by Joe Joyce
‘I got a phone call from Yvonne,’ she sat up.
‘Yvonne?’ He sat up beside her.
‘You met her. A waitress in Mrs Lynch’s? Who saw you when you were waiting for me outside?’
He nodded, remembering.
‘Roddy Glenn stopped her in the street today when she was out shopping during her break. He said he wanted to contact me. Asked her where I live.’
Duggan nodded, aware this could be a breakthrough, but still reluctant to break the passing moment. He sighed and asked what Yvonne had told Glenn.
‘She said she couldn’t tell him where I live because she doesn’t know. But that she would give me a message next time she saw me. He was very insistent, she said. Kept saying it was important, very important, that he see me again. As soon as possible.’
‘Where was this?’
‘Down in Mary Street. Around the corner from the café. You know?’
He nodded.
‘She said she’d give me the message when she saw me but she didn’t know when that would be as I didn’t work there all the time. She asked him how I would get in touch with him.’
‘And?’ Duggan felt his interest come fully alert.
‘He said he was moving digs at the moment and it’d be easier for him to contact me.’
‘So he is in hiding,’ Duggan nodded to himself. ‘She wanted to know what she should say to him if he contacts her again. I said I’d think about it and asked her to call me tomorrow. And then I called you.’
Duggan stared at the fire, repressing the urge to have a cigarette and trying to focus on the best thing to do. The obvious thing was to arrange a time and place for Gerda to meet Glenn and nab him. Which might put her in danger, depending on who Glenn really worked for. She didn’t have to turn up but that wouldn’t ensure her safety: Glenn and his masters would know who had set him up.
‘When’s she going to meet him again?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think they’ve any definite arrangement.’
The best thing was to find out when Yvonne was meeting Glenn: surveillance could pick him up then. That’d get them onto him and keep Gerda out of it.
‘Yvonne thinks he fancies me. That’s what it’s about.’ Gerda put her head to one side and gave him a wry smile. ‘Would that make you jealous?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll beat him up the first chance I get.’ She looked shocked and he gave her a broad smile and added, ‘Everything that keeps us apart make me jealous.’
‘That’s a better answer,’ she kissed him, partly with relief.
They stood up and dressed and she looked around the room to make sure nothing was disturbed. In her office, she tied the scarf under her chin and asked him what she should tell Yvonne when she called.
‘Let me think about it,’ Duggan said. ‘I’ll call you first thing in the morning.’
‘I can meet him again,’ Gerda looked him in the eye. ‘And get more information.’
‘It could be dangerous.’
‘Why? Who do you think he is?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what we need to find out.’
‘I’ll ask him.’ She shrugged like it was the most obvious thing to do.
Duggan shook his head. ‘Let’s think about it overnight.’
‘You have to talk to your superiors,’ she said, a statement of realities.
He nodded. ‘But I want to think about it myself first. I don’t want you to be in any danger.’
‘I don’t think he’s dangerous. He’s harmless.’
‘Maybe. But the people he’s working for may not be.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because he has very serious information.’
‘What?’ she asked in surprise.
‘Very secret documents.’
‘For the Nazis?’
Duggan nodded. ‘For everybody. For the Americans, too.’
‘What have the Americans got to do with it?’
He kissed her to stop her questions, not wanting to refuse her anything. She responded but when they had finished she was still giving him an inquisitive look, not diverted. He shook his head in a silent apology.
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘It’s important.’
‘I just don’t want you to be in danger,’ he repeated. ‘Of any kind.’
She gave him a grateful look and he followed her down the stairs and onto the footpath and waited while she locked the outer door. The air was cold and sharp, tinged with turf smoke and the acrid smell of the city’s gasworks drifting up from the docks. The ticket tout made for them but Duggan shook his head while he was still at a distance and he veered away towards another couple. Duggan glanced at the sky to see if it was clearing but couldn’t make out anything above the haze of the limited city lights.
‘Are they coming again tonight?’ Gerda asked, following his glance.
‘I think we’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘The weather isn’t due to clear yet.’
‘Just in time,’ she said, catching sight of her bus approaching and moving towards the stop
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ he said.
‘I thought you were cycling.’
‘On my bike.’
She gave him a soft punch in the arm. ‘I’m not getting up on any fella’s crossbar,’ she laughed, putting out her hand to stop the bus. ‘I’m a respectable woman from Cork.’
The bus pulled in and she placed her open palm on the side of his face and stepped onto the platform. The conductor hit his bell and the bus got into gear and heaved itself away, leaving a belch of oily exhaust smoke behind. She remained on the platform and he watched her recede until the bus went into Parnell Square and he couldn’t see her any more.
He cycled back along the quays, feeling his feet were barely pushing the pedals, tasting the hint of snow on the air, savouring the limited lights and wider shadows, energised. He took his time, smoking as he cycled, but seemed to get there faster than ever, pushing up the last stretch of hill, in the gate and back around to the Red House.
His office was empty, Sullivan’s end of the table cleared of everything, indicating that he had left for the night. He found Commandant McClure in his office, twiddling a pencil instead of his usual cigarette and frowning at a page of what Duggan knew from the flimsy paper was a carbon copy of a garda report.
Duggan told him of Glenn’s attempt to contact Gerda and McClure leaned back in his chair and tossed the pencil on the desk with relief. ‘What do you think we should do?’ he inquired.
‘Pick him up when he contacts the other waitress,’ Duggan suggested.
‘Arrest him?’ McClure said in surprise.
‘I mean put surveillance on him.’
‘And how do we know when that’ll happen?’ McClure sounded disappointed. ‘When he’ll approach her again.’
‘We don’t know exactly,’ Duggan admitted, aware how weak the idea sounded.
McClure stared at him for a moment, increasing his discomfort. ‘Is our friend willing to meet him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you think she could handle it?’
Duggan nodded.
McClure lapsed into silence again, keeping his eyes on Duggan. ‘What do you think of her?’
Duggan shifted in spite of himself, not wanting to have this conversation but unable to stop himself signalling his feelings. ‘She’s reliable. Observant. Reports regularly and accurately. As far as I know.’
‘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.’
Thirteen
‘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, ‘Sláin
te.’ 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.’
