An Irish tricolour hung in the corner, a copy of the Proclamation of the Irish Republic on the wall, along with pictures of racehorses, lean and proud.
“Who made your suit?” Haughey asked.
Ryan sat silent for a few seconds before he realised the question had been spoken in his direction. He cleared his throat and said, “The tailor in my home town.”
“And where’s that?”
“Carrickmacree.”
“Jesus.” Haughey snorted. “What’s your father, a pig farmer?”
“A retailer,” Ryan said.
“A shopkeeper?”
“Yes,” Ryan said.
Haughey’s smile split his face, giving his mouth the appearance of a lizard’s, his tongue wet and shining behind his teeth.
“Well, get yourself something decent. A man should have a good suit. You can’t be walking around government offices with the arse hanging out of your trousers, can you?”
Ryan did not reply.
“You’ll want to know why you’re here,” Haughey said.
“Yes, Minister.”
“Did the director tell you anything?”
“No, Minister.”
“Proper order,” Haughey said. “He can tell you now.”
Fitzpatrick went to speak, but the secretary bustled in, a tray in her hands. The men remained silent while she poured coffee from the pot. Ryan refused a cup.
When she’d gone, Fitzpatrick cleared his throat and turned in his seat. “The body of a German national was found in a guesthouse in Salthill yesterday morning by the owner. It’s believed he died the previous day from gunshot wounds to the stomach and head. The Garda Síochána were called to the scene, but when the body’s identity was established, the matter was referred to the Department of Justice, and then to my office.”
“Who was he?” Ryan asked.
“Here, he was Heinrich Kohl, a small businessman, nothing more. He handled escrow for various import and export companies. A middle man.”
“You say ‘Here’,” Ryan said. “Meaning elsewhere, he was something different.”
“Elsewhere, he was SS-Hauptsturmführer Helmut Krauss of the Main SS Economic and Administrative Department. That sounds rather more impressive than it was in reality. I believe he was some sort of office worker during the Emergency.”
Government bureaucrats seldom called it the war, as if to do so would somehow dignify the conflict that had ravaged Europe.
“A Nazi,” Ryan said.
“If you want to use such terms, then yes.”
“May I ask, why aren’t the Galway Garda Síochána dealing with this? It sounds like a murder case. The war ended eighteen years ago. This is a civilian crime.”
Haughey and Fitzpatrick exchanged a glance.
“Krauss is the third foreign national to have been murdered within a fortnight,” the director said. “Alex Renders, a Flemish Belgian, and Johan Hambro, a Norwegian. Both of them were nationalists who found themselves aligned with the Reich when Germany occupied their respective countries.”
“And you assume the killings are connected?” Ryan asked.
“All three men were shot at close range. All three men were involved to some extent in nationalist movements during the Emergency. It’s hard not to make the logical conclusion.”
“Why were these men in Ireland?”
“Renders and Hambro were refugees following the liberation of their countries by the Allies. Ireland has always been welcoming to those who flee persecution.”
“And Krauss?”
Fitzpatrick went to speak, but Haughey interrupted.
“This case has been taken out of the Guards’ hands as a matter of sensitivity. These people were guests in our country, and there are others like them, but we don’t wish to draw attention to their presence here. Not now. This is an important year for Ireland. The President of the United States will visit these shores in just a few weeks. For the first time in the existence of this republic, a head of state will make an official visit, and not just any head of state. The bloody leader of the free world, no less. Not only that, he’ll be coming home, to the land of his ancestors. The whole planet will be watching us.”
Haughey’s chest seemed to swell as he spoke, as if he were addressing some rally in his constituency.
“Like the director said, these men were refugees, and this state offered them asylum. But even so, some people, for whatever reason, might take exception to men like Helmut Krauss living next door. They might make a fuss about it, the kind of fuss we could be doing without while we’re getting ready for President Kennedy to arrive. There’s people in America, people on his own staff, saying coming here’s a waste of time when he’s got Castro in his back yard, and the blacks causing a ruckus. They’re advising him to cancel his visit. They get a sniff of trouble, they’ll start insisting on it. So it’s vital that this be dealt with quietly. Out of the public gaze, as it were. That’s where you come in. I want you to get to the bottom of this. Make it stop.”
“And if I don’t wish to accept the assignment?”
Haughey’s eyes narrowed. “I must not have made myself clear, Lieutenant. I’m not asking you to investigate this crime. I’m ordering you.”
“With all due respect, Minister, you don’t have the authority to order me to do anything.”
Haughey stood, his face reddening. “Now hold on, big fella, just who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
Fitzpatrick raised his hands, palms up and out. “I’m sorry, Minister, all Lieutenant Ryan means is that such an order should come from within the command structure of the Directorate of Intelligence. I’m sure he meant no disrespect.”
“He better not have,” Haughey said, lowering himself back into his chair. “If he needs an order from you, then go on and give it.”
Fitzpatrick turned back to Ryan. “As the Minister said, this is not a voluntary assignment. You will be at his disposal until the matter is resolved.”
“All right,” Ryan said. “Are there any suspects in the killings?”
“Not as yet,” Haughey said. “But the obvious train of thought must be Jews.”
Ryan shifted in his seat. “Minister?”
“Jewish extremists,” Haughey said. “Zionists out for revenge, I’d say. That will be your first line of inquiry.”
Ryan considered arguing, decided against it. “Yes, Minister.”
“The Guards will give assistance where needed,” the director said. “We’d prefer that be avoided, of course. The fewer people involved in this the better. You will also have the use of a car, and a room at Buswells Hotel when you’re in the city.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Haughey opened the file he had taken from the cabinet. “There’s one more thing you should be aware of.”
He lifted an envelope from the file, gripping it by its corner. One end of it was a deep brownish red. Ryan took the envelope, careful to avoid the stained portion. It had been cut open along its top edge. He turned the envelope to read the words typed on its face.
Otto Skorzeny.
Ryan said the name aloud.
“You’ve heard of him?” Haughey asked.
“Of course,” Ryan said, remembering images of the scarred face in the society pages of the newspapers. Any soldier versed in commando tactics knew of Skorzeny. The name was spoken with reverence in military circles, regardless of the Austrian’s affiliations. Officers marvelled at Skorzeny’s exploits as if recounting the plot of some adventure novel. The rescue of Mussolini from the mountaintop hotel that served as his prison stirred most conversation. The daring of it, the audacity, landing gliders on the Gran Sasso cliff edge and sweeping Il Duce away on the wind.