by Joe Joyce
‘Really?’
‘A good cover,’ McClure added. ‘They can go around asking questions while people think they’re just checking out creditworthiness and business matters. Of course,’ he gave a dry chuckle, ‘it’d be an even better cover if we didn’t know about it.’
‘And we’re just letting them do it?’
‘If we close it down they’d only set up another operation. Better that we know what they’re doing than waste time trying to uncover their next effort.’
‘And what are they doing?’
‘Trying to find German submarines harbouring along the west,’ McClure laughed as if it was a joke.
‘Ah,’ Duggan said, remembering what Anderson had told him. ‘The fishermen?’
‘Them as well. Wasting their time looking for something that isn’t there. But it keeps them out of harm’s way.’
‘What if they find a U-boat?’
‘Then we’d be in trouble, wouldn’t we?’ McClure smiled, still treating it as a joke.
Duggan gave him a sharp look, not seeing the humour.
‘There are no German submarines there,’ McClure smiled back at him. ‘Anyone who gives it a moment’s thought knows that.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Duggan let the car idle behind a couple of cyclists until a tram had gone by and he could overtake them.
‘U-boats don’t use petrol or diesel. They usual a heavy oil that we don’t have in this country. Besides, who controls all the oil we do have?’
‘The British,’ Duggan nodded as he sped around the cyclists. ‘So why do they go on about it, then?’
‘Politics. Propaganda,’ McClure said as though they were the same thing. ‘The only way the Germans could refuel U-boats in Irish harbours would be from their own tankers. Not from some fishermen giving them a few cans of petrol. And they couldn’t bring their own tankers there on the Q.T. for long.’
‘That’s as mad as us cooperating with them while letting them spy on us.’
‘Now you have it,’ McClure clapped him on the back as they came to a stop outside Government Buildings. ‘There’s no point having the left hand and the right hand wasting time doing the same things. Anyway, it’s better sometimes to keep the real issues out of sight.’
They climbed the steps into the building, passing the bored garda outside, and waited while the porter checked with someone on the phone. Pól Ó Murchú was sitting back in his chair when they were shown into his office, looking like the cares of the world had crushed him into the back rest. His face was pale in the gritty twilight and there were dark rings under his eyes. He made no effort at formality this time, merely indicating the chairs facing his desk with a tired hand.
McClure placed the file on his desk and sat down. ‘We are making some progress in the search for Dr Goertz,’ he said. ‘We hope to close in on him shortly. Or at least find out what, if anything, he knows about Germany’s current intentions.’
‘Tonight will tell the story,’ Ó Murchú said in a gloomy tone. ‘I gather the weather is clearing from the west.’
‘Tonight or tomorrow night,’ McClure corrected him, his good humour ebbing away. ‘It’s doubtful if it’ll have cleared enough by tonight for their bombers.’
‘And do we have any more cards in our hand?’ Ó Murchú stared at the ‘SECRET’ stamp in a red box on the file cover.
‘We have evidence of German internees collecting intelligence of military value while out on parole and passing it to the German legation.’
‘Good, good,’ Ó Murchú nodded a couple of times. ‘The more breaches of diplomacy we can throw at them the better. Though it won’t make much difference at the end of the day, if they’ve decided to make an issue of expanding their legation.’
‘Have they?’
‘That’s the question. We’re getting mixed signals. Herr Hempel says the bombings are accidents. Flyers off course, confused by our air defences shooting at them. That sort of thing.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Like it’s our fault. Apparently the Irish Sea is very difficult to see from up there. No mention of it being retaliation for us dragging our heels over flying their men into Foynes. And we haven’t made any overt linkages either.’
He straightened himself in the chair as if it was more a mental effort than a physical one. ‘And we now have to worry as well about the British, about their multipronged campaign against us and their efforts to mobilise President Roosevelt against us.’
‘Yes, sir,’ McClure said.
‘This sudden’ – Ó Murchú opened his hands in a search for an appropriate word – ‘influx of information about high-level British plans. Are we to take it all at face value?’
‘We are operating on that basis. But we are still trying to assess the sources.’
‘Sources?’ Ó Murchú picked up on the use of the plural with alacrity.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I understood it all came through one source.’
‘No sir. It all came to the attention of Captain Duggan here but from two different sources.’
Ó Murchú turned his attention to Duggan.
Duggan cleared his throat. ‘The British government plans came from one source, sir. The letter to President Roosevelt from another. As far as I’m aware, they did not originate from the same person.’
‘That seems hard to credit,’ Ó Murchú said drily. ‘That there are suddenly two sources with access to top-level British government information and both are willing to share it with us at the same time.’
Duggan reddened under his stare, wondering if he should point out that Churchill’s letter to Roosevelt was not intended for them but for the Germans. He half-expected McClure to explain but the commandant said nothing. ‘We’re trying to trace the original sources of both sets of documents, sir,’ he kicked to touch.
‘In the meantime,’ Ó Murchú went on, ‘we have to deal with the unpalatable fact that these documents, whether they are authentic or forgeries, do express the known and likely sentiments of the people concerned. And they pose another series of grave threats to us.’
Nobody said anything and a clock marked time in the silence, emphasising the air of gloomy fatalism that seemed to have inhabited Ó Murchú’s office and settled on his shoulders. He stirred himself after a moment and added, ‘The Minister for Defence Co-Ordination, Mr Aiken, is going on a critical mission to Washington shortly. To procure arms for you people. Perhaps his visit will throw more light on the threat we face from the Americans.’ He gave McClure an inquisitive look. ‘And there are reports of Americans moving into Derry.’
‘So I understand, sir.’
‘How reliable are they?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir. That’s not our section.’
Ó Murchú gave a humph, as if to say that he wasn’t surprised at McClure’s response, that this was the type of inadequate help he had to deal with to do his job.
McClure lit an inevitable cigarette as soon as they got back into the car. ‘That wasn’t exactly encouraging,’ he wound down his window an inch and blew a stream of used smoke at the gap.
‘What do you mean?’ Duggan looked over his shoulder to check the traffic and did a quick U-turn, bumping over the ridge of frozen snow in the centre of the road.
‘He sounds like he’s given up the ghost,’ McClure said. ‘Like it’s getting to be too much. Trying to keep all the balls in the air.’
‘He seemed more concerned about the Americans than the Germans or even the British.’
‘He is. They are,’ McClure inhaled. ‘It’s much harder to resist pressure from the Americans about the ports. We’re friendly nations, in every sense, not just diplomatically. Both neutrals. How can we not help them make sure their shipping isn’t being sunk in the Atlantic?’
‘But it’s not their shipping.’
‘It’s their cargoes, exports, supplies.’
‘But they’re for the English.’
‘Yes,’ McClure agreed. ‘For their friends and allies. Part of the
group of democratic nations opposed to the dictatorships. As we are too. So we have a community of interests and friendships. And some of those supplies are for us. So how can we not help them?’
‘It all goes back to partition,’ Duggan suggested. But that wasn’t of much interest to the Americans, apart from the Irish-Americans, of course.
‘Yeah,’ McClure sighed. ‘And now the Americans may be moving into the North. Into our national territory, without the courtesy of even an advance warning.’
Jesus, Duggan thought, realising the dilemma that created for the government. Should they protest? And create bad feelings with the Americans? Or should they just ignore it? And accept that the US was also part of the partition problem, actively supporting the British position?
‘Which increases the pressure on us to provide the Americans with port facilities,’ McClure continued, thinking aloud. ‘To keep in their good books. And it’s only a small step from that to transhipping supplies across the country to Britain. And for the Germans to see that as a hostile act and to start bombing the transhipment routes. Roads, railways, ports.’
‘And then we’re in the war.’
‘Yep.’
‘Christ,’ Duggan sighed. You do need three-hundred-and-sixty-degree vision, he thought. And end up spinning in circles and getting dizzy. ‘We can’t keep out of it forever, can we?’
‘Depends,’ McClure shrugged. ‘The Germans don’t want to declare war on the Americans but there’s probably a limit to the amount of provocation they’ll take. Now that Roosevelt’s been re-elected he’s going ahead with his lend-lease plan to increase supplies to the British. As long as the Americans are officially neutral, we might have some protection, I suppose. But I can’t see that lasting long if we’re directly providing supplies to the British in a way we didn’t before the war. It’s all right to go on exporting cattle to them as we always did. Turning Galway or someplace else into a big transatlantic port is another matter.’ He wound down his window some more and flicked out his cigarette butt with his thumb. ‘It really all depends on what happens next. When the Germans make their move on Britain.’
Back in headquarters Captain Sullivan was going into the Red House as they parked, and followed them in. ‘What’s up?’ he demanded in response to their sombre faces as he and Duggan went into their own office.
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on,’ Sullivan persisted. ‘You two look very serious.’
‘Just got a grilling from External Affairs,’ Duggan said. ‘Because we couldn’t answer all their questions about Adolf’s plans.’
‘Hah,’ Sullivan gave a short laugh. ‘Tell them to talk to my old man. He’ll know exactly what Adolf’s going to do next.’
‘The whole country thinks it knows what’s going to happen next,’ Duggan said. ‘Without knowing half of what’s going on.’
Sullivan picked up a message and waved it at Duggan. ‘Your girlfriend’s looking for you again.’
Duggan glanced at the handwritten note. ‘Please contact Gertie as soon as possible.’
‘Can’t get enough of it, can she?’ Sullivan sniggered. ‘What does she see in you anyway?’
‘No point trying to explain it to you,’ Duggan smiled, as he picked up his phone, ‘if you can’t see it yourself.’ He glanced at his watch: it was just after half-four. He put the phone back on its cradle before the switch answered, deciding he’d call around to Gerda in person. He grabbed his coat, wondering if he should take the car again. He still had the key in his pocket. It was tempting. This was probably work, though he hoped it wasn’t. Or not entirely.
‘Is this Gertie a real person?’ Sullivan watched him with a crooked smile. ‘Or just another code name for that fucker Gifford?’
‘Can’t talk now,’ Duggan put on his coat. ‘Got to run.’
‘You’re not a pair of homos, are ye?’ Sullivan said as he left and shouted after him. ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.’
Duggan paused a moment in the corridor to reach back his arm and give Sullivan a backwards victory sign through the open doorway. Sullivan’s laugh followed him out.
He took his bicycle, reckoning it could be quicker as the evening traffic built up, and wanting some exercise. He cycled fast on the tracks cleared in the snow by the metal-rimmed wheels of carts, along by the tenements on Benburb Street, by the back of the Four Courts, by the deserted markets, and up to O’Connell Street. He chained his bike to a lamp post outside Gerda’s office, glancing up at her window. The reflection from a shop’s lights across the street bounced off it and he hurried inside, fearing he was too late. She was at the top of the stairs, locking her office door, and turned and looked down as she heard the street door close. A slow smile spread over her face. He went up the steps two at a time and took her in his arms.
‘You were running,’ she said when they broke apart.
‘Cycling,’ he said. ‘Just got your message.’
She opened the door and they stepped inside and she locked it behind them. Neither said a word and she took his hand and led him into the inner office. He shrugged off his coat and she undid the knot in her scarf and shook her black hair free and he opened the buttons on her overcoat as she gave him a series of urgent kisses on the lips. When they had undressed each other they spread his coat on the cold linoleum, she rolled up her coat as a pillow and they lay down.
‘Is it safe?’ he murmured before he entered her.
‘Keine Sorge,’ she whispered. Don’t worry.
Afterwards, he lay on his back and she rested her head on his shoulder. He became aware of their surroundings as their bodies cooled and he ran his fingertips up and down her back, onto the hollow of her waist, over the hump of her hips and down the outside of her leg, feeling the firm smoothness of her skin. The corner of her boss’s desk loomed over them in the murky light and cinders glowed through the ashes of the dying fire. From outside came the sounds of the evening rush hour, hurrying footsteps, a newsboy’s repeated shouts of ‘Herald!’ or ‘Mail!’, an occasional door banging, the screech of bus brakes, the metal grind and clang of a tram, and the clip-clop of a trotting horse.
After a while she raised herself and went onto her hands and knees towards the fire. ‘Don’t look at me,’ she said over her shoulder and she picked up a poker.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, watching her.
She shook the poker at him and then prodded the fire to bare the burning coals. She exchanged it for a tongs and hovered over a coal scuttle. ‘Will we risk some more?’ she turned to him, holding up a small lump of coal.
‘Hmm,’ he agreed. ‘What’s the risk?’
‘I think Mr Montague counts the lumps of coal.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m serious,’ she looked at the lump of coal. ‘He’s very careful. Counts the pencils and paper. I have to ask for a new one and explain what happened to the old one if I’ve lost it.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true.’ She dropped the coal on the fire. ‘There. We’ve done it. Will we risk another one?’
‘Yeah,’ he raised himself on an elbow and sifted through the pile of clothes, looking for his jacket pocket. ‘Or maybe it’d be safer to burn the pencils.’
‘Oh, no,’ she picked up another lump of coal and dropped it on the fire. ‘How would I explain the missing pencils?’
‘How are you going to explain the missing coals?’ He found his cigarette case and felt for the lighter in the other pocket.
‘How would I know what happened to the coals?’ She dropped a third coal onto the fire. ‘There,’ she said with satisfaction and crawled back to him. He flicked open his cigarette case and held it out to her.
‘We can’t smoke,’ she lay down and snuggled up to him again.
‘Why not?’
‘Mr Montague hates cigarette smoke.’
‘He won’t notice.’
‘Oh, he will. He notices everything.’
‘You
’re pulling my leg.’
‘No, I’m serious.’
‘No, you’re not.’
She raised her head to look him in the eye. ‘Yes, I am.’ She bent forward to kiss him lightly. ‘Are we having our first fight about Mr Montague’s nose?’
He laughed and she put her hand on his stomach and said, ‘Do that again?’
‘What?’
‘Laugh.’
He laughed and she pressed her hand on his stomach. ‘It’s nice to feel a laugh as well as hear it,’ she said.
‘You’re great,’ he said.
‘What I am is cold,’ she replied.
‘We’ll get under the coat,’ he said, and they rolled off it and back under it again.
‘Ouch,’ he said as the linoleum touched his skin. ‘That’s colder.’
She rolled on top of him and said, ‘That’s better.’
‘For you.’
‘And not for you?’
‘Yes,’ he pulled the coat over her and slid his hands under it. ‘For me too.’
They made love again and then lay as they were, their feet cooling beyond the cover of the coat. Flames licked around the new lumps of coal, casting jumpy shadows around the room while the sounds from outside eased. The traffic noises had become more sporadic and the newsboys’ cries had been replaced by a ticket tout outside the window offering tickets for the main evening showing at the Carlton cinema.
‘I do have something to tell you,’ she said. ‘Why I called you.’
‘I thought you just wanted to see me.’
‘That’s why you came in a hurry?’ she smiled.
‘Of course.’
‘And I wanted to see you too.’ She moved off him and onto the floor with an intake of breath as her side touched the cold lino. He turned on his side and moved back, letting her share the area his body had warmed. ‘But there is something to tell you too.’
He said nothing, closing his eyes, not wanting to come back to the real world with its uncertainties and dilemmas and threats. She said nothing either and he opened his eyes after a few moments and she was looking into them in empathy. They kissed slowly, a confirmation of mutual understanding rather than passion, and then he said, ‘Tell me.’
