Weiss brought his hands to his face, the laughter coming thick and strong now, rolling from him, his shoulders shuddering.
“Where is it?” Carter asked.
But Ryan knew. Before Weiss reached down into the crate, Ryan knew, but he had no desire to laugh.
Carter leaned into the van, grabbed the edge of the crate, pulled it away from Weiss. “For Christ’s sake, where’s the gold?”
He peered into the crate, shook his head. “No.”
Weiss hooted and cackled. “Oh, yes, my friend. Oh, yes.”
He lifted another two bars of lead from the crate, clanked them together, and laughed until his eyes watered.
CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN
Weiss’s sides ached and his vision blurred with tears.
Giddiness washed through him and his stomach threatened to empty itself.
He dropped the bars to the van’s plywood floor and pushed the crate away. It toppled and spilled onto the ground outside, Carter and Ryan skipping aside to save their toes. Fifteen blocks of worthless metal scattered on the ground.
Weiss grabbed the next crate, rammed the screwdriver beneath its lid, and heaved. The wood splintered and cracked. Inside, the same, nothing glittering, only the dull sheen of lead.
He collapsed back against the van’s wall, the air gone from his lungs, the strength deserting his legs. Still he laughed, wave after ridiculous wave, he couldn’t stop it, even as it all went to shit before his eyes, all he could do was laugh.
A sharp hot sting across his cheek.
He wondered for a moment who had struck him before realising it had been his own open hand. He slapped himself again, bit down on the clarity it brought.
“Goddamn it,” he said.
He reached beneath his coat, seized his pistol, and brought it up to aim at Ryan’s forehead. He blinked the tears away.
“Goddamn it, Albert, didn’t you check?”
Ryan’s face showed no emotion, not even surprise.
“I only saw a few crates. I saw the gold. It said Credit Suisse on them. Skorzeny’s courier checked. I wasn’t allowed into the vault to see them up close.”
Carter fought his own breathing. “I knew he’d shaft us. I told you, didn’t I? I told you, but you—”
Weiss shifted his aim to Carter. “Shut up.”
“I knew it was too easy,” Ryan said.
“Don’t point that at me,” Carter said.
Weiss held his aim steady. “Both of you, shut up and let me think.”
“I said, don’t point that at me.”
“Shut your mouth, Carter, or I swear I will shoot you in the face.”
Carter grabbed for Weiss’s wrist, but Weiss snatched his arm away. He brought the pistol back around, squared it on Carter’s forehead, pressure on the trigger.
“Don’t push me, Carter. You know I’ll—”
“Everyone away from the van.”
The voice came from above, a harsh distorted bark followed by a squall of feedback.
“This is Chief Inspector Michael Rafferty, Garda Síochána. You’re surrounded. I’ve got a dozen Guards here, all armed, and an army sniper team. Any messing about, and I’ll give the order to fire. Now, everyone out of the van.”
Weiss leaned out, looked up, saw the hulk of a man standing on the railway bridge above, a loudhailer in his hand. Two policemen stood alongside him, pistols drawn and aimed, the mist hazing them.
Further along the bridge, a prone man, a rifle’s telescopic sight trained on them. In the shadows beneath the bridge, in the dark pools between the arches, more cops, more weapons.
“Lieutenant Albert Ryan, make yourself known.”
“Bastard,” Carter said. “You bastard.”
Weiss looked at Ryan, saw the shock on his face, and said, “He didn’t know.”
Carter glared. “My arse, he didn’t.”
Ryan said nothing. He stepped away from the van, his hands up.
Carter’s eyes went to the canvas bag he’d wrapped his automatic rifle in.
“Don’t,” Weiss said. He dropped his pistol, put his own hands above his head, and edged towards the van’s rear.
“Bastard,” Carter said.
The loudhailer crackled again.
“Down on your knees, Ryan, your hands on your head. The rest of you, step away from the van.”
Carter kept his back to the cops, his hands busy undoing the canvas.
“Don’t,” Weiss said. “They’ll kill us both.”
Carter freed the rifle from the bag, hoisted it up, spun towards Ryan, his finger going for the trigger.
His skull cracked open a fraction of a second before Weiss heard the shot and felt the warm spatter on his face. Carter fell, his limbs loose, his eyes and mouth wide open.
“All right,” Weiss called. “I’m coming out.”
The loudhailer squealed. “How many are there?”
“Just Ryan and me. That’s all.”
“Get out of the van, your hands on top of your head.”
Weiss eased out, got his feet under him, and took half a dozen steps, avoiding Carter’s blood on the wet concrete.
“On your knees, beside Ryan.”
He did as he was told. Ryan stared ahead, his expression blank.
“I have a suite at the Shelbourne,” Weiss said, his voice low. Ryan turned his head towards him. “Under the name of David Hess. Everything I have on Skorzeny is there, locked in a metal file box. If I don’t get out of custody, if they deport me, you go there, you get it. Bring it to Hedder and Rosenthal, a law firm in Ballsbridge. Give it to Simon Rosenthal. No one but him. You hear me?”
Ryan did not reply.
Policemen advanced from the shadows, fear on their faces, their weapons quivering in their hands.
“You hear me, Ryan? Bring the information to Simon Rosenthal. Get Skorzeny for me.”
“No,” Ryan said. “I’ll get him for myself.”
CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT
Rafferty lowered his bulk into the chair opposite Ryan, huffing as he did so, his face red. He set one mug of steaming tea on the table, took a sip from the other.
“Jesus, this is a bit too much like hard work,” he said. He nodded at the mug in front of Ryan. “Go on, drink up.”
Ryan reached for it, brought it to his lips.
“There, now, isn’t that better?”
The policeman fell silent, watching from across the table. Moisture beaded on the bare concrete walls of the interview room. A tape recorder sat idle between them, no reels loaded on its spindles.
“Your friend, the American fella. Or Israeli or whatever the hell he is.” Rafferty placed his mug back on the table and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. “All he’ll tell me is his name. He keeps asking for some lawyer called Rosenthal. What’s he up to? What’s he doing here?”
“He’s Mossad,” Ryan said.
“He’s what?”
“Mossad. Israeli intelligence.”
“Like a spy?”
“Something like that.”
Rafferty snorted. “Holy Mother of God. Here?” He pulled a cigarette from the packet and lit it. “I tell you, this is too much excitement for me. The worst I’m used to dealing with is a spot of livestock theft or a fight in a pub. Not this sort of carry on. I don’t get paid enough to be doing with spies and smuggled gold. Well, more lead than gold, as it happens. Five of the crates had three gold bars on the top. Anyway, my point is, do I look like James bleeding Bond?” He leaned forward, his cigarette held between fat fingers. “Did you see that film?”
“Yes,” Ryan said.
“I took the missus. She put her hand over my eyes when that lass came out of the sea, all wet like. I gave her something to smile about that night, I can tell you.”
Rafferty’s belly jiggled as he laughed, smoke leaking out between his teeth.