Ryan cleared his throat. “I need to speak with Ciaran Fitzpatrick at the Directorate of Intelligence”
“I was told you’d say that.” Rafferty took a folded piece of paper from the cigarette packet. “Unfortunately, Mr. Fitzpatrick isn’t available at the moment. But you do have friends in high places.”
He unfolded the piece of paper, revealing a few typewritten sentences and a looping signature.
“This here is a note from none other than the Minister for Justice, Mr. Charles J. Haughey, the very same man who ordered that van to be followed and its occupants to be arrested after they came back ashore. This arrived by courier about twenty minutes ago. It says you aren’t to be questioned about all this, that no statement of any kind should be recorded, and I should release you at my own discretion. He wants things to be handled on the quiet. Just in case we upset the Americans and they decide President Kennedy isn’t going to pay us a visit after all. What do you think of that?”
“I think you should let me go.”
Rafferty nodded. “I could do, I suppose. But it does say at my discretion, and my discretion says not just yet. I think I’ll let you stew a while, Mr. Ryan.”
The policeman hauled his bulk out of the chair, wheezing at the strain.
“Why?” Ryan asked. “You can’t question me, so why keep me here?”
Rafferty leaned across the table until Ryan felt the heat of his breath.
“Because I don’t like trouble on my doorstep, and I especially don’t like government bastards telling me my job in my own bloody station. But mostly, I’m going to keep you here just because I can. Is that good enough for you?”
CHAPTER SIXTY NINE
The opening of the cell door shook Goren Weiss from his shallow slumber. He turned his head, expecting to see the fat cop back for more clumsy attempts at interrogation. Instead, three suited men entered, none of whom he recognised.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Stand up,” the eldest said. He closed the door behind him. A man of around fifty, cropped hair greying, his charcoal-coloured suit neat across his broad shoulders. The other two were younger, mid thirties, but had that same physique.
Weiss’s gut tightened as he stood. “I want to speak with my lawyer, Simon Rosenthal at Hedder and Rosenthal.”
The two younger men each came to Weiss’s sides, each took a wrist.
“I suggest you contact him right now, or I can promise you, there will be trouble.”
The younger men tightened their grips on Weiss’s arms. The older man went to the bed Weiss had just got up from. He tugged at the sheet until it came free.
Weiss tried to jerk his right arm away, but the young man’s grip was solid like a manacle.
“Goddamn you, the Israeli government will not sit still for this. You are bringing a war upon yourself.”
The older man stretched the sheet out and rolled it into a thick rope.
Weiss kicked at one of the younger men’s legs. They shifted their feet, avoided his, then pushed him down on the floor. Concrete slammed into his cheek.
The older man made a loop at one end of the sheet, tied a crude slipknot.
“Hold him steady,” he said as he crouched down.
Weiss screamed. He threw his weight to one side, then the other. A knee pressed into his back, pinning his chest to the floor. He screamed again, a word that might have been “No.”
The loop slipped over his head, snagging on his nose and mouth. Cool fabric tightened beneath his chin, choking the curses from his mouth.
The noose gripped his neck, closing his throat. Pressure built inside his head. He felt it swell behind his eyes. His vision reddened. A roaring in his ears.
The cell door opened. Weiss saw the fat cop’s boots, along with two other pairs.
The pressure in Weiss’s head eased.
The fat cop asked, “What in the name of Christ is going on?”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
“We have a mutual friend,” the man said.
He stood with his hands in his pockets. Ryan noticed the grime on his knees.
He had entered the interview room alone, carrying a leather satchel, closed the door behind him, and grunted as he hoisted the satchel on the table. It had settled on the wood with a muted clunk.
“Who are you?” Ryan asked.
“My name is James Waugh. Your young lady friend Celia Hume has run a few errands for me in the past.”
The words glided across the soft contours of his accent, southwest of Dublin, northeast of Cork.
“She mentioned you,” Ryan said. “You told her to report on me.”
Waugh sat down across the table, the satchel between them. “Truth be told, I wish I hadn’t. If I’d known the kind of mess the minister was getting mixed up in, I wouldn’t have allowed it.”
“Who do you work for?” Ryan asked.
“I run my own department, very small, less than two dozen on the staff. We don’t answer to the Directorate of Intelligence or the Department of Justice, but we do odd jobs for them now and again. Imagine us as handymen, doing the dirty work for other departments so they don’t have to.”
“What do you want?”
“To tell you you’re free to go, for one thing.”
“What about Weiss?”
Waugh pursed his lips. “Mr. Weiss attempted suicide in his cell about an hour ago. He tried to hang himself with a bed sheet. Thankfully we intervened in time to save him.”
Anger flared in Ryan’s chest. “I think that’s a lie.”
Waugh’s eyelid flickered. He took a breath. “Mr. Weiss has been taken to hospital for treatment. Now, the Minister for Justice has asked that you bring all materials relating to your investigation to his office tomorrow afternoon at two. You will give your final debriefing, and that will be an end of it.”
“Does Haughey know you tried to kill Weiss?”
Waugh smiled. “As I explained, Mr. Weiss attempted suicide. But I’ll repeat, neither I nor my staff report to the Department of Justice. I act independently with my own objectives. Does that answer your question?”
Ryan watched Waugh’s face, the eyes grey and cold like slate. “You said ‘for one thing.’ What else did you want?”
Waugh stood and fetched a business card from his pocket. He placed it face up on the table, next to the satchel, pushed it towards Ryan with his fingertips. It bore only Waugh’s name and a telephone number.
“I have an opening in my department,” he said, a warm smile on his lips that did not soften his stare. “More interesting work than the Directorate of Intelligence has to offer. I could use a man like you.”
Ryan looked down at the card. He pushed it away. “No thank you.”
Waugh pushed it back. “Think about it.”
He went to the door, paused, turned, as if he had remembered some minor detail. He pointed to the satchel.
“I wasn’t sure what to do with that. I suppose you ought to take care of it.”
Waugh exited, closed the door behind him.
The satchel’s leather glowered in the interview room’s fluorescent lighting. Ryan undid the single buckle, pulled back the flap.
He saw the yellow glistening within, felt his mouth dry.
CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE
“I thought you Irish cops didn’t carry guns,” Weiss said. The words rasped in his throat like sandpaper.
Rafferty sat down at the foot of the hospital bed, the only other person on the ward. He had dismissed the lone Garda officer as he entered. His hand went to the pistol at his hip.
“We do the odd time,” he said. “If the situation calls for it.”
“And this one does?”
Rafferty smiled. “I’d say so, wouldn’t you?”
“I would.”
Weiss put his right hand behind his head, lay back on the bed. A pair of handcuffs bound his left hand to the bed frame. He wore his vest and trousers, socks on his feet. His neck had already begun to bruise.
“So when are you going to let me go?” he asked.
“You can stay here until the quack says you’re fit,” Rafferty said. “After that, you’ll come back to the shop with me. Then we’ll have to see. That government fella didn’t seem too impressed at there being a … what you call it? Mossad? That’s it. He didn’t like there being a Mossad man arsing about this part of the world. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone wanted you put on a plane out of here, would you?”
“I guess not. What about Lieutenant Ryan?”
“He’s gone. That government fella gave him a leather bag and told me to turn him out.”
Weiss wet his lips. “A leather bag?”
“That’s right.” Rafferty nodded, the folds under his chin squashing and bulging.
“What do you suppose was in it?”
“I couldn’t say. It looked right and heavy, though.”
Weiss’s gaze flitted once more to the revolver at Rafferty’s hip.
“Here’s a funny thing,” Rafferty said. “After the government fella left, I put in a call to that Rosenthal chap you were busting to talk to. The lawyer. He knew who you were, all right, said you were a client and all, but when I told him where I’d picked you up, what you’d been up to. Well, he seemed a bit surprised, like. And maybe annoyed, too. Why would that be, do you think?”
“No idea,” Weiss said.
“Want to know what I reckon?”
“Not really.”
“I reckon this Rosenthal is your contact here in Ireland. Seeing as Israel has no embassy in Dublin, you’d need someone to run to when things go tits up. Am I near the mark?”
Weiss did not reply.
“Anyway, I think you’ve been up to badness behind your man’s back. I think you’ve shit in the nest, as we say around here. Otherwise, I reckon your man Rosenthal would’ve been down here screaming for your release the second I put the phone down. Is that about the size of it?”
Before Weiss could respond, the doctor entered the ward.
“Are you the officer in charge of the patient?” he asked Rafferty.
“That’s right,” Rafferty said, standing.
“He’s got some bruising to the neck, but I don’t think there’s any damage to the larynx or the windpipe. You got to him before he did any real harm. I’m happy to hand Mr. Weiss back to you now.”
“All right, so,” Rafferty said. “Thanks.”
The doctor left, and the fat cop approached the bedside. He fished a set of keys from his pocket and set about loosening the handcuffs.
Only when he reached for them, he discovered they were already undone. They had been for some time. Weiss had taken the paperclip from the doctor’s desk in the examination room, simple as that.
Rafferty’s eyes widened as Weiss seized his wrist. His free hand grabbed for the revolver at his hip, but it was already too late for him.