“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.
CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO
The receptionist, a skeletal man of middle years, watched Ryan approach the desk with something close to horror on his face.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“You have a guest by the name of David Hess,” Ryan said.
The receptionist flicked through page after page of the registration book until he found what he was looking for. “Yes, Mr. Hess. But I’m afraid he hasn’t been here for a few days. Can I take a message?”
Ryan noted the room number written next to Mr. Hess’s registration.
“No, thank you,” Ryan said.
He walked away from the desk, waited until another customer claimed the receptionist’s attention, and went to the stairs.
Ryan looked both ways along the corridor, then wedged the screwdriver’s sharpened blade between the door and its frame where the lock joined the two. He put his weight behind the handle, pushed, pulled it back, pushed again. Wood splintered and cracked.
The door opened, and Ryan stepped inside. He returned the screwdriver to his pocket and pressed the door back into its frame.
A couch and two armchairs surrounded a coffee table, a sideboard against one wall, a writing desk at another. Every surface sparkled, not a trace of dust or use. He toured the room, checking drawers, lifting cushions, and found nothing.
The bedroom was just as immaculate, the blankets and sheets crisp and undisturbed.
Ryan went to the large wardrobe and opened it. A suit wrapped in cleaner’s plastic and half a dozen ironed shirts hung inside. At the bottom, a metal filebox. He lifted it out and placed it on the bed.
A lock held the box closed. Ryan took the screwdriver from his breast pocket once more and forced the blade beneath the clasp. He prised outward until the lock gave, and then returned the screwdriver to his pocket. Inside, a cluster of suspended files, folders and loose sheets of paper. He sorted through them, lifting pages out, scanning them, returning them to their places. Two passports, one German, the other American, both under the name of David Hess.
Towards the back, he found what he wanted: a file containing the facsimiles of Skorzeny’s accounts. Ryan ran a finger down the columns, tracing the movements of money from one account to another, interest accruing, a few tens of thousands slipping away here, another hundred thousand or so turning up there.
He folded the pages, slipped them into his jacket pocket, and closed the file box before returning it to the wardrobe. Fatigue dragged on his arms and legs as he straightened and went to the bedroom door. He stepped through to the sitting room.
Goren Weiss stood at its centre, a revolver in his hand, its muzzle pointed at the floor.
“What are you doing here, Albert?” he asked.
CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE
Weiss let the pistol hang loose at his side. No need for things to turn ugly. Not yet.
Ryan’s face remained impassive. “I wanted those papers you told me about.”
“Did you get them?”
Ryan’s right hand went slowly to his breast pocket, beneath his jacket. “Yes.”
“That’s all right,” Weiss said. “They’re no good to me now. You going after Skorzeny?”
“Maybe,” Ryan said, easing his hand away from his pocket.
“Good luck,” Weiss said.
Ryan stood still in the bedroom doorway, did not reply.
“There’s something I do need from you, though.” Weiss took a step closer, kept the pistol lowered.
Ryan visibly tensed. “What’s that?”
“You were given a satchel. What was in it?”
“I think you know.”
“I guess I do. Where is it?”
Ryan shook his head. “It’s not here.”
Weiss laughed and raised the pistol to aim at Ryan’s heart. “I guessed as much, Albert. I didn’t ask you where it’s not. I asked you where it is. This is not the right time to play stupid, my friend.”
“It’s not here.” Ryan held his hands out from his sides. “I don’t have it.”
Weiss took two steps forward, the muzzle of the revolver a foot from Ryan’s chest. He thumbed the hammer, cocked it.
“I need that bag, Albert. How much do you think was in it? Whatever they used to cover the lead in those crates. I’d guess fifteen, sixteen thousand’s worth, maybe more. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m a dead man without that bag, Albert. My superiors know what I was up to. They’ll take me for treason. I have to run, and I need that gold to do it. I want you to know how important this is to me, Albert, so you know I won’t give up on it. Now tell me where it is.”