by Joe Joyce
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.’
‘Are you meeting Goertz again?’ Duggan changed the subject, cursing himself for telling Timmy something he didn’t know, but there was no way to take it back.
‘Depends,’ Timmy said. ‘You have any more questions for him?’
‘Not at the moment. Where was the meeting?’
‘Now, Paul,’ Timmy wagged his finger at him. ‘You know better than that. Anyway, it wouldn’t do you any good if I told you. He’s long gone from there.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he’s being hounded from pillar to post. Like I keep telling you. Everyone who’s helping him is being harassed by the Branch. So he’s having to rely on other people. Less reliable people.’
‘Like who?’
‘There’s never been any informers in our family,’ Timmy gave him a cold stare. ‘And I hope there never will be.’
‘Okay,’ Duggan nodded, anxious now to get away and write all this down as soon as he could.
‘If you’ve any more questions,’ Timmy took the hint and stood up. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate you help.’
The man at the bar raised his head and looked around, sleepy but not surprised at his surroundings. ‘Timothy,’ he called over, ‘you’ll have a drink.’
‘Later, Charlie,’ Timmy slapped him on the back as they passed. ‘Got a meeting.’
‘Sound man,’ the man called after them.
‘Poor fucker,’ Timmy muttered as they left the hotel. ‘Got a bit of a drink problem.’
Back in the office Duggan typed a report as fast as two fingers would allow but he was making so many mistakes he had to stop and start again. He didn’t mention Timmy’s name or, as was usual practice, his initials, and just typed G for Goertz to speed up the report. When he’d finished he read over it again, corrected some typing mistakes by pen on the top sheet and on the carbon copies and put his initials at the bottom.
‘Big news?’ Sullivan had been watching, noting his concentration.
‘Yeah,’ Duggan screwed the cap back onto his fountain pen. ‘Message for your mother from Adolf. Please tell Mrs Sullivan to stop attacking me with her prayers.’
‘Laugh all you want,’ Sullivan said. ‘It’s all that’s between us and some fuckers raining down bombs on us for no reason.’
Duggan glanced at him, surprised at the fatalism in his voice. It wasn’t like Sullivan to sound like that but he’d been a different person since he’d been in Carlow and seen the effects of a bomb on a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Sullivan caught his look and shrugged. He took a small packet of Sweet Afton from his pocket and tossed it down the table to Duggan. ‘I took two out of it,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’ Duggan pocketed the cigarettes and took his report to McClure’s office.
‘This from who I think it’s from?’ McClure asked as he scanned quickly down the page. Duggan nodded and McClure wro
te a faint TM in pencil on the top of the page. ‘Good work,’ he said when he had finished reading it again. ‘So our friends in the Branch have been after the right people. But need to extend their search to the wider circle of hangers-on.’
‘Seems like that,’ Duggan agreed.
‘Useful.’ McClure muttered. ‘But nothing here to answer our main question or to help Mr Ó Murchú.’
‘No,’ Duggan said. ‘Unless he was lying when he said he knew nothing about the bombing. But why would he do that if he did know? It’d be in his interest to explain if they wanted something.’
‘You’d think so,’ McClure agreed. ‘This idea of importing arms under cover of IRA smuggling, was that from Goertz?’
‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Duggan admitted. ‘My source wasn’t too clear about that. He was trying to take some of the credit.’
‘Is he trying to get himself into trouble again?’
‘He’s just …’ Duggan shrugged, stopping himself from adding ‘Timmy’. That was enough of an explanation to him but he didn’t want to name Timmy out loud. Anyway, it probably wouldn’t mean anything to McClure to tell him that Timmy was just Timmy, how he could never leave well enough alone, always conniving and conspiring over something. Instead, he pointed out Timmy’s suggestion that they help Goertz escape, have a friend in Germany.
‘Interesting idea,’ McClure said without committing himself. ‘Would require careful consideration.’
‘Dangerous if it backfired in some way.’
‘Everything’s a risk these days,’ McClure stretched himself.
‘What about offering to meet Goertz?’ Duggan asked.
‘To talk? Or to arrest him?’
‘To arrest him.’
McClure gave him one of his long disconcerting stares, thinking. But Duggan had the impression that it was tinged with disapproval this time. ‘Everything’s risky these days,’ McClure repeated at last. ‘It’s best if we play straight. Don’t create any unnecessary bad feeling.’
Duggan nodded, chastised.
‘Straightish, anyway,’ McClure gave him a crooked grin and stood up. ‘Meantime, our friend at Mrs Lynch’s gave me a call.’
Duggan stared at him, taken aback. Why was Gerda calling McClure?
‘She was looking for you. Asked for me when you weren’t here. She said she didn’t trust anyone else to give you the message.’ McClure put a question mark at the end of the sentence. Duggan made a helpless gesture with his hands. Why didn’t she trust Sullivan? he wondered. Probably because he’s been making some smart comments to her.
‘Anyway,’ McClure continued. ‘This Glenn fellow called her.’
‘That was quick.’
‘A man in a hurry,’ McClure nodded. ‘He wants to meet her. So she said she’d meet him outside the Savoy cinema. At a quarter to eight.’
‘Tonight?’
McClure nodded. Shit, Duggan thought. He’d told her not to agree to anything until they’d worked out what she was to say. ‘We could put some people onto him,’ McClure was saying. ‘Though I don’t think we’ve enough available to do a proper job. The guards say they can’t spare anyone. They’ve enough on their own plates, and they’re doing a job for us down the docks this evening.’
‘But it could be dangerous for her. To be alone.’
‘She doesn’t seem to think so,’ McClure said, pacing around the room. ‘Neither do I. As far as he’s concerned she’s a waitress who was friendly to him in an unfriendly place. And a link to the Germans he wants to communicate with.’
‘But we don’t know what he’s up to. Other than passing secret British documents to the German.’
‘This is our chance to find out. It’s too good to pass up.’
Duggan shook his head, following his own thoughts. It was still dangerous. Glenn had top-secret documents. It hardly mattered whether they were real or false. Either way, he had to be working for some organisation. Either passing secrets or sowing disinformation. And Gerda was in danger of walking into the middle of something very dangerous if they found out what she was really up to.
‘Also,’ McClure was watching him closely, ‘it’s safer for her if we don’t try anything. In case he has someone watching his back.’
Duggan shook his head again. ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’
‘Then it’s best that she be exactly what she appears to be,’ McClure said in a patient voice, aware that Duggan’s concern were not just about an operation. ‘A helpful waitress. A nice, decent girl who’s taken pity on someone who’s been treated badly. Nothing more, nothing less. That’s her best protection.’
Duggan accepted the logic of that. As long as her feelings about the Nazis didn’t get the better of her. And cause her to say something. ‘What does she say to him?’ he asked, as they slipped into playing out the meeting, with Duggan standing still in the unusual role of throwing the questions at his superior who continued to walk around the room.
‘She says she’s given the envelope he gave her to one of the Luftwaffe officers. He took it but didn’t open it in front of her. She doesn’t know what he’s done with it. She hasn’t seen him again since. But, mainly, she listens. Glenn’s asked to meet her, so …’ McClure spread his hands, inviting Glenn to make the next move.
‘And what if he asks her to do something else?’
‘Depends what it is. If it’s to deliver another message to the German internees, she takes it.’
‘And if it’s to do something else?’
‘What else could it be?’
‘Meet someone else, maybe.’
‘She acts the innocent. Who is this person?’
‘Go to the German legation for him?’
‘Why would he want her to do that? Why couldn’t he do that himself?’
‘And if he doesn’t buy her response?’
‘She doesn’t agree or disagree to anything on the spot. She indicates without saying so that she’s not keen to be involved in anything. She has to think about it. He can call her tomorrow. Or the day after. She kicks to touch. That’s her basic position.’
‘As long as she doesn’t lose her temper with him.’
McClure stopped pacing. ‘Why would she do that?’
‘Because she really hates the Nazis.’
McClure nodded to himself and walked back behind his desk. ‘You impress on her the danger in doing that.’ He sat down. ‘She’s got to be what she appears to be.’
Duggan tried to think what else Glenn might want and a hint of a smile crossed his face. ‘What?’ McClure caught it.
‘Maybe he just wants to buy her a drink,’ Duggan said.
‘I’m sure she can handle that.’
Duggan stood in the queue at the bus stop on Upper O’Connell Street, facing back down the street but really waiting for Gerda’s boss, Montague, to leave his office. The night was cold again, the street busy with the last hour of business, the old snow now blackened with grit and smuts. The pedestrians were in a hurry and wary at the same time, cautious of where they put their feet. The street was oddly empty of voices, people waiting to get home, waiting for the snow to go away, waiting for January to end, spring to come. Waiting.
A bus pulled in and half the queue got on, filling the last few seats inside and jamming the aisle. A haze of cigarette smoke, accentuated by the reduced blue lighting, shifted back and forth beneath its ceiling as it accelerated away. He checked his watch again. Almost a quarter past five. Maybe Montague had left before five, like he’d done yesterday. He glanced up at the window of Montague’s office but the bottom half was blocked by the sign for Adelaide Apartments and the top half was opaque in reflected light.
He left the queue and went to the door and ran up the steps, noting the light under the door at the top.
Gerda stood up and came around her desk as soon as he came in, flicked off the light by the door and turned the key in the lock as she put her arms around him. She stepped back and poked at his side. ‘What’s that?’
He put his palms on either side of her face and kissed her and she unbuttoned his overcoat and held it open and broke away from the kiss. She looked at the binoculars hanging over his right shoulder and felt under his jacket to the butt of the revolver under his left arm. ‘Later,’ he said in response to her inquiring look.
She took a patterned rug from behind her desk and led him into Montague’s office where the fire was still bright. ‘I put on a big fire when he was out earlier,’ she giggled. ‘He gave out to me for wasting coal and I had to say I was distracted and forgot it was so late in the day.’
They undressed each other, she leaving it to him to shrug off the holster with the heavy Webley and place it on the desk. They settled down on the rug, into the warmth of the fire and of each other and made love. They lay in each other’s arms for a long time, communicating with their fingers on each other’s bodies.
She shivered and he shifted to pull his coat over them and said, ‘You should’ve talked to me before you agreed to meet him.’
‘I know,’ she said with a sigh after a long pause, dragging herself back to the present from somewhere else. ‘But he said it had to be today.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t ask.’
She raised herself on her elbow and the flames flickered sideways in the dark depths of her eyes. He combed his fingers through her black hair, raising it and letting it fall.
‘You’re going to protect me,’ she said, amusement mixing with gratitude and tenderness.
‘You haven’t made it easy,’ he grunted. ‘We could’ve picked a better place to meet if we’d had time.’
‘Like where?’
‘I don’t know,’ he watched her hair rise with his fingers and fall away. ‘We could’ve come up with something better, safer.’
‘It’s safe over there. Always people around the cinema.’
She lowered her head onto his chest and they didn’t talk again for a while. The fire cast its teasing flickers along the underside of the mantelpiece and the ceiling and the outside world went through its rush hour and settled into its early night mode, unnoticed. He wasn’t sure if he dozed a while or not but he came back to the present when she moved her leg over him and they made love again.
