Echobeat (16 page)

‘Intelligent?’

‘Yes.’ ‘Motivated?’

Duggan nodded.

‘Trustworthy?’

Duggan nodded again.

‘Attractive.’ It wasn’t a question this time. McClure modified his stare with the hint of a grin and added, ‘At ease,’ although Duggan was not at attention. He stood up and stretched himself.

Duggan relaxed, realising how tense, and probably transparent, he was. He got out a cigarette. ‘I don’t want to put her in any danger,’ he said as he lit it.

‘No, of course not.’ McClure picked a cigarette from the box on his desk. ‘But you think she would be willing to meet him?’

‘Yes. She really hates the Nazis.’

‘With reason,’ McClure grunted.

‘Have you met her?’ Duggan asked, seeing an opportunity to find out something he’d wondered about.

‘Only once and then briefly. To see if she’d do what we wanted.’

‘How did you find her?’ Duggan gave vent to his curiosity and then regretted it as McClure gave him a silent stare. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t …’

McClure waved away his apology. ‘I sent a circular around battalion IOs, asking if anyone knew of a female German speaker who’d be willing to help us. One of Southern Command’s lads told me about her. And she agreed. Motivated, as you say.’

‘Adelaide Agency,’ Gerda answered the phone.

‘How are you today?’ Duggan said, the sound of her voice filling him with affection.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said in an efficient tone. ‘I’m sure we have something suitable.’

‘You can’t talk.’

‘We have excellent properties in all the best locations in the suburbs.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Tell Yvonne to give our friend your phone number.’

‘Yes, sir, that’s a very popular location.’

‘And arrange a meeting if he wants to see you.’

Gerda made a sound of approval.

‘But don’t go to meet him until I’ve seen you first.’

‘We have several properties that would meet your requirements.’

‘That’s very important.’

‘Can I send you a copy of our list?’ she asked.

‘Anyway,’ Duggan dropped his voice as Sullivan came into the office. ‘That should be done as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, we’re open from nine to five, apart from the lunch hour.’

‘Thanks for your help,’ Duggan said, hoping that she would understand the reason for his change of tone.

‘Good day to you,’ she said and then dropped her voice to the barest whisper, little more than an exhaled breath. ‘I love you.’

Duggan wasn’t sure he heard it, or even that she said it. He grappled with a response, aware of Sullivan’s presence, but she hadn’t waited. The phone line was dead.

‘Are you still talking on that thing?’ Sullivan nodded towards the phone that Duggan was still holding.

‘No,’ Duggan dropped the receiver onto its cradle. ‘Do you want it?’

Sullivan shook his head and opened the file before him. ‘The mammy’s been right all these years,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘The power of prayer,’ Sullivan looked at him as if the answer was obvious. ‘It’s shifted the wind back to the east so the clearance from the west isn’t happening. And I had the night off.’

‘I was wondering how you managed that.’ Duggan thought of Ó Murchú in External Affairs hoping for bad weather to keep the Germans from pushing their demand to be allowed to fly more ‘diplomats’ into Foynes. Maybe Mrs Sullivan was one of a battalion he had praying for bad weather, like the church did for the farmers threatened with drought in the summers.

‘There won’t be an invasion either,’ Sullivan smiled. ‘The mammy’s been sending up prayers against it. Like a rapid-firing Bofors.’

‘Have you written a report on that? Calm everybody down.’

‘You think I should?’

The phone rang before Duggan could answer him and he picked it up and gave his name.

‘The very man,’ Timmy said in his ear. ‘Buswell’s. Half an hour.’

‘What?’

‘Great things happening in our time,’ Timmy said, almost breathless with excitement.

‘What?’ Duggan repeated.

‘On your bike,’ Timmy chuckled and hung up.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Duggan muttered as he replaced the receiver again. Timmy in a state of excitement filled him with instant caution. His idea of great things happening wasn’t necessarily anyone else’s idea of greatness. Still, he probably had some news of Goertz. Unless it was some other conspiracy altogether.

‘What’s the problem?’ Sullivan asked. ‘More women chasing you?’

‘That’s it,’ Duggan said, getting up and retrieving his coat from the stand. ‘I’ve got to go out.’

‘Jaysus,’ Sullivan said, his shoulders drooping over his file. ‘I’m going to get the mammy to start praying that you’ll do some work around here.’

The bar in Buswell’s Hotel was quiet, grey light seeping in from the morning outside as if it was afraid of what it might illuminate. A mixture of stale smoke and spilt beer from hundreds of raucous drinking nights suffused the unnatural silence. A man sat at one end of the bar, an
Irish Press
open on the counter before him with a pint of untouched Guinness half-covering its main headline. His head rested on his arms and he was snoring, making a delicate, almost elegant sound. There was no one else there but the barman, running a desultory cloth over a shelf of spirit bottles.

Duggan was about to take a seat at the bar when he saw Timmy passing the window, coming across from his office in Leinster House. Timmy nodded to him as he came in and said, ‘Hardy day, Johnny’ to the barman who reached automatically for a bottle of Paddy and poured some into a measure.

‘Bottle of Guinness?’ Timmy asked Duggan.

‘No, thanks. Too early for me.’

‘Give him a lemonade,’ Timmy told the barman.

‘Will we have more snow, Mr Monaghan?’ the barman asked as he set up the drinks.

‘I don’t know,’ Timmy said, giving the question an unexpected gravity. He seemed in sombre mood, not at all what Duggan had expected after the ebullience of his phone call. ‘Hope not. I’m fed up slipping and sliding about the place.’

They took their drinks over to a corner table and lit cigarettes. Timmy looked around the bar as if he had never been there before, uncomfortable with its emptiness and its early morning atmosphere.

‘Maybe we should go somewhere else,’ Duggan broke the silence. ‘Go for a walk.’

Timmy gave him a stare that suggested he was mentally deficient and splashed a practised dash of water into his whiskey. ‘I met the Doc,’ he said in a low voice.

‘Surgeon O’Shea?’ Duggan leaned forward into a conspiratorial huddle.

‘No, the Doc himself.’

‘Who?’ Duggan asked, confused.

‘Mr Robinson,’ Timmy dropped his voice even more.

‘
Goertz
?’ Duggan asked, astonished. He hadn’t expected that. He had hoped, at most, that Timmy would give them another lead to follow, not take them directly to the German spy.

‘Whatever you call him,’ Timmy inhaled a stream of smoke, followed it with a mouthful of whiskey, and exhaled. ‘I only know him as Henry Robinson. That’s how I was introduced to him.’

‘At the German Minister’s party last year?’

Timmy nodded. ‘They call him the Doc.’

‘Who does?’

‘The people who look after him. He’s a doctor, you know.’

‘He’s a legal doctor,’ Duggan said. ‘Not a real doctor.’

‘What the fuck’s that?’

‘A lawyer.’

Timmy picked up his glass, like the wind had been taken from his sails. He finished off his drink and raised the glass to catch the barman’s attention. Keep your mouth shut, Duggan told himself, let him tell it the way he wants to. Timmy liked to do things his own way, didn’t like other people stealing his thunder.

The barman put another glass of Paddy on the counter and Timmy heaved himself off the chair and went to get it. Duggan took a drink of the red lemonade and watched him, keeping his impatience and excitement under control.

Timmy came back with his whiskey and another bottle of lemonade. He took his time stubbing out the butt he had left burning in the ashtray. Then he watered the whiskey, raised his glass and said, ‘
Sláinte
.’ Duggan touched it with his glass and they drank in silence.

Timmy put down his glass and leaned forward. ‘I ran into Mrs O’Shea,
moryah
, the other night as she and Mona were leaving the altar committee meeting. Told her I needed a private word with her about a sensitive matter. She nearly fell off her high horse when I said it was about our German friend. An unofficial official inquiry, just between us, blah, blah, blah. To cut a long story short, she sent me a message yesterday, asking me to call round to a certain address at nine o’clock last night.’ Timmy paused for a drink but really for dramatic effect. Duggan resisted the temptation to ask where.

‘And there was the man himself,’ Timmy resumed his narrative. ‘“Mr Robinson,” I said, “we’ve met before.” “We have indeed,” he said, “and I’m very pleased to meet you again. I’ve been hoping to talk to an emissary from your government.” “Hold your horses now,” I said, “these are very dangerous times and I’m on an unofficial mission here.” “Like myself,” he said, “but it’s important that we understand
each other.” “I couldn’t put it better myself,” I said.’ Timmy stopped for another sup of whiskey.

‘Anyway. I asked him the question. “What’s all this bombing about?” And he said he didn’t know but we shouldn’t assume that it was the Luftwaffe. “My own sentiments entirely,” I told him. Then he said he’s been hounded from pillar to post by you fellows and the Blueshirts in the Branch. That he can’t communicate with his people. And nobody in official circles will talk to him. That he’s the best friend Ireland ever had. He’s tried to get in touch with a senior military man who said he’d love to have a talk with him but he’d have to do his duty and arrest him if they met.’ Timmy lit a cigarette, while Duggan tried to remember every detail of what he was hearing, automatically filtering Timmy’s phrases and his beliefs out of his account. He doubted if Herr Goertz had complained about the Blueshirts in the Special Branch.

‘He has a good point,’ Timmy continued, going off on another tack. ‘The German legation doesn’t have a military attaché here and the British one does. They’ve a whole lot of spies in their place. What kind of neutrality is that? So the Doc has to do the job of a military attaché but he hasn’t the facilities to do it. Can’t communicate with his people. Hounded from pillar to post. Living on the run. It’s not fair. And it’s not in our interest. The best friend Ireland ever had.’

Timmy sat back, finished. Does Goertz know about the German demand to increase the numbers in its legation? Duggan wondered. It sounded like he did. And that put a whole new complexion on his relationship with Herr Hempel and his role in Ireland. It also means he knows if the bombings were meant as a message. But he couldn’t ask Timmy directly about this without revealing more than he should.

‘That’s great,’ Duggan said. ‘Very useful information.’

‘You should talk to him yourself. You’d like him. An intelligent man. A decent sort.’

‘Would he talk to me?’

‘If you guarantee not to have him arrested.’

‘I don’t think I could do that,’ Duggan said, wondering if it might be possible. He could put it to McClure. ‘I can ask.’

‘Do that,’ Timmy nodded. ‘That’d be a good day’s work for the country.’

‘What exactly did he say when you asked him about the reasons for the bombing?’

‘He said he didn’t know, only what he read in the papers. And he explained why he didn’t know. Because he can’t contact his people.’

‘Doesn’t he have a radio?’

‘He lost it along the way. The IRA was to get him one but they haven’t managed it yet. He’s a bit fed up with them lads actually.’

‘He’s still involved with them?’

‘Yeah, but he says they’re very inefficient. Fighting with each other and whatnot. He’s actually trying to leave the country.’

‘He is?’

‘Been trying for months,’ Timmy nodded. ‘Get a boat that’ll take him back to France.’

‘That’s interesting,’ Duggan said, beginning to see how things might look from Goertz’s perspective.

‘That’s the least you could do for him,’ Timmy went on. ‘Help him get back home and he’ll be a great contact there.’

‘Spy for us?’ Duggan couldn’t help smiling.

‘He’s not a spy,’ Timmy snapped back. ‘He’s a representative of the German high command. Help him go home and he’ll be able to answer all your questions. Ireland has no better friend than him. His own words. And we’d have him there in Germany if we needed him. Right at the top.’

‘He’s carrying on with the IRA,’ Duggan pointed out.

‘Never mind that,’ Timmy waved his objection aside. ‘He’s no time for them anymore. Says the high command needs to know the truth about them. The Germans think they’re a serious force but he says they’re a waste of time. Messers.’ Timmy gave him a questioning look, as if to wait for the penny to drop about the advantage of letting Goertz go. ‘And,’ he leaned forward in a more confidential pose, ‘he could get us the arms that you fellows need to resist an invasion.’

Duggan was already shaking his head. They had been down this road before. Germany had offered to supply captured British arms to the Irish army after the fall of France the previous year. The offer had been turned down by the government on the grounds that it would be seen as a breach of neutrality by the British and would put Ireland in the Axis camp. But Timmy had been arguing, even conspiring, in favour of accepting it.

‘Hear me out,’ Timmy raised a finger. ‘It could be done right. So that the Brits wouldn’t know.’

‘They’d know very fast if we suddenly had a lot of their old rifles. And be very angry.’

Timmy waved his finger at him to stop him. ‘Suppose the rifles were sent in a shipment from France. A boat from Brest to some quiet spot on the south coast. It’d be for the IRA,
moryah
. But you lads would’ve happened to hear about it. And you’d be on hand to grab it as it came ashore.’ Timmy sat back with a smile. ‘And you’d have a few thousand more Lee Enfields.’

Duggan shook his head in admiration at the deviousness of the plan. ‘This your idea?’

‘And the Doc’s,’ Timmy beamed. ‘Neat, isn’t it?’

Duggan nodded. ‘But it’s still dangerous. If it went wrong.’

‘How could it go wrong?’

‘If people got to hear about it.’

‘Wouldn’t matter. You could even tell the Brits. Look what we’ve done. Stopped those nasty IRA chappies getting your old guns,’ Timmy laughed. ‘Even offer to give them back. But that might be seen as a breach of neutrality by the Germans. So it’d be better for everybody if we held onto them ourselves. Nobody need know the real plan. Except you and me and the Doc. Be a feather in your cap.’

Jesus, Duggan thought, he’s indefatigable. I’m not getting involved in any conspiracies with Timmy and German agents. ‘Too risky,’ he said. ‘What if the British decided that it proved the IRA was a real threat and working with the Germans? And used that as an excuse for an invasion?’

‘They don’t need an excuse to invade us. They’ll just make one up.’

‘Besides,’ Duggan said. ‘Mr Aiken is going to America to get us the supplies we need.’

‘Is he now?’ Timmy looked at him with a triumphant smile, delighted to hear something that wasn’t yet general knowledge. ‘No better man,’ Timmy added. ‘Frank’ll mark the Yanks’ cards all right.’