by Joe Joyce
‘You can tack your message on to the end of it. It’ll look routine there.’
‘Are they really building up their forces in the North?’ Duggan asked, thinking this would be a good time for them to actually invade. When the Germans were preoccupied elsewhere and the Americans had given up any semblance of patience with Ireland’s neutrality.
‘Rotating some units,’ McClure said. ‘Which will mean a lot of activity on the roads around ports. If the Germans have anyone up there, they’ll probably get wind of that. And we’ll increase activities in the First Division area, which will probably come to the attention of the German legation.’
‘So it’ll all confirm our message.’
‘That’s it. Build up the credibility of your McCarthy character.’
‘Don’t really need this message to do that if we deliver the Norden to them.’
‘But the British don’t know about that.’
‘They wouldn’t be thinking of actually invading, would they?’
‘They say not. They’d hardly be telling us if they were.’ McClure gave a tired sigh. ‘Unless it’s a double bluff, of course.’
Duggan shook his head to clear it. Maybe McClure was right: they shouldn’t be getting involved in the big boys’ games. But he had his own reason for encouraging it, which trumped the general principle for the time being.
‘And,’ McClure straightened up, ‘your visit to Lisbon has been approved. The ship’s in port at the moment. Sailing tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Duggan said, taken aback at the suddenness.
‘You’re in luck.’ McClure gave him a faint smile. ‘Another twenty-four hours and you’d have missed it. Would have had to wait till the middle of August. Try and get some commitment out of Linqvist about our new ships before you leave.’
Sixteen
Duggan was welcomed on board the ship with surprise. His former cabin-mate, Jenkins, stepped back in astonishment as he saw him step off the gangway. ‘Jaysus,’ he said, ‘never thought I’d see you again in this life.’
‘Can’t get rid of a bad penny,’ Duggan said, shaking his hard hand. ‘It was all a mistake. Mistaken identity.’
‘There’s fellas who’ve spent their lives in jail over there because of mistaken identities,’ Jenkins said, giving him a shrewd look, and casting his eyes over the large square package Duggan had with his kitbag and mentally reconfiguring all that he knew about Sean McCarthy.
‘Hope I won’t stink up your cabin this time,’ Duggan said, to deflect any questions about his miraculous escape from the British police.
‘Dermot’s not coming?’
Duggan shook his head. The man he was replacing on the crew list hadn’t been happy about the last-minute change of plan. A week at home with three small children had left him eager to get back to sea again. G2 had had to pay him for the missed voyage and remind him he could still face spying charges for the messages he had been carrying back and forth to Lisbon for Hermann Goertz before his capture. Not to mention his small-time smuggling operation, which was his ongoing payment from the Germans.
‘We haven’t got all day to stand around,’ the captain called down from the edge of the bridge.
Jenkins went back to work and Duggan climbed up to the bridge and shook hands with the captain. ‘Thanks for bringing me along again,’ he said.
The captain accepted the thanks with a nod, though it was questionable whether he had a choice.
‘They treat you all right over there?’ the captain asked.
‘It was okay.’
‘Part of your mission?’
‘Not quite,’ Duggan smiled. ‘But it worked out okay.’ He touched the Norden box with his foot. ‘Could you put this somewhere safe for me?’
‘Not to be found?’
‘Not to be found.’
The captain gave the box a practised look, assessing its size and shape for appropriate hiding places, and wondering what it might be. It looked like a butter box but he doubted that that described its contents.
The ship was tied up at the North Wall, high against the quayside on the full tide. Duggan stayed on the edge of the bridge as the vibrations from the engines increased, and the crew cast off and the vessel moved into the centre of the river. There were few ships in the port, all of them small, and the line of cranes on the quay stood idle. Across the river near the power station a couple of small fishing boats bobbed on the tide.
In the background, Duggan could hear the captain’s instructions to the engine room as they went slowly by the port-control naval unit at Alexandra Basin and a small grey patrol boat with angled torpedo tubes on its deck, and then by the Poolbeg lighthouse, and picked up speed as the bay opened out before them. The day was overcast and a light mist was coming up, shrouding the heather and cliffs of Howth, but he stayed where he was, determined to avoid seasickness by remaining in the open as long as possible.
After a while the rain got heavier and the captain opened the door to the bridge to toss him a heavy oilskin. He put it on and left the hood down, letting the rain drench his hair and run down his face. Assuming he could avoid seasickness and that they didn’t run into any trouble, he was looking forward to the voyage. It was a good opportunity to get away from the daily routine, and all he had to do was deliver the Norden. Which should make the Germans happy, and placate the Americans and, above all, nullify Linqvist’s threat to Gerda’s future in the US.
He had met Linqvist the previous afternoon, insisting this time that they meet in the Phoenix Park, outside of the legation, on neutral ground. They sat on the bench overlooking the bandstand, in the hollow where he and McClure had previously rested. Linqvist was his usual pleasant self, as if he had never threatened Gerda. Duggan explained the condition on which he would deliver the Norden to the Germans.
‘I don’t know anything about the sale of those ships,’ Linqvist protested. ‘Only what I’ve read in the papers. The commercial people are handling that.’
‘It seems to be more political than commercial,’ Duggan said. ‘Somebody is blocking it for some reason, even though your president has approved it.’
‘I’ll ask my minister about it.’
‘We don’t want to know who’s blocking it, or why. We want the blockage removed.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘It’s a condition of doing what you want us to do,’ Duggan said. ‘That the sale go through.’
‘That may be a problem,’ Linqvist said, looking concerned. ‘Until I find out what’s going on. I can’t have it resolved until I know what it is.’
‘We’re not asking that you make enquiries,’ Duggan repeated. ‘We want the problem resolved. Surely Colonel Donovan can do that.’
Linqvist leaned back against the bench and stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘None of this is personal,’ he said after a moment, aware of Duggan’s hostility.
‘You made it personal,’ Duggan said, staring down at the empty bandstand. There was nobody around. Even the zoo behind them seemed to be subdued by the dull weather.
‘It was a personal favour I did you.’
‘But you threatened her, not me.’
‘It would’ve been all right if I’d threatened you?’ Linqvist asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.
Duggan nodded. That’s what he had expected all along. Nobody did any favours for nothing in this world, he knew.
‘That’s very chivalrous of you.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Duggan snapped back. ‘You could only threaten my career, but threatening to send a Jewish woman back to Austria endangers her very being.’
Linqvist studied his shoes, moving his toes up and down. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t necessarily accept everything the Zionists say about the Nazis.’
‘If you’d heard her talk about it you’d know how she felt.’
‘OK,’ Linqvist conceded. ‘I’ll pull out all the stops. But I’m just a small cog in this machine. I can’t guarantee anything.’
‘It’s all been approved at the highest levels. It just needs some heads lower down to be knocked together.’
‘We should be able to do that,’ Linqvist said. He didn’t explain who ‘we’ was, but Duggan assumed he meant the Office of Strategic Services. ‘I need to know how you’re going to do this.’
Duggan was expecting the question. He and McClure had debated how much to tell Linqvist and decided the Americans would want to know everything about the delivery. Otherwise, they couldn’t fill in their chain of evidence. ‘I’ll take it to Lisbon,’ he said.
‘You have a German contact there,’ Linqvist said, nodding to himself at confirmation of what he had suspected.
‘Yes.’
‘A diplomat?’
‘An Abwehr man. Fritz Wiedermeyer.’
The name meant nothing to Linqvist but it should ring some bells when he reported it back. If what Hopkins had told him about Wiedermeyer’s status in the Abwehr in Lisbon was true – and he had no reason to doubt it.
‘It’s an internal security operation,’ Duggan added, using the formula McClure and he had worked out to answer the next question the Americans would ask, whether Linqvist actually asked it or not. Why were the Irish in contact with a senior Abwehr man? ‘Strictly limited to that. Nothing to do with the wider world.’
Linqvist filed the information away, linking it to the all-consuming Irish obsession with their internal politics. ‘When will the delivery take place?’
‘I can’t say. As soon as possible.’ Duggan didn’t want to give him any details which would reveal how and when he was getting to Lisbon.
‘You’ll let me know when it’s done?’
Duggan nodded.
‘And I’ll get working on your ships pronto,’ Linqvist said.
They stood up and walked back to the roadway in silence. As they parted, Linqvist said, ‘No hard feelings.’
‘As long as there are no more threats like that.’ Duggan gave him a hard stare.
‘There won’t be.’ Linqvist held out his hand and Duggan shook it. ‘We’re both on the same side at heart. See you at the dances.’
No, you won’t, Duggan had thought as he walked back to the office. He was going to extricate himself from that set, something made easier now by his imminent departure and the fact that Maura’s holiday in Dublin was nearing an end. He had told Sullivan he had to go back to Lisbon suddenly, but not why, and asked him to give Maura his apologies. ‘Tell her it’s the army fucking us around as usual,’ he suggested.
Sullivan nodded. It was always easy to blame the brass for their sudden and inexplicable decisions.
‘And don’t tell Linqvist anything about my movements,’ Duggan added.
‘No, I won’t.’ Sullivan sounded hurt at the suggestion.
‘He knows I’m going to Lisbon but I don’t want him to know how or when, or any details.’
‘I can keep my mouth shut,’ Sullivan retorted with a hint of anger.
‘I know,’ Duggan backed off. ‘Sorry.’
Then he had phoned Gifford to tell him his invitation to a meal with Sinead would have to be postponed.
‘Off on your holliers again,’ Gifford sniffed. ‘Hope you get the weather.’
‘I always get the weather. Guaranteed.’
‘Be careful,’ Gifford said, picking up the coded message. ‘Too much sun can be bad for culchies. Not used to it.’
‘I’ll stay in the shade.’
‘Will you be back in time for the wedding?’
‘Have you fixed the date?’
‘August some time. Got to do it as soon as possible or she’ll be too big to kneel at the altar rails. Embarrass the bridesmaid.’
‘And shock the best man.’
‘Can’t have that,’ Gifford snorted. ‘Can’t have you swooning as well.’
Duggan smiled at the image of them all swooning at the altar rails and the captain opened the door to the bridge and held out a mug of tea and said, ‘Are you going to stand there the whole way to Lisbon?’
‘Thanks,’ Duggan said, taking the mug, stepping inside and opening the oilskin. ‘Just trying to acclimatise myself. Get used to the ship.’
‘I still have your Frank O’Connor book,’ the captain said. ‘Meant to send it back to you but never got round to it. It’s down in the cabin if you want to come down with me.’
‘No hurry,’ Duggan said quickly. ‘I’d prefer to stay up here for the moment.’
‘It’s not going anywhere. Bring anything interesting to read this time?’
‘No. Didn’t have time.’
‘You can have a look at my little library. You might find something of interest.’
‘Thanks, I’d like that. And if I can do anything useful . . . ’
‘You could help the lookout when we get near the minefield. Two sets of eyes are better than one.’
‘Sure.’ Duggan sipped at the tea, trying to let his body relax into the gentle roll of the ship and not brace himself against the unaccustomed movement.
‘We had a few nervous moments outbound on the last voyage. Came close to a mine. Much too close. Drifted by to starboard, less than fifty yards away. Nothing much you can do in that situation. Can’t swerve her like a car.’
‘Cross your fingers and pray,’ the helmsman said.
‘Hold your course and hope for the best.’
Duggan stared ahead, scanning for bobbing mines. The surface of the sea was calm, moving in long, slow undulations the colour and texture of freshly poured concrete. Slight squalls ruffled it here and there and heavier showers pockmarked the surface. They had long passed the Kish lightship, Ireland had fallen behind, and nothing was visible ahead through the rain that drifted across their path in bands of greater and lesser density.
‘With U-boats and destroyers and planes you have the chance that they will recognise your neutrality,’ the captain said. ‘But the mine doesn’t care who you are. Totally random.’
‘How do you cope with the constant tension?’ Duggan asked.
‘Make your peace with God,’ the captain said. ‘And leave it all in His hands.’
The helmsman kept his eyes on the sea ahead but Duggan had the impression he didn’t share the captain’s faith or fatalism. His earlier comment seemed, in retrospect, to have been a description of the captain’s attitude rather than one he shared.
‘We’re bound for Milford Haven this time,’ the captain said, as if the previous subject had been exhausted. ‘For the navicert and the cargo of coal. I hope there won’t be any problems there.’ He raised a questioning eyebrow at Duggan behind the helmsman’s back.
Duggan shook his head. There shouldn’t be any problems for him. McClure and he had debated whether he should take up Hopkins’s offer to provide more information about who was who in Lisbon. It would be useful but it could raise questions in British minds about what he was up to, and why there had been no indication in the radio messages of his impending visit. On the other hand, it might provide support for him if things went wrong. In the event, he hadn’t had time to contact Hopkins. But there was no reason the British should question his presence on board the ship this time.
There was no hold-up in Milford Haven and they set sail with their new cargo, passing by the trawler moorings in the early dawn light the next morning. A thunderous noise rose up behind and Duggan, standing on deck, thought for a heart-fluttering moment that it was the rolling sound of a heavy bombing raid. But it was a Sunderland flying boat climbing from its base farther up the bay at Pembroke. It passed overhead, engines straining to heave its bulk into the sky, and headed out before them to patrol the Western Approaches.
The morning was overcast again but the cloud base was higher and the day was brighter. The rain had stopped and the air tasted fresh, away from the stench of burnt diesel from the funnel. Duggan had slept well but lightly, waking at the sound of increased activity as the crew rose and made ready to sail. He had got up too and eaten in the galley before the ship c
ast off, ready to resume his self-appointed position on deck before it got under way.
He scanned the sea ahead with binoculars as they sailed along the south coast of Ireland. They were north of the marked minefield, but they all knew that mines drifted. He saw nothing. There was no sign of any other shipping, only an occasional fishing boat closer to the coast. The radio room plugged the BBC news bulletin on to the bridge and he listened to its reports from the eastern front that the Russians were putting up stiffer resistance than the Germans had expected, even counter-attacking in some places. A German communiqué mentioned the Russians’ unconventional methods, almost sounding like a complaint that they weren’t playing fair and rolling over before the blitzkrieg, but didn’t specify what they were.
Maybe that’s why it’s so quiet here, he thought. All their attention is on Russia. But he knew from the daily reports of the coast-watch stations that that wasn’t true. Bodies and wreckage were still washing ashore regularly along the north-west coast: the battle for the Atlantic sea lanes was as fierce as ever.
The voyage continued without incident, the sea swell increasing as they moved out into the Atlantic. The weather held up, a steady south-westerly wind that slowed their progress and brought occasional bands of rain. Duggan felt fine and slowly began to move around the ship, with growing confidence that he had conquered his seasickness. He borrowed a Maurice Walsh novel from the captain’s library and sat out some of the showers indoors, immersed in the story of Hugh Forbes and his battles against the Black and Tans during the War of Independence. In the evenings, he joined in a crew game of Twenty-Five, playing cards for pennies.
They turned south when they reached twelve degrees longitude, along the approved route for Lisbon. Two days later, as dusk was settling with the help of a murky mist, there was a shout from the lookout and everybody was called on deck.
‘A submarine over there,’ the captain said, pointing out to the west. ‘Half a mile away or so.’
Duggan peered through the mist and fading light but could see nothing. The ship had its running lights on, floodlights illuminating the word ‘Eire’ and the tricolour on its side, further hindering their ability to see through the glow around them.
