met once in Berlin. “I believe so.”
“I chanced upon him while spending a weekend in Noordwijk, on the Dutch coast. He was staying in a small boarding house under an assumed name. He was in rather a state of distress, living in constant fear of discovery by some fanatic or another. I told him he might be able to find sanctuary in Ireland, and perhaps travel on to South America if he had sufficient funds. Wisely, most of his assets are tied up in art he liberated from the Jews.”
Skorzeny held the painting at arm’s length, admiring the detail in the girl’s clothing, the glistening of her eyes.
“Yes, very wise,” he said. “Tell him to contact Abbot Verlinden at Priorij Onze-Lieve-Vrouw van Gent . I will send a letter of introduction on his behalf. Abbot Verlinden will in turn make introductions to the appropriate institutions in Ireland and help our Kamerad make travel arrangements. Whatever costs he cannot meet personally can be funded from our account in Zurich.”
Menten smiled. “Thank you. Dominik will be most relieved. I will contact him on my return to Rotterdam in a few days. Before that, I have property to view in Waterford.”
“Waterford?” Skorzeney asked. “It’s beautiful country there. Have the Irish authorities been accommodating?”
Menten nodded. “As much as one could hope for. But my contact in the Department of Justice has advised me to take another name.”
Skorzeny had been fortunate to be denazified by the German authorities. It had taken a considerable sum of money, but the ability to live in freedom under his own name had been worth the cost of the bribes.
“You would be wise to take his advice.”
“I intend to.” Menten gave a nod, a look of regret on his round face.
“Good. Frau Tiernan will serve dinner in an hour or so. You will stay, of course.”
“Yes, thank you.” Menten leaned forward. “What of the killings? I heard about Kamerad Krauss before I sailed from Rotterdam.”
“There has been another,” Skorzeny said.
“My God. Who?”
“A Breton. No one important. An Irishman also. They caused me a late night, but my friend the Minister for Justice has put his best man on it.”
Skorzeny did not blush at the lie. He did not consider the minister a friend. More a useful acquaintance. He knew full well that the likes of Haughey were drawn to his notoriety, desired his company so that they could bask in his reflected glamour.
Fools, all of them.
“I’m glad to hear this,” Menten said. “Helmut Krauss was a good man. He didn’t deserve such a fate.”
“Helmut Krauss was a drunkard and a womaniser. We each meet the fate that awaits us, whether we deserve it or not.”
Menten withered under his stare, visibly struggling with the desire to argue with Skorzeny’s opinion of his old friend. Eventually, he moistened his lips and said, “Naturally, they will suspect Jewish extremists. Or the Mossad, perhaps.”
He considered telling Menten the truth, but realised it would be easier to allow him the comfort of his hate. “Of course,” he said.
S KORZENY HAD SPENT the following day in the fields, watching as his farmhands herded the sheep from one paddock to another. He admired the dogs and the way their master, a long red-faced rope of a man called Tiernan, controlled them with whistles and yips.
Skorzeny had observed from the top of the slope as the dogs arced out across the grass, and he was reminded of fighter planes flying in attack formations. Tiernan’s whistle gave a short pip, and the dogs halted, crouched low to the ground, their concentration absolute. One was the sire to the other, Tiernan had said, and the youngster took hardly any training at all, he simply watched what his father did and copied him.
Another blast of the whistle and the dogs sprang forward, working in tandem, circling the flock, gathering the sheep up like hands scooping earth. Within minutes, the flock had streamed into the next field and one of the farmhands
“I chanced upon him while spending a weekend in Noordwijk, on the Dutch coast. He was staying in a small boarding house under an assumed name. He was in rather a state of distress, living in constant fear of discovery by some fanatic or another. I told him he might be able to find sanctuary in Ireland, and perhaps travel on to South America if he had sufficient funds. Wisely, most of his assets are tied up in art he liberated from the Jews.”
Skorzeny held the painting at arm’s length, admiring the detail in the girl’s clothing, the glistening of her eyes.
“Yes, very wise,” he said. “Tell him to contact Abbot Verlinden at Priorij Onze-Lieve-Vrouw van Gent . I will send a letter of introduction on his behalf. Abbot Verlinden will in turn make introductions to the appropriate institutions in Ireland and help our Kamerad make travel arrangements. Whatever costs he cannot meet personally can be funded from our account in Zurich.”
Menten smiled. “Thank you. Dominik will be most relieved. I will contact him on my return to Rotterdam in a few days. Before that, I have property to view in Waterford.”
“Waterford?” Skorzeney asked. “It’s beautiful country there. Have the Irish authorities been accommodating?”
Menten nodded. “As much as one could hope for. But my contact in the Department of Justice has advised me to take another name.”
Skorzeny had been fortunate to be denazified by the German authorities. It had taken a considerable sum of money, but the ability to live in freedom under his own name had been worth the cost of the bribes.
“You would be wise to take his advice.”
“I intend to.” Menten gave a nod, a look of regret on his round face.
“Good. Frau Tiernan will serve dinner in an hour or so. You will stay, of course.”
“Yes, thank you.” Menten leaned forward. “What of the killings? I heard about Kamerad Krauss before I sailed from Rotterdam.”
“There has been another,” Skorzeny said.
“My God. Who?”
“A Breton. No one important. An Irishman also. They caused me a late night, but my friend the Minister for Justice has put his best man on it.”
Skorzeny did not blush at the lie. He did not consider the minister a friend. More a useful acquaintance. He knew full well that the likes of Haughey were drawn to his notoriety, desired his company so that they could bask in his reflected glamour.
Fools, all of them.
“I’m glad to hear this,” Menten said. “Helmut Krauss was a good man. He didn’t deserve such a fate.”
“Helmut Krauss was a drunkard and a womaniser. We each meet the fate that awaits us, whether we deserve it or not.”
Menten withered under his stare, visibly struggling with the desire to argue with Skorzeny’s opinion of his old friend. Eventually, he moistened his lips and said, “Naturally, they will suspect Jewish extremists. Or the Mossad, perhaps.”
He considered telling Menten the truth, but realised it would be easier to allow him the comfort of his hate. “Of course,” he said.
S KORZENY HAD SPENT the following day in the fields, watching as his farmhands herded the sheep from one paddock to another. He admired the dogs and the way their master, a long red-faced rope of a man called Tiernan, controlled them with whistles and yips.
Skorzeny had observed from the top of the slope as the dogs arced out across the grass, and he was reminded of fighter planes flying in attack formations. Tiernan’s whistle gave a short pip, and the dogs halted, crouched low to the ground, their concentration absolute. One was the sire to the other, Tiernan had said, and the youngster took hardly any training at all, he simply watched what his father did and copied him.
Another blast of the whistle and the dogs sprang forward, working in tandem, circling the flock, gathering the sheep up like hands scooping earth. Within minutes, the flock had streamed into the next field and one of the farmhands
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