Echowave (Echoland Book 3)

by Joe Joyce

  The captain handed Duggan the binoculars and he focused them but could see nothing. They only seemed to make the murk more opaque. Then, as a band of mist drifted away, he caught sight of the long grey shape low on the water. It was parallel to them, in complete darkness, no life visible. He tried to focus on its conning tower to see if there was anybody there but the mist thickened again and the image faded and disappeared.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ he asked as he handed the binoculars back.

  ‘Probably recharging his batteries,’ the captain said, raising the glasses to his eyes. ‘Using the bad visibility as an opportunity to surface.’

  ‘I couldn’t see any signs of life.’

  ‘They’re there all right. On the tower. But nobody near the gun. Far as I can see.’

  ‘Still nothing on the open channel,’ the radio officer’s voice said through the deck’s speaker.

  They watched where they thought the U-boat was, waiting for a flash of gunfire from its cannon, and scanned the waters for the second of warning they’d get of a torpedo. Aware of their vulnerability. Aware that their only protection was their lights, which declared them a non-belligerent. And hoping that the submarine commander accepted that at face value.

  The thumping of the engine felt like their own heartbeats as they watched and waited in silence as the U-boat headed north and the ship continued its steady course south.

  ‘I think he’s gone on his merry way,’ the captain said at last, scanning the growing dark to the north-west. He tossed a bunch of keys to the cook. ‘We could all do with a drink.’

  They reached Lisbon with the dawn, coming in to the mouth of the Tagus on a full tide with a blinding sun rising in a clear blue sky before them. Everyone was up as they went by Cascais and the huge bulk of the now-familiar wooden memorial to the Portuguese explorers, facing the water like the prow of an enormous ship.

  The port was busy, the contrast with Dublin all too obvious: Portugal was doing well out of this war. Among the cargo ships a long liner stood out, its name, Serpa Pinto, painted in huge white letters along its side, followed by the Portuguese flag and the word ‘Portugal’. Some refugees are about to have their wishes come true, Duggan thought as they went by it. Finally escape this savage continent to the Americas or the Portuguese colonies in southern Africa or Asia.

  They had to drop anchor in the middle of the estuary, awaiting their turn to get a berth. ‘It’s going to take hours,’ the captain said in frustration, after talking to the port authorities by radio. ‘Noon at the earliest. Probably later.’

  Duggan propped himself against the cover of the forward hold and tried to finish the Maurice Walsh book. The sun blazed down, but the wind from the ocean kept the temperature bearable. He was too restless to concentrate. He walked around the deck as the ship swung slowly around its anchor with the turning tide. He was anxious to get on with his mission, thinking of what lay ahead, trying to make sure that nothing went wrong. The memory of the two stockbrokers playing cards on the train to Greystones came back to him. How the one player had been certain that his hand was unbeatable. And it would have been nine times out of ten – maybe more. The man had been confident of success until the cards were turned face up and he was beaten, fooled by his own confidence. Don't take anything for granted, he warned himself. Certainly not with the Germans. As McClure had said, they'd been at this game a lot longer than him.

  It was late afternoon before they were given a berth and hauled anchor and manoeuvred into the quayside. Duggan watched the operation as they eased in between a Greek-registered coaster and a larger Panama-registered ship which towered over them.

  ‘Let me know when you want your package,’ the captain said as he waited at the top of the gangway for the port officials to come on board.

  ‘It’ll be tomorrow at the earliest,’ Duggan replied as they watched the uniformed officials approach. He moved away as they came up the gangway and the captain greeted one of them by name.

  He had no idea how Strasser would know when the ship was in port. Probably tipped off by someone in Antonio’s bar or, more likely, someone in the port offices. No doubt all the rival intelligence services kept an eye on the shipping traffic. But he’d have to spend the night drinking in Antonio’s with the rest of the crew just in case.

  Seventeen

  Duggan made his way up the steep hill into Alfama. A small tram came screeching down around a bend, piercing his headache like chalk squealing on a blackboard. It’d been a late night in spite of his best intentions, which had all dissolved after a few rounds of drinks. He’d taken the cook’s hangover cure, forcing it down his protesting throat. It was helping, but a dull headache lingered.

  The day was hot. He kept to the shaded side of the streets but sweat was beginning to break out on his forehead from the hangover, the heat and the hill.

  Antonio’s was a cool and a pleasant contrast to the glaring sun. There was nobody there, only the same woman from before behind the bar. He ordered a coffee and sat down at a table with his back to the wall and a view of the open door and the bright cobbled street beyond.

  He took sips of the coffee and the glass of water the woman had brought him, and lit an Afton from his cigarette case. He placed a packet of Gold Flake upright on the table in front of him in case Strasser wanted to go through the whole identification routine again.

  Strasser arrived on the dot of eleven and paused in the doorway a moment to adjust his vision to the gloom. He looked around the room, his eyes sweeping over Duggan and then coming back to rest on him. He took off his hat and said, ‘Bom dia senhora, um café, por favor,’ to the woman behind the bar as he walked over and sat down opposite Duggan.

  ‘Senhor McCarthy,’ he said. ‘This is a surprise.’ And not necessarily a pleasant one, his tone said.

  ‘I brought something you wanted.’ Duggan got straight to the point.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something your people requested.’

  Strasser gave him an irritated look but restrained himself. He lit a cigarette while the woman placed a coffee and a glass of water in front of him. He is in a bad mood, Duggan decided, not like the man I met before, who seemed to enjoy his job and find everything amusing. But his bad mood can’t have anything to do with me, as he didn’t know I’d be here.

  ‘The something that your people requested by radio,’ Duggan added, testing whether Strasser knew anything about the Norden. It was probable that he didn’t. ‘Your colleague knows about it.’

  ‘Where’s Dermot?’ Strasser demanded. ‘Why didn’t he come?’

  ‘Because we didn’t want to trust this to a messenger,’ Duggan said, deciding that Strasser knew nothing about the Norden. ‘Your people implied that this was very important for your war effort. And you wanted it as soon as possible.’

  ‘You didn’t give him the supplies that we gave you the last time you were here.’

  ‘What?’ Duggan asked in surprise. ‘He complained to you?’

  Strasser nodded, as if it was a serious matter.

  Duggan gave a short laugh at Dermot’s nerve. ‘I handed the cigarettes and coffee over to my quartermaster,’ he said in a cold tone. ‘I’m sure he put them to better use than Dermot would have.’

  ‘Dermot is a trusted courier.’

  Duggan shook his head dismissively. ‘Dermot is a small-time smuggler. An opportunist. He has no interest in our struggle.’

  ‘He’s trusted by our agent.’

  Duggan conceded the point with a nod. ‘And a reliable messenger. But that is all. And Dr Goertz cannot get messages to him any more.’

  ‘But you can?’

  ‘Yes,’ Duggan said. ‘We can.’

  ‘So you could still use Dermot as a messenger.’

  ‘We don’t need to. Now that we have a direct radio link.’

  Strasser drank his coffee in one gulp and followed it with a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘You will tell Dermot we don’t need his services any more.’

  Du
ggan hid his surprise. ‘OK.’

  ‘We can’t go on giving him the supplies we’ve been giving him, as he is doing nothing in return since Herr Dr Goertz was arrested.’

  ‘I’ll explain the situation to him,’ Duggan nodded.

  Strasser picked up his hat. ‘The Metropole Hotel at five o’clock. And if you’re coming again, let us know in advance. No times or dates. We’ll know when to come here.’

  Duggan walked back down the hill, taking his time, thinking about the conversation. It wasn’t at all what he had expected. Was it simply that Strasser had come to the meeting just to dismiss Dermot, tying up a loose end? That that was all he had on his mind? A bureaucratic problem? Why are we paying this man who no longer does anything for us? Possibly, he thought. Maybe it upset German sensibilities to pay him for doing nothing.

  But the conversation unsettled him. Is there something else going on that I’m missing? What? He had no idea.

  He stopped at a small square that overlooked the river and leaned on a railing, staring at the busy stretch of the port below, beneath the tiers of ochre roofs. Two ferries passed each other in midstream,

  crossing the river. Cranes dipped and rose and the distant crash of heavy materials pouring on to the backs of lorries carried up to where he stood.

  We’ll have to do something about Dermot, he thought. Can’t allow him to come back here. He’s obviously disgruntled over losing the booty I brought back. And will be even more pissed off when he finds out he’s lost his extra income permanently, especially now that prices are likely to rise because of the clamp-down on the black market. So pissed off that he might even tell the Germans how G2 had blackmailed him and hijacked his route to them.

  He continued down the hill, telling himself not to overanalyse the situation, not to read too much into every little thing. All was still on course to hand over the Norden to Wiedermeyer. What I really want to do in the meantime, he decided, is to go for a swim. To cool down.

  He went back to the ship and got his swimming trunks and a towel and asked the captain where he should go.

  ‘Cascais,’ he advised. ‘Get the train. A couple of nice beaches out there. You’d have seen them on our way in yesterday.’

  Duggan followed his directions to the station at Cais do Sodré, following the road he had previously walked to get to the Irish Dominicans’ church. He had already decided not to contact any of the people he had previously met. He couldn’t keep up his pretence of trying to find out about Mr Aiken’s visit now that the minister was back in Ireland. Besides, he already knew as much about it as he was ever likely to pin down.

  The train was full of families with the same idea as him. Children shrieked and squabbled as they went along the busy riverfront and left the port activity behind and then sped through the exhibition of Portugal’s colonial conquests at Belém. Flags and standards lined the tracks and everybody on Duggan’s side stared at the Dome of the Discoveries, a huge half-globe with a band around it of what looked like semi-mythical figures from exotic places. Duggan caught sight as well of a three-masted frigate with a high stern moored beside the monument to the explorers. The passengers on the other side stared at the formal gardens of Imperial Square, stretching back to the rounded arches of Jerónimos Monastery and lined by exhibition buildings on a grand scale, with mock-ups of places from Macau to Brazil.

  The families hurried away from the station at Cascais, spreading out to the various beaches. Duggan followed at a more leisurely pace to the nearest one, which was down a long ramp and bookmarked by rock outcrops. It was crowded and the sun sparkled off the sea, making it almost painful to look at it directly. The few shaded areas by one of the rock outcrops were all taken and he found a spot in the centre of the beach, undressed quickly and headed for the water, running quickly over the burning sand.

  He dived into the water, the shock of its coolness taking his breath away for a moment, and swam quickly outwards with a steady breaststroke. He turned and trod water for a moment, looking back at the beach and the straggles of children at the water’s edge. Then he rolled on to his back and floated with his eyes closed, feeling the waves rise and fall beneath him and the sun beating down on his face.

  Afterwards he sat on the beach to dry off, the towel draped over his shoulders as protection against the sun, aware of how quickly his fair skin would burn. Nobody on the beach, as far as he could see, was as pale-skinned as him. He watched a young boy nearby building a castle with intense concentration, patting the sides of the circular cone to smooth it off, racing down to the water with a bucket to try and fill a moat which went dry again in seconds.

  He forced himself to get dressed a while later, knowing how easily sunburn could sneak up. The agony would only come later, with raw and blistered skin. He wandered back into the town, recognising all the features of a seaside resort – the amusement arcades, the fairground, the old people on benches with faces up to the warming sun – and stopped at a canopied terrace for lunch. The war seemed further away than ever.

  Back at the station he was waiting in a group gathered around a door to board the train when something made him glance towards the back of the train. A man in the group around the next door was staring at him and looked away quickly as Duggan caught his eye. He was about Duggan’s height, a head taller than most of the Portuguese women and children around him, and also pale-faced, with sandy brown hair and blue eyes. Probably in his early thirties.

  Duggan watched him as they both edged forward, memorising his firm profile, but the man kept his eyes fixed on the door ahead of him, as if getting into the train was his only concern. On board the train, Duggan took an aisle seat facing the carriage behind them.

  Probably an American, he decided as the train’s whistle blew and it began to edge forward. Or possibly a German, which would be more worrying. The Americans almost have to follow me, he thought, to make sure that I do actually deliver the Norden. In spite of his warning to Sullivan not to tell Linqvist how and when he was going to Lisbon, he knew it wouldn’t have taken much effort for Linqvist to find out. The only routes between Ireland and Lisbon were by air, which was controlled by the British and Americans through PanAm, and by ship. And there were few ships on the route. They would have had plenty of time to put arrangements in place while he was on his way, and it would have been very easy to pick him up leaving the docks here in Lisbon.

  Duggan cast his mind back over the day, trying to remember if he’d seen anyone like this man earlier, but he was sure he hadn’t. He’d been the only pale-skinned person on the beach.

  When the train drew into Cais do Sodré station, he walked slowly, not looking back, his towel rolled under his arm like any other casual visitor returning from the seaside. He crossed Duque da Terceira square into Rua do Arsenal, taking the shady side, and came to Largo Corpo Santo. On a sudden impulse, he crossed the road and went into the Irish Dominicans’ church, thinking this could be a good opportunity to see if the man was still following him.

  It was empty, the air still and heavy with the scent of candle wax. Duggan sat into the last pew, savouring the coolness, wondering if he could go through the sacristy and find another way out. But that would alert his tail that he had spotted him. Do I want to do that? He probably knows already but that would confirm it. And whoever is following me would be more careful the next time. Put someone else on to me.

  The sacristan appeared inside the altar rails, glanced down the church and saw Duggan and then looked again as he recognised him. He went up the steps to the altar, took two candleholders, and glanced again at Duggan as he went back the way he had come, carrying the candlesticks like a one-man procession. I should go now, Duggan thought. The tail should be waiting outside, and easy to spot.

  But he was still there, enjoying the coolness, when the sacristan reappeared and motioned to Duggan to approach the rails.

  ‘Father Alphonsus wishes to see you,’ the sacristan said, opening one side of the small gold gates in the rails for Duggan to
step through.

  Duggan followed him through the corridor behind the church and into the reception room where he’d waited before. He tried to work out a cover story in case the priest challenged his previous claims. But nothing came to mind. I'll have to stick to my story, brazen it out, he thought, if he spoke to Aiken on his return and challenges me.

  ‘He won’t be long,’ the sacristan said with a thin smile and a hint of apology as if he was keeping him waiting.

  The man’s attitude was different: friendly instead of distant, helpful rather than suspicious.

  Father Alphonsus’s attitude had undergone a similar sea change when he arrived some moments later.

  ‘Something came to my attention after your last visit,’ the priest said after they shook hands. ‘But I didn’t know how to contact you.’

  ‘I was back in Ireland,’ Duggan said.

  ‘You were enquiring about people showing an interest in Mr Aiken’s talk?’

  ‘Yes.’ Duggan braced himself in case the priest was about to say Aiken knew nothing about any researcher from Dublin enquiring into his earlier visit.

  ‘There was a man associated with the British legation who apparently discussed it with one of our parishioners.’

  ‘Yes?’ Duggan’s interest perked up, overwhelming his relief.

  ‘A Mr Hopkins,’ Father Alphonsus said. ‘I remember the name because of the poet. You know the poet? ‘Glory be to God for dappled things’?’

  ‘Not very well,’ Duggan admitted, thinking instead of the MI5 man who’d come to his rescue at Pembroke.

  ‘You should read him. A great poet. A good Catholic.’

  Duggan gave a thoughtful nod before trying to get the conversation back on track. ‘Did he have a first name? Mr Hopkins?’

  ‘I don’t know it.’

  ‘Do you remember what he looked like?’