Echobeat

by Joe Joyce

  ‘What?’ Duggan opened the envelope carefully and took out the contents.

  ‘You’re to pick him up at home in the morning, in time for ten o’clock mass at the Church of the Three Patrons.’

  There were twenty pages of Photostat paper inside, streaked with vertical lines and the type already beginning to fade to sepia. It was a letter, beginning ‘My dear Mr President’ and he scanned through the pages, catching phrases, his heart racing faster, until he got to the signature at the end.

  Winston S. Churchill.

  ‘Holy fuck,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What?’ Sullivan demanded.

  ‘Is the commandant in his office?’ Duggan was already on his feet and heading for the door before Sullivan nodded.

  He knocked on McClure’s door and went in and handed him the Photostats and explained quickly how he got them. McClure glanced through them and swore softly.

  ‘Can it be real?’ Duggan asked.

  ‘Looks real,’ McClure started reading it again with greater care. ‘Sounds real.’

  ‘But how could—’ McClure raised a finger to stop Duggan’s questions while he continued reading.

  ‘Yes,’ McClure said when he finished and reached for the cigarette smouldering in his ashtray. ‘How could this young English artist get a copy of a letter from Churchill to Roosevelt?’

  ‘And why is he trying to give it to the Germans? I mean, Captain Anderson thought he was trying to feed them disinformation or propaganda.’

  ‘The best lie is often the one closest to the truth,’ McClure stood up and came around his desk. ‘There’s all sorts of implications to this. I better show it to the colonel.’ He stopped at the door. ‘Don’t go away.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Duggan wandered back to his office, thinking it couldn’t be what it appeared to be. How could a young English painter – if that’s what he really was – end up in Dublin trying to give such a letter to Luftwaffe internees? Who was Roddy Glenn? Was he really a painter? He had pictures that he wanted Mrs Lynch to put on her walls and sell. But that didn’t mean anything. He had to be an agent of some kind. But for whom?

  He carried a typewriter over to his desk, sat down and lit a cigarette, lost in his thoughts.

  ‘Penny for them,’ Sullivan said.

  Duggan held out a hand, palm up.

  ‘Ah, they’re not even worth that.’

  ‘What was the name of that church again?’

  ‘Church of the Three Patrons,’ Sullivan said. ‘In Rathgar.’

  ‘Who are the three patrons?’

  ‘Fucked if I know,’ Sullivan stood up and stretched himself. ‘De Valera, Aiken and Lemass, I suppose.’

  Duggan laughed and Sullivan went over to the window and squinted through a crack in the shutters. ‘Still snowing out there,’ he reported. ‘We could go home to our beds and have a decent night’s sleep. There won’t be any bombers about tonight.’

  ‘You should tell the commandant that.’

  ‘What’d he say to you?’

  ‘He said I was to stay here.’

  ‘Really?’ Sullivan laughed. ‘Confined to barracks?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Duggan tipped his chair back and threw his feet onto the desk beside the typewriter. ‘You were right.’

  ‘About time too,’ Sullivan said.

  ‘Gifford say anything else?’

  ‘Some shite about your mother being worried you were neglecting your religious duties. Why do you listen to all his bullshit?’

  ‘He’s all right,’ Duggan said, remembering how much help Gifford had given him in the past. ‘A free spirit.’

  ‘My arse,’ Sullivan snorted.

  Duggan stretched out an arm and pulled the phone towards him by its cord. He asked for the Dublin Castle number and then for Garda Gifford when he got through. ‘Who wants to know?’ the Branch man who answered the phone demanded.

  ‘A confidential source,’ Duggan said.

  ‘Call back tomorrow,’ the voice said and hung up.

  ‘It’s catching,’ Sullivan wagged a warning finger. ‘You’ll end up as bad as him if you’re not careful.’

  Gifford must have something for me, Duggan thought. Nothing to do with going to Mass. Hopefully something to do with Mrs O’Shea and Goertz.

  He dropped his feet from the table and settled at the typewriter to record everything Gerda had told him about Roddy Glenn and the German internees and about their plans to pass on to Henning Thomsen their information about tanks and aircraft being made in Luton. He hadn’t finished when his phone rang and the switchboard told him he was to go to the colonel’s office. On the stairs he met Anderson who gave him a quizzical look. ‘You know what this is about?’ Duggan asked.

  ‘Just been hearing about it,’ Anderson said. ‘That fellow you were telling me about?’

  ‘Roddy Glenn,’ Duggan confirmed.

  They reached the colonel’s office and Anderson knocked and they went in. The colonel was standing in front of his desk, talking to Commandant McClure and Commandant Egan, the head of the British section. ‘Okay, gentlemen,’ the colonel said, waving them towards a table. He took his place at the head of it with McClure on his right and Egan on his left. Duggan sat beside McClure, facing Anderson beside Egan.

  ‘Let’s go through this,’ the colonel said, placing the Photostat of the letter in front of him, a vertical palm on either side of it as if to contain it. ‘What we have here is a copy of a letter purporting to be from Mr Churchill to President Roosevelt setting out some of Britain’s plans for 1941, primarily its needs for more American supplies of aircraft and munitions, and the vital importance of keeping the north Atlantic route open. There is also highly valuable information about its naval forces, convoy losses in recent months, the tonnage of supplies that Britain needs, and the shortfall at the moment. And there is a somewhat desperate appeal to the Americans to lend Britain some of its surplus naval ships and new materiel because it is running out of dollars with which to pay for them.’

  The colonel looked up from the page. ‘There is a lot of information clearly of military value to an enemy and, also, by implication, a lot of political information about the behind-the-scenes contacts between Mr Churchill and President Roosevelt. Some of which, I imagine, would be damaging to the president if it were to be revealed publicly, especially after his pre-election promises that he wouldn’t involve America in any foreign wars. But, in the way of politics, I suppose it is not as damaging now as it would have been before the election.

  ‘And then,’ the colonel sighed and turned over the pages until he got to it, ‘there is section twelve. About us. He’s asking the US to either lease our western ports for itself or to use its influence to persuade us to make them available to Britain. In the first instance, he says, trade between America and Ireland would be trade between two neutral countries and the Americans would be entitled to protect it with their navy without the Germans claiming that to be an act of war. And, in any event, he says the Germans won’t make the mistake they made the last time of declaring war on America.

  ‘In the second instance,’ he continued, paraphrasing the letter, ‘if the Americans persuade us to give southern or western ports and airfields to the British, he promises that Britain would defend Ireland if Germany saw that as a hostile act. And he suggests an all-Ireland defence council from which’ – he paused and read the phrase – ‘the unity of Ireland would probably emerge in some form or other after the war.’

  He placed the pages back on top of each other. Nobody said anything for a moment as they tried to absorb the implications. ‘It obviously requires more considered study,’ the colonel broke the silence. He looked from McClure to Egan and back to McClure, ‘But what are our initial thoughts? Is this genuine or is it a forgery?’

  ‘The content suggests that it is genuine,’ McClure said. ‘But the source raises doubts.’

  The colonel turned to Egan. ‘I agree,’ Egan said. ‘We know that the convoys from America are Churchil
l’s main preoccupation at the moment. It ties into that, and into the other information we’ve received about their plans to pressure us over the ports. It raises the question of whether the source is the same for all these documents,’ he glanced across at Duggan, a question in the statement.

  Shit, Duggan thought. That hadn’t occurred to him. But how could Timmy and this Roddy Glenn be connected? He cleared his throat to say something but the colonel interrupted him. ‘Leave that to one side for a moment,’ he said. ‘Let’s just consider first whether this is genuine or whether it is disinformation.’ He scanned through the pages again. ‘It says the British have lost 420,300 tons of shipping in just five weeks,’ he looked up to allow that to sink in and then looked down again. ‘They need forty-three million tonnes of supplies a year to survive and the shortfall is running at about five million tonnes. And then there are the naval details, the fact that the German battleships Bismark and Tippitz put them on a par with the Royal Navy and even give them an advantage. Can this be disinformation?’

  ‘It could be exaggerating their losses, sir,’ Anderson offered.

  ‘Or minimising them,’ Egan suggested.

  ‘Either way,’ the colonel said, ‘I don’t see the point if this is intended to mislead an enemy.’

  ‘Lull them into a false sense of superiority?’ Anderson said.

  ‘Surely this information would be more likely to boost German morale and encourage them to greater effort,’ McClure said. ‘Whether it’s minimising or exaggerating Britain’s dilemma.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the colonel nodded. ‘It doesn’t appear to make any sense as an attempt to mislead the Germans.’ He took out a tobacco pouch and began to fill his pipe. ‘So, let’s consider another option. That this document is not intended for their eyes at all. But for our eyes.’

  ‘That’s possible,’ Egan nodded. ‘It ties in with the other documents we’ve received and with their campaign to pressure us to hand over the ports. That would explain the concentration on the losses and the importance of the convoys. And it could also be a warning to us that they’ll get the Americans on their side to pressure us on the ports as well.’

  The colonel nodded through a cloud of smoke as he got the tobacco burning. He shook out his match and dropped it in an ashtray. ‘That could make sense of almost everything. But it then raises the question of their method of giving us this document. Let’s look at the source.’

  Everyone looked at Duggan who gave a résumé of what little he knew about Roddy Glenn. Young English painter, initially asking to sell his works in the café, then hanging around and trying to talk to the German internees who frequented it on their parole days, culminating in the spitting incident today and Mrs Lynch barring him from the café.

  ‘That’s all we know about him?’ the colonel asked.

  ‘So far,’ McClure replied. ‘Up to now he appeared to be an irritant rather than anything else.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’ Egan asked Duggan.

  ‘No, sir. I haven’t gone in there.’

  ‘We’re keeping our distance,’ McClure explained. ‘Relying on our source to keep us informed of anything of interest. As she has done.’

  ‘It’s a woman who works there?’ Egan said.

  McClure nodded.

  ‘We all know the conduit for the earlier documents you’ve brought us,’ the colonel said to Duggan. So they all knew about Timmy, Duggan thought. ‘Is there any connection between him and Roddy Glenn?’

  ‘Not that I know of, sir.’

  ‘Is it possible?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought it likely but I don’t know for certain.’

  ‘Or between the conduit and your source in the café?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Duggan shook his head.

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Certain, sir.’

  The colonel reached for his matches again to relight the pipe. ‘We should bring her in and debrief her properly,’ Anderson said to him.

  ‘That’s not a good idea,’ Duggan retorted, horrified at the idea of Gerda being interrogated and the effect it might have on her. Everyone turned towards him and he felt his face redden. ‘I mean—’

  ‘There are extra sensitivities involved,’ McClure interrupted, coming to his rescue.

  ‘What sensitivities?’ Anderson demanded.

  ‘There are reasons to keep her identity as secure as possible,’ McClure addressed the colonel, ignoring Anderson.

  The colonel sucked in and puffed out a series of small clouds of smoke. ‘Very well,’ he said and then looked at Duggan. ‘You will talk to her and find out everything you can about Glenn.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Duggan replied, deciding that the colonel knew who Gerda was.

  ‘We need to know everything we can find out about Glenn,’ the colonel said to the table at large.

  ‘We could ask Captain Collison,’ Egan said with a dry laugh. ‘In his capacity as passport-control officer.’ Collison was the British official in charge of issuing permits for travel to and from England but his real job was as MI6’s man in Ireland, running the British covert intelligence service.

  ‘That’s an idea,’ the colonel gave a dry smile. ‘Perhaps it would be best if the request came from the guards rather than us. As a follow-up to a complaint about some minor indiscretion, a little public drunkenness or something of the like.’

  The colonel pushed back his chair, indicating that the meeting was over, and everyone got to their feet. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘you can stand down everyone except the normal staff. There won’t be any bombers tonight.’

  Eleven

  Duggan drove as smoothly as he could, taking care to ease the car into gear with every change and braking with caution only when he had to. There were few tracks in the snow along the quays and he held his breath as the car climbed the hill at Christchurch and went under its arch, and again as it picked up speed downhill on the other side, past St Patrick’s Cathedral. People were emerging from a morning service and he drove slowly, rounding the bend into Kevin Street and then right into Heytesbury Street.

  Gifford was waiting for him, leaning against the railings outside his flat, his hands deep in the pockets of an overcoat the same navy as a guard’s uniform. He came around the back of the Ford Prefect as it slid to a stop, and sat in.

  ‘This the best you could do?’

  ‘What?’ Duggan asked.

  ‘I expected a larger limousine.’

  ‘With pennants on it?’

  ‘Something appropriate to our importance.’

  ‘It is appropriate to our importance,’ Duggan said. ‘Where’re we going?’

  ‘Rathgar,’ Gifford clapped his hands and rubbed them, like the destination was a special treat. ‘Didn’t you get my message?’

  ‘I didn’t assume it was about going to Mass.’ Duggan got the car moving again.

  ‘Never underestimate the truth as a form of deception,’ Gifford said. He waited while Duggan nosed the car onto the South Circular Road, checked there was nothing coming, and crossed into Stamer Street. ‘The new love of your life, the woman in the fur coat and Wolseley, goes to half-ten Mass in Rathgar every Sunday. So this is your chance to see her in person. Unfortunately, she will also be en famille. That won’t upset you, will it?’

  ‘No,’ Duggan drawled as he turned at the canal and went up to the bridge. ‘I’ll punch the husband in the nose, grab her hand and run away with her.’

  ‘Won’t work,’ Gifford said, with mock sadness. ‘She’ll never get into a Prefect.’

  ‘I see your point,’ Duggan laughed as he went over the humpback of the bridge. The car gathered speed and waltzed to the right and then to the left before it recovered traction on untouched snow near the pavement.

  ‘Of course,’ Gifford observed in a disinterested voice, ‘we may not live long enough to get to Rathgar.’

  They parked facing up Rathgar Road before a line of shops and the crossroads beside the church. The kerbs were beginning to fi
ll up with parked cars and groups of families moved towards the church. There were ten minutes to go to Mass time.

  ‘Let’s walk up the road a bit,’ Gifford suggested. ‘The O’Sheas live up that way. With any luck they’ll be bringing your German friend to Mass with them.’

  ‘I doubt he’s a Catholic.’

  ‘Of course not. He’s a heathen. Probably sex-mad as well, like our old friend Hans Harbusch.’ Harbusch was a German spy, now interned, whom they had watched the previous summer before his arrest.

  They got out of the car. The footpath on this side was almost empty, people going to Mass crossing towards the church.

  ‘You might get lucky,’ Gifford continued in a conversational tone. ‘Herr Goertz might think it polite to accompany his hosts to Mass. If he’s staying with them.’

  ‘I’d say he’s too careful for that,’ Duggan said, watching the families streaming towards the church. Its bell began to peal, giving five minutes’ warning.

  ‘You never know,’ Gifford shrugged. ‘When in Rome …’

  They crossed Frankfort Avenue and were facing people coming from the other direction towards the church across the road, some hurrying as the bell stopped. ‘There they are,’ Gifford said, keeping his tone conversational. ‘The couple with the three children.’

  Duggan glanced across. The man was tall and upright, wearing a well-cut dark overcoat with a fur collar and a hat and gloves. The woman had on a brown fur coat, a felt hat of similar colour, matching gloves and handbag. Ahead of them were three boys of different heights, as formally dressed as their parents. They were not hurrying.

  ‘Do you know anything about him? O’Shea?’ Duggan asked as they continued.

  ‘A pillar of the community.’

  ‘Pro-German?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ Gifford said. ‘But well got with the people in power. Which should be your main concern.’

  ‘I know,’ Duggan looked sideways at him. McClure had already warned him to be careful how he followed up the information about Mrs O’Shea. ‘Not a man to cross.’

  ‘Unless you want to get back to the infantry. Sleeping in tents, crawling through muck and all that.’