Echowave (Echoland Book 3)

by Joe Joyce

  He sipped the sweet tea and watched an optimistic gull circle behind them, waiting for them to dump some waste overboard. His first visit abroad had given him a taste for more. And a greater sense of a city at peace, all lit up and far enough away not to fear accidental bombs from incompetent navigators or confused bomber crews. Was that how Gerda found New York? he wondered. A safe haven where normal life went on, far distant from global politics and war?

  He lit a cigarette, the first and always the best of the day, and thought about what he had accomplished. He had carried out his main mission successfully, set up contact with the Germans, and found out enough about his other task to know that Frank Aiken had made compromising comments in Lisbon. It was doubtful that he had actually said that he wanted Germany to win the war, but he had been clear enough about his belief that Britain shouldn’t win outright to allow someone to make that claim. And to make it difficult to refute, even if it was not strictly accurate. The ship ran with the tide and he walked around the deck, cautiously testing his sea legs.

  In the days that followed, he relaxed as if he was on a cruise, sitting with his back to the wheelhouse, finishing the Frank O’Connor short stories, chatting with the crew members who now accepted him as one of their group after the drunken nights in the bar, and sometimes just lying back and looking at the cloudless sky as the ship rose and fell with the slow swells.

  The only sign of the war was a distant plume of black smoke away to the east, in the Bay of Biscay, on their second day out. ‘God be good to the poor souls,’ one of the crew muttered as they stood and watched it for a little while. It was difficult to believe that danger could be lurking unseen beneath the waves or appear out of the blue sky with scarcely a moment’s notice.

  On their third day out, a Sunday, the captain appeared in front of him as he sat on the deck in his usual position. Duggan was reading the Maurice Walsh novel he had borrowed from the captain in return for the Frank O’Connor stories. ‘Have you heard the news?’ the captain asked.

  Duggan looked up and shaded his eyes against the sun.

  ‘The Germans have invaded Russia,’ the captain said.

  Duggan stared at him, and neither man said anything for a moment.

  ‘Crossed the border at four this morning,’ the captain added then. ‘On a thousand-mile front, they say.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Duggan swore, thinking that that was almost beyond imagining. But it means we’re safe for the moment, he thought. The Germans can’t open two fronts at the one time if one is on that scale. Which means they can’t invade England or Ireland at the moment. Until they finish with the Russians. And then there will be no stopping them.

  ‘That’ll put the cat among the pigeons,’ the captain added.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘They’re fighting the communists now. A lot of people weren’t happy that they were aligning themselves with the communists.’

  Duggan nodded, aware that many people in Ireland were wary of the Nazis because of Hitler’s alliance with Stalin and their opposition to religion. ‘You think it’ll make more people support Germany?’ he asked.

  ‘Could do,’ the captain said. ‘People’d like to see the communists beaten after all they’ve done to the Church.’

  ‘Herr Hitler isn’t too keen on religion either,’ Duggan offered.

  ‘True enough. But he hasn’t persecuted priests like the communists.’

  It was an opportunity for the British too, Duggan was thinking, to open up another front on the Continent, maybe try and get a foothold back in France. But they were too weak to take it. Still, it should help them in the Middle East, maybe divert German forces away from there if the Russians put up a fight.

  ‘Anyhow,’ the captain shrugged, a confirmation of the irrelevance of their opinions. ‘You enjoying the book?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Duggan, picking it up. ‘More than halfway through it already.’

  ‘There’s another of his in my cabin if you want it.’

  ‘I will at the rate I’m going. You like the O’Connor stories?’

  ‘Remind me of some people I know,’ the captain nodded. ‘But I’m rationing myself to one a day now. Keep me going till we get home.’

  The Fastnet lighthouse came into view that night, and the following day they saw the south-west coast of Ireland and kept it within sight as they steamed eastwards. The days were still bright and the sky blue, but the temperature had dropped, and Duggan now sat with a sweater on and sheltered at the sunny side of the wheelhouse from a cooler north-westerly breeze. As they went by the Waterford coast, he took a spare pair of binoculars and joined the lookout on the bridge scanning the waters ahead for mines drifting landwards from the British minefield in the Western Approaches. He saw nothing.

  A British Hudson circled them once as they passed the Tuskar Rock in the Irish Sea, waggled its wings, and continued its patrol.

  They followed two trawlers towards the Welsh coast and into Milford Haven. They kept going towards Pembroke, past the RAF flying-boat station, where a huge Sunderland wallowed at anchor like an obese bird, and edged towards a dock. ‘Bloody waste of diesel this,’ Jenkins said as he waited to cast a mooring line ashore. ‘Having to come in here every time.’

  Duggan watched a gang of workmen shovelling gravel into a bomb crater farther down the quay, as the ship sidled in and was tied up. A car pulled up beside the ship and two men got out and stood there, waiting. As soon as the gangway was put ashore they climbed on board and went to the bridge. A few minutes later the captain’s voice on the tannoy ordered all hands on deck. Jenkins muttered a curse.

  ‘What?’ Duggan asked. ‘Is this usual?’

  Jenkins shook his head. ‘Just a formality about the navicert usually. Captain talks to them.’

  ‘To those guys?’

  Jenkins shook his head again. ‘Naval types usually.’

  Half a dozen of the crew gathered on deck and the captain led the wheel-man and the two newcomers down from the bridge to join them. ‘Is this everybody?’ one of the men demanded.

  ‘The chief engineer and one of his lads are still in the engine room,’ the captain said. ‘They’re busy, closing down turbines.’

  Two uniformed policemen stepped on deck and stood on either side of the gangway like sentinels. The plainclothes men walked around the loose group of crewmen, inspecting each one. When they had finished, one pointed at Duggan and said, ‘You. Come with us.’

  ‘What’s this about?’ the captain demanded as Duggan stepped forward.

  ‘Not your concern, captain,’ the man retorted.

  ‘But I can’t afford to wait here,’ the captain protested. ‘We’ve got perishables on board.’

  ‘No reason for you to wait. You can be on your way as soon as you clear the navicert with the naval authorities.’

  ‘I have to wait for my crew,’ the captain said.

  ‘You can’t afford to wait that long,’ the second man said. He took Duggan by the elbow and led him over to the uniformed policemen.

  ‘Where are you taking him?’ the captain demanded.

  ‘Where’s his cabin?’ the first man responded.

  The captain paused as if he was going to argue, but then decided against it. ‘Show him,’ he said in a quiet voice to Jenkins.

  One of the policemen indicated to Duggan that he should come with them, and he followed them down the gangway, wondering what this was all about. It certainly wasn’t part of the plan.

  The policemen put him in the back of their patrol car and drove towards the gates to the docks.

  ‘Will we show him the sights?’ the driver asked his colleague as he stopped at the junction.

  ‘Aye, do that, Jack,’ the passenger replied. ‘Let him see what his friends have been up to.’

  The driver turned right and then took a left, and the damaged houses began to increase in number.

  So that’s it, Duggan thought. They think I’m in the IRA; they’ve fallen for my cover story. Someone in Lisb
on must have tipped them off. But who? That woman, Maud Browne, the one who probably told them about Aiken and his lack of enthusiasm for a British victory. But why would she have assumed that he was in the IRA? She mightn’t have accepted his claim that he worked for the government but there was no reason why she should have jumped to the conclusion that he was an IRA agent. Unless she didn’t see or care about the distinction between the government and the IRA. All rebels to her.

  Or it could have been the Germans. Or one of the crew.

  ‘There’s Laws Street on the left now,’ the passenger was saying, like a tour guide. ‘The McKensies and the Reynolds used to live there. And here’s Gwyther Street.’ The driver turned into it. ‘That’s where the Bazels lived and the Dunns and Mrs Lenham. Before they were all killed.’

  ‘And the young Lenham lad,’ the driver added. ‘Only an infant.’

  ‘Aye,’ the passenger chorused. ‘Eighteen months.’

  Duggan watched the passing houses, noting how some of the ruins looked new, not yet weathered or tidied up, still bearing the signs of quick searches and freshly burned timbers. He’d seen similar scenes in Dublin only a month earlier, on the North Strand, and even remembered the names of some of the dead: the Browne family, three children and their parents and granny; and the Fitzpatricks, another extended family of infants, parents and grandparents. He said nothing.

  They turned left at the end of the road, then right again and reached the police station. The policemen led him into a room and told him to empty his pockets. He did so, taking out his passport, cigarette case, lighter, some coins, including a few Portuguese escudos, and a set of keys.

  ‘That’s it?’ the driver said, sounding disappointed, as the other policeman opened the passport. They were both middle-aged and had sing-song Welsh accents. They seemed almost happy to be dealing with him. Better than dealing with the aftermath of bombing raids, Duggan decided.

  ‘And the watch,’ the driver ordered.

  Duggan opened the catch and put it on the table.

  ‘Occupation,’ the other policeman intoned, reading the passport. ‘Bomber.’

  The driver gave a harsh laugh. ‘But really?’

  ‘Able seaman.’

  ‘He’s no seaman.’ The other policeman started to search Duggan, patting him down. ‘I’ve seen enough seamen in my time to know that. You can smell them.’ He unbuckled Duggan’s belt, standing up close to him, and pulled it free. ‘You don’t smell like any seaman I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Take out your shoelaces,’ the driver ordered him.

  After Duggan had done so, the other policeman pushed him towards the door. ‘Can I take my cigarettes?’ Duggan asked.

  The driver snapped open the cigarette case and shook his head. ‘Looks like an offensive weapon to me.’

  ‘Give him one,’ the other policeman suggested. ‘It might be a while before those gentlemen are ready for him.’

  The driver let Duggan pick an Afton from the case. He reached for the lighter.

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ The driver knocked Duggan’s arm away. He picked up the lighter and flicked it to light Duggan’s cigarette.

  They led him down stone stairs to the basement and into a narrow cell and locked the door. Duggan sat on the bunk bed, a solid piece of wood attached to the wall and covered with a grey blanket, and leaned back against the cold stone wall. He inhaled a little smoke, trying to make the cigarette last, while he pondered this turn of events.

  The only people who thought he was in the IRA were the two Germans he had met. Could one of them be a double agent? Or could they be British agents pretending to be Germans? The radio the second German had given him was of British make, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. The Germans probably had plenty of them since the fall of France. And if they were British agents, wouldn’t they want to compromise the IRA by giving it a German-made transmitter?

  The other possibility was that one of the crewmen had fingered him. They didn’t know who he really was, but he’d picked up one or two hints that some of them suspected he was an IRA man, probably on an arms-buying mission. He considered each of them, but none was an obvious suspect. Which left Maud Browne as the most likely informant. Clearly, she was pro-British and most likely to have informed them about him, though it still wasn’t clear to him why she should have assumed he was in the IRA.

  He could feel the heat of the cigarette on his fingers as the butt burned down lower than usual. He held it between the nails of his thumb and forefinger to get a last drag, and then dropped it on the stone floor and ground it out with a loose shoe. He waited.

  Five

  The long midsummer twilight was finally fading into night when they came for him. Duggan had moved the pillow to the other end of the bunk so he could lie down looking at the small semi-circular window high up on the wall. It was barred and looked out on ground level. An occasional pair of feet passed by and, once, a car’s wheel.

  ‘The gentlemen are ready for you now,’ the policeman said when he opened the door, once again dragging out the word as if it was some kind of joke.

  Duggan’s stomach rumbled as he dropped his legs to the floor and stood up. He reckoned it was about eleven o’clock or maybe later, and he’d had nothing to eat in the seven or so hours since he’d been detained. They went upstairs to a nondescript interview room with a pitted wooden table and a chair on either side. One of the Special Branch men from the ship was sitting at the table, and the other was leaning against the wall behind the second chair. Duggan’s passport lay on the centre of the table, as if it had been placed with as much care as a centrepiece.

  The seated one indicated the chair opposite him and Duggan sat down. They stared at each other in silence, each waiting for the other to speak first. The Branch man was in his early thirties, of military age, but, Duggan assumed, exempt from service because of his job. He had a lean face, short dark hair cut in military fashion, and intelligent brown eyes.

  The Branch man took out a cigarette, lit it, leaned back in his chair and blew smoke at the bulb in the upturned-saucer-style light-shade above the table. Duggan bit his lip against his craving for a cigarette, which was more insistent than his hunger.

  ‘Don’t you want to know why you’re here?’ the detective asked at last, directing another plume of smoke at the light.

  ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘Because you’ve been consorting with the enemy, conspiring against His Majesty’s government, and planning acts of war against the realm.’

  Duggan almost laughed at the overblown rhetoric but restricted himself to an incredulous, ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry.’ The Branch man gave a fake smile. ‘Your style is more bicycle bombs aimed at pensioners coming out of post offices, isn’t it?’

  Duggan shook his head.

  ‘What were you doing in Lisbon?’

  ‘Working on the ship.’

  ‘There wasn’t much work to be done while you were in port.’

  ‘Did a bit of drinking ashore. A bit of sightseeing.’

  ‘And what sights did you see?’

  Duggan shrugged. ‘A bit of Lisbon. The squares. Main avenues.’

  ‘Never had the pleasure myself. Nice city, is it?’

  ‘Seemed nice. What I saw of it.’

  ‘How would you compare it to other cities?’

  ‘I haven’t seen any other cities.’

  ‘This was your first time,’ the Branch man said, nodding as if this was a revelation to him. ‘And why did you pick Lisbon for your first foray abroad?’

  ‘That’s where the ship was going. The ship that took me on as a deckhand.’

  ‘So you’d just go anywhere? Wherever the urge took you?’

  ‘I signed up with the one that’d take me. There aren’t that many jobs in Ireland.’

  ‘So it was your first time at sea?’

  Duggan nodded. They don’t know anything, he thought, haven’t found the transmitter. But they could be just toying with me. Waiting to
get down to the real business once they’ve lulled me into a false sense of security.

  ‘Did you like it? Fall in love with the sailor’s life?’

  Duggan shook his head. ‘I was seasick half the time.’

  ‘So you won’t be going again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Going back to what you did before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which was what?’

  ‘Farming.’

  ‘You’re a farmer?

  Duggan nodded.

  ‘Who wanted to be a sailor?’

  ‘I thought I’d give it a try.’

  ‘And you’ve tried it and had enough of it?’

  Duggan nodded again.

  ‘What were you doing in Lisbon?’

  ‘Waiting for the ship to load.’

  ‘And having a chat with your German friends?’

  ‘I don’t have any German friends.’

  ‘Oh, I understand,’ the Branch man said, tipping the ash from his cigarette with a delicate touch against the side of the metal ashtray. ‘They’re not friends. Your German masters.’

  Duggan shook his head, looking confused. ‘I don’t know any Germans.’

  ‘Who were those Germans you were talking to then?’

  ‘What Germans?’

  ‘The ones you met.’

  ‘I didn’t meet any Germans.’

  ‘Who did you think they were?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The people you met.’

  ‘The people in the bar? I don’t know. Just people in a bar.’

  ‘What bar was that?’

  ‘Place called Antonio’s.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know the name of the street.’

  The Branch man sat back and shook his head as though he was disappointed. ‘You don’t know anything.’

  ‘I don’t know why I’m here.’

  ‘Because you’re a member of the so-called Irish Republican Army,’ the detective said, widening his eyes in mock surprise. ‘A “volunteer”. Isn’t that what you call yourselves?’