Skorzeny moved further into the cottage. Ryan followed.
Another man sat at the table, his head at an unnatural angle, a flap of scalp peeled back.
“This is Groix,” Lainé said.
The Frenchman walked to the other side of the table, pulled the chair out, and sat down. He shook, coughed, his eyes welling. Mud and what appeared to be blood dappled his cardigan. He set the gas lamp at the centre of the table. It threw yellow light around the room. Lainé’s tears sparkled.
“They kill Hervé. She only barks. She never bites. And they kill her.”
Skorzeny rounded the table, placed his large hand on Lainé’s bony shoulder. “Tell us what happened.”
The Frenchman sniffed, dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve, and talked.
Groix had gone to the window, leaned over the sink, peered out. He had craned his neck, explored every part of the small yard within reach of his gaze. The dog’s chain hadn’t moved for more than a minute.
“I see nothing,” he said in French.
It disappointed Lainé that for all Groix’s zeal he had never learned to speak Breton to any degree of competency.
Lainé stood behind him. “They’ve come down the hillside, to the back of the cottage. Do you have a weapon?”
“No. Nothing.”
Lainé had a pistol, an old Smith and Wesson that had once belonged to a GI. It lay beneath his pillow.
He turned to Murtagh, said in English, “There are men come and kill us.” He indicated the shotgun on the table. “Can you shoot this gun?”
Murtagh stood, his chair rattling across the floor. “What?”
“Can you shoot this gun?” Lainé repeated.
“Who’s coming?”
Lainé decided not to waste any more breath on the young idiot. He moved to the back of the room, as far from the door as he could get, while Groix stood useless at the window.
Murtagh reached for the shotgun, broke it, made a show of checking the shells. He spun around as something slammed into the back door, tearing the bolt from the frame. Two plosive sounds, like balloons popping, and Murtagh fell.
The men entered, one, two, three of them, weapons raised and ready.
Lainé froze. Groix whimpered and raised his hands as fluid trickled over his shoes to puddle on the floor.
The second man who entered said, “Good evening, Célestin.”
Groix turned his confused face towards Lainé.
The man said, “I don’t know your friend. Who is he?”
“Elouan Groix,” Lainé said.
“Both of you sit.”
Groix obeyed.
“You too,” the man said to Lainé.
Lainé crossed the room, skirted Groix’s urine, and sat down.
“Hands flat on the table.”
Lainé and Groix splayed their fingers on the wood.
The three men wore dark overalls, woollen caps rolled down to their eyebrows, leather gloves. Two carried Browning pistols with suppressors. The third carried an automatic rifle. One took up a position at Groix’s right, the rifle levelled at his temple. The other came to Lainé’s left, aimed his weapon.
The leader pulled up the chair Murtagh had sat in, placed his Browning on the tabletop, one hand resting upon it.
“So here we are,” he said, his accent English.
Tears rolled from Groix’s eyes. He sniffed.
“Here we are,” Lainé said. “Et maintenant?”
“A quick chat,” the man said.
“I say nothing.”
Groix spoke up, fear in his voice, hope in his wet eyes. “I will say. You ask. I will say.”
The man lifted the Browning from the table, aimed, squeezed the trigger. Groix’s head jerked as if pulled by a marionette string. Bone and skin came away, hair flaming and smoking. He said no more.
The man turned his attention back to Lainé. “You misunderstand. I’m not looking for any more information. I already know everything I need to know. You don’t have to say anything. Not to me. I will talk. You will listen.”
Lainé watched a dark line trace its way around Groix’s ear and down his neck towards his collar.
“So talk,” he said.
The man placed the pistol back on the tabletop. Points of red dotted his cheek. “You will pass a message to Otto Skorzeny.”
Lainé smiled, though it felt more like a grimace on his lips. “Like Krauss?”
“Not necessarily. I’d prefer you pass the message on in person. I want you to be able to tell Skorzeny how serious we are. How efficient. If you agree to do so, I’ll take you at your word and allow you to live. Will you pass on this message?”
Lainé reached for the tobacco pouch and papers, set about making a cigarette. “D’accord.”
The man nodded. “Good. Repeat these words to Skorzeny exactly as I say them. Only three words. Are you listening?”
Lainé leaned into the gas lamp and lit the cigarette. “Ouais.”
“Tell him: You will pay.”
Lainé snorted, picked tobacco from his lip. “This will scare Otto Skorzeny, you think?”
The man raised the Browning, pressed the suppressor to Lainé’s cheek. The heat of it made his eyelid flicker.
“Just repeat those words to him. That’s all.”
Lainé nodded.
“Good.” The man lifted the Browning and stood.
The other two men backed towards the door.
“Be seeing you.”
They pulled the door closed behind them.
The shaking started then, and Lainé was barely able to bring the cigarette to his lips. Even so, he smoked it until it burned his fingers then dropped it to the floor.
He did not look at Groix’s or Murtagh’s bodies as he left the cottage. The chain lay loose on the ground. He followed it until he found Hervé lying curled on herself. In the dimness, her eyes wavered in their sockets, seeking the source of his scent.
“There, baby,” he said as he crouched down beside her.
Two holes in her flank. He placed his hand there, felt the warm wetness and the faint insistence of her heart. She exhaled, a bubbling deep in her chest. Lainé lay down in the dirt and held her, whispering stories of heaven, until the bubbling ceased and her heart stilled. He kissed her once then got to his feet.
Ten minutes took him across the fields to Caoimhín Murtagh’s farmhouse. He rapped the door. Mrs. Murtagh answered.
“I need your telephone,” Lainé said.
She looked back over her shoulder, called her husband.
Ryan asked, “Does Murtagh know what happened here?”
“Non. He asks, but I say nothing. When you go, I tell him.”
“Good,” Skorzeny said, squeezing Lainé’s shoulder. “You did well. After you tell him, you will also leave this place. Take everything, leave no trace of yourself. Let this Murtagh deal with the police. Tell him he must not mention you to them. Offer him money if you have to.”
“Where do I go?”
Skorzeny considered it for a moment. “You may take a room at my house.”
“Merci.” Lainé’s voice turned to a wavering hiss.
“How old was the man with the pistol?” Ryan asked.
“I think forty five. The others, one was also this age, one was younger.”
“The other men didn’t speak?”
“Non.”
“So we can’t tell if they were British or not.”
“They look, how to say …” Lainé waved his open palm across his face. “Pale, like English men. Not like Spanish or Italian. Not …”
“Not Jews,” Skorzeny said.
“Non.”
Ryan said, “The Browning is a British service weapon.”