by Joe Joyce
She said something as she stepped back and let him enter, but he had no idea what it was.
The hall was wide and long and dark after the daylight outside. The woman motioned to him to stay there, and went away. He felt the drop in temperature and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. A few moments later a door closed somewhere and he heard high heels clicking on the hard floor before another woman came into view.
She was about forty and had bright red hair and a freckled face. She wore a yellow dress with flowers which matched her hair and walked with a bouncy stride that made the dress swing from side to side.
‘Senhora Figueras,’ he said. ‘I’m . . . ’
‘Maisie.’ She put her hand out with a mischievous smile. ‘And you’re Father Alphonsus’s mystery man.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Duggan smiled, shaking her cool hand.
‘He thinks you’re a spy,’ she said, tilting her head to one side, a question in her blue eyes.
‘A spy?’ Duggan stepped backwards with a surprised laugh.
‘What else?’ She gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘Everybody in Lisbon thinks everybody’s a spy these days. And you know what?’
‘What?’ he took the prompt.
She lowered her voice. ‘They’re right.’
She turned away and he followed her down the corridor and into a room which opened through French windows into a small internal courtyard with an elaborate pattern of black and white tiles. In the centre was a small fountain splashing a soothing trickle of water into a stone bowl. She waved at a chair facing the window. ‘Would you like some Russian tea?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever had Russian tea.’
‘It’s either that or gin,’ she said, sitting down opposite him, her back to the light. ‘The only things you can drink in this heat.’
‘Oh, no. Not gin,’ he said.
She gave him a knowing smile and picked up a hand bell from the small table between them and gave it a shake. The old woman appeared immediately and Maisie gave their order in Portuguese. ‘So.’ She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘Tell me your secrets.’
‘They’re not very interesting,’ Duggan offered. ‘I’m a civil servant in Dublin. Working for the government.’
She inclined her head to one side again, whether in scepticism or encouragement he could not tell. Her features were in shadow against the sunshine in the courtyard: it was less intense in there, imprisoned and tamed by the surrounding walls.
‘I’m trying to find out why some misunderstandings have arisen in America about Mr Aiken’s visit here.’
‘You want to know what the general got up to while he was here?’ she said, with a delighted tone. ‘You’re spying on General Aiken.’
‘Oh God no,’ Duggan said quickly, wishing his brain would function, so that he could bat away her banter. Interesting, though, he thought, that she referred to Aiken as ‘General’, his title from the anti-treaty IRA and the civil war. Showed where her sympathies lay. ‘Nothing like that.’
‘So what’s it like?’
Duggan was saved from having to say more by the return of the old woman with a silver tray and two glasses. She served the tea from a pot with a long spout, pouring it on top of a slice of lemon, and left.
‘Let it cool a moment,’ Maisie warned as Duggan went to taste the tea. ‘Do you have any Irish cigarettes by any chance?’
‘Yes.’ Duggan got out his cigarette case and offered her one. ‘Sweet Afton.’
‘Ah, perfect,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t much like their cigarettes here. But I have to smoke them these days. The sacrifices one has to make.’ She gave a light laugh, mocking herself. From what Duggan had seen of Lisbon’s bright lights, there weren’t too many sacrifices required in Portugal.
‘How long have you been here?’ He leaned across the table to light her cigarette, taking advantage of the opening to change the subject.
‘I thought I was asking the questions.’ She propped her right elbow on her other hand, holding the cigarette upright by her face. ‘Nearly fifteen years. Just after the old republic fell.’ She took a thoughtful drag, as if remembering.
‘The old republic was a mess and things got better after it was overthrown. Even better again since Dr Salazar came in with the New State. Keeping us out of the war, just like Mr de Valera with you. He and the general had a good chat about that. You know they met?’
Duggan nodded, although he hadn’t known.
‘Compared notes about the dreadful blockade that the British are imposing. Dr Salazar told him that the neutrals were paying for this war. It’s terrible that England and America are trying to starve us into submission just because we won’t get involved in the killing.’
Duggan took a cautious sip of his tea. Aiken didn’t make any secret of his views while in Lisbon, he thought. He wondered how much she knew of Britain’s plans to force Ireland to get involved in the war through the use of its Atlantic ports. Unless she was talking about Portugal. ‘You mean Ireland?’ he prompted.
She nodded. ‘And Portugal. Being friends with the British hasn’t done them a lot of good. But Dr Salazar won’t make the mistake they made of getting involved in the last war. He won’t be fooled into getting involved in this one.’
Duggan was aware that Portugal had fought with Britain and France in the First World War, but he wasn’t altogether clear what she was alluding to.
‘You know the British offered some of Portugal’s colonies to the Germans during the last war?’ she asked rhetorically. ‘Behind their backs. Nice friends. But we’re used to them and their devious ways, aren’t we?’
‘We are,’ he nodded. ‘You met the general at the lunch with the Dominicans?’
‘I did. And again after that. He came around here one afternoon while he was waiting for the weather to clear. He sat where you are, had some Russian tea.’
‘Did he like it?’ Duggan sipped at his glass.
‘I don’t think he’ll be introducing a new tea fashion to Dundalk,’ she smiled.
‘So you had a chat about everything?’ Duggan knew now that he was in unexplored territory, even dangerous territory. On the one hand, he knew little of what his political masters in Dublin had been told of what Aiken had done and said in Lisbon. On the other, there was every chance that news of him questioning people here about Aiken would get back to the minister. He cursed Commandant McClure for his vague order – was it even an order? – to see if he could find out who had told the Americans about what Aiken had said in Lisbon. Or even if he had said it.
Masquerading as an IRA agent with the Germans was the main objective of his mission, and the one that held obvious dangers. But this other enquiry could yet cause more difficulties. And his only protection was his false name, which wouldn’t stand up to much political investigation.
‘We certainly had,’ she agreed. ‘The general is a straight talker.’
‘What we’re anxious to find out,’ Duggan said, deciding to narrow the discussion for his own protection, to get back to issues that he could defend if necessary, ‘is how some misunderstandings got to America about what he said at the Dominicans’.’
‘What misunderstandings?’
‘They say he said he wanted Germany to win the war.’
‘Did he?’ she leaned forward to stub out her cigarette, leaving a generous broken butt in the marble ashtray.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ Duggan said, smiling at her as she looked up at him. ‘I wasn’t there.’
‘What does he say?’
‘I think he says he didn’t.’
‘You think?’
‘As far as I know. He’s still in America.’
‘What does it matter what he said?’
‘It matters because it might get in the way of achieving his aim of getting the American supplies that we need. President Roosevelt is not inclined to give help to anyone who supports Germany.’
‘He didn’t say he supported Germany.’
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nbsp; ‘They say he said he didn’t mind who won the war.’
‘Isn’t that what being neutral means?’
‘It’s not what President Roosevelt means by neutrality. He’s certainly not neutral about who he wants to win.’
‘Huh.’ She gave a dismissive snort. ‘As if the British are fighting for democracy. They only want to keep their empire.’
‘The problem is that we mightn’t get the arms we need to defend ourselves and our neutrality if the president thinks we’re sympathetic to the wrong side.’
‘You’re not going to get them from Roosevelt anyway,’ she said in a confidential tone. ‘Dr Salazar told the general that. He won’t give you any arms unless you join the British. That’s what he told Dr Salazar.’
‘What President Roosevelt told Dr Salazar?’ Duggan repeated, to be sure he was hearing her correctly.
Maisie nodded. ‘The doctor told the general that the Americans were trying to force all the neutrals to do their fighting for them. Using economic warfare to force them to give up their own neutrality while the Americans hold on to theirs. He told the general that he was wasting his time going to Washington. That was the gist of it. Of their chat.’
And Salazar was right, Duggan thought, as he put out his cigarette. It wasn’t public knowledge because of the tight newspaper censorship at home, but Aiken hadn’t got any arms. His visit to Washington had been a waste of time. Worse, it had left relations with the Americans in a state of near hostility. ‘It seems like the well had been poisoned before the general ever got to Washington,’ he said.
‘Well, you know who did that?’
‘Who?’
‘The British. As usual.’
‘Were any of them at the Dominicans’ lunch?’
‘They didn’t need to be there,’ she said. ‘They had their lackey.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Maud Browne.’ She sat back in her chair as if she had made the decisive move in a game of chess.
‘Who’s she?’
‘Senhora Ferro. A Castle Catholic. From Dublin. Married to a bigwig in the foreign ministry here, Agostinho Ferro. A West Brit like herself. They’re bosom friends with the British ambassador and all the rest of them. At all their embassy cocktail parties, the king’s birthday and all the rest of it.’
‘Was he there too?’
‘Of course,’ she said, as if that was obvious. ‘They’re great supporters of the church. Go to Mass in Corpo Santo every Sunday. Give to all the appeals. Get invited to everything.’
Duggan finished his tea. Maisie, who had hardly touched hers, watched him replace his empty glass. ‘Stay for lunch,’ she said.
‘I can’t,’ he said, surprised. ‘I’d love to. But I’ve got to meet someone.’
‘Interrogating another innocent woman?’
‘Are there innocent women in Lisbon?’
She gave a dirty chuckle. ‘Tell me if you find one.’
‘I’ll keep an eye out.’
‘Tomorrow, then.’
He shook his head with regret. ‘My ship’s sailing in the morning.’
‘The story of my life.’ She laughed lightly as she stood up. ‘Anyway’ – she held out her hand and he took it – ‘Maud’s your spy.’
He nodded. ‘Thanks for the tea and the talk.’
She let go of his hand and led him to the corridor. ‘You should get the government to open a legation here. Then you wouldn’t have to ask questions like that. You’d know the answers already. The lie of the land.’
‘Father Alphonsus said the same thing.’
She opened the hall door to the searing sunlight. ‘Maybe they’ll give you a job here.’
‘I’ll bring you some Afton if they do.’
‘I’ll expect a constant supply.’ She raised a hand in a fluttering farewell and closed the door.
Duggan set off down the hill, hoping to come across a Number 28 tram, which would take him back to Alfama. It seemed that Aiken had left some hostages to fortune in Lisbon, whatever he had said. But, if Maisie’s account of his talk with Salazar was correct, it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. The Americans were not going to sell any arms to neutrals.
He came out beside the basilica at Estrela, saw the tram stop in the middle of the road in front of the park and joined a short queue. A small tram came up the hill, going the wrong direction for him. It seemed to heave itself slowly over the brow and then glide towards them, almost dainty on its narrow wheels. He glanced at his watch and relaxed: there was plenty of time for his appointment in Antonio’s with Strasser.
A tram marked ‘M. Moniz’ arrived. He found a single seat free on the right-hand side and it headed downhill at speed, creating a cooling breeze through the open windows. He wondered about Maisie and her flirting. Was she just a bored housewife, or something else? Was everybody in Lisbon a spy, as she said? If so, who could she be working for?
She’d obviously spoken to Father Alphonsus before he arrived. She had known what he wanted, and had an answer ready. Which was probably Father Alphonsus’s answer as well, though he didn’t want to be the one to give him Maud Browne’s name. Whether her information was true was another matter. There was clearly no love lost between the two women. Rivals in some way, for all he knew. Maybe rival husbands or just rivals in Irish terms, from different classes, geographical areas, political backgrounds. Even if she was right about Maud Browne, he couldn’t see how G2 or the Irish diplomats in the United States could use it to their advantage. Blaming the Brits without some kind of definitive proof wouldn’t change Roosevelt’s mind. Even with definitive proof, it probably wouldn’t lead to an American change of heart. But proof could be useful to have anyway.
The tram slowed as it went down the hill into Praça Luis Camões. It let off some passengers there and then took another downward plunge, towards the river. It levelled out through Baixa and began to climb into Alfama. You should be more worried about Strasser, Duggan told himself. There was every possibility that the Germans would turn nasty if they realised that he wasn’t who he pretended to be. But there was no reason why they should. Unless there was a tripwire in Goertz’s code that G2 hadn’t been aware of.
Sweat was beginning to break out on his forehead again by the time he walked up the final steep hill to Antonio’s pub. He stopped outside for a moment to catch his breath and then ducked under the low door. Three of the crewmen from his ship were at the bar, including the cook. One saw him and said something to the others with a knowing laugh. Duggan ignored them and walked over to Strasser, who was sitting in the alcove, looking displeased.
‘Am I late?’ Duggan sat down opposite him.
‘Do they know who you are?’ Strasser flicked his eyes towards the bar without moving his head.
He looked the same as the previous day: the same suit, the same hat on the table beside a small coffee cup.
‘No.’
‘Who do they think you are?’
‘A smuggler.’ Duggan shrugged and took out his cigarette case. ‘Who do they think you are?’
‘Dermot’s supplier,’ Strasser said, accepting a cigarette from Duggan’s proffered case.
‘And I’m Dermot’s stand-in.’
Strasser flicked a silver lighter and held it out for Duggan to light his cigarette. ‘Your message was very interesting.’
Duggan said nothing, picking a stray shred of tobacco from his lip.
‘You don’t know what it said?’
Duggan shook his head. ‘I told you. Dr Goertz hasn’t shared the code with us.’
‘He wants a radio and arrangements for the reception and transmission of messages.’
‘OK.’
‘A strange request from a man in prison, don’t you think?’
Duggan shrugged, looking bewildered. ‘What does he want to do with it?’
‘He doesn’t want it for himself. He wants you people to have it, to be the conduit between us and him and other agents he says he has put in place.’
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nbsp; ‘OK,’ Duggan said again, as if he was absorbing this information for the first time.
‘You think he can run agents from a prison cell?’
‘We have a very good communications system with people in there. It’s been there a long time, as I told you before. And Dr Goertz has a lot of friends in Ireland. People were very impressed with him.’
‘Were you?’
‘I never had the chance to meet him,’ Duggan said truthfully. Although he had been closely involved in the search for Goertz, he hadn’t come face to face with him. ‘He usually dealt with army-council members.’
Strasser pushed his untouched cup away. ‘You know the Metropole Hotel in Rossio Square?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Be there at five o’clock this afternoon. On the terrace.’
‘OK.’
‘And you’ll want the usual things? For your friends?’ He gave a faint nod towards the bar.
‘Yes, please.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘Whatever is usual. Cigarettes, tea, coffee.’
‘We don’t do tea. English cigarettes or American?’
‘English are probably better.’
Strasser stood up, took his hat and put it on his head in one fluid movement, and walked out. Duggan wandered over to the bar, smiling with relief. I’ve done it, he thought. They’ve fallen for it. One of the crew slapped him on the shoulder and told him to have a drink.
‘No thanks. I need your cure,’ he said to the cook.
‘Fuck that,’ the cook said, already drunk, or maybe still drunk from the night before. ‘Hair of the dog.’
Duggan inserted himself between Jenkins and the others and said in a low voice, ‘Is there any problem getting stuff on board?’
Jenkins shook his head. ‘They don’t care. They’ll let you walk in with anything you like. As long as it’s not too big.’
‘No, you can’t bring her back with you,’ one of the other crewmen laughed.
‘Bring back anything you want as long as it’s not the pox,’ the cook added.
Duggan got a tram running along by the docks to Belém and got off just before a huge prow-shaped wooden monument to Portuguese explorers. He’d gone back to the post office, found Agostinho Ferro, Maud Browne’s husband, in the phone book and checked the address against a street directory. The afternoon was heavy with heat, though there was a suggestion of a breeze from the sea, and the streets were
