Free Ratlines by Stuart Neville

perched atop an oak-wreathed swastika, embossed in gold. He opened the case, extended it to Haughey. The minister declined. Skorzeny lit a cigarette for himself. Smoke plumed from his lips and nostrils as he sat down.
    “And Unternehmen Wacht am Rhein?” he asked.
    Haughey looked from one man to the other. “And what?”
    “Operation Watch on the Rhein,” Ryan said. “The Allies called it the Battle of the Bulge. I was involved to a lesser extent.”
    “And after the war?”
    “When I came home, I attended Trinity College, studying English.”
    Skorzeny smiled. “Ah, Trinity. So you fenced?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You will come to my home so we can duel.”
    “Sir?”
    “To Martinstown House. I have fenced since my youth. I earned my Schmiss in a university match.” He indicated the scar, his eyes cold and glittery like marbles. “But I haven’t found a reasonable opponent in this country. Perhaps that is you. So tell me, how did you apply this education you received?”
    “I didn’t. I re-enlisted in the Ulster Rifles and served in Korea as part of the 29th Independent Infantry Brigade. I was selected for special training there.”
    “What was this training?”
    “Commando tactics,” Ryan said. “Your tactics.”
    Skorzeny gave a slight nod in thanks for the acknowledgement.
    “Under control of 3 Commando Brigade, I led small units in raids on enemy positions. We slept in the trenches during daylight and worked at night.”
    Skorzeny drew long and deep on his cigarette. “How many men did you kill?”
    Ryan returned the Austrian’s stare. “I don’t know,” he said. “How many did you kill?”
    Skorzeny smiled and stood. “We are soldiers. Only murderers keep count.”
    He lifted the decanter and poured a third glass, crossed the room, and placed the drink in Ryan’s hand.
    “So what do you know of these scoundrels who use dead men for messengers?”
    Ryan took a shallow sip of brandy, smoother on his tongue and in his throat than the drink he’d ordered at the bar. “Very little, sir.”
    Skorzeny retook his seat, crossed his long legs. “Well, a little is more than nothing. Go on.”
    “They are efficient, careful, skilled. They left no traces at the guesthouse in Salthill. I wasn’t able to visit the scenes of the previous killings, but I can only assume they were as clean.”
    Haughey spoke up. “I’ve seen the Garda reports. They found nothing useful.” He turned to Ryan. “What about the Jewish angle?”
    “There’s nothing to suggest involvement by any group from the Jewish community.”
    Haughey sat forward. “Nothing to suggest it? For Christ’s sake, man, there’s everything to suggest it.”
    “There are no known organised Jewish groups within Ireland,” Ryan said. “We have only a very small Jewish population. It’s extremely unlikely that such a group exists. Even if it did, it’s less likely that it would have the capability of carrying out such actions.”
    “Lieutenant Ryan is correct,” Skorzeny said. “These killings were done by professionals. Trained men.”
    “The Israelis, then,” Haughey said. “The Mossad. Or that Wiesenthal fella, the one who got your friend Eichmann executed last year.”
    Skorzeny looked hard at Haughey for a moment, then turned his eyes to Ryan. “Speculation aside, you are no closer to finding these men than you were forty-eight hours ago.”
    Ryan said, “No, sir.”
    “Then what do you suggest we do next? Simply wait for them to kill again? Or come for me?”
    “I suggest interviewing everyone who was present at the funeral in Galway. The notes said only the priest who gave the mass was spoken to by the Guards. He said he knew none of the people who attended, didn’t speak to any of them, apart from one local man who made the arrangements. And that man has yet to be located.”
    “You mean to interrogate the priest?”
    “No,” Ryan said. “I suspect that you know at least some of the people who attended the