Echobeat

by Joe Joyce

  She stared at him for a moment, then fished out another list, picked up a pencil and circled one line and handed the page to him. He glanced at it. It was a list of houses to rent. He didn’t recognise the address she’d circled but knew the area vaguely. Sandymount.

  ‘It’s very quiet there,’ she said. ‘I had to show it to somebody but they decided against it. It was too quiet.’

  ‘You have the keys?’

  She opened the shallow drawer in front of her and picked a set of keys from the rows there, all of them with a little cardboard tag. She held them up and he went to take them. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I better keep them. In case someone looks for them.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘Tell him to meet us there.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The evening he calls. Whatever time suits you.’

  She stared at him, still holding the keys.

  ‘What?’ he held her gaze.

  ‘It’s dangerous. He’s a fascist.’

  ‘You needn’t come,’ he said, leaning his hands on her desk and bending forward.

  ‘Then how will you pretend to be a German?’

  ‘I just will. Speak English with a German accent.’

  She shook her head with a short laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny? You pretend to speak English with a Cork accent.’

  She punched him on the shoulder and he caught her wrist and pulled her towards him.

  The colonel sat ramrod straight behind his desk, his posture at odds with the grey exhaustion on his face and the dark circles under his eyes. ‘At ease,’ he waved at a couple of chairs behind McClure and Duggan as they stood to attention.

  They relaxed and pulled forward two chairs. ‘Long journey, sir?’ McClure asked as they sat down.

  ‘Endless delays on the trains,’ the colonel said. ‘Stuck near Crewe for a couple of hours. They had to hold the Aer Lingus plane an hour for me in Liverpool.’

  ‘How does London look?’

  ‘Didn’t see much of it. Damage is terrible. Morale all right, apparently. But some concerns about people becoming fatalistic. The growing number who don’t bother taking shelter during raids anymore. Feel if they’re going to die, they’re going to die.’ He shrugged. ‘You look up those newspaper reports?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Duggan said, leaning forward to place the copies on the desk. He had gone through them more carefully earlier, reading the most detailed one in the Irish Press first. But it was as his hasty first impression had suggested: there were no details of the information Anna Wolkoff had tried to send to Berlin to Lord Haw-Haw or of what Tyler Kent had taken from the US embassy. The judge had said that Kent’s offence did not relate to any actual military or naval movements but to four highly confidential documents. He saw Wolkoff’s offence as more serious because she had tried to send a document to a traitor in Berlin. He had added, ‘I take into consideration the fact that you have undoubtedly been led to do this by this anti-Jewish obsession on your part, a virus which had got into your system and had destroyed your mental and moral fibre.’

  The reports in the other papers had been less detailed but one line in the Irish Independent had caught Duggan’s attention. Tyler Kent was believed to be partly of Irish ancestry, it said. Which led Duggan to wonder if that was why Roddy Glenn was in Ireland.

  The colonel read through them and put them aside. ‘Right,’ he steepled his fingers. ‘I mentioned to our friends over there that a Mrs Agnes Smith in Chelsea had come to our attention. As part of routine checks on the mail. Their ears pricked up at that, though they pretended at first that the name didn’t mean much to them. But,’ he gave a wry smile, ‘they came back to Mrs Smith again later. In a casual way.

  ‘Anyway, the story came out finally. This Mrs Smith is on the periphery of a group called the Right Club, led by a Conservative MP from somewhere in Scotland. A Captain Archibald Ramsay, who was interned last summer because of his anti-Semitic views and his support for Hitler’s thesis that the war is the result of a Jewish conspiracy. He had gathered some like-minded people around him, notably this Wolkoff woman, and they had caught the interest of the young American diplomat, Kent, who began to provide them with information about secret correspondence between the British and the Americans. Or, more precisely, between Mr Churchill and President Roosevelt.

  ‘Wolkoff tried to send some of these messages to Lord Haw-Haw to get the Germans to publicise them. And to let Americans know that Roosevelt was playing a double game, telling his voters before the election in November that he would not involve them in the European war while plotting with Churchill to give Britain more support and even to become involved.’

  He paused and looked from one to the other. ‘Wolkoff and Kent were arrested and the Americans waived his diplomatic immunity and put both of them on trial in October in the final weeks of the US election campaign, as the Right Club increased their efforts to contact German agents and other intermediaries. You know the result,’ he waved an index finger towards the newspaper reports.

  ‘Why is Roddy Glenn still trying to get these documents to the Germans?’ McClure asked. ‘The election’s over now. Roosevelt’s back in office. Even Wilkie’s on his side now.’

  ‘And increasing the pressure on the Germans,’ the colonel nodded. ‘But things like the Churchill letter we’ve seen could still embarrass him. And perhaps even block his current efforts to have his lend and lease plan put through Congress at the end of the month. There’ve been reports about it in the last few days.’

  Jesus, Duggan thought, remembering the headlines he had scanned but hadn’t read. He dragged up his shadowy mental picture of Glenn across snowy O’Connell Street, talking to Gerda. It was hard to imagine he could really have an effect on the war. But he could.

  ‘Glenn is a member of this Right Club?’ McClure was asking.

  ‘We can assume that for the moment,’ the colonel said. ‘But I don’t know for a fact. I haven’t told our London friends anything about him. Just that something about a postcard to Mrs Smith had aroused our mail censors’ suspicion. I didn’t know what exactly. And I didn’t have a copy of it with me.’

  ‘They’ll probably pick it up on their side,’ McClure offered. ‘If they’re keeping an eye on her.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the colonel said. ‘And we can presume they’ve concluded that we know more about this than we’ve let on at the moment.’ He rubbed his face in is hands but failed to bring any colour back into it. ‘This Right Club has caused a lot of gossip in the inner circles over there about who belongs to it. Some important people, apparently, who want Britain to make peace with Hitler. Maybe even join him in an anti-Bolshevik crusade. A list of its members was apparently found in Kent’s flat when they arrested him. Set the cat among the pigeons. You can imagine the rumours about who’s on it. A veritable fifth column of possibly influential people.’

  ‘We don’t know if Glenn is on it?’

  The colonel shook his head. ‘That’s one of the possible lines of inquiry. If and when we tell the British about him.’ They lapsed into silence again, broken by the colonel saying, ‘Your thoughts?’

  ‘It’d be interesting to see more of Glenn’s documents,’ McClure said. ‘Now that we have confirmation that they’re authentic.’

  The colonel nodded and looked at Duggan.

  ‘One of the newspaper reports said Kent might have Irish connections,’ Duggan offered.

  The colonel nodded with a sigh. ‘I don’t know anything about that. That’s another line of inquiry we can pursue with the British if and when we tell them about Glenn.’

  ‘I hope he’s not a relation of Father Coughlin,’ McClure said. The Irish-American Father Charles Coughlin was one of the leaders of the isolationist campaign in the US to keep America out of the war. ‘That wouldn’t help us with President Roosevelt.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ the colonel said. ‘External Affairs wants a final briefing from us in the morning. Before Mr Aiken leaves for Washington the day after tomorrow.�
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  ‘I presume we don’t need to tell them about the Right Club,’ McClure said.

  ‘Not at this stage,’ the colonel agreed. ‘Just that we are confident that this letter from Churchill to Roosevelt is genuine and the Minister can expect to be pressured about the ports issue.’

  ‘We’re hoping Glenn will come back to us with more documents in the next few days, sir,’ Duggan said.

  ‘I doubt he’ll have anything more to give us,’ the colonel said. ‘I’d be surprised if MI5 will let Mrs Smith send him any more. Or more genuine ones, at any rate. Assuming the British have intercepted the postcard to her and read its secret message.’

  ‘You think this could still be a disinformation operation, sir?’ Duggan continued.

  The colonel thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think it has been up to now. But that could change. The British now know that there is someone acting on behalf of the Right Club in Ireland. They don’t know yet that we know who it is. And I suggest we try and find out as much as we can before we alert them to Glenn’s identity. If we ever do. Meanwhile, we’ll send them a copy of the postcard sent to Mrs Smith. Which, as you say, they’ve probably intercepted.’

  ‘But it’ll show willing,’ McClure smiled.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the colonel reciprocated with a wry smile and pushed his chair back. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Duggan muttered as they went headed for the stairs down to their own floor.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is a tricky business.’

  ‘I thought you’d realised that months ago.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Duggan said. ‘But maybe not just how tricky.’

  ‘The higher the floor,’ McClure took the top step first, ‘the trickier it gets.’

  Maybe it’s the other way around, Duggan thought as he followed him. The higher up, the clearer the view. And the lower down the more confusing everything appeared.

  He thought of telling McClure about his plan to meet Glenn but he was in two minds about it. Fear that McClure would veto it had stopped him so far. Or, even worse, that he would use it as part of a full-scale operation with the guards to pick up Glenn. Which would involve Gerda, revealing her true identity to a wide range of people. Unless he could keep her away from it altogether. But Glenn would be suspicious if she wasn’t there. Might not appear at all.

  At least it was clear now that Glenn wasn’t a British agent: if he was he wouldn’t have been trying to send amateurish messages to a Right Club contact. So there was little or no risk in his plan; the worst that would happen would be Glenn seeing through his impersonation of a German and refusing to talk. Which wouldn’t leave them much worse off than they were.

  He was still trying to work out all the angles as he arrived in his office. Sullivan was standing over the table, his palms flat on its top, and reading the Evening Herald. He straightened up as soon as Duggan entered and checked his watch. ‘Good,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing?’ Duggan nodded at the special telephone.

  ‘Not a peek,’ Sullivan was all dressed up, wearing a smart suit with a red tie and his hair had been Brylcreemed with care.

  ‘Big date?’

  Sullivan gave a half-shrug, an embarrassed confirmation. ‘Going to get one of the old hansom cabs from the station. Pick her up in about forty minutes.’

  ‘Where’re you taking her?’

  ‘Jammet’s.’

  Duggan gave a low whistle. So it was a big date.

  ‘Finally got her on her own,’ Sullivan said. He didn’t seem in a great hurry to leave. ‘She and Breda are like Siamese twins. And that American fellow keeps tagging along too.’

  ‘That’s still going strong?’

  ‘Missed your chance there,’ Sullivan said.

  ‘Story of my life,’ Duggan said, without meaning, as he sat down and the realisation struck him. ‘You’re going to pop the question.’

  ‘I’m wondering whether to do it in the cab,’ Sullivan shifted from foot to foot. ‘On the way there.’

  ‘Why not in the restaurant?’

  ‘Lot of people there.’

  ‘It’s an expensive place, isn’t it?’ Duggan had never been there. ‘Surely there’s lots of room between the tables.’

  ‘Maybe. I haven’t been there before.’

  ‘And if that doesn’t work, do it in the cab on the way home.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Sullivan looked undecided.

  ‘Show me the ring. You got it there?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Congratulations anyway.’

  ‘She hasn’t said yes yet.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she?’ Duggan smiled. ‘Aren’t you good for the widow’s pension?’

  ‘Jaysus,’ Sullivan gave a mirthless laugh and checked his watch again. ‘Wish me luck.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Sullivan left, like a reluctant volunteer going on an unwelcome mission. Duggan shook his head with a smile, wondering why Sullivan was so uncertain about it. If I was heading off to propose to Gerda I’d be in seventh heaven, he thought. He looked at his watch and considered calling around to her. But he couldn’t afford to leave the phone unattended. He had better wait for a couple of hours anyway. And, by then, it would be too late to call on her.

  He lit a cigarette, tipped back his chair, threw his feet up on the table, and watched the smoke curl to the yellowed ceiling. Wouldn’t it be great if they could just go out on a date, he thought. Without work or Glenn or the German internees or the war hanging over their every meeting. It was never far away, even when they were lost in each other. But then he would never have met her. The real her, the one she kept hidden from everyone.

  He inhaled some smoke and let it drift back out of his mouth. The thing now was to get her away from all of that as soon as possible, help her to forget her own past. And protect her public identity. The moment of truth was probably coming in the war. In the spring. When the Germans made their next move. Which would have to be the invasion of Britain. And maybe of Ireland. But they wouldn’t even need to invade Ireland if Britain fell. Unless it could all be decided in North Africa. But that was unlikely. It would have to come back to Europe. And if Britain fell the Germans could just dictate terms to Ireland. Which would leave Gerda in a dangerous position if her real identity was known to many people. Who knew who would side with the new order once it became established?

  The only way to protect her was to get her away from the Glenn business as soon as possible and as discreetly as possible. And the only way to do that was to wrap it up quickly without the involvement of anyone who didn’t already know her true identity. Which, as far as he knew, was only McClure and probably the colonel. And the intelligence officer in Southern Command who had first put them onto her.

  He leaned forward to stub out the butt in the metal ashtray and a thought struck him. He pulled the phone over by its cable and asked the switchboard for the main telephone exchange. When he was put through he asked for the supervisor, identified himself, gave the supervisor Gerda’s office number.

  ‘Is there an intercept on that line?’ he asked.

  ‘Hold on,’ the man said.

  Duggan twisted the phone cord around his finger while he waited for him to return.

  ‘No,’ the man said when he came back. ‘Will you be wanting one on it?’

  ‘Ah, no,’ Duggan said. ‘Thanks.’

  At least Anderson hadn’t gone that far in his pursuit of Gerda. There was no need to worry that he would overhear any arrangements she made with Glenn.

  He dropped his feet to the floor, stood up and went to a cupboard to find the Ordnance Survey map covering the Sandymount area. It took him a while to find the address of the house for rent that Gerda had given him. He memorised its location and how to get there and decided to drive by it later. It was better than sitting here, just waiting. And it was never any harm to reconnoitre the ground.

  Eighteen

  ‘Flights are resuming from Foynes to Lisbon tomorrow mo
rning,’ Pól Ó Murchú said in the formal manner of a head waiter laying out the evening instructions for staff. He was in a brisk mood this morning, no longer under the burdens that seemed to have oppressed him during their last meeting. ‘Mr Aiken will be on the first flight out, stay a day or two in Lisbon and be in Washington at the start of next week.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ McClure said. He and Duggan were across the desk from him, in their usual chairs in his office.

  ‘His main task is to buy the weapons and military supplies and ships we need. But,’ Ó Murchú picked up the copy of the letter from Churchill to Roosevelt, ‘his most difficult task will be to counter the British attempts to get the US to put pressure on us over the ports. We know from some of our friends in the Democratic Party that the President is somewhat impatient with our position. Even though it’s the very same as his own official position, neutrality. Mr Aiken will have his work cut out to explain it to him.’

  He paused and looked at them in silence for a moment. ‘You have nothing more to add to this document?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ McClure said. ‘We were hoping to get further information, documents, but that now appears unlikely. But we may be able to learn some more from the source of this letter.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘We don’t think he has access to any more similar documents but he may have seen some others. Or at least heard people talking about them.’

  Ó Murchú gave that a moment’s consideration. ‘In what way do you think he might add to our knowledge about the situation?’

  ‘I can’t say, sir,’ McClure shook his head. ‘I can’t even be sure that he will add anything to our knowledge. All we have confirmed at this stage is that the letter to President Roosevelt is genuine.’

  ‘We’ve assumed that all along,’ Ó Murchú sighed with disapproval at their failure to tell him something new. ‘It chimes with everything we know about both Mr Churchill and President Roosevelt. Anything new on this German parachutist?’

  ‘We’re hoping for a breakthrough in the near future.’