“You had no cause to harm my father.”
“Oh, but I did.” Skorzeny returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “You see, the situation has changed.”
“I don’t care.” Ryan raised the pistol for emphasis. “If you, or anyone else, come near my parents again, I promise you will suffer.”
“I understand your anger,” Skorzeny said. “But if you’ll listen for a moment, you’ll see there’s no reason for anyone else to come to harm.”
“Go on.”
“Against my better judgement, I have decided to pay the men who have been causing us such problems. An advertisement will appear in tomorrow’s Irish Times.”
The Walther grew heavy in Ryan’s hand. He lowered it to his side once more and sat down, jaw clenched against the pain that shifted from his groin to his stomach.
“There will be one condition,” Skorzeny said.
“What?”
“That you, and only you, shall act as courier for the gold. I am confident you won’t try to steal it for yourself.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Skorzeny smiled and said, “How? I can be sure because the men who attacked your father are watching the hospital he’s in. They know which ward and which bed. They know your mother wears a red coat and carries a black leather bag. Do I need to continue?”
Ryan fought to keep his hands at his sides, to keep his finger off the trigger.
Skorzeny smirked. “Would you like to point your gun at me again? Or will you agree to my request so we can have this over and done with?”
Ryan returned the Walther to its holster.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Goren Weiss circled back around to drive past Buswells once more. Yes, the newspaper sat on the dashboard of Ryan’s car. He parked further along the street and walked back to the hotel.
He gave the receptionist Ryan’s name and room number. She smiled and lifted the telephone.
“Mr. Ryan will be down presently,” she said, that smile fixed to her face like a man clinging to a cliff edge. “Please take a seat in the lounge.”
Weiss thanked her and walked through to the high-ceilinged room where a few suited men read newspapers while they drank their tea and coffee. He found a comfortable seat close to the window.
A pudgy waiter approached. “Can I get you some refreshment, sir?”
“You got any Jack Daniels?”
“Sir?” The waiter’s bottom lip drooped, his breath sounding like cough syrup sucked through a straw.
Weiss sighed. “I guess not. Glenfiddich, then. A double, neat, on ice.”
The waiter leaned in close, spoke in a confidential tone. “Sir, this is a temperance hotel.”
“A what?”
“We don’t serve alcohol. I can get you a nice cup of tea, if you like.”
Weiss wiped his hand across his eyes. “No, thank you, just a glass of water, please.”
The water arrived at the same time as Ryan. The Irishman lowered himself onto the chair next to Weiss’s, his features contorting with the pain it caused him.
“Still hurting, huh?” Weiss asked. “You want some tea? They might even run to something as strong as coffee.”
“Nothing,” Ryan said.
“So, what is it?”
“I saw Skorzeny today.”
Weiss studied Ryan as he waited for him to continue, saw something hiding behind his eyes. When he remained silent, Weiss said, “Spit it out, Albert. I don’t like it when people keep things from me.”
Ryan let the air out of his lungs, a long and weary sigh.
“Skorzeny had my father beaten. As a warning.”
“And I guess you’re kind of sore about that.”
Ryan did not answer.
“That’s understandable. But don’t let your anger get the better of you. So what did the Colonel have to say for himself?”
“That he’s going to pay. There’ll be an ad in the Irish Times tomorrow.”
Weiss raised his glass in a toast. “Good news. I told you he’d come around.”
Ryan shook his head. “It was too easy. Something’s not right.”
“Oh, come on, Albert. Don’t be so negative. I told you, Otto Skorzeny is a smart man. One and a half million is pocket change to him. Paying up is the only option that makes sense.”
“I’m not so sure,” Ryan said. “We need to watch our step. He could be setting a trap. He’s too proud to give in like this.”
“Perhaps the Colonel isn’t as all-powerful as you think he is.” He locked eyes with Ryan.
“What do you mean?”
Weiss couldn’t keep the smile from his lips. “Did it ever strike you that Skorzeny’s war record is a little too good to be true?”
“You know something,” Ryan said. “Tell me.”
“I have a contact, a former member of Himmler’s staff. He’s given us some good information, so we let him live. Anyway, he was there when they made that film reconstruction of the Gran Sasso raid, where they show Skorzeny and his crew swooping in on their gliders and snatching Mussolini. Thing is, the bold Colonel was only supposed to be there as an observer.”
“He planned the raid,” Ryan said. “I read about it. There’s books written about—”
“Propaganda,” Weiss said. “All he did was reconnaissance, and poorly at that. The Reich was in trouble by ’43, and the SS needed a hero. Skorzeny fell ass-backwards into the role. He was supposed to be on one of the last gliders to land, but something fucked up, and he wound up landing first, right at the front door of the hotel where they were holding Mussolini. Scared the shit out of the carabinieri, and they dropped their weapons right there and then.
“So, my German friend tells me, the front door of the hotel is barred, and Skorzeny goes running around the building trying to find another way in, dodging guard dogs, trying to climb over walls. In the end, against orders, he got inside, ran up and down corridors until he found Mussolini. Made damn sure he got the credit for it. The Italians put up no resistance, hardly a shot was fired. The only injuries were due to a couple of the gliders crash landing. Hardly the daring feat the SS propaganda team made it out to be. Almost everything you read in those books was fiction, not history. Skorzeny is not Superman. He’s a middle-aged fraud living off a reputation he didn’t earn.”
“He’s still dangerous,” Ryan said.
“Yes, he’s dangerous. Very dangerous. But he is not invincible. Just remember that. We can beat him.”
Ryan took a breath. “He wants me to be the courier.”
“I have no problem with that. Come on, Albert, lighten up. A few days from now, you’ll be one of the richest men in this godforsaken country. All you got to do is hold your nerve.”
He stood, reached for the glass, and downed the rest of the water.
“I need a real drink.” He patted Ryan’s shoulder. “We’re almost home, Albert. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
Weiss left Ryan sitting in the lounge, a warm glow in his chest, despite the lack of whisky and the look of hollow dread on the Irishman’s face.
Weiss approached the cottage at the end of the overgrown lane. He stopped the car short of the clearing when he saw Carter sitting on the doorstep, his head in his hands.
Weiss climbed out, shut the door.
Carter looked up at the sound, startled, as if he had been unaware of the car’s approach.
A queasy knot tightened in Weiss’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”
Carter shook his head and stared off somewhere into the trees. His Browning pistol lay on the worn stone step beside him.