A brown business-sized envelope curled in the breeze, held in place by the windscreen wiper.
Ryan lifted the wiper blade and retrieved the envelope. The words LIEUTENANT ALBERT RYAN were typewritten across its face. He slipped his fingertip beneath the flap and tore the envelope open.
CHAPTER SIXTY TWO
Once again, Skorzeny travelled into the city and Charles Haughey’s office. The minister greeted him at the door with a firm and serious handshake.
“I’m glad you took the sensible course,” Haughey said.
“I simply want an end to the bloodshed, Minister.”
Haughey ushered him inside. Ryan waited facing Haughey’s desk, his back to the door. He did not turn to acknowledge Skorzeny’s entrance.
Haughey took his seat behind the desk. Skorzeny sat next to Ryan.
The minister placed an envelope on the desk in front of Skorzeny. He lifted it and removed the single page from within.
At dawn two days from today, you will deliver the agreed payment to us. It will be carried aboard a small-engined boat that will anchor at the following co-ordinates:
“Where is this?” Skorzeny asked.
“About five miles off the east coast,” Haughey said, “South of Dublin.”
The boat will carry no more than two people: your courier, Asif Hussein, and the boat’s pilot. They will place a light at the boat’s fore and stern, and they will wait on the deck in plain sight with their hands on their heads.
If they follow these instructions, they will not come to harm. Otherwise, they will be killed. Both men will be aware of the danger of the situation. If they follow instructions, they will each be paid from the cargo.
If any other person is found to be aboard the boat, everyone aboard will be killed.
We will approach the boat from the west. The cargo will be transferred to our vessel. We will have other boats in the area. If any attempt is made to attack our vessel, the consequences will be serious.
Lieutenant Ryan will wait at the telephone kiosk in the foyer of the Royal Hibernian Hotel at 3:00 P.M. today to confirm details of delivery.
Skorzeny folded the paper and returned it to the envelope. “Lieutenant Ryan, you will tell them I agree to all their instructions with the one exception we discussed: you will act as courier, not Mr. Hussein.”
“And if they don’t want me?”
“Then they will not be paid. You will observe everything that happens, how many men, their appearance, their accents. What kind of boat, its name, its markings.”
“What for?” Haughey asked. “Once the gold’s handed over, that’s that. You won’t be chasing after them, I can tell you that for nothing.”
“Of course not, Minister. But still I would like to know who has robbed me. For my own curiosity, you understand.”
Haughey gave him a long stare. He raised a finger. “It goes any further than curiosity, I’ll have you out of this country and packed off back to Spain.”
Skorzeny smiled and bowed his head in deference. “You need not worry, Minister.”
Haughey’s held Skorzeny’s gaze, the mockery of the gesture not lost on him. He turned his attention to Ryan.
“Are you happy to go along with this, Lieutenant Ryan?”
Ryan held his silence, his gaze still fixed on the window.
“Well?”
“Yes, Minister,” Ryan said.
CHAPTER SIXTY THREE
Ryan entered the telephone kiosk at one minute to three and sat on the leather upholstered stool. A folded scrap of paper peeked out from beneath the receiver’s earpiece. He pulled it free, unfolded it.
Telephone box at the northern end of Kildare Street. You have two minutes.
He exited the kiosk and ran.
The telephone rang as he approached, running with a lopsided gait, ten yards between him and the box. A young man smoking on the corner turned and reached for the door.
“It’s for me,” Ryan called.
The young man let go of the door and backed away.
Ryan slipped inside, lifted the receiver, and spoke his name.
“Does Colonel Skorzeny agree to our instructions?”
Weiss’s voice. Play it for real, he’d said. Assume they’re watching and listening to everything. Act like we’ve never met.
“Yes,” Ryan said. “But one change.”
“What?”
“I will act as courier.”
“Our instructions are to be followed to the letter. No variation.”
“I’m the courier. That’s what Skorzeny wants. If not, then no deal.”
Silence for a moment, then, “Very well. You have the co-ordinates. You know what will happen if you try anything. Dawn day after tomorrow.”
A click, and the line died.
CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR
Outside the airport terminal, Asif Hussein waited in a grey Citroën van, its headlights glaring.
“Mr. Ryan?” he asked.
Hussein wore a well cut suit that clung to his wiry body, and a silk tie loosened at the open collar of his shirt. His jaw was clean shaven, but a thick moustache covered his lip.
Hussein reached over and opened the passenger door. Ryan climbed in. He had carried no luggage from Dublin, flying first to London, then on to Zurich.
As Ryan settled into the passenger seat, Hussein slipped his hand across, felt around his torso, down to his thighs.
“I’m not armed,” Ryan said.
Hussein did not reply. He continued his search until he gave a satisfied grunt.
A metal wall separated the van’s cabin from its rear, a hinged door open at the centre. In the dimness beyond, Ryan saw two hulking dark-skinned men, their eyes reflecting the bright lights of the terminal building as they stared back at him.
“Habib and Munir,” Hussein said. “They will look after us until we reach Camaret-sur-Mer.”
Sheets of steel had been welded to the van’s interior walls, armouring it from within, slots cut in those that covered the rear windows allowing spindles of light through.
Hussein lit a cigarette, its smoke thick and pungent. He put the van in gear and pulled away.
The Heidegger bank stood enclosed by a high wall on the outskirts of a village hidden in the forested hills that overlooked Lake Zurich, less than forty minutes from the airport. A solid metal gate sealed the only entrance, an archway in the stonework. A guard with a pistol holstered at his hip examined the letter that Hussein handed to him, reading it by torchlight. He shone the torch’s beam at each of the van’s occupants in turn. Satisfied, he nodded, and spoke into a radio.
The gate opened outward. Hussein eased the van through the archway and parked by the plain single storey building that stood at the centre of the compound. He checked his reflection in the rear view mirror, buttoned his collar, straightened his tie. He took a comb from his pocket and smoothed the wild curls of his hair.
“Come,” he said, returning the comb to his pocket, and climbed out of the van.
Ryan followed.
A thin, smartly dressed man waited at the building’s entrance. He extended his hand as the Arab approached.
Hussein shook it. “Monsieur Borringer, please forgive the lateness of the hour.”
“Monsieur Hussein, it is a pleasure to see you at any time.” He glanced at Ryan, but did not greet him. “I feared I might not be able to source sufficient gold in time, but I called on some colleagues in other institutions for assistance. The Heidegger family is held in high regard in our industry, so my colleagues were glad to help.”
Borringer turned and lead Hussein and Ryan inside the building, Habib and Munir following behind. The foyer was modern but tasteful, with a large reception desk facing the entrance. Doors led to offices beyond, two guards barring entry. Portraits of grey-haired men lined the walls, all of them carrying the same stern expressions, long noses and pale blue eyes. Eight in total, the mode of dress going back from twentieth to eighteenth century.