Ryan had lied about what she’d said, putting the blame on Foss, and Lainé knew why: to take his trust, to thieve it by deception, to let him think Ryan was on his side. Lainé was smarter than that, and he believed Ryan knew it, but he would play the Irishman’s game. He had no other choice.
No, that was untrue. Had never been true. Back when he had taken up arms alongside the occupying Nazis, he had a choice, just as he did now, and he chose to follow Ryan’s path.
If he had dared to wonder why, his conscience would have told him it was because he had grown to hate Skorzeny. His greed for money and power and influence. His vanity, his desire to be admired and feared. At one time, Lainé had seen the Nazis’ ideals as being in line with his own: the assertion of nationhood. But ideals wither in the glare of money and power, until greed is all that survives.
And why shouldn’t he, Célestin Lainé, share in that greed?
So when those men came to him, pressed that thick, greasy paper into his hand in return for his tongue, he offered it gladly. They had promised more, a fortune he’d never thought he could possess, and he had believed them.
But when he had told them all he knew, the money ceased to fill his palm, and he knew they had used him, just like the Nazis had. Made him a traitor to himself with no reward but the guilt that lay rotting in his breast.
Yes, they had made Célestin Lainé a traitor, and a traitor he would be.
He lay silent and still as the hours to daylight passed, only leaving his room to bring the puppy outside for its toilet. Later still, as the morning lengthened, he heard the noise of the big Mercedes engine coughing into life and roaring as Skorzeny sped away.
Lainé went downstairs, quiet and secret, and took his bicycle from under the tarpaulin at the back of the house. He rode the few miles to the tiny village of Cut Bush. There a telephone box stood outside a small public house. Breathless, he propped the bicycle against the wall and went inside for a whiskey while he recovered from the effort. When his chest and his heart stopped their heaving and battering, he finished the drink and went to the bar to ask for change.
A light drizzle made dark spots on the road outside. Lainé stepped inside the telephone box. He asked the operator for Buswells Hotel, Dublin, inserted coins, pushed the button when instructed, and waited. The hotel’s receptionist asked him to hold, and he listened to clicks and a hiss.
“Yes?”
“Ryan. It is me. Célestin.”
A pause, then, “Tell me about Captain John Carter.”
Lainé talked.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Within thirty minutes of Ryan leaving a copy of the Irish Times on the dashboard of the Vauxhall, the telephone in his hotel room jangled.
“The University Church, southern end of St. Stephen’s Green,” Weiss said. “I’ll wait inside.”
Ten minutes later, Ryan approached the church’s ornate facade, red brick and short stone columns, a belfry above, seemingly suspended in mid air. It stood sandwiched between taller buildings, creating the illusion of a chapel in miniature, but stepping through its double doors revealed the truth. A small porch opened into the atrium beyond. A tall vaulted ceiling, high white walls decorated by granite plaques dedicated to scholars and philanthropists. The chill on the air crept beneath Ryan’s clothing. A short flight of stone steps lead down to the floor where Goren Weiss waited, smartly dressed as before.
“What’s the news, Albert?” His voice echoed between the walls.
Ryan looked to the gap between the double doors leading to the church itself, the glowing light from within. He saw no one inside.
“Six men died last night,” he said.
Weiss emptied his lungs, a despairing exhalation. “Go on.”
Ryan told him about the body in the outbuilding, about the killing of Foss, about the dead guards in the trees. He did not mention Lainé’s tattling or Skorzeny’s shoving and baiting.
“Fuck,” Weiss said. “Audacious, wouldn’t you say?”
“Or stupid.”
“Maybe. What confuses me, and I imagine Colonel Skorzeny more so, is why they didn’t come for him while they were at it. They’ve proved they can get to him if they want to. They’ve got the noose around his neck, so why not kick the chair from under him?”
The doors leading to the porch and the street beyond opened, and an elderly man entered the atrium. He went to one of the fonts that were mounted on each wall. He dipped his fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross before descending the steps. He nodded at Ryan and Weiss as he passed on his way to the church.
When the doors closed behind the old man, Weiss asked, “How come you didn’t do that? The water and the cross thing.”
“I’m not Catholic,” Ryan said.
“I see. Then I guess neither of us belongs here, do we?”
Ryan wondered for a moment if Weiss meant the church or something other. “This isn’t a good place to meet,” he said. “It’s too close to Merrion Street.”
“The government buildings? What, you think Mr. Haughey’s going to swing by to say a prayer for Skorzeny? Does he strike you as a man who likes to get his knees dirty?”
“No, he doesn’t.”
For the first time, if only for an instant, Weiss’s smile reached his eyes. “So, why didn’t Carter and his men kill Skorzeny last night?”
“Because they want him scared,” Ryan said.
“And is he?”
“Not on the surface, but underneath, yes, I think he is.”
“Scared enough to go running to Franco?”
“No, he won’t run. He’s got too much pride.”
“Good. But that doesn’t answer the question. They’ve got him nervous, but that’s not their goal. What is it they really want? Figure that out and we might be closer to tracking the sons of bitches down.”
“I have a lead,” Ryan said. “A solid one.”
Weiss tilted his head, looked hard at him. “What?”
“You’ll know if it works out.”
“I’ll know it now.” Weiss leaned in, his face darkening. “Don’t hold anything back from me, Albert. That would make me very unhappy.”
“I want to follow it up, but I can’t have you breathing down my neck. Call off any tails you’ve got on me. When I need to talk, my car will be at the hotel along with the newspaper on the dashboard. I’ll be in touch if I’ve got something.”
Weiss chewed his lip. “Damn it, Albert, you’re putting me in a difficult position.”
“If you want my cooperation, then you’ll leave me alone. That’s your only choice.”
Weiss curled his hands into fists, turned in a circle, his gaze far away. Eventually, he said, “All right.” He extended a finger towards Ryan. “But listen to me, Albert. If you cross me …”
He let the threat hang in the cool air between them.
Ryan walked away, saying, “I’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Ryan toured the streets around Fitzroy Avenue, travelled north and south along Jones’s Road, skirted Croke Park stadium, passed under the railway line and back again. Few cars lined the pavements in front of the small red-brick terraced houses.
Lainé’s description had been far from precise, but close enough. The first time the Breton had talked to them, he had taken a train to Amiens Street Station where Carter and another man had met him. They had bundled him into the back of a van with no windows and driven for only a few minutes. When the van halted, they slipped a pillowcase over his head and led him out. They put him against a wall as they locked their vehicle, and a train passed overhead, shaking the ground beneath his feet. He heard the clack and rumble of the wheels, felt the force of it through the brickwork at his shoulder.