Now he heard the feet — one pair, he thought — beating the tarmac behind him. He ignored them, kept his pace, crossed Clonliffe Road and into the avenue, the car there, yards away.
Ryan skidded to the side of the Vauxhall, the key already in his hand, unlocked the door, in. He jammed the key into the ignition, turned, held it as the engine sputtered and finally kicked in. A dead end ahead, he jerked the gearstick into reverse, slammed his foot into the accelerator.
The pursuer, Wallace, sidestepped out of Ryan’s path, made a grab for the door handle as he passed. Ryan fought the steering as he gathered speed towards the end of the avenue, straining his neck as he peered out the rear windscreen.
By instinct, he jammed his foot onto the brake pedal as the Bedford van swung into the mouth of the avenue, blocking him. The car’s chassis groaned as it halted.
Wallace was there, at the driver’s window, a Browning in his hand. He hammered at the glass until it shattered, fragments spilling over Ryan. The pistol’s muzzle pressed against Ryan’s temple.
“Don’t fucking move,” Wallace said.
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
Haughey’s tongue slipped across his lips as he read the letter, a deep line between his thin eyebrows. He let out a short crackle of a laugh.
“Cheeky fuckers,” he said.
Skorzeny had driven to the city first thing. The traffic had been light despite it being a Monday morning, and he had made good time. Even so, he had waited close to forty minutes for Haughey to appear in his office. The minister’s eyes looked heavy, and he had made a poor job of shaving, as if in a hurry.
“Are they serious?”
Skorzeny suppressed a sigh. “Minister, they have killed very many men to arrive at this stage in their plan. So yes, I think we can assume they are serious.”
“Holy Jesus.” Haughey snorted, shook his head. “The brass balls on them. One and a half million dollars in gold. How much is that in pounds? Christ, don’t tell me, you’ll make me cry.”
Skorzeny lifted the coffee from the desk, took a bitter sip, returned the cup to its place. “It is a considerable sum.”
Haughey looked over the top of the paper, his eyes narrow. “Can you really put your hands on that much?”
“That is hardly the question, Minister.”
“Fuck, then what is?” Haughey dropped the letter onto the desktop.
Skorzeny reached for the page. “Please mind your language, Minister. It offends me.”
“Fuck yourself,” Haughey said, the consonants wet. “This is my office. If you don’t like how I talk, you can fuck off.”
The fibres of the paper rasped against Skorzeny’s fingertips, the weight of it, the ink heavy on the page. He read it for the hundredth time.
SS-Obersturmbannführer Skorzeny,
You have seen our work. You have seen what we can do. You have seen that we can get to you.
The price for your life is $1,500,000 in gold kilobars, delivered in crates containing fifteen kilobars each.
Signal your intent to comply by placing a personal advertisement in the Irish Times, addressed to Constant Follower, no later than five working days from the date of this letter. If no advertisement is placed by this time, you will die as and when we choose.
Once your signal of compliance has been placed, you will be contacted by other means with instructions for delivery.
Your life hangs by a thread, SS-Obersturmbannführer Skorzeny. Do not test us. Do not run. We can get to you as easily in Spain or Argentina. No place on this Earth is safe for you now.
With Respect,
A large hand-drawn X criss-crossed the paper, a mockery of a signature.
“So?” Haughey leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Are you going to pay them?”
“Perhaps.” Skorzeny folded the page along its creases and set it on the desk next to the coffee cup. “Perhaps not.”
“You can’t be thinking of saying no, can you? My office has done all it can to protect you, but there’s a limit. These boys come after you, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Skorzeny took another sip of coffee. “Minister, you must understand, this letter changes the nature of our situation.”
Haughey’s eyebrows climbed the folds of his forehead. “I’ll say it does.”
“But perhaps not the way in which you think.”
The minister raised his palms. “Then tell me.”
“Until I received this letter we believed we were dealing with fanatics, zealots, men driven by some misguided ideal. Now we know they are driven by greed. Now we know they are thieves.”
Haughey shrugged. “So?”
Skorzeny had predicted the politician would not understand. Because Charles J. Haughey spoke of ideas, dreams, noble goals, but — as is the case with most men who seek power — those words were a shroud, camouflage for the man’s true nature.
“A fanatic cannot be reasoned with,” Skorzeny said in slow, measured words, making sure their meaning penetrated Haughey’s skull. “A zealot has no concern for his own skin. He cannot be bargained with. He cannot be bought. He will have what he wants, or he will die, there is no other outcome. But a thief can be bargained with. A thief can be bought. A thief values his life above his honour.”
“So you’re going to bargain with them? You’re telling me you’re going to haggle with these fuckers?”
“No, Minister. They have shown their weakness. I will use it to destroy them.”
Haughey’s face stilled, became blank, as if he had slipped on a mask moulded from his own features.
“Colonel Skorzeny, there is a limit to my indulgence. I won’t have you starting some fucking war in my country. If you intend on taking these boys on, if you’re going to fight them, then you’d best get on a plane to Madrid and see if Franco feels like putting up with you. Because I won’t put up with it, I’ll tell you that for sweet fuck all.”
Skorzeny smiled. “Come, Minister, there’s no need to talk in such terms. This problem can be resolved with your help. And that of your man Lieutenant Ryan.”
Haughey shifted in his seat, his face mobile once more. “Yes. Ryan. He hasn’t turned up yet.”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll have a few words to say to the bastard when I get my hands on him. I’ll bury my toe up his hole.”
Skorzeny stood, lifted the letter from the desk, slipped it into his pocket. “Lieutenant Ryan will return in good time. He knows more than he has told us. A clever man, and dangerous. I will question him myself.”
Haughey leaned back in his chair. “Question him?”
“Good day, Minister.”
Skorzeny walked towards the door. He gripped the handle, turned it, smiled at the secretary in the outer office.
Haughey called from behind. “Colonel.”
Skorzeny turned. “Yes, Minister?”
“A zealot or a thief.” The politician smiled, his lips thin and slick. “Which are you?”
Skorzeny returned the smile.
“Both,” he said.
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
Ryan blinked in the darkness, jarred awake by something, his eyelids clicking wetly. The floor’s chill crept through his skin and into his cheekbone. His bare shoulder and hip ached with the coldness of the packed earth. The fingers of his right hand traced the lines of his face, as if the assurance of touch might confirm that he yet lived.
How long?
The stubble on his chin scratched at his fingertips, heavier than before.
At least a day, maybe thirty six hours.
Ryan searched his mind for the pieces, gathered them, set them in order.
Wallace had dragged him from the car, the Browning’s muzzle jammed hard against his neck. The van’s rear doors had opened, swallowed him, then darkness as something slipped over his head.