Echowave (Echoland Book 3)

by Joe Joyce

  Fifteen

  ‘Are you all right?’ Duggan asked when he got Gifford on the phone the next morning.

  ‘As right as the day is long,’ Gifford said in a cheerful voice.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Well, the day isn’t as long as it was a few weeks ago, but it’s still long enough.’

  ‘Is that the answer to my question? The dark nights are drawing in. Slowly.’

  Gifford laughed. ‘You guys think too much. Stretch the metaphors beyond the breaking point. Actually I was about to call you. A snippet of news you’ll enjoy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can’t tell you over the phone, can I? Real news can only be imparted in person. Out of the side of the mouth. Over a drink.’

  Duggan looked at his watch. ‘I’ve time for a quick one.’ McClure was at the weekly heads-of-sections meeting with the colonel in charge of G2, putting Duggan’s plan to take the Norden to Lisbon to him, and they were due to go to External Affairs for a routine briefing after that.

  ‘Perfect. The Dolphin. Fifteen minutes.’

  Duggan debated taking the car – was this work? – but decided he needed some exercise. He cycled fast along the quays, overtaking other cyclists and slow-moving carts. The weather had broken and a seamless layer of grey clouds lay as heavy and dense as a sheet of blotting paper over the city, soaking up its energy. There was hardly any wind and the air was heavy with the smell of roasting malt from the Guinness brewery.

  The hotel was quiet; no sign of race-goers today. Gifford was sitting in the lounge and a fresh-faced young waitress was putting two coffees on the table in front of him. ‘Here he is now,’ he said to her as Duggan approached, as though he had been telling her all about him. ‘She’s brought us the good stuff,’ he added to Duggan. ‘I told her you’d need something to stiffen you up.’

  The waitress giggled and went away, and they had the lounge all to themselves.

  ‘You’ll have to stop that.’ Duggan wagged a finger at him. ‘Now that you’re practically a married man.’

  ‘But who’ll brighten their days? You’re not ready yet to assume duty, in spite of my best efforts.’

  ‘So, tell me,’ Duggan ordered. ‘What’s the news?’

  Gifford tasted his coffee and licked his lips. ‘This is good stuff. The stuff you brought back from your travels.’

  ‘Come on,’ Duggan said. ‘Enough of the build-up.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘The coffee.’ Gifford pointed at his cup. ‘Taste it. It’s the coffee you brought back from Lisbon in your bag of tricks.’

  Duggan laughed and dropped two level spoons of sugar into his cup and stirred it. He took a sip and said, ‘No, it’s not. I’d recognise my coffee anywhere.’

  ‘It is.’ Gifford gave him an earnest look. ‘Seriously. Traced back from the black-marketeer in Mayo. Sold for premium prices to only the best places in Dublin.’

  ‘Come off it.’

  ‘I’m serious. This is part of what we handed over to that black-marketeer down there. Apparently there’s no demand for real coffee in culchie land. All tea-drinkers.’

  Duggan took another sip and gave Gifford his most sceptical look. Gifford made the sign of the cross on his chest and said, ‘Cross my heart, hope to die.’

  Duggan lit a cigarette and studied him for a moment and decided he was telling the truth. ‘Why hasn’t this place been raided for using black-market goods?’

  ‘And where would the more refined guardians of the peace get a decent cup of coffee then?’ Gifford leaned forward with a look of delight on his face. ‘But that’s not the best part. The best part is the sergeant we met down there who spun us that heart-warming story of the poor publican who couldn’t stop himself doing favours for all the decent people of the parish. Remember?’

  Duggan nodded.

  ‘The publican was a fairy tale. The sergeant himself controls the black market. Runs everything down there.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’ Duggan couldn’t help laughing. ‘Is the entire force involved in the black market?’

  ‘Part of the service, you could say. Maintaining law and order by making sure the natives don’t get restless if they can’t get enough tea and sugar, and that their betters don’t get crotchety from lack of caffeine and port.’

  Duggan shook his head. ‘So all that rigmarole about driving to the town and having us wait in the church while he went off to have a drink with his friendly publican was a charade.’

  Gifford nodded. ‘Probably had your bombsight thing in the boot of his car all along. Or in some store in the town.’

  And acting the country cute whore, Duggan knew, playing with the ‘young bucks’ from Dublin who thought they were so smart. ‘How’d you find out?’

  ‘Part of the questions fired at me over Benny and the barn and all that. Somebody dragged out the report I’d done on our visit to Mayo and wanted to know why I’d commended the sergeant for his assistance with your enquiries. Somebody who already knew about his activities.’

  ‘Have you got through all the questioning?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Gifford said with a breezy air. ‘Still persona non grata in some quarters. Have to avoid dark alleys and that sort of thing for a while. But fine otherwise.’

  ‘No other repercussions?’

  ‘Our lads don’t have a lot of time for the guys in the detective branch. It’s like . . . ’ Gifford paused to work out the analogy and then began again. ‘Everybody corporate must have an arsehole, and I’m their arsehole. They mightn’t like it but they’ll protect it because it’s their own and they have to. Where would they be without it?’

  Duggan laughed. ‘I’ll remember that. Garda Gifford finally confesses to being an arsehole.’

  ‘A fair cop, your honour.’ Gifford bowed his head in submission. ‘Nothing but a humble arsehole.’

  ‘Now that we’ve cleared that up, I was thinking of taking you and Sinead out for a celebratory meal,’ Duggan said.

  ‘She’d like that.’

  ‘At the weekend?’

  ‘I’ll check with her. Should be all right.’

  ‘OK if I bring someone too?’

  ‘She’s back?’ Gifford widened his eyes in surprise. He knew the circumstances in which Gerda had left the country.

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s gone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s neither here nor there?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something like that.’

  ‘Jaysus, don’t start that bewildering culchie talk.’

  ‘She’s still in America. But I really don’t know whether it’s on or off.’

  ‘Distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder?’

  ‘Distance just makes distance.’

  ‘So she won’t be coming out with us,’ Gifford said with an air of disappointment. ‘I’m still dying to meet her.’

  ‘It’s someone else.’ Duggan told him about Maura.

  ‘Ah, a holiday fling.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘There you go again.’

  ‘I’m confused.’

  ‘That’s only to be expected,’ Gifford grinned. ‘If you will work in that oxymoronic place. You should move to the Garda Síochána if you want a life of clarity.’

  McClure sat into the passenger seat of the Prefect and Duggan started the car and drove out of army headquarters on to Infirmary Road. McClure had said nothing about the outcome of his meeting as they’d come downstairs, and Duggan had resisted the temptation to ask what the colonel had decided about him going back to Lisbon.

  ‘Did Sullivan give you something on Goertz?’ McClure asked as they leapfrogged all the other traffic. There was scarcely another motor vehicle in sight, only a small van which reminded Duggan of Benny’s for a moment, until he realised it was a different make but the same colour and shape.

  ‘It’s in the file on the back seat.’

  ‘And you did a summary of
your conversation with Linqvist? The first one,’ McClure added.

  ‘It’s there too.’

  ‘Good.’

  The silence stretched out as they crossed the Liffey after the Four Courts and went up the hill by Christchurch. Duggan finally gave in as they went by St Patrick’s Cathedral. ‘What did he think?’

  ‘He’s still thinking about it,’ McClure said, giving him a wan smile.

  Duggan hid his disappointment. It wasn’t a no but it was far from a yes.

  ‘I put all the points you made to him,’ McClure said as they turned into Kevin Street. ‘And I put my reservations as well.’

  Duggan’s heart sank. The colonel was much more likely to take note of the commandant’s views than those of a near-neophyte captain.

  ‘I don’t think we should try to play in the big league,’ McClure expanded. ‘We don’t have the people, the experience or the range of the big players. The British have been at this a long time. The Germans too. The Americans are new to it but that may make them even more dangerous because they’ll be impatient. It’s not in our interest to get tangled up in their intrigues.’

  Duggan said nothing. It was hard to argue with that.

  ‘But,’ McClure added, ‘I’ve already been overruled about letting the British use our link to the Germans. In theory at least.’

  Duggan waited for a couple of cyclists to pass on the other side of the road and then pulled across to park in front of the Department of External Affairs on Stephen’s Green.

  Pól Ó Murchú looked liked he had settled into his new surroundings, grown into the grandeur of the building. He was standing at the window when they were announced, staring at the heavy foliage of the trees in the park, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said without turning around. ‘Make yourselves comfortable.’

  McClure placed the file of reports on the neat desk and they took the chairs in front of it. Ó Murchú continued to stare out the window for a few moments and then turned and took his seat. ‘What do you have for me?’

  ‘Reports are there, sir,’ McClure said. ‘No activity on the German front. We’re still questioning Dr Goertz and he’s being cooperative. There’s no indication that they have any other agents here at present. There’s also a fuller report of the approach we’ve had from Mr Linqvist, which I told you about.’

  ‘Yes. The Americans,’ Ó Murchú said. He opened the file and flicked to Duggan’s report. He scanned it quickly and looked at Duggan. ‘He approached you. Any idea why?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Duggan lied, surprised at the question. ‘Our paths had crossed once or twice. And we’d met socially.’

  ‘We’ve reason to believe that he’s been transferred from the State Department to Colonel Donovan’s new intelligence organisation,’ McClure added.

  ‘Ah, yes, Colonel Donovan,’ Ó Murchú said, his tone implying disapproval, as if Donovan was a black sheep in a relative’s family. ‘What do you make of him? Of Mr Linqvist?’

  ‘He seems anxious to explain their position to us,’ Duggan said. ‘To try and improve relations.’

  ‘What does he say about his boss, Mr Gray?’

  ‘That he’s very close to President Roosevelt politically. They share the same views and he reports directly to the president. It’s not just that he’s related to the Roosevelts.’

  ‘And about the way he carries on here?’

  Duggan searched his memory. ‘I don’t think he’s said anything about that, sir.’

  ‘I trust you’ve been putting our position to him.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And is he receptive?’

  ‘He appears to be.’

  ‘Let’s hope that he leaves the State Department’s attitude behind him in his new organisation,’ Ó Murchú sniffed.

  ‘We’re confident that this is a very useful channel of communication,’ McClure offered. ‘Especially as Colonel Donovan is also said to have the ear of the president.’

  ‘You’ve taken over responsibility for the Americans now as well as for the Germans?’ Ó Murchú asked.

  ‘That’s the way events have developed, but no formal decision has been taken.’

  Ó Murchú flipped the file closed, as if to end the formal discussion. ‘The Americans are still causing us more trouble than the belligerents,’ he said. ‘Dragging their heels about these two ships they promised to sell us. And were announced by the Taoiseach and Mr Aiken. And, for that matter, by President Roosevelt as well. But they keep putting up obstacles. We’re not eligible for lend-lease because we’re not fighting the Nazis. And the priority is to help those who are, and so on.

  ‘We need those ships. The supply situation is becoming more and more critical. Not to mention the fact that questions will be asked if we don’t get them soon, since the announcement was made by the highest levels.’

  It’d be a stick for the opposition to beat the government with, Duggan knew, well aware of the political realities behind Ó Murchú’s careful phrases. A handful of politicians had already questioned the official depiction of Aiken’s visit to America as a success but their accusations had been snuffed out by denials and censorship. The ships were the only tangible evidence of the declared success, and failure to acquire them would undermine the official position.

  ‘Happy with that?’ McClure asked as they drove back to the office. ‘External Affairs are on your side?’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Ó Murchú knows that,’ Duggan smiled. But he was indeed happy with the outcome of the meeting. The instruction was clear: use Linqvist to try and get the ships released. And Duggan could now go back to him and offer to get the Norden to the Germans if Linqvist would use his new organisation’s influence to speed up delivery of the ships.

  ‘I’ll put his views on the table,’ McClure said, lighting a cigarette and opening his window.

  ‘Thanks, sir.’

  McClure gave him a surprised look, catching the heartfelt relief behind Duggan’s words. ‘Why are you so keen to go back to Lisbon?’

  ‘I’m not,’ Duggan said, aware that he had piqued McClure’s interest, maybe even raised a suspicion that there was more to this than met the eye. ‘It’s a nice city but . . . ’

  ‘But . . . ’ McClure prompted.

  ‘But I’ve no great desire to go back there. There’s a lot of other cities I’d like to see first.’

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘Paris. Rome. Even London.’

  ‘You haven’t been to London?’

  ‘No. Have you?’

  ‘London, Paris, yes. And Berlin.’

  ‘Which is best?’ Duggan tried to keep the conversation away from awkward questions.

  ‘That’s easy,’ McClure said. ‘Paris. Hard to imagine what it’s like now, under German occupation.’

  ‘Maybe I could go and have a look,’ Duggan said with a sly smile, his relief at having solved his problem making him almost as light-headed as a rush of nicotine.

  ‘You’ll have to wait till the war’s over.’

  Duggan found it difficult to concentrate, impatience at waiting for the colonel’s go-ahead mixed with a sliver of nervousness that the colonel might take McClure’s advice – although he was confident he wouldn’t. As McClure had admitted, he was in a minority on this issue. Had been overruled already.

  He tried to read the main news reports but his mind kept wandering. The French were seeking an end to the fighting with the British in the Middle East, as the British moved on Beirut, and had put armistice proposals to them through the US consul in Turkey. Paris must be a strange place at the moment, he thought, not quite at war, not being bombed like London and Berlin, not at peace either.

  His thoughts jumped back to what he needed to do before going to Lisbon. If I’m going. Plan it out, he ordered himself. Think it all through.

  He dropped the newspaper on the desk and walked around the office. Better not tell the Germans I’m bringing the Norden to Lisbon, he decided. If I do, the Brits will know about i
t too. They’ll read the radio message. And there’s no reason to let them know about it. So I need to draft a radio message that doesn’t give anything away.

  Should I contact that MI5 man in London, Tom Hopkins, the one who brought me to Holyhead? Might be no harm having a contact in Lisbon if things go wrong there.

  He sat down at the typewriter and stared at a blank sheet of paper for a few moments, then typed a brief message to transmit to the Germans. ‘Hope to make progress on your request in coming week,’ it said. ‘Further information will follow.’

  He lit a cigarette and stared at the page. That’ll do it, he decided. Something like that. Something that the Brits would read as stringing the Germans along. The Germans might even read it the same way but that wouldn’t matter. And Linqvist. What do I tell him? He’ll want to know who we’re giving the Norden to, and how we’ll make sure it gets to the Germans. Tell him the truth?

  Is there a reason not to? There’s every reason not to trust the fucker after his threat to Gerda.

  He was still agonising about the nuts and bolts of the operation when McClure came in and looked over his shoulder at what he had typed. ‘Jumping the gun,’ he said.

  ‘Just trying to tease things out,’ Duggan said, his heart sinking. That sounded a little ominous. ‘I assume we don’t want the British to know about the Norden. If I take it to Lisbon.’

  McClure propped himself against the desk. ‘They want us to send the Germans a message,’ he said.

  ‘The British?’

  McClure nodded. ‘A message saying that they’re increasing their garrison in the North. And that we’re moving extra forces to our side of the border.’

  Duggan gave him a quizzical look.

  ‘Seems they want the Germans to think they’re up to something on the western front. Maybe seizing the opportunity to occupy our ports while the Germans are focused on the eastern front.’

  ‘You want me to send it?’