stood, Ryan and Celia following their lead. The Austrian circled the room, shaking hands, accepting chaste kisses on his scarred cheek. Haughey gripped Skorzeny’s hand the hardest, shook it with the most vigour, slapped the big man’s shoulder.
Ryan said nothing as Skorzeny took his hand, did not wince as the Austrian squeezed it tight. Skorzeny leaned in to Celia, offered his cheek to her. She closed her eyes, obliged him, left a faint red circle on the scar. Ryan saw something move across her face, fear or disgust, he could not be sure.
Skorzeny went to the head of the table. He rested his hands on the chair back.
“Welcome, my friends,” he said. “My home is yours. I offer you my hospitality as your noble nation has offered me its hospitality. Please sit. Eat. Enjoy.”
The guests took their seats, laughter and good cheer between them all.
Ryan turned his attention to Celia, saw a tear escape her eye. She caught it, wiped it on her cheek, and then he wasn’t sure if he’d seen it at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Célestin Lainé sat on the edge of the bed, a tray on his lap, eating pheasant and roast vegetables with a red wine reduction. Esteban had also delivered a bottle of red wine, a 1960 Pontet-Canet, along with a note from Skorzeny requesting that Lainé remain in his room for the duration of the evening.
The puppy circled his feet, sometimes resting its front paws on his shins as it sniffed at the tray. Lainé tore off occasional scraps of meat, dipped them in the reduction, held them out for the puppy. Already it had learned to sit in anticipation of a treat.
Lainé tried not to think of Catherine Beauchamp, or what fear drove her to suicide. He tried not to think of the last time he’d seen her, when they’d met in a small hotel in Skerries, overlooking the harbour.
Weariness had drawn on her features, sharpening them, deepening the hollows. They had drunk the piss they served for coffee in Ireland and talked about home and how they could never return.
Fishing boats lay stranded on the sand flats beyond the harbour wall. Wind threw spray and rain against the windowpanes, and cold draughts snaked beneath the tables and chairs, chilling Lainé’s ankles despite the peat fire that glowed red and orange in the corner.
Their passion had died years ago, back when she softened in her heart, turned her back on the actions they had undertaken together. She might hate him now. He thought it likely, but still they met to speak to each other in the language of their land, to listen to the melody and rhythm of it. It was the only time either of them heard Breton spoken beyond the walls of their own minds.
“Do you sleep at night?” Catherine asked.
Lainé shrugged. “Depends where I am. Give me a comfortable bed, and I’ll sleep sound as a baby.”
“I don’t.” She took two cigarettes from the packet of Gitanes on the table, offered him one. He accepted. “If I can keep my eyes closed for a couple of hours, I consider myself lucky.”
“You did nothing wrong. There’s no reason for you to lose sleep over someone else’s sins.”
She smiled. “You see, that’s where we differ. You think what they did, the Nazis, had nothing to do with you. But it did. Once you took arms at their side, you became one of them. So did I.”
“No. We had a common enemy. The French oppressor. It didn’t make me a Jew killer.”
“You would have killed anyone they asked you to. Jews, Frenchmen, women, children.”
Now Lainé smiled. “If you despise me so much, why don’t you leave?”
“Who else could I speak my own language with?”
Lainé believed he loved her then, and he still believed it now. He watched drops of water splash on the tray and plate for long seconds before he realised they were his own tears. He sniffed and wiped them away.
His appetite gone, he set the tray aside and took a swallow of wine from the bottle. He lifted the puppy, set it in his lap, turned it on its back, scratched its pink belly.
From downstairs he heard the laughter of the guests. Bourgeoisie, Catherine would have called them. And she’d have been right. Politicians, bureaucrats, businessmen, men of wealth and influence. All while Lainé was banished to this small room like a deformed child the parents kept secret from their neighbours.
And Ryan was among them. Ryan, who had watched Catherine Beauchamp die the day before, now ate pheasant and drank good wine with Skorzeny and the rest.
Lainé decided that before the evening was done, he would have a private discussion with Lieutenant Albert Ryan.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
A dessert of Rote Grütze with custard finished the meal, a gelatinous stew of berries, tangy and bitter on the tongue. Skorzeny held the guests enraptured with stories of daring and danger. He told them of Operation Greif, how he commanded Panzerbrigade 150 as its men donned American uniforms, moved behind enemy lines, and spread misinformation, including a fabricated plan to kidnap Eisenhower and his staff. The punch line of the General’s unhappiness at being forced to remain indoors for the duration of Christmas 1944 caused a ripple of approving laughter to roll through the room.
Neither Lieutenant Ryan nor his companion joined in the laughter. The young woman raised a polite smile, but no more, and Ryan could not allow even that much.
Skorzeny fixed Ryan with a stare. “Come, Lieutenant, don’t you enjoy stories of my exploits? Perhaps you have your own tales to tell.”
Haughey chimed in. “Come on, big fella. What did you get up to?”
Ryan looked from the minister to Skorzeny. “I don’t like to talk about my time in service.”
Haughey smiled his lizard smile. “In service to the Brits.”
The men chuckled. Ryan said nothing. The young woman Celia blushed, redness creeping down to the fair skin of her chest, glowing above the line of her dress.
“Minister,” Skorzeny said, “We don’t always fight for the nation of our birth. That isn’t always where one’s heart lies. After all, I am an Austrian, as was the Führer. Yet I took part in the Anschluss. I gave my country to the Germans, because at heart, I am German.”
“Is that you, Ryan?” Haughey asked. “Are you a Brit at heart?”
Ryan dropped his spoon into his bowl with a loud clank that made Celia flinch. “No, Minister. I’m no less an Irishman than you.”
“What about you, Minister?”
Haughey turned to face Skorzeny’s question, his smile faltering.
“If we had invaded Ireland, would you have resisted? Or would you have welcomed us like the IRA promised to? Would Britain’s enemy have been your friend?”
Haughey waved a finger. “I would’ve fought on one side, and one side only: Ireland’s side.”
“And yet the story persists about you leading a march on Trinity College on VE day, carrying swastikas and burning the Union Jack on the college gates.”
Haughey’s face reddened. “Now look here, that lie has gone on long enough. I never saw a swastika that day. Some yahoos might have been flying them, but my hand never touched one, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Those Prod bastards in Trinity were flying a Union Jack on the roof. The nerve of them, bloody drunken Orangemen. Then they had the gall to set light to a Tricolour. So I burned a Union Jack on the gates, I did that all right, just to show them you can’t disrespect our flag, not while Charlie Haughey’s around.”