“Come on, Carter. What is it?”
The Englishman jerked a thumb back towards the open door behind him. “In there.”
Weiss crossed the clearing. Carter leaned aside to allow him to step over.
The smell first, the metal odour, then as his eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the cottage, he saw the upended table, the tin plates and cups scattered, the chairs on their backs and sides.
And he saw the bodies.
“Goddamn it,” Weiss said. “Goddamn it.”
Wallace sat propped against the far wall, a chunk of his face and skull ripped away, two holes torn in his chest. The one remaining eye, dull as a raincloud, gazed across the room to the other man.
Gracey lay face down, a neat hole between his shoulder blades, another in the back of his head. His fingers still clutched an automatic rifle.
“Goddamn it,” Weiss said.
He went back outside and sat down on the step beside Carter.
“What happened?”
Carter ran a hand across his face, wiped his mouth and his eyes.
“It was Gracey. Fucking idiot. He’d been quiet since we let Ryan go. But he’s always quiet, even back when we were in North Africa together, so I didn’t think much of it. We’d just eaten a bit of lunch. Wallace cooked it. We’d been talking about the money, divvying it up in our heads, what we were going to do with our shares.
“Then Wallace makes some stupid joke, how Skorzeny had offered a third of the price, and that was more than any of us would get if the whole thing was split five ways. I told him to shut his stupid mouth, it wasn’t funny, but he wouldn’t let up. Gracey just sat there saying nothing, pushing his food around his plate.
“Then he grabs for his rifle and lets Wallace have it. Only I had my Browning out for cleaning, I would’ve got it too. Fucking idiot.”
“Yeah,” Weiss said. “A fucking idiot. Skorzeny agreed to pay.”
Carter turned his head to Weiss, his eyes wide.
“Yep. Ryan just told me. There’ll be an ad in the paper tomorrow morning. You got any of that good vodka left?”
Carter climbed to his feet and went inside. He returned a minute later with two bottles, one almost empty, the other almost full. He gave the first to Weiss.
They sat in silence for a time, Weiss sipping at his drink, Carter swigging mouthfuls of his.
“I used to be a soldier,” Carter said.
Weiss shrugged. “So did I.”
“It used to mean something. For king and country, all that. You give your life to it. Then one day there’s no more wars to fight and you’re left sitting on your hands, counting the days, no bloody use to anyone.”
Weiss felt the vodka warm his chest and his tongue. “My war never ends. I fight for a tiny patch of land surrounded by a dozen nations that want to scorch every trace of us from the face of the earth. If it wasn’t for the fact they hate each other almost as much as they hate us, they’d have driven us into the sea ten years ago. Be grateful for the peace you’ve found, my friend. Not everyone gets to go home alive.”
He clinked his bottle against Carter’s.
“And what happens if your war does end?” Carter asked. “Or you’re too old to fight anymore? What do you do with the rest of your life?”
Weiss thought about it. He had done so many times, but never during daylight, only in the dark hours as he chased sleep. He returned to the only answer he’d ever found.
“I don’t know,” Weiss said, hoping the terror of it didn’t tell in his voice.
CHAPTER SIXTY ONE
A copy of the Irish Times waited outside Ryan’s hotel room door when he awoke. He brought it inside and leafed through the pages until he found the classified ads. There, in the personals section, between the listings for lonely country gentlemen seeking ladies of good character, he found it.
Constant Follower: I agree to your terms, but with conditions. I await your instructions.
“Too easy,” he said, his voice sounding brittle in the small room.
He set the paper aside and went to the full length mirror and studied the burn on his cheek. It had scabbed over, the healing begun. Aches still lumbered through his body, pains whose location he could not pinpoint, seeming to shift from one part of him to another.
Ryan went to the bathroom on the next floor up to empty his bladder. He felt a quiet relief when his urine ran clear, not the muddy reddish brown of the last two days. Perhaps, if he was fortunate, his bowel movement might too be clear of blood. He did not relish finding out, given the pain it caused to pass anything more than water.
He plugged the bathtub and turned the taps, stopping the flow of water when it was deep enough for him to kneel in and cleanse his wounds. That done, he dried himself off and shaved, careful of the raw and tender parts of his skin.
Once dressed, he returned to his room, sat on the edge of the bed, and dialled an outside line.
Celia’s father answered, gruff and obstreperous.
“Is this Ryan?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure if she’s available at the—”
A rustling, muffled voices, the sound of the receiver passing from hand to hand.
“Bertie?” she asked.
“What? No, Albert.”
“I think you should be a Bertie.”
“And what if I don’t want to be a Bertie?”
“I shall call you what I like.” The teasing in her voice pleased him. She said, “That’s settled, then. Bertie it is.”
“Have you seen the paper?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, the teasing gone. “Daddy, can I speak in private?”
Ryan heard an offended grumbling, then the closing of a door.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“They’ll have me deliver the instructions to Skorzeny. He wants me to be the courier.”
“No. It’s too dangerous.”
“I can’t refuse.”
“Yes you can. You can tell him—”
“No, I can’t.”
“But what if something happens to you?”
“It won’t,” Ryan said, though he didn’t believe it.
“But what if it does?”
“Then you go to the travel agent like we talked about, but you buy a ticket just for you.”
She fell silent, but he knew her thoughts as he knew his own. If something went wrong, if he did not return, then Skorzeny would not spare her. Neither he nor Celia had said it aloud, but they both knew it to be true.
“Promise me you’ll go,” he said.
“I promise.”
“Good. It’s nearly over.”
“I hope so. Call me soon.”
“I will,” he said. He hung up.
Before he’d taken a breath, the telephone jangled. He lifted the receiver.
“A caller for you, Mr. Ryan,” the receptionist said. “He refuses to give his name, but he sounds American.”
“Put him through.”
“Good morning, Albert,” Weiss said. He sounded hoarse, but it might have been the line. “Looks like we’re in business.”
“I saw the ad.”
“Just like you said. Now, here’s how we’ll play this out. You and I will have no more face-to-face contact. Every communication will be by telephone or letter drop. We play it for real from here on. At eleven AM, there’ll be a note waiting under the windscreen wiper of your car. You will be surprised to find it there. You will read it, then bring it your superiors. Are we clear?”
“We’re clear.”
“Good. Hold your nerve, Albert. We’re almost there.”
At five minutes past eleven, Ryan left his hotel room and went downstairs. He exited onto the street and walked the few yards from the hotel entrance to his car.