Skorzeny nodded. Ryan echoed the gesture.
They began, small movements, the épée tips circling inches apart. Skorzeny advanced, testing Ryan’s reflexes with threatened lunges. Ryan responded with his own lunge, committed to the move, but Skorzeny tapped his blade against the other, a beat to throw its aim, and followed through with a jab to Ryan’s hip. The pronged tip tugged on his jacket. He felt the sharp points through the thick fabric.
“Touch,” Ryan said.
They resumed their positions.
“Fifty on Colonel Skorzeny,” Haughey said.
“I’ll take that,” the man from Finance said.
Again Skorzeny came on the offensive, beating and parrying, until Ryan took the blade, circling it, and connected with Skorzeny’s chest.
“Touch,” Skorzeny said.
“A hundred on Ryan,” the store owner said.
This time Ryan led, pushing Skorzeny back, forcing the Austrian to parry until Ryan found an opening. He took it, the tip of his blade landing on Skorzeny’s shoulder.
Skorzeny’s eyes darkened. “Touch.”
He came back hard, one lunge after another, Ryan blocking each, but unable to riposte. Finally, Skorzeny made a violent downward beat, followed through, and the tip of his blade caught the inside of Ryan’s thigh, the prongs piercing the flesh beneath his trousers. He cried out.
Skorzeny stepped back. “Touch, I assume?”
“Yes,” Ryan said.
Heat tricked down his thigh. He took his position, waited for Skorzeny to do the same, then he advanced. Skorzeny met each attack with a parry, three, four, five, then a riposte, coming in at Ryan’s flank, but Ryan sidestepped and caught him beneath the arm.
“Touch,” Skorzeny said.
Now Ryan retreated, Skorzeny pressing hard, allowing him no room to form an attack. Ryan planted his feet firm on the ground, forcing his opponent to come in close. Skorzeny’s forearm slammed into Ryan’s chest, sending him staggering back. Before Ryan could recover, Skorzeny jabbed at the centre of his stomach, the blade twisting.
The prongs scraped at skin beneath the cotton. Ryan hissed through his teeth, said, “Touch.”
“Here now,” Haughey said, standing. “Is that allowed?”
“Épée allows for body contact.” Skorzeny smiled. “That makes three points each, I think.”
“That’s right,” Haughey said as he lowered himself back into his seat.
Ryan looked to Celia. She could not return his gaze. He turned his attention back to Skorzeny.
The Austrian came at him fast and low, using his bulk to power through the attack. Ryan feinted a sidestep. When Skorzeny’s blade followed, Ryan turned his body, and his blade made contact high on Skorzeny’s chest.
“Schwein! Touch.”
Skorzeny rubbed at the spot the blade had caught.
“That’s four to Ryan,” Haughey said. “One more and he wins.”
Skorzeny glared at the minister, then retook his position.
They each inched forward, blades touching, scraping. Skorzeny swept his downward, taking Ryan’s with it, tried to come back up with an attack, but Ryan was ready, blocked it, responded with his own lunge. It missed its target, and Skorzeny jabbed forward.
Ryan felt pressure then heat beneath his ear.
The women gasped. The men swore.
Celia said, “Oh, Albert.”
Skorzeny smiled and backed away.
Ryan put his left hand to his neck, felt the slick skin, the sting as his fingertips brushed the cut.
“Touch,” he said.
“Do you wish to concede?” Skorzeny asked.
Celia took a step forward. “Albert, please.”
“No,” Ryan said, taking his position. “I don’t.”
Skorzeny mirrored Ryan’s stance, a smirk on his lips, his eyes blazing.
Ryan wondered for a moment if the Austrian had that same smirk when he had threatened Celia earlier that day. Then he attacked.
Skorzeny parried, tried to take the blade with a circular sweep, but Ryan countered, beating Skorzeny’s blade down before lunging at the big man’s thigh. He missed, his body carrying too much momentum to halt his forward movement. Their swords crossed between them, they came chest to chest.
Skorzeny pushed. Ryan pushed back. Skorzeny rammed his elbow into Ryan’s ribs. Ryan slammed his knee into Skorzeny’s thigh.
They stayed like that, a jerking, jarring dance, their blades locked, until Ryan heaved once more, throwing Skorzeny’s balance. Ryan brought his blade down, aiming for Skorzeny’s midsection, but he saw the Austrian’s left hand rising up to him, clenched in a fist.
His head rocked with the blow, and his legs buckled. He sprawled on the floorboards, the épée clattering away to stop at Haughey’s feet.
Skorzeny stabbed hard at Ryan’s chest with his own sword, bright points of pain above his heart as the prongs speared through the cotton.
“I believe that makes five,” Skorzeny said.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Ryan watched his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he dabbed at his reddened lip. The graze on his neck still bled, but the one on his thigh had stopped.
He hadn’t been able to look Celia — or anyone else — in the eye as he left the dining room. He had crept upstairs alone and tried doors until he found this room.
Red swirls circled the plughole. He spat more discoloured sputum into the water and pressed the facecloth to the wound on his neck. The shirt collar bore a dark stain. Ryan wondered if it could be cleaned.
No matter. He hadn’t paid for it.
A small hole had been torn in the trousers, another dark stain spreading from the loose threads. The sad ache this caused in his heart surprised Ryan. It was only a garment, albeit more expensive than any he’d owned before. Money had never mattered a great deal to him, yet he mourned the loss of this sign of wealth, even if it was someone else’s.
Ryan checked the cut on his neck once more. Still a trickle of red. He pressed the facecloth harder against the wound and let himself out of the bathroom.
Célestin Lainé waited in the hallway, leaning against the wall, an almost empty wine bottle clutched to his chest.
“Monsieur Ryan,” he said. “Albert.”
“Célestin.”
“What happen?” Lainé waved his fingers in front of his face. The wine seemed to have blunted his English.
“Colonel Skorzeny challenged me to a duel.”
Lainé smiled. “He beat you?”
“Yes,” Ryan said.
Lainé’s laughter resonated in the hallway as it rose in pitch. It died away as suddenly as it had erupted.
“You see Catherine die.”
“I was there, yes.”
“You did not stop her.”
“I couldn’t. She moved too quickly.”
Lainé raised a finger, pointed it at Ryan. “She do it because of you.”
Ryan resisted the urge to slap Lainé’s hand aside. “No. She did it because she was afraid of Skorzeny.”
“She had not to fear from him.”
“She was suspected as an informant. Skorzeny would have questioned her if I hadn’t.”
Lainé dropped the bottle, lurched forward, shoved Ryan against the wall, the facecloth fluttering to the floor. “Catherine was not informant.”
Ryan did not react. “I know that now.”
“But still she is dead,” Lainé said, his breath sour with wine. “For nothing.”
“I know who the informant is.”
Lainé’s face slackened. “Is Hakon Foss. I question him. He does not confess, but he will.”
“No,” Ryan said. “The informant is you.”
Weiss had first put it in Ryan’s mind. In that workshop, the smell of oil and sweat and chloroform clinging to Ryan’s nostrils, Weiss had dismissed Ryan’s suspicions of Hakon Foss.