had swung the gate closed behind them.
Their task complete, the dogs ran to their master and lay at his feet. Tiernan reached down and scratched each of them behind the ears with his knotty hands.
Not for the first time, Otto Skorzeny wondered at the difference between what brought him happiness now and twenty years before. As a younger man, it had been the smell of cordite, air burned by gunpowder, the thunder and screech of battle. And boys, strong beautiful brave boys, charging into death’s maw, all at his command.
Now his belly had grown and his hips and knees sometimes rebelled; now the inclines of his fields often robbed his lungs of breath as his thighs ached with the climb. But age did not concern Skorzeny to any great degree. Despite the signals of his deterioration, he remained in good health. He could count on another ten or fifteen years of good living, maybe a further ten of tolerable existence, before his heart gave out.
He would fill that time as he had this day, walking in his fields, admiring the work of the men who tended them, watching the dogs perform their duties with the dedication only a simple mind can summon.
And of course that made for good soldiers. For Skorzeny, the best infantrymen came from the working classes. Men used to spending their days toiling in factories or fields, their minds concerned only with the tasks before them. Give such men rifles and an enemy to shoot at, and one could see the natural order of life played out in gunfire and blood.
A good commando was a different beast entirely. That required a higher mind, and more than a little cunning, an intelligence matched to a hardness of the heart.
Someone like Lieutenant Ryan.
Skorzeny had seen it on the Irishman when he first entered the suite at the Grand Hotel in Malahide. Ryan had not flinched when he saw the bodies at the cottage, even at the gaping hole in Groix’s temple, the burnt hair, the torn scalp. Ryan had that flint at his centre, the same kind Skorzeny himself had.
And Ryan was smart. Not like Haughey, whose intelligence and guile served only his greed. Ryan possessed an acumen earned in the barren and bloody places of the world. Skorzeny had no doubt that Ryan could find the traitor. But would the Irishman bring the traitor here to him? Ryan would surely know what awaited the informant. Would he have the mettle to knowingly deliver a prisoner to such a fate?
Skorzeny could not be sure.
When he returned to his house, he washed and changed, then went to his study. He had intended to summon Lainé but found him already waiting there, smoking one of those stinking cigarettes he rolled himself.
The thin Frenchman sat hunched in the chair, arms and legs crossed, making him appear crippled, malformed. Skorzeny sat opposite and took a cigarette from the case on his desk. He quietly wished Lainé had stolen one of these instead of filling the office with his own bitter smoke.
Lainé asked, “ Qui est l’Irlandais? ”
Skorzeny had spoken French fluently since a young age. “I told you. Lieutenant Albert Ryan, G2, Directorate of Intelligence.”
“I don’t like him. I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t have to trust him,” Skorzeny said. “Just let him do his job. I have faith in his ability. He’s a soldier. Like me.”
Lainé inclined his head to show he hadn’t missed Skorzeny’s veiled insult. “What was I, a washerwoman?”
Skorzeny chose not to answer the question. Instead, he said, “I would appreciate it if you stayed in your room this evening. I have important guests coming to dinner.”
Lainé’s tongue licked tobacco flakes from his lips. He spat them out, pfft. “What guests?”
Skorzeny looked at the damp flakes that landed on the leather of his desktop. “Political guests. Esteban will bring you a tray and a bottle from the cellar.”
Lainé’s eyes brightened. “You have a cellar?”
“Frau Tiernan is cooking lamb, so I suggest the ’55 Penfolds Grange Shiraz. It’s
Their task complete, the dogs ran to their master and lay at his feet. Tiernan reached down and scratched each of them behind the ears with his knotty hands.
Not for the first time, Otto Skorzeny wondered at the difference between what brought him happiness now and twenty years before. As a younger man, it had been the smell of cordite, air burned by gunpowder, the thunder and screech of battle. And boys, strong beautiful brave boys, charging into death’s maw, all at his command.
Now his belly had grown and his hips and knees sometimes rebelled; now the inclines of his fields often robbed his lungs of breath as his thighs ached with the climb. But age did not concern Skorzeny to any great degree. Despite the signals of his deterioration, he remained in good health. He could count on another ten or fifteen years of good living, maybe a further ten of tolerable existence, before his heart gave out.
He would fill that time as he had this day, walking in his fields, admiring the work of the men who tended them, watching the dogs perform their duties with the dedication only a simple mind can summon.
And of course that made for good soldiers. For Skorzeny, the best infantrymen came from the working classes. Men used to spending their days toiling in factories or fields, their minds concerned only with the tasks before them. Give such men rifles and an enemy to shoot at, and one could see the natural order of life played out in gunfire and blood.
A good commando was a different beast entirely. That required a higher mind, and more than a little cunning, an intelligence matched to a hardness of the heart.
Someone like Lieutenant Ryan.
Skorzeny had seen it on the Irishman when he first entered the suite at the Grand Hotel in Malahide. Ryan had not flinched when he saw the bodies at the cottage, even at the gaping hole in Groix’s temple, the burnt hair, the torn scalp. Ryan had that flint at his centre, the same kind Skorzeny himself had.
And Ryan was smart. Not like Haughey, whose intelligence and guile served only his greed. Ryan possessed an acumen earned in the barren and bloody places of the world. Skorzeny had no doubt that Ryan could find the traitor. But would the Irishman bring the traitor here to him? Ryan would surely know what awaited the informant. Would he have the mettle to knowingly deliver a prisoner to such a fate?
Skorzeny could not be sure.
When he returned to his house, he washed and changed, then went to his study. He had intended to summon Lainé but found him already waiting there, smoking one of those stinking cigarettes he rolled himself.
The thin Frenchman sat hunched in the chair, arms and legs crossed, making him appear crippled, malformed. Skorzeny sat opposite and took a cigarette from the case on his desk. He quietly wished Lainé had stolen one of these instead of filling the office with his own bitter smoke.
Lainé asked, “ Qui est l’Irlandais? ”
Skorzeny had spoken French fluently since a young age. “I told you. Lieutenant Albert Ryan, G2, Directorate of Intelligence.”
“I don’t like him. I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t have to trust him,” Skorzeny said. “Just let him do his job. I have faith in his ability. He’s a soldier. Like me.”
Lainé inclined his head to show he hadn’t missed Skorzeny’s veiled insult. “What was I, a washerwoman?”
Skorzeny chose not to answer the question. Instead, he said, “I would appreciate it if you stayed in your room this evening. I have important guests coming to dinner.”
Lainé’s tongue licked tobacco flakes from his lips. He spat them out, pfft. “What guests?”
Skorzeny looked at the damp flakes that landed on the leather of his desktop. “Political guests. Esteban will bring you a tray and a bottle from the cellar.”
Lainé’s eyes brightened. “You have a cellar?”
“Frau Tiernan is cooking lamb, so I suggest the ’55 Penfolds Grange Shiraz. It’s
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