Ratlines Read Free Page B

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 Westland Row 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 should merit.
    “I did my best, Minister,” Ryan said.
    It had been a long operation, men spending nights dug into ditches, watching farmers come and go, noting the visitors, sometimes following them. The Irish Republican Army’s Border Campaign had died in 1959, its back broken long ago, but Ryan had been tasked with making sure its corpse remained cold and still.
    “Good,” Haughey said. “Sit down, both of you.”
    They took their places in leather upholstered chairs facing the desk. Haughey went to a filing cabinet, whistled as he fished keys from his pocket, unlocked a drawer, and extracted a file. He tossed it on the desk’s leather surface and sat in his own chair. It swivelled with no hint of creak or squeak.
    An Irish tricolour hung in the corner, a copy of the Proclamation of the Irish Republic on the wall, along with pictures of racehorses, lean and proud.
    “Who made your suit?” Haughey asked.
    Ryan sat silent for a few seconds before he realised the question had been spoken in his direction. He cleared his throat and said, “The tailor in my home town.”
    “And where’s