Ratlines Hardcover - 2013

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE
 
   “You don’t look like a Jew,” Helmut Krauss said to the man
reflected in the window pane.
   Beyond the glass, rolling white waves threw themselves
against the rocks of Galway Bay, the Atlantic glowering
beyond. The guesthouse in Salthill was basic, but clean. The
small seaside town outside Galway City hosted families from
all over Ireland seeking a few days of salt air and sunshine
during the summer months. Sometimes it provided beds for
unmarried couples, fornicators and adulterers with the nerve
to bluff their way past the morally upright proprietors of such
establishments.
   Krauss knew so because he had enjoyed the company of several
ladies in guesthouses like this one, taking bracing walks along
the seafront, enduring overcooked meals in mostly empty dining
rooms, then finally rattling the headboard of whatever bed they
had taken. He carried a selection of wedding rings in his pocket,
alongside the prophylactics.
   This dreary island, more grey than green, so choked by the
Godly, provided him few pleasures. So why not enjoy the odd
sordid excursion with a needful woman?
   Perhaps Krauss should have allowed himself the luxury of a
decent hotel in the city, but a funeral, even if for a close friend,
did not seem a fitting occasion. The security might have been
better, though, and this visitor might not have gained entry so
easily. For a moment, Krauss felt an aching regret, but immediately
dismissed it as foolishness. Had he been the kind of man
who submitted to regret, he would have hanged himself ten
years ago.
   “Are you a Jew?” Krauss asked.
   The reflection shifted. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
   “I saw you at the funeral,” Krauss said. “It was a beautiful
service.”
   “Very,” the reflection said. “You wept.”
   “He was a good man,” Krauss said. He watched seagulls as
they skated the updrafts.
   “He was a murderer of women and children,” the reflection
said. “Like you.”
   “Murderer,” Krauss said. “Your accent is British. For many
people in Ireland, you British are murderers. Oppressors.
Imperialists.”
   The reflection swelled on the glass as the man approached.
   “You hide your accent well.”
   “I enjoy the spoken word. To a fault, perhaps, but I spend time
refining and practicing my speech. Besides, a German accent still
draws attention, even in Ireland. They shelter me, but not all
make me welcome. Some cling to their British overmasters like a
child too old for the teat.”
   Krauss had felt the weight of his age more frequently in recent
times. His thick black hair had greyed, the sculpted features
turned cragged. The veins in his nose had begun to rupture
with the vodka and wine. Women no longer stared at him with
hungry eyes when he took his afternoon walks through Dublin’s
Ringsend Park. But he still had good years ahead of him, however
few. Would this man steal them from him?
   “Have you come to kill me too?” he asked.
   “Maybe. Maybe not,” the reflection said.
   “May I take a drink, perhaps smoke a cigarette?”
   “You may.”
   Krauss turned to him. A man of middle age, between forty
and forty five, old enough to have served in the war. He had
looked younger across the cemetery, dressed in the overalls of a
gravedigger, but proximity showed the lines on his forehead and
around his eyes. Sand-coloured hair strayed beneath the woollen
cap on his head. He held a pistol, a Browning fitted with a suppressor,
aimed squarely at Krauss’s chest. It shook.
   “Would you care for a small vodka?” Krauss asked. “Perhaps it
will steady your nerve.”
   The man considered for a few seconds. “All right,” he said.
   Krauss went to the nightstand where a bottle of imported
vodka and a tea making set waited next to that morning’s Irish
Times. The front page carried a headline about the forthcoming
visit of President John F Kennedy, a story concerning a
request by the Northern Irish government that he should venture
across the border during his days on the island. The Irish
worshipped the American leader because he was one of theirs,
however many generations removed, and anticipation of his
arrival had reached a point of near hysteria. Krauss intended
to avoid all radio and television broadcasts for the duration of
Kennedy’s stay.
   Not that it mattered now.
   Krauss turned two white teacups over and poured a generous
shot into each. He went to soften one with water from a jug, but
the man spoke.
   “No water, thank you.”
   Krauss smiled as he handed a cup to the man. “No glasses, I’m
afraid. I hope you don’t mind.”
   The man nodded his thanks as he took the cup with his left
hand. Undiluted vodka spilled over the lip. He took a sip and
coughed.
   Krauss reached into the breast pocket of his best black suit.
The man’s knuckle whitened beneath the trigger guard. Krauss
slowed the movement of his hand and produced a gold cigarette
case. He opened it, and extended it to the man.
   “No, thank you.” The man did not flinch at the engraved
swastika as Krauss had hoped. Perhaps he wasn’t a Jew, just some
zealous Briton.
   Krauss took a Peter Stuyvesant, his only concession to
Americanism, and gripped it between his lips as he snapped the
case closed and returned it to his pocket. He preferred Marlboro,
but they were too difficult to come by in this country. He took
the matching lighter from his trouser pocket and sucked the
petrol taste from its flame. The set had been a Christmas gift
from Wilhelm Frick. Krauss treasured it. Blue smoke billowed
between the men.
   “Please sit,” Krauss said, indicating the chair in the corner.
He lowered himself onto the bed and drew deeply on the cigarette,
letting the heat fill his throat and chest. “May I know your
name?” he asked.
   “You may not,” the man said.
   “All right. So why?”
   The man took another sip, grimaced at the taste, and placed
the cup on the windowsill to his left. “Why what?”
   “Why kill me?”
   “I haven’t decided if I’ll kill you or not, yet. I want to ask a few
questions first.”
   Krauss sighed and leaned back against the headboard, crossing
his legs on the lumpy mattress. “Very well.”
   “Who was the well-dressed Irishman you spoke with?”
   “An insultingly junior civil servant,” Krauss said.
   Eoin Tomalty had given Krauss’s hand a firm shake after the
ceremony. “The minister sends his condolences,” Tomalty had
said. “I’m sure you’ll understand why he was unable to attend in
person.”
   Krauss had smiled and nodded, yes, of course he understood.
   “A civil servant?” the man asked. “The government actually
sent a representative?”
   “A matter of courtesy.”
   “Who were the others there?”
   “You already know,” Krauss said. “You know me, so you must
know them.”
   “Tell me anyway.”
Krauss rhymed them off. “Célestin Lainé, Albert Luykx, and
Caoimhín Murtagh representing the IRA.”
   “The IRA?”
   “They are fools,” Krauss said. “Yokels pretending 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

Albert Ryan 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
southern wings were occupied by various government departments,
and the Royal College of Science resided beneath 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 Pearse 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 that?”
   “Carrickmacree.”
   “Jesus.” Haughey snorted. “What’s your father, a pig farmer?”
   “A retailer,” Ryan said.
   “A shopkeeper?”
   “Yes,” Ryan said.
   Haughey’s smile split his face, giving his mouth the appearance
of a lizard’s, his tongue wet and shining behind his teeth.
   “Well, get yourself something decent. A man should have a
good suit. You can’t be walking around government offices with
the arse hanging out of your trousers, can you?”
   Ryan did not reply.
   “You’ll want to know why you’re here,” Haughey said.
   “Yes, Minister.”
   “Did the director tell you anything?”
   “No, Minister.”
   “Proper order,” Haughey said. “He can tell you now.”
   Fitzpatrick went to speak, but the secretary bustled in, a tray
in her hands. The men remained silent while she poured coffee
from the pot. Ryan refused a cup.
   When she’d gone, Fitzpatrick cleared his throat and turned in
his seat. “The body of a German national was found in a guesthouse
in Salthill yesterday morning by the owner. It’s believed he
died the previous day from gunshot wounds to the stomach and
head. His name was Helmut Krauss, and he had been resident in
Ireland since late 1949. The Garda Síochána were called to the
scene, but when the body’s identity was established, the matter
was referred to the Department of Justice, and then to my office.”
   “Who was he?” Ryan asked.
   “Here, he was Heinrich Kohl, a small businessman, nothing
more. He handled escrow for various import and export companies.
A middle man.”
   “You say ‘Here’,” Ryan said. “Meaning elsewhere, he was
something different.”
   “Elsewhere, he was SS-Hauptsturmführer Helmut Krauss of
the Main SS Economic and Administrative Department. That
sounds rather more impressive than it was in reality. I believe he
was some sort of office worker during the Emergency.”
   Government bureaucrats seldom called it the war, as if to do
so would somehow dignify the conflict that had ravaged Europe.
   “A Nazi,” Ryan said.
   “If you want to use such terms, then yes.”
   “May I ask, why aren’t the Galway Garda Síochána dealing
with this? It sounds like a murder case. The war ended eighteen
years ago. This is a civilian crime.”
   Haughey and the Fitzpatrick exchanged a glance.
   “Krauss is the third foreign national to have been murdered
within a fortnight,” the director said. “Alex Renders, a Flemish
Belgian, and Johan Hambro, a Norwegian. Both of them were
nationalists who found themselves aligned with the Reich when
Germany annexed their respective countries.”
   “And you assume the killings are connected?” Ryan asked.
   “All three men were shot at close range. All three men were
involved to some extent in nationalist movements during the
Emergency. It’s hard not to make the logical conclusion.”
   “Why were these men in Ireland?”
   “Renders and Hambro were refugees following the liberation
of their countries by the Allies. Ireland has always been welcoming
to those who flee persecution.”
   “And Krauss?”
   Fitzpatrick went to speak, but Haughey interrupted.
   “This case has been taken out of the Guards’ hands as a matter
of sensitivity. These people were guests in our country, and there
are others like them, but we don’t wish to draw attention to their
presence here. Not now. This is an important year for Ireland.
The President of the United States will visit these shores in just
a few weeks. For the first time in the existence of this republic, a
head of state will make an official visit, and not just any head of
state. The bloody leader of the free world, no less. Not only that,
he’ll be coming home, to the land of his ancestors. The whole
planet will be watching us.”
   Haughey’s chest seemed to swell as he spoke, as if he were
addressing some rally in his constituency.
   “Like the director said, these men were refugees, and this state
offered them asylum. But even so, some people, for whatever
reason, might take exception to men like Helmut Krauss living
next door. They might make a fuss about it, the kind of fuss we
could be doing without while we’re getting ready for President
Kennedy to arrive. There’s people in America, people on his own
staff, saying coming here’s a waste of time when he’s got Castro in
his back yard, and the blacks causing a ruckus. They’re advising
him to cancel his visit. They get a sniff of trouble, they’ll start
insisting on it. So it’s vital that this be dealt with quietly. Out of
the public gaze, as it were. That’s where you come in. I want you
to get to the bottom of this. Make it stop.”
   “And if I don’t wish to accept the assignment?”
   Haughey’s eyes narrowed. “I must not have made myself clear,
Lieutenant. I’m not asking you to investigate this crime. I’m
ordering you.”
   “With all due respect, Minister, you don’t have the authority
to order me to do anything.”
   Haughey stood, his face reddening. “Now hold on, big fella,
just who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
   Fitzpatrick raised his hands, palms up and out. “I’m sorry,
Minister, all Lieutenant Ryan means is that such an order should
come from within the command structure of the Directorate of
Intelligence. I’m sure he meant no disrespect.”
   “He better not have,” Haughey said, lowering himself back
into his chair. “If he needs an order from you, then go on and
give it.”
   Fitzpatrick turned back to Ryan. “As the Minister said, this is
not a voluntary assignment. You will be at his disposal until the
matter is resolved.”
   “All right,” Ryan said. “Are there any suspects in the killings?”
   “Not as yet,” Haughey said. “But the obvious train of thought
must be Jews.”
   Ryan shifted in his seat. “Minister?”
   “Jewish extremists,” Haughey said. “Zionists out for revenge,
I’d say. That will be your first line of inquiry.”
   Ryan considered arguing, decided against it. “Yes, minister.”
   “The Guards will give assistance where needed,” the director
said. “We’d prefer that be avoided, of course. The fewer people
involved in this the better. You will also have the use of a car, and
a room at Buswells Hotel when you’re in the city.”
   “Thank you, sir.”
   Haughey opened the file he had taken from the cabinet.
   “There’s one more thing you should be aware of.”
   He lifted an envelope from the file, gripping it by its corner.
   One end of it was a deep brownish red. Ryan took the envelope,
careful to avoid the stained portion. It had been cut open along
its top edge. He turned the envelope to read the words typed on
its face.
   Otto Skorzeny.
   Ryan said the name aloud.
   “You’ve heard of him?” Haughey asked.
   “Of course,” Ryan said, remembering images of the scarred
face in the society pages of the newspapers. Any soldier versed in
commando tactics knew of Skorzeny. The name was spoken with
reverence in military circles, regardless of the Austrian’s affiliations.
Officers marvelled at Skorzeny’s exploits as if recounting
the plot of some adventure novel. The rescue of Mussolini from
the mountaintop hotel that served as his prison stirred most conversation.
The daring of it, the audacity, landing gliders on the
Gran Sasso cliff edge and sweeping Il Duce away on the wind.
   Ryan slipped his fingers into the envelope and extracted the
sheet of paper, unfolded it. The red stain formed angel patterns
across the fabric of the page. He read the typewritten words.
   SS-Obersturmbannführer Skorzeny,
   We are coming for you.
   Await our call.
  “Has Skorzeny seen this?” Ryan asked.
   Fitzpatrick said, “Colonel Skorzeny has been made aware of
the message.”
   “Colonel Skorzeny and I will be attending a function in
Malahide in a few days,” Haughey said. “You will report to us
there with your findings. The director will give you the details.
Understood?”
   “Yes, Minister.”
   “Grand.” Haughey stood. He paused. “My tailor,” he said,
tearing a sheet from a notepad. He scribbled a name, address and
phone number. “Lawrence McClelland on Capel Street. Go and
see him, have him fit you up with something. Tell him to put it
on my account. Can’t be putting you in front of a man like Otto
Skorzeny wearing a suit like that.”
   Ryan dropped the bloody envelope on the desk and took the
details from Haughey. He kept his face expressionless. “Thank
you, Minister,” he said.
   Fitzpatrick ushered Ryan towards the door. As they went to
exit, Haughey called, “Is it true what I heard? That you fought
for the Brits during the Emergency?”
   Ryan stopped. “Yes, Minister.”
   Haughey let his gaze travel from Ryan’s shoes to his face in
one long distasteful stare. “Sort of young, weren’t you?”
   “I lied about my age.”
   “Hmm. I suppose that would explain your lack of judgement.”

Media reviews

A Guardian (UK) Best Thriller of 2013

A St. Louis Post-Dispatch Best Book of 2013

Praise for Ratlines

"Ratlines is a belter: fast, furious, bloody and good."
—Ian Rankin, New York Times bestselling author of Exit Music

"Ratlines is a brash and exciting thriller, full of hairpin turns and espionage. Even the film "Dr. No" makes an appearance, appropriate for a book that tries to create a James Bond with a lilt instead of a Connery-style brogue."
—The Christian Science Monitor

"The current master of neo-noir detective fiction."
—Boston Globe

"The moral ambiguities touch everyone.... This is complex fiction with a disturbing ring of truth."
—Financial Times

"The plot reminds me of Jack Higgins at his very best.... This is a first-rate story that seizes the imagination, and never lets go."
—Daily Mail (UK)

"The author's clean, direct prose, well-utilised research, intricate plotting and deep characterisation all add up to a seriously impressive piece of crime fiction, that lingers long in the memory."
—The Independent (UK)

"Neville's writing is agile and atmospheric...creating a memorable monster in slippery, belligerent Haughey."
—The Guardian (UK)

"A Nazi-hunting thriller writhing with double and triple-crosses and a supremely colourful cast."
—Metro (UK)

“Thrilling.... Readers will hope to see more of Ryan, a formidable yet damaged hero."
—Publishers Weekly, STARRED REVIEW

"Set in a time when James Bond was becoming popular, Neville's lean, mean prose tells a brutal story that's the opposite of 007...but no less captivating."
—Shelf-Awareness

“The setup is real-life history and the rest is ‘just a story.’ But what a story it is!”
—BookPage

"Neville writes wonderfully, setting the scene in precise, economical prose; pitting well-defined, historically inspired characters in opposition to each other; and tangling the plotlines tantalizingly... With a character this strong, we want to see him fight to the finish."
—Booklist

"The best thrillers usually have the protagonist in a moral dilemma, and the dilemma here is a doozy… A brilliant character study of a man of real honour."
—The Globe and Mail

"[Ratlines] is the real goods....A gripping and violent narrative."
—Toronto Star

“There is a significant breadth and depth to the historical context that gives the story real heft...[Ratlines] is a powerful thriller which provides the requisite thrills and spills, but also a thought-provoking exploration of our understanding of who we really are.”
—Irish Independent

"[A] gripping mix of real-life history and compelling fictional characters."
—Stop You're Killing Me

“The first rule in getting a historical thriller right: characters first, historical details second. Stuart Neville aces it all. Grade: A.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer

"Ratlines superbly and cleverly tells the story of a street-smart man who must find justice for those without voices, while playing various agencies against each other. Above all, he must survive being cast as a scapegoat and pawn."
—Barbara Tom, The Oregonian

"By the time I finished it, I was exhausted. I couldn’t put it down."
—Toronto Life Magazine

“This guy is a special talent.”
—The Irish Voice

"Well researched and extremely intriguing—all lovers of the historical and suspense genres will be absolutely blown away."
—Suspense Magazine

"Neville knows how to let a story rip with the best of them."
—Spinetingler

“Neville’s combination of smartly conceived characters, high-strung tension, and moral quandaries makes Ratlines a pell-mell-paced treat.”
—The Rap Sheet

"Brilliant."
—The Galway Advertiser

“Stuart Neville’s books just get better and better and Ratlines is simply superb. A shocking moment in history is the backdrop to a hugely gripping thriller, and I really hope we see Albert Ryan again.”
—Mark Billingham, bestselling author of Rush of Blood

"A great book and the rest of the 2013 books will have to work hard to top it."
—Jon Jordan, Crimespree Magazine

“Wildly entertaining, Ratlines is a superb mystery but in addition, a spotlight on a slice of Irish history largely ignored. This is a complex mystery told in the exceptional style that Stuart Neville has made his own. Jameson and Nazis, Irish rebel songs and Charles Haughey, it's a bold and brilliant blend.”
—Ken Bruen, Shamus Award winning author of The Guard

“Hitler, Charlie Haughey and JFK? Now that’s what I call a set-up.”
—Declan Burke, award-winning author of Slaughter’s Hound

“The alliances and betrayals, the sharp characterizations, and the uncertain morality of all concerned keep the story leaning over the edge of conventional storytelling into an edgier and more interesting territory.... Ratlines is an excellent read.”
—Glenn Harper, International Noir Fiction

"Ratlines succeeds on so many fronts. An extremely well thought out murder mystery relentlessly pursued by a very human protagonist, all set in a world 'I thought I knew, but didn’t.'"
—Dan Malmon, Crimespree

“Real characters, such as Skorzeny and Haughey move alongside the fictional creations...fascinating.”
—Ted Hertel, Deadly Pleasures

"Neville, whose debut, The Ghosts of Belfast, won the 2010 Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Best Mystery/Thriller, concocts a believable plot with an intriguing protagonist torn between duty to country and his distaste for Nazi criminals. Fans of Jack Higgins and Ken Follett will enjoy this noguavel."
—Library Journal

“Another moody winner mixes Nazis into Neville's usual Irish noir.”
—Kirkus Reviews

"Neville runs his conflicted hero through a perilous maze of intrigue and double-cross, echoing the "ratlines" at the core of this gritty, fascinating thriller."
—Winnipeg Free Press

"Gritty... A lot of great visuals."
—Good Morning Texas

“Hoo boy what a story!”
—New York Journal of Books

"Another top-notch novel from this author, and highly recommended."
—Midwest Book Review

“A well-constructed backdrop is provided to the political drama as it unfolds and the whodunit element is nicely introduced.”
—Mysterious Reviews


Praise for Stuart Neville
 
“Neville’s novel is a coldly lucid assessment of the fragility of the Irish peace ... a rare example of legitimate noir fiction.”
—The New York Times Book Review
 
“Stuart Neville belongs to a younger generation of writers for whom the region's darkest years are history—but that history endures, as his first novel, 'The Ghosts of Belfast,' shockingly demonstrates.... This noir thriller plays out in a Belfast that, even in summer sunshine, remains oppressively gray. The clannishness of its inhabitants is vividly evoked.... A riot scene, one of the novel's best, captures a new generation's appetite for blood and an old veteran's nostalgia.... In scene after gruesome scene, Neville attempts to persuade us that this time around, with this repentant murderer, the killing is different.”
—Washington Post
 
“Neville's tightly wound, emotionally resonant account of an ex-IRA hit man's struggle to conquer his past, displays an acute understanding of the true state of Northern Ireland, still under the thumb of decades of violence and terrorism.”
—Los Angeles Times
 
“Stuart Neville is Ireland’s answer to Henning Mankell.”
—Ken Bruen
 
“The Ghosts of Belfast is a tale of revenge and reconciliation shrouded in a bloody original crime thriller.... Brilliant.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

“This guy is a special talent.”
—Irish Voice
 
“Neville’s debut novel is tragic, violent, exciting, plausible, and compelling.... The Ghosts of Belfast is dark, powerful, insightful, and hard to put down.”
—Booklist

“Neville slowly ratchets up the tension—and the violence—until each page practically twangs with suspense.”
—Publishers Weekly