Ryan heard a metallic click, saw the tip of a blade close to his right eye, felt it brush his eyelashes, the chill of it against his cheek.
“Be still, my friend.”
Ryan put his palms on the tiles, fought the heaving in his chest.
“I only asked if you enjoyed the picture,” the man said, his voice calm and even. “That’s all. Nothing to get worked up about, is it? Just a friendly question, right?”
The man released Ryan’s hair, took the knee from his back, the knife from his vision, and stepped away.
“I’ll see you around, Lieutenant Ryan.”
The door creaked, the chatter of drinkers swelling for a moment then receding. Ryan looked over his shoulder. Alone, he rested his forehead on the coolness of the tiles for a few seconds before dragging himself to his feet.
He went to the mirror over the basin, checked for any mark from the blade, saw none. His knees carried damp stains from the moisture on the floor, and his tie hung crooked. He straightened it, wiped at his knees with paper towels. When his breathing steadied, he left the WC.
Celia looked up as he approached. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” Ryan said. “I promised Mrs. Highland I’d have you back by eleven. We’d better be going.”
Celia scoffed. “Oh, Mrs. Highland can wait up. That dried up old bag should step out herself now and then. It’d do her the world of good to blow the cobwebs from her knickers.”
She giggled, brought her fingertips to her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was quite coarse of me, wasn’t it? Perhaps I’ve had one drink too many. You’re right, we should go.”
Ryan offered her his arm, and they made their way through the smoke and the red-faced men. He watched for dark hair and a well-cut suit, knowing eyes set in a tanned face, and saw no one but the drunken newspapermen.
The drawing room curtains twitched as they reached the doorstep. Celia rested her hand on his chest.
“I’d invite you in, but I’m afraid we’d have Mrs. Highland for company. Unless you want to watch her knitting, we’ll have to say goodnight here.”
“Here is fine,” Ryan said. Once more, he found himself short of words. He stood with his arms by his sides, the agony of silence between them. Celia broke it with a smile.
“I had a very nice time,” she said. “I hope you’ll call me again.”
“I will. Absolutely.”
“The restaurant at the Shelbourne isn’t too bad.”
“Then I’ll take you.”
Ryan couldn’t help feeling they were negotiating a contract, making promises, reaching accords. He didn’t care, as long as he would see her again.
“Good,” she said.
She leaned in, raised herself slightly on her toes, and kissed him. Warm, moist, fragrant lipstick. The tip of her tongue grazed his upper lip. When she moved away, he still felt her there, the heat of her.
“For God’s sake, Albert, don’t just stand there looking like you’ve seen the Blessed Virgin.”
He half coughed, half laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect … I didn’t know …”
She raised her fingertips to his cheek. “Such a saggy face. Goodnight, Albert.”
Ryan left her there and went to the car. The drive from Rathgar into town took less than fifteen minutes, and he spent it trying to think of the dark-haired man who bested him in the bathroom, and not the feeling of Celia’s lips against his.
He did not succeed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Skorzeny left his brandy and his guests in the drawing room. He followed Esteban to the darkened study and picked up the telephone receiver. The boy flicked on the lamp, casting a pool of soft light over the desk.
“Who is this?” Skorzeny asked.
“Celia Hume.”
Skorzeny took a cigarette from the case on the desk. “Well?”
“We had a very pleasant evening. We went to the pictures, then afterwards, a drink.”
Skorzeny noted the softness of the consonants, the way she enunciated the words with care so as to hide the effects of those drinks.
Esteban lifted the desk lighter, struck a flame, and held it out. Skorzeny tasted petrol and tobacco, carried to his throat by the heat. He waved Esteban away. The boy left the room, closed the door behind him.
“Were any sensitive matters discussed?” he asked.
“No. At least, none that concerned you or the work Lieutenant Ryan is doing for you.”
“And what were your impressions of him?”
The girl paused, then said, “He is very sweet. Like a child, in some ways. But there’s something else to him, something I can’t quite describe. I know he’s a soldier, but it’s more than that. Something in his eyes, in the way he holds himself, the way he speaks. But not what he says. Something that frightens me, just a little.”
Had he felt so inclined, Skorzeny could have put it into words for her. Ryan carried the souls of the dead with him, just as every killer does. However gentlemanly the exterior, no matter how kind the man might appear, those souls will watch from behind his eyes.
“When will you see him again?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Soon, I think. He promised to call.”
“Good. Bring him close to you. As close as he desires to be.”
Silence for a moment, then, “What do you mean?”
Skorzeny flicked the cigarette against the crystal ashtray. “Do I not pay you well for this service?”
“Colonel Skorzeny, I am not a prostitute.”
“Of course not,” he said. “Goodnight, Miss Hume.”
He hung up and returned to his guests, picking up the story he’d been telling. The one about rescuing Mussolini from the hotel on Gran Sasso that served as the dictator’s prison. Skorzeny’s political guests always enjoyed that one.
He had told the tale so many times, at so many parties and dinners and banquets, he sometimes struggled to separate truth from fiction. In moments of doubt, he would remind himself that he was not a historian. If the people he met desired to be enthralled by stories of his adventures, who was Otto Skorzeny to deny them their pleasure?
Luca Impelliteri would deny them, given the chance.
The morning after the Italian had goaded him on that balcony in Tarragona, he had a message delivered to Skorzeny’s room inviting him to coffee. At noon, Skorzeny found Impelliteri waiting at a table outside a cafe on the Rambla Nova. He wore an open-necked shirt and sunglasses. He clicked his fingers to attract a waiter as Skorzeny approached.
“Please sit,” he said.
Skorzeny obliged. “What do you want?”
“Just a chat,” Impelliteri said, keeping his demeanour friendly. The sunglasses hid his eyes. “Coffee?”
Skorzeny nodded.
Impelliteri addressed the waiter. “Two coffees, and bring us a plate of pastries, whatever you recommend.”
“Not for me,” Skorzeny said.
“Oh, please, you must. The pastries here are the best I’ve tasted outside of Italy.”
The waiter went to fetch the order.
“You wanted to talk,” Skorzeny said. “So get to it.”
“Colonel Skorzeny, you’re an impatient man.”
“Amongst other things. Do not test me.”
The Italian smiled. “Well, then let’s not keep you any longer than necessary. As we discussed last night, I was there on Gran Sasso when you snatched Il Duce. I watched you run around the hotel, trying to find a way in. I saw you scamper away from the guard dogs — lucky for you, they were chained up — and I watched when you couldn’t climb a wall no higher than a metre and a half. You had to use one of your men as a platform to stand on. It was almost comical.”