“No,” Ryan said. “I won’t.”
Another step, the pistol’s sight aligned on Ryan’s forehead. Inches away.
“I bet it’s in your room at Buswells. Am I right? It’s there with your girl, that redhead. If I have to, I’ll put a bullet in your brain. Then I’ll walk to your hotel, go to your room, and take it from her. And you know I won’t be able to let her live. Don’t make me do that, Albert. Please.”
Ryan took a step to the side, away from the door, his left hand raised in front of his face, his right still held out from his side.
“I can’t make you do anything,” he said. “If you pull that trigger, it’ll be your own choice.”
“Goddamn you, Albert.” Weiss increased the pressure on the trigger. Cocked, the pistol would fire with the slightest twitch of his finger. “Goddamn y—”
The movement of Ryan’s hand was so small, hardly anything at all, just a tap to the inside of Weiss’s wrist, and the shot missed Ryan’s head, buried the bullet in the wall.
And that deep hot pain in Weiss’s belly.
As the strength ran from his legs into the floor, he looked down, saw the screwdriver in Ryan’s grip. Had his mind worked faster, he might have brought the pistol back around, taken Ryan’s head off, but instead the blade of the screwdriver pierced his flesh once more, higher this time, beneath his sternum.
Weiss dropped to his knees, clutching at himself, feeling the warmth spread across his stomach, spilling into his lap. The pistol fell useless beside him, out of his reach. He rolled onto his side, his legs no longer able to support him.
Ryan backed away. He went to the window, wiped the screwdriver’s blade clean on the curtains before returning it to his pocket.
“Albert,” Weiss said.
Ryan paused on his way to the door.
“Get me a doctor, Albert. I don’t want to die. Please, Albert.”
Ryan came back, stopped short of the red creeping across the carpet. He hunkered down.
“You let them torture me,” Ryan said. “You watched them do it.”
“Albert.” Weiss reached for more words, but they were lost in the storm that raged behind his eyes. His head grew heavy, and he lowered it to the carpet.
He watched as Ryan examined his clothing, then left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR
No one observed Ryan as he left Weiss’s room, no one ventured into the corridor to investigate the sound of the gunshot. He exited on to St. Stephen’s Green, his ears ringing from the pistol’s roar, dropped the screwdriver into the first litter bin he found.
A few minutes’ walk brought him to the car outside Buswells. He climbed in, started the engine.
Ryan paused, closed his eyes, slowed his breathing. He steadied his mind by reciting the things he needed to do.
He took control.
Two hours had passed by the time Ryan returned to Buswells. Celia waited for him in the room. It seemed dowdy and cramped compared to the suite Weiss had kept at the Shelbourne just a few streets away, but Celia brightened it, the late morning light catching fire in her hair.
She reclined on the bed, her long body stretched out.
“Did you get it?” she asked.
“All of it.” He took off his jacket, hung it up in the wardrobe.
“Any trouble?”
“None at all,” he said.
Celia reached up her hand, beckoned him down to the bed. He lay down beside her, his chest against her back, slipped an arm around her waist. She took his hand in hers, guided it to the hollow between her breasts.
“How long do you have the room for?” she asked.
“Until the meeting this afternoon,” he said. “After that, they’ll kick me out.”
She turned onto her back, pushed his hand down between her thighs.
“We’d best make the most of it, then,” she said.
Ryan walked through Haughey’s outer office, did not wait for the secretary to announce his arrival, opened the door without knocking.
Haughey and Fitzpatrick looked up at him, surprise on the director’s face, anger on the minister’s.
“You’re forgetting yourself, big fella,” Haughey said. “Or didn’t your mother teach you to knock?”
Ryan closed the door behind him then dropped the file on Haughey’s desk.
“Is this everything?”
“All of it,” Ryan said, feeling no shame in the lie.
“All right, sit down.”
Ryan took the chair next to Fitzpatrick.
Haughey gave him a hard stare, the hawk eyes blazing. “So, what have you got to say for yourself?”
“Nothing, Minister. Everything you need to know is in the file.”
Haughey nodded. “I wish I could say it was a job well done. But it’s over with, that’s the important thing.”
Fitzpatrick held out a hand. “I’ll have the keys to the car, thank you.”
Ryan said, “I think I’ll hold on to the car, thank you, sir. It’s got a broken window anyway.”
Fitzpatrick’s mouth drooped open. He looked to Haughey.
“Look here, big fella, I don’t like your cheek.”
“Minister, I don’t care what you like. I no longer answer to you.”
Haughey stood, his face reddening. “Now listen to me, Ryan, you’re heading for a fall, I’ll tell you that for nothing. I’ll fucking destroy you.”
“Minister, two solicitors are currently in possession of identical packages. Those packages each contain a recording of the conversation we had in Buswells a few days ago. The conversation in which you admit to allowing Colonel Skorzeny to place an ad in the Irish Times inviting persons unknown to commit murder. The packages also contain a signed letter in which I describe the nature of the work I carried out on behalf of this office. These solicitors are under instruction to pass the contents of these packages along to the press, the Garda Síochána, and Matt McCloskey, the American ambassador, in the event of any injury befalling me, or at any time of my choosing.”
“You dirty little bastard,” Haughey said. “You will rue the day, big fella. Mark my words.”
Ryan stood. “Any time I choose, Minister. Remember that. Excuse me, gentlemen.”
He left them there, staring after him.
Ryan took his time walking back through St. Stephen’s Green towards Buswells. He felt the warmth of the sun on his skin, relished it, and the clarity of the air. Passersby glanced at the still healing burn on his cheek, the slight awkwardness of his step, but he did not mind.
It seemed like weeks since he had last been able to breathe freely, no tightening ring of guilt and fear around his chest. He was no longer beholden to Haughey and his money, no longer frightened and awed by Skorzeny’s strength.
Despite their power, their contacts, their spheres of influence, they were only men.
He did not think of Goren Weiss at all.
Ryan walked north along Kildare Street, seeing the gardens of Trinity College up ahead, the university standing beyond like some royal palace, indifferent to the traffic that streamed around it, the people who milled in its shadow, but who would never step inside. He turned left into Molesworth Street, and entered the hotel.
“Mr. Ryan,” the receptionist called.
Ryan approached the desk. The receptionist gave a regretful smile.
“Mr. Ryan, I’ve received a call from Mr. Haughey’s office, and they wish your stay with us to end today.”
Ryan nodded. “That’s fine. My bag’s already packed.”
The receptionist’s smile grew more pained. “Unfortunately, checkout time is twelve noon, and it’s now past three. Can I ask you to vacate the room as soon as possible so it can be cleaned?”