Ratlines

Book by Neville Stuart

CHAPTER ONE
 
   “You don’t look like a Jew,” Helmut Krauss said to the man
reflected in the window pane.
   Beyond the glass, rolling white waves threw themselves
against the rocks of Galway Bay, the Atlantic glowering
beyond. The guesthouse in Salthill was basic, but clean. The
small seaside town outside Galway City hosted families from
all over Ireland seeking a few days of salt air and sunshine
during the summer months. Sometimes it provided beds for
unmarried couples, fornicators and adulterers with the nerve
to bluff their way past the morally upright proprietors of such
establishments.
   Krauss knew so because he had enjoyed the company of several
ladies in guesthouses like this one, taking bracing walks along
the seafront, enduring overcooked meals in mostly empty dining
rooms, then finally rattling the headboard of whatever bed they
had taken. He carried a selection of wedding rings in his pocket,
alongside the prophylactics.
   This dreary island, more grey than green, so choked by the
Godly, provided him few pleasures. So why not enjoy the odd
sordid excursion with a needful woman?
   Perhaps Krauss should have allowed himself the luxury of a
decent hotel in the city, but a funeral, even if for a close friend,
did not seem a fitting occasion. The security might have been
better, though, and this visitor might not have gained entry so
easily. For a moment, Krauss felt an aching regret, but immediately
dismissed it as foolishness. Had he been the kind of man
who submitted to regret, he would have hanged himself ten
years ago.
   “Are you a Jew?” Krauss asked.
   The reflection shifted. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
   “I saw you at the funeral,” Krauss said. “It was a beautiful
service.”
   “Very,” the reflection said. “You wept.”
   “He was a good man,” Krauss said. He watched seagulls as
they skated the updrafts.
   “He was a murderer of women and children,” the reflection
said. “Like you.”
   “Murderer,” Krauss said. “Your accent is British. For many
people in Ireland, you British are murderers. Oppressors.
Imperialists.”
   The reflection swelled on the glass as the man approached.
   “You hide your accent well.”
   “I enjoy the spoken word. To a fault, perhaps, but I spend time
refining and practicing my speech. Besides, a German accent still
draws attention, even in Ireland. They shelter me, but not all
make me welcome. Some cling to their British overmasters like a
child too old for the teat.”
   Krauss had felt the weight of his age more frequently in recent
times. His thick black hair had greyed, the sculpted features
turned cragged. The veins in his nose had begun to rupture
with the vodka and wine. Women no longer stared at him with
hungry eyes when he took his afternoon walks through Dublin’s
Ringsend Park. But he still had good years ahead of him, however
few. Would this man steal them from him?
   “Have you come to kill me too?” he asked.
   “Maybe. Maybe not,” the reflection said.
   “May I take a drink, perhaps smoke a cigarette?”
   “You may.”
   Krauss turned to him. A man of middle age, between forty
and forty five, old enough to have served in the war. He had
looked younger across the cemetery, dressed in the overalls of a
gravedigger, but proximity showed the lines on his forehead and
around his eyes. Sand-coloured hair strayed beneath the woollen
cap on his head. He held a pistol, a Browning fitted with a suppressor,
aimed squarely at Krauss’s chest. It shook.
   “Would you care for a small vodka?” Krauss asked. “Perhaps it
will steady your nerve.”
   The man considered for a few seconds. “All right,” he said.
   Krauss went to the nightstand where a bottle of imported
vodka and a tea making set waited next to that morning’s Irish
Times. The front page carried a headline about the forthcoming
visit of President John F Kennedy, a story concerning a
request by the Northern Irish government that he should venture
across the border during his days on the island. The Irish
worshipped the American leader because he was one of theirs,
however many generations removed, and anticipation of his
arrival had reached a point of near hysteria. Krauss intended
to avoid all radio and television broadcasts for the duration of
Kennedy’s stay.
   Not that it mattered now.
   Krauss turned two white teacups over and poured a generous
shot into each. He went to soften one with water from a jug, but
the man spoke.
   “No water, thank you.”
   Krauss smiled as he handed a cup to the man. “No glasses, I’m
afraid. I hope you don’t mind.”
   The man nodded his thanks as he took the cup with his left
hand. Undiluted vodka spilled over the lip. He took a sip and
coughed.
   Krauss reached into the breast pocket of his best black suit.
The man’s knuckle whitened beneath the trigger guard. Krauss
slowed the movement of his hand and produced a gold cigarette
case. He opened it, and extended it to the man.
   “No, thank you.” The man did not flinch at the engraved
swastika as Krauss had hoped. Perhaps he wasn’t a Jew, just some
zealous Briton.
   Krauss took a Peter Stuyvesant, his only concession to
Americanism, and gripped it between his lips as he snapped the
case closed and returned it to his pocket. He preferred Marlboro,
but they were too difficult to come by in this country. He took
the matching lighter from his trouser pocket and sucked the
petrol taste from its flame. The set had been a Christmas gift
from Wilhelm Frick. Krauss treasured it. Blue smoke billowed
between the men.
   “Please sit,” Krauss said, indicating the chair in the corner.
He lowered himself onto the bed and drew deeply on the cigarette,
letting the heat fill his throat and chest. “May I know your
name?” he asked.
   “You may not,” the man said.
   “All right. So why?”
   The man took another sip, grimaced at the taste, and placed
the cup on the windowsill to his left. “Why what?”
   “Why kill me?”
   “I haven’t decided if I’ll kill you or not, yet. I want to ask a few
questions first.”
   Krauss sighed and leaned back against the headboard, crossing
his legs on the lumpy mattress. “Very well.”
   “Who was the well-dressed Irishman you spoke with?”
   “An insultingly junior civil servant,” Krauss said.
   Eoin Tomalty had given Krauss’s hand a firm shake after the
ceremony. “The minister sends his condolences,” Tomalty had
said. “I’m sure you’ll understand why he was unable to attend in
person.”
   Krauss had smiled and nodded, yes, of course he understood.
   “A civil servant?” the man asked. “The government actually
sent a representative?”
   “A matter of courtesy.”
   “Who were the others there?”
   “You already know,” Krauss said. “You know me, so you must
know them.”
   “Tell me anyway.”
Krauss rhymed them off. “Célestin Lainé, Albert Luykx, and
Caoimhín Murtagh representing the IRA.”
   “The IRA?”
   “They are fools,” Krauss said. “Yokels pretending to be soldiers.
   They still believe they can free Ireland from you British. But they
are useful fools, so we avail of their assistance from time to time.”
   “Such as arranging funerals.”
   “Indeed.”
   The man leaned forward. “Where was Skorzeny?”
   Krauss laughed. “Otto Skorzeny does not waste his precious
time with common men like me. He is far too busy attending
society parties in Dublin, or entertaining politicians at that damn
farm of his.”
   The man reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a
sealed envelope. “You will pass this message to him.”
   “I’m sorry,” Krauss said. “I cannot.”
   “You will.”
   “Young man, you misunderstand me,” Krauss said. He downed
the rest of the vodka and placed the cup back on the bedside
table. “I admit to being verbose at times, it is a failing of mine,
but I believe I was clear on this. I did not say ‘I will not’. I said
‘I cannot’. I have no access to Otto Skorzeny, not socially, not
politically. You’d do better going to one of the Irish politicians
that gather to his flame.”
   The man got to his feet, approached the bed, keeping the
Browning’s aim level. With his free hand, he opened Krauss’s
jacket and stuffed the envelope down into the breast pocket.
   “Don’t worry. He’ll get it.”
   Krauss felt his bowel loosen. He drew hard on the cigarette,
burning it down to the filter, before stubbing it out in the ashtray
that sat on the bedside locker.
   The man’s hand steadied.
   Krauss sat upright, swung his legs off the bed, and rested his
feet on the floor. He straightened his back and placed his hands
on his knees.
   Fixing his gaze on the horizon beyond the window, Krauss
said, “I have money. Not much, but some. It would have been
enough to see out my days. You can have it. All of it. I will flee.
The rain in this damn place makes my joints ache anyway.”
   The Browning’s suppressor nudged his temple.
   “It’s not that simple,” the man said.
   Krauss hauled himself to his feet. The man stood back, the
pistol ready.
   “Yes it is,” Krauss said, his voice wavering as he fought the
tears. “It is that simple. I am nothing. I was a desk clerk. I signed
papers, stamped forms, and got piles from sitting on a wooden
chair in the dark and the damp.”
   The man pressed the muzzle against the centre of Krauss’s
forehead. “Those papers you signed. You slaughtered thousands
with a pen. Maybe that’s how you live with it, tell yourself it was
just a job, but you knew where—”
   Krauss swiped at the pistol, grabbed it, forced it down, throwing
the other man’s balance. The man regained his footing,
hardened his stance. His countenance held its calm, only the
bunching of his jaw muscles betraying his resistance.
   Sweat prickled Krauss’s skin and pressure built in his head.
He hissed through his teeth as he tried to loosen the man’s
fingers. The man raised the weapon, his strength rendering
Krauss’s effort meaningless. Their noses almost touched. Krauss
roared, saw the wet points of spittle he sprayed on the man’s
face.
   He heard a crack, felt a punch to his stomach, followed by wet
heat spreading across his abdomen. His legs turned to water, and
he released his hold on the barrel. He crumpled to his knees. His
hands clutched his belly, red seeping between his fingers.
   Hot metal pressed against Krauss’s temple.
   “It’s better than you deserve,” the man said.
   If he’d had the time, Helmut Krauss would have said, “I know.”

CHAPTER TWO

Albert Ryan waited with the director, Ciaran Fitzpatrick, in
the outer office, facing the secretary as she read a magazine.
The chairs were creaky and thin-cushioned. Ryan endured while
Fitzpatrick fidgeted. Almost an hour had passed since Ryan had
met the director in the courtyard surrounded by the grand complex
of buildings on Upper Merrion Street. The northern and
southern wings were occupied by various government departments,
and the Royal College of Science resided beneath the
dome that reached skyward on the western side of the quadrangle.
Ryan had expected to be ushered into the minister’s presence
upon arrival, and by the look of him, so had Fitzpatrick.
   Ryan had left his quarters at Gormanston Camp as the sky
lightened, turning from a deep bluish grey to a milky white as
he walked the short distance to the train station. Two horses
grazed in the field across from the platform, their bellies sagging,
their coats matted with neglect. They nickered to each other, the
sound carrying on the salt breeze. The Irish Sea stretched out
beyond like a black marble table.
   The train had arrived late. It filled slowly with tobacco smoke
and slack-faced men as it neared Dublin, stopping at every point
of civilisation along the way. Almost all of the passengers wore
suits, whether dressed for their day’s work in some government
office, or wearing their Sunday best for a visit to the city.
   Ryan also wore a suit, and he always enjoyed the occasion
to do so. A meeting with the Minister for Justice certainly warranted
the effort. He had walked south from Pearse Station to
Merrion Street and watched the director’s face as he approached.
Fitzpatrick had examined him from head-to-toe before nodding
his begrudged approval.
   “Inside,” he’d said. “We don’t want to be late.”
   Now Ryan checked his watch again. The minute hand ticked
over to the hour.
   He’d heard the stories about the minister. A politician with
boundless ambition and the balls to back it up. The upstart had
even married the boss’s daughter, become son-in-law to the
Taoiseach, Ireland’s prime minister. Some called him a shining
star in the cabinet, a reformist kicking at the doors of the
establishment; others dismissed him as a shyster on the make.
   Everyone reckoned him a chancer.
   The door opened, and Charles J. Haughey entered.
   “Sorry for keeping you waiting, lads,” he said as Fitzpatrick
stood. “It was sort of a late breakfast. Come on through.”
   “Coffee, Minister?” the secretary asked.
   “Christ, yes.”
   Ryan got to his feet and followed Haughey and Fitzpatrick
into the minister’s office. Once inside, Haughey shook the director’s
hand.
   “Is this our man Lieutenant Ryan?” he asked.
   “Yes, Minister,” Fitzpatrick said.
   Haughey extended his hand towards Ryan. “Jesus, you’re a big
fella, aren’t you? I’m told you did a good job against those IRA
bastards last year. Broke the fuckers’ backs, I heard.”
   Ryan shook his hand, felt the hard grip, the assertion of dominance.
Haughey stood taller than his height should have allowed,
and broad, his dark hair slicked back until his head looked like
that of a hawk, his eyes hunting weakness. He had only a couple
of years seniority over Ryan, but his manner suggested an older,
worldlier man, not a young buck with a higher office than his age
sho...