“He’s a gardener,” Weiss had said. “He’s a handyman. He trims hedges and repairs broken windows. What kind of information do you think he can give to anybody?”
“There’s no one else so close to them,” Ryan had said. “No one with a reason to turn on them.”
“Yes there is, Albert. Don’t you see?”
“Who?”
“Think, Albert. He’s as close to Skorzeny as anyone right now.”
Ryan’s mouth struggled to keep up with his thoughts. “You mean … Lainé?”
Weiss held his hands up, palms towards the ceiling.
Ryan shook his head. “But he was there when they killed Groix and Murthagh.”
“And yet he lives.”
“He told us what happened. They wanted him to deliver the message.”
“Célestin Lainé has tortured and killed many, many people. What makes you think he’s above telling a lie?”
The logic had grown in Ryan’s mind in the hours since then until he couldn’t avoid its glare. Now Lainé’s eyes widened, his mouth opened, and Ryan knew it was the truth even as he denied it.
“Non,” Lainé said, backing away.
Ryan locked his gaze on him. “I know, Célestin. You’re the informant. What did they pay you?”
Lainé slapped Ryan hard across the cheek. “You lie.”
Ryan closed his eyes, savoured the heat and the sting. “You hate Skorzeny and everything he has. His money, his car, this house. You hate him for it. So you sold him out.”
Lainé’s hand lashed out again. Ryan’s head lightened.
“How much, Célestin? Hundreds? Thousands?”
Once more, Lainé’s hand slashed at Ryan’s face, but this time Ryan blocked it, grabbed Lainé’s throat, pushed him back towards the far wall. Lainé croaked as Ryan applied pressure to his windpipe.
“You know what Skorzeny will do to you when he finds out.”
Lainé struggled in Ryan’s grip, tried to throw him off. Ryan increased the pressure on Lainé’s throat until he stilled.
“You know what he’ll do. He’ll tear you to pieces. That’s why Catherine killed herself, because she knew he’d torture her. He’ll do the same to you.”
Once more, Lainé bucked in Ryan’s grasp. He tried to spit in Ryan’s face, but the saliva only dribbled down his chin.
Ryan pushed him again, harder against the wall. “Listen to me. Skorzeny doesn’t have to know.”
Lainé’s body softened.
“You do as I say, Skorzeny will never find out you betrayed him. Do you understand?”
Ryan loosened his grip on the Breton’s throat enough for him to take a breath.
“How to I believe you?”
“You have no choice,” Ryan said. “Either you tell me what I want to know, or I go to Skorzeny with the truth. And you will suffer.”
“I do not trust you.”
“All right, I’ll give you something. I’ll tell you something Skorzeny doesn’t know. Their leader is Captain John Carter.”
Lainé’s eyes widened.
Voices came from downstairs, the guests milling in the hall.
Ryan stepped back, releasing his hold on Lainé.
“I want to know where they are. And what they want.”
The sound of laughter just below, a door opening, a cool draught.
“I’ll give you the night to think about it. I’m staying at Buswells Hotel. Call me there tomorrow or Skorzeny will know everything. Understood?”
Lainé’s teeth glittered as he smiled. “Why should I not kill you?”
Ryan returned the smile. “Because then you’ll never know why I didn’t hand you over to Skorzeny.”
Ryan descended the stairs to find Haughey and his companion standing with Celia and Skorzeny by the open door.
“My guests are saying goodnight,” Skorzeny said, “but you will stay. We have business to discuss.”
Ryan looked to Celia. “I need to drive Celia home.”
“The minister will take care of your friend.”
A shadow of fear crossed her face.
“I’ll take her,” Haughey said. “Come on, sweetheart.”
Haughey draped Celia’s coat around her shoulders.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Ryan said.
Celia gave him a resigned smile and allowed Haughey to lead her outside. Ryan and Skorzeny watched from the doorway as the three of them climbed into Haughey’s Jaguar, Celia in the back, his companion in the front, and drove away into the darkness.
Skorzeny handed Ryan his jacket and tie. Ryan pulled the jacket on and stuffed the tie into his pocket.
“You gave a good match,” Skorzeny said. “The best I’ve had in this country.”
Ryan said, “What do you want to discuss?”
“Our informant.” Skorzeny turned to the boy who stood half sleeping against the wall. “Esteban, go upstairs and fetch Monsieur Lainé.”
The boy stirred, nodded, and ran up the staircase. He returned two minutes later, Lainé coming behind, buttoning his overcoat. His eyes met Ryan’s as he reached the hallway.
“Come,” Skorzeny said, and led them out into the night.
Ryan and Lainé followed in silence, across the gardens towards the outbuildings and the halogen lamp that burned there.
As they walked, something tugged at Ryan’s mind. He looked at the trees around them, searching the pools of darkness.
“Colonel,” he said.
Skorzeny halted, looked back to him.
Ryan asked, “Where are your guards?”
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
Otto Skorzeny had never submitted to fear or threat. Not as a boy, and certainly not as a man. Even as a student, duelling with sabres at the University of Vienna, his padded tunic stained deep red, he had fought on long after others had conceded. He recalled a photograph, his smile broad and bloodied alongside those of his brethren, a tankard of beer in his hand, all of them toasting yet another brutal tournament.
So when Luca Impelliteri made his threat, Skorzeny did not retreat.
Standing over the table outside a Tarragona cafe, he had held his ground, listened, his face expressionless.
“I will tell the Generalissimo everything,” Impelliteri had said, smiling up at him. “I will tell him you are a liar and a fraud, that your fearsome reputation is built on a propagandist’s story, and that he should not court your company.”
“And why should he believe you?”
“Francisco Franco is a careful man. He is always suspicious. He has not held his position for decades by being reckless. If there is doubt, he will remove you from his circle of friends rather than risk being made to appear foolish. Don’t you agree?”
“I do not,” Skorzeny said.
Impelliteri shrugged. “Even so, that’s how I see things. Of course, the Generalissimo need never know any of this. I am open to persuasion.”
Skorzeny waited for a moment, then said, “How much?”
“Fifty thousand American dollars to start with. After that, well, we’ll see.”
Skorzeny did not reply. He turned his back on the Italian and walked to the hotel. Once inside his room, he lifted the telephone receiver and asked for an international line. Within thirty minutes, he had made all the necessary arrangements.
Now this new threat, these murderous barbarians seeking to frighten him with the corpses of men he barely considered acquaintances. Whatever they sought, they would not take it from him by fear.
The absence of his guardsmen on this dark night did, however, cause him a moment of concern.
Skorzeny turned in a circle, scanning the tree line. His kept his expression calm, his voice flat. He said, “They’re patrolling the grounds, probably. Come.”
He set off towards the outbuildings again, unease slithering around his stomach with the pheasant and the Rote Grütze. The others followed.