Ratlines by Stuart Neville Read Free Book Online

Siricusa, but he spent most of his time wandering the narrow streets of Ortigia, the tiny island connected to the mainland by a few short bridges.
    He had rolled his sleeves up as he walked, opened his shirt wide, the sun beating on him like a blacksmith’s hammer. In the evenings, the place smelled of sea salt and warm olive oil. He ate in the trattorias and osterias that clustered in the alleys. Ryan had never before seen, let alone tasted, pasta. He ate platefuls of it, mopping up the sauce with fresh bread. He seldom saw a menu; the choice of food was that of the house, rather than the diner, but he didn’t mind. His lifelong diet had been either Irish or army food, the height of culinary sophistication a mixed grill in a swanky hotel, or perhaps a piece of fish on a Friday.
    He took four days of pleasure in Sicily before crossing the short stretch of Mediterranean to Egypt and all its torments.
    The tailor stood upright and set about Ryan with a measuring tape.
    “Hmm.” McClelland placed his forefinger against his lips. “I might struggle a little to make this work for a man of your stature. A man as deep as you are through the chest will often have a more generous waistband, whereas you’re quite a slender fellow.”
    He tucked the jacket into Ryan’s flanks, pinned the fabric in place. Standing back, he eyed Ryan from head to foot, the travel of his gaze slow and languid. “Athletic,” McLelland said. “And long legged. But I think I can let the trouser down enough to suffice. With the right shoe, of course. When do you need the suit for?”
    “Tomorrow night,” Ryan said. “The minister said to put it on his account.”
    McClelland’s face greyed around a thin smile. “Yes, the minister does like to take full advantage of our credit service.”

CHAPTER SIX
    A S EVENING LIGHT faded to darkness, Albert Ryan spent an hour at Helmut Krauss’s small home on Oliver Plunkett Avenue, close to Dublin’s docks. It stood at the middle of a terraced row of identical houses, Victorian or Edwardian, he couldn’t be sure. They faced newly-built tenement blocks, ugly structures that cast a sullen shadow over the street. A small patch of garden had been laid over with concrete slabs. A brass plaque by the doorbell carried the words HEINRICH KOHL: IMPORT, EXPORT, ESCROW SERVICES . A Garda officer waited on the doorstep to let Ryan in.
    Inside the house, the parlour had been converted to a small office with an antique desk surrounded by filing cabinets. A telephone sat on the desk alongside a typewriter, a ledger and a selection of pens. The room contained only two chairs: one for Krauss, and one for a guest. It appeared the German did not employ a secretary.
    Ryan opened the ledger at a random page and scanned the entries. Business names, ports of departure, dates, sums of money mostly in pounds. He ran his fingertip down the name column, turning from page to page, looking for anything of significance. The amounts of money were modest, the highest figures in the low thousands, and most coming to only a few hundred. The ports covered northern Europe, anywhere within easy sailing distance of Dublin or Dundalk.
    He closed the book and turned his attention to the filing cabinets. All were unlocked and contained invoices, purchase orders, statements of account, and the occasional letter. Nothing to suggest Krauss has been involved in anything illegal while running his business here.
    Ryan left the parlour-turned-office and went to the kitchen at the rear of the house. The cramped room smelled of grease and tobacco. A dresser stood to one side, well stocked with alcohol. Krauss apparently had a taste for vodka. More boxes of bottles stood piled on the floor, emblazoned with Russian text, obviously some perk of his import business.
    A tin bath stood propped in the corner, a privy in the backyard. Ryan opened the cupboards, found nothing but stale bread, tinned food and cleaning materials. He made his way upstairs.
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