Ryan took the belt away, let Mahon crumple to the floor. He walked to the doorway to the alley. Looking back over his shoulder, he said, “Two days.”
Mahon writhed, his hands up to deflect a blow that would never come.
Albert Ryan returned to his parents’ home, enjoyed the cooked breakfast his mother had prepared, and then set off for Dublin.
CHAPTER FIVE
Buswells hotel stood near the corner of Molesworth Street and Kildare Street, the white citadel and green gardens of Trinity College to the north, the sprawling open pastures and leafy walkways of St Stephen’s Green to the south. The voices of paperboys called the headlines over the grumbling of traffic. The bus strike had ended only a few days before, and the passengers looked happy to no longer have to rely on the substitute transport the army had provided.
The hotel’s receptionist handed Ryan a note along with his key as he checked in. He had stopped off at Gormanston on the way to Dublin and gathered a few clothes and wash things into the bag that now lay at his feet. The restaurant jangled and chattered with lunchtime clientele. Ryan recognised a Teachta Dála, an Irish member of parliament, watching a young woman cross the foyer, a key in her hand, heels clicking on the white marble floor. She paused at the foot of the stairs leading to the guest rooms, glanced back over her shoulder at the TD, and climbed. The Oireachtas, the seat of Ireland’s government, stood just yards around the corner. Buswells hosted many politicians and their companions, their secretaries, their assistants. The beds above creaked with the secret passions of the country’s leaders.
The TD waited a few moments before following the young woman, unaware he was being observed.
Ryan had never stayed at Buswells. It was not the city’s most luxurious hotel — the Shelbourne and the Royal Hibernian offered greater decadence — but the room that had been placed at his disposal would certainly be better accommodation than he was used to.
He carried the note and the bag upstairs, found his room on a small landing at the junction of two flights of carpeted steps. It held a single bed, a wardrobe, a corner washbasin and a radio on a bedside locker. Yellow and brown nicotine stains clouded the ceiling. Through the greying net curtain over the lone window, across the road, he saw the grandeur of the Freemasons’ Hall, white stone columns and arches, like a greek temple transplanted to a city side street. Ryan dropped his bag on the bed, took off his jacket and sat down. He opened the note.
Ryan,
Make sure you go and see my tailor today. I want you looking presentable when you meet our friend in Malahide tomorrow night.
C.J.H.
Ryan fingered the fabric of his jacket. It had been a reasonable suit when it was new, any man would have felt well turned out, but it had begun to show its age. He had admired Haughey’s attire the previous day, the cut of the cloth, the way it flattered his frame. Even if you hadn’t known he was a government minister, you would recognise a man of wealth and influence. It took more than quality fabric to give such an impression, of course, but it couldn’t hurt.
Albert Ryan knew he had a streak of vanity, and of pride, like a vein of silver running through rock. That part of him smarted when he saw younger men who were better dressed, or who drove shining cars. He did not like this aspect of himself, found it ugly and not in keeping with a man of his upbringing. His parents had taught him the virtue of austerity, the Presbyterian values of modesty and hard work.
But still, the beauty of the clothing on Haughey’s back gave Ryan a longing in his soul.
He slipped his jacket on, left the room, and made his way back down to reception with the intention of having lunch. He crossed the high-ceilinged lounge. The maitre d’ greeted him at the glass doors to the restaurant. Ryan paused and surveyed the room and the diners, the expanse of white linen tablecloths, glittering silverware. His gaze travelled across finely cut lapels, French cuffs, silk ties.
The maitre d’ said, “For one, sir?”
Ryan watched the women draped on the men, the jewels and pale skin.
The maitre d’ leaned closer. “Sir?”
Ryan coughed. “Actually, I’m not hungry. Thank you.”
He left the restaurant, exited the building, headed north towards the river, and Capel Street beyond.
“Canali,” Lawrence McClelland said, smoothing the jacket over Ryan’s torso. “From Triuggio in Lombardy, not far from Milan. Much sought after, not many in Dublin. Very, very nice.”
Ryan studied his form in the full length mirror. Even if the trousers were too short, and the jacket too roomy for his midsection, the suit still looked magnificent.
He was the tailor’s sole customer, standing among racks of expensive cloth and tables laden with shirts and ties. The dark wooden panels seemed to rob the room of light and sound, a solemn quiet hanging over everything. A chapel of silk, herringbone and leather.
“Have you been to Italy?” McClelland asked.
“Yes,” Ryan said. “Sicily.”
“Sicily? Oh, I hear it’s quite lovely there,” the tailor said as he hunkered down to tug at the trouser hems. “I’m more familiar with Milan and Rome myself.”
Ryan had spent four days on the south eastern Sicilian coast in late ’45, a stopover on his way to Egypt. He had been billeted with three other men in an apartment in Siricusa, but he spent most of his time wandering the narrow streets of Ortigia, the tiny island connected to the mainland by a few short bridges.
He had rolled his sleeves up as he walked, opened his shirt wide, the sun beating on him like a blacksmith’s hammer. In the evenings, the place smelled of sea salt and warm olive oil. He ate in the trattorias and osterias that clustered in the alleys. Ryan had never before seen, let alone tasted, pasta. He ate platefuls of it, mopping up the sauce with fresh bread. He seldom saw a menu; the choice of food was that of the house, rather than the diner, but he didn’t mind. His lifelong diet had been either Irish or army food, the height of culinary sophistication a mixed grill in a swanky hotel, or perhaps a piece of fish on a Friday.
He took four days of pleasure in Sicily before crossing the short stretch of Mediterranean to Egypt and all its torments.
The tailor stood upright and set about Ryan with a measuring tape.
“Hmm.” McClelland placed his forefinger against his lips. “I might struggle a little to make this work for a man of your stature. A man as deep as you are through the chest will often have a more generous waistband, whereas you’re quite a slender fellow.”
He tucked the jacket into Ryan’s flanks, pinned the fabric in place. Standing back, he eyed Ryan from head to foot, the travel of his gaze slow and languid. “Athletic,” McLelland said. “And long legged. But I think I can let the trouser down enough to suffice. With the right shoe, of course. When do you need the suit for?”
“Tomorrow night,” Ryan said. “The minister said to put it on his account.”
McClelland’s face greyed around a thin smile. “Yes, the minister does like to take full advantage of our credit service.”
CHAPTER SIX
As evening light faded to darkness, Albert Ryan spent an hour at Helmut Krauss’s small home on Oliver Plunkett Avenue, close to Dublin’s docks. It stood at the middle of a terraced row of identical houses, Victorian or Edwardian, he couldn’t be sure. They faced newly-built tenement blocks, ugly structures that cast a sullen shadow over the street. A small patch of garden had been laid over with concrete slabs. A brass plaque by the doorbell carried the words HEINRICH KOHL: IMPORT, EXPORT, ESCROW SERVICES. A Garda officer waited on the doorstep to let Ryan in.