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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
    A LBERT R YAN 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 sourthern wings were occupied by various government departments, and the Royal College of Science resided beneath