by Joe Joyce
‘I’ve never laid eyes on him,’ Father Alphonsus admitted. ‘He’s an acquaintance of one of our parishioners. And associated with the British legation. Something to do with trade, I believe.’
‘Is he still here?’
‘I have no idea. The parishioner is involved in business. I suppose they may have some dealings about trade and so on. All those things have become complicated since the war.’
‘Is he Irish? This parishioner?’
‘I’d rather not say anything about him. It wouldn’t be proper. I haven’t discussed this matter with him. I came upon this information in a somewhat roundabout fashion,’ Father Alphonsus said, shifting uncomfortably, uneasy at how he had learned of Hopkins’s dealings with the parishioner.
Duggan decided not to press the matter. ‘Thank you very much for the information. It’s very helpful.’
‘I thought I should tell you if you turned up again.’
‘Yes, thanks. It’ll be of great use to us.’ He clearly didn’t meet Aiken on his way back to Ireland, he was thinking.
‘I’m delighted, by the way, to hear you’re opening a legation here,’ the priest said. ‘It’s badly needed, as I told you the last time.’
‘It certainly is,’ Duggan agreed. It was news to him that Ireland was opening a legation in Portugal but he suddenly realised that that was why the priest had changed his tune. Maybe he thinks I was influential in the decision.
‘Will you be staying here then?’ Father Alphonsus said, confirming Duggan’s conjecture.
‘I’d love to,’ Duggan said. ‘But I’m too far down the pecking order, I’m afraid.’
‘I see you’re enjoying some of the local amenities,’ Father Alphonsus said, nodding at the rolled towel Duggan was still holding in his hand.
‘Yes, I had some time off this morning and decided I needed to cool down.’
‘This heat takes some time to adjust to,’ the priest said, leading him along the corridor and stopping at a door before they reached the sacristy. ‘I don’t think I would survive the Irish climate now if I had to go back.’
He opened the door on to the side street and Duggan thanked him again and walked back to the right. So, Hopkins just happening to be near Pembroke was a lie, he thought. And what about his interest in understanding Ireland’s neutrality? General curiosity? Or, more likely, a belated attempt to understand the background of Aiken’s comments. After he’d made a stab at interpreting them himself? And sent his stab back to London for forwarding on to Washington. To make sure that Aiken’s mission to get American weapons would fail.
Jesus, he was thinking, as he turned the corner to the front of the church, it was frighteningly easy for people and governments to make big decisions on the basis of badly understood information. Aiken’s views on neutrality had none of the subtleties and nuances of Mr de Valera’s policy towards the war. Why had the Taoiseach sent him on that mission to America? Duggan wondered again. It never made any sense to send one of the least diplomatic of his ministers.
He had almost forgotten about the man who had followed him on to the train when he saw him standing at the tram stop in the centre of the small square, his eyes on the door of the church. He almost did a double take as he spotted Duggan come around the corner. Duggan hesitated, considering whether to approach him. A Number 28 tram bound for Estrela came from the city centre and stopped between them.
The man had no choice but to get on board, and he remained standing with his back towards Duggan, hanging on to a ceiling strap although there were plenty of empty seats. The tram moved off with a clang of its bell and passed by Duggan, close enough for him to have reached through the open windows and touch him.
Duggan smiled to himself as he walked off in the opposite direction to Rua do Arsenal. Whoever he is, he thought, he’s not very good at this. He really fucked that up.
Fritz Wiedermeyer was already sitting at the back of the terrace of the Metropole Hotel in Praça do Rossio when Duggan arrived five minutes early. There was a glass with some clear liquid on the table in front of him.
‘Guten tag,’ he said, holding out his hand as Duggan sat down. ‘Wie geht es Ihnen?’
‘Hello.’ Duggan shook his hand, pretending he didn’t understand the German greeting and wondering why Wiedermeyer kept throwing German phrases into their conversation.
Wiedermeyer raised a finger to a passing waiter, and gave Duggan an enquiring look. ‘Beer,’ Duggan said to the waiter almost adding ‘bitte’. Be careful, he warned himself again. Be very careful with this man. ‘Por favor.’
‘You’re learning some Portuguese,’ Wiedermeyer said, giving him a faint smile and taking a sip of his drink.
‘That was about the extent of it.’
‘ “Please” is always a useful word,’ Wiedermeyer said, seeming very relaxed. Duggan wondered if he made a habit of sitting here with a drink at this time every afternoon, knowing that whoever he met or talked to would be spotted by the British and by PIDE, the Portuguese security agency. And if he did, why did he want to show off his contact with the IRA?
The waiter came back and poured half a bottle of Sagres into a glass. Duggan scanned the area while he did so. Most of the customers on the terrace had their backs to them, facing the square. A steady stream of people passed by on the pavement. He didn’t recognise anyone.
On his way here he hadn’t bothered trying to spot his tail. If he was a German, he knew where he was going. If he was American, this was what they wanted to see.
The waiter finished and was leaving the bill on the table when Wiedermeyer shook his head. The waiter took it away. So, Duggan thought, he has an account here. Maybe he lives in this hotel.
‘You have something for us,’ Wiedermeyer said after the waiter had gone, more a statement than a question.
‘A Norden bombsight,’ Duggan said, raising his glass to him and taking a drink.
Wiedermeyer stared at him, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, and raised his glass to him in what could have been a compliment as well as a response to his own gesture. ‘On your ship?’ he asked after taking a drink.
Duggan nodded as though he approved of the beer, and put the glass back on the table. Anyone watching would have assumed they were politely toasting each other.
‘Who knows it’s there?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Nobody on the ship?’
‘No,’ Duggan said. ‘Only one person knows where it is, but not what it is.’
‘What size is it?’
Duggan showed him the rough dimensions with his hands.
‘You didn’t tell us you were bringing it.’
‘Hadn’t time. It was all a last-minute rush. We didn’t expect to get it as quickly as we did. And then the ship was sailing. It all happened after our last message to you.’
‘Somebody else could have sent us a message while you were on your way.’
‘We wanted to keep the information about this as tight as possible. You don’t want the Americans knowing about it.’ Duggan desperately wanted a cigarette but he didn’t want to display any sign of nervousness. He had no doubt this had turned into an interrogation, in spite of Wiedermeyer’s pleasant tone. In plain sight, on a sunny afternoon, in the midst of women stretching out their coffees and businessmen beginning to arrive for post-work drinks.
‘You have security concerns?’ Wiedermeyer kept his tone casual.
‘We’re always concerned about informers,’ Duggan said, holding his stare. ‘We’ve had some trouble with loose talk recently. That’s why we’re trying to keep everything as tight as possible.’
‘How much did it cost?’
‘Nothing,’ Duggan said. ‘One of our volunteers heard that a black-marketeer had it. He gave it to us when its importance was pointed out to him. For the cause.’
‘You got the money we sent you?’
Duggan shook his head. ‘I haven’t heard from the bank. We can send it back to you now it’s not needed.’
�
��Leave it there for the moment.’
‘OK.’ They do have something in mind, Duggan thought. Something they want the IRA to do that’ll cost money.
Wiedermeyer took another sip of his drink and put the glass down and ran his finger around the rim. ‘Your last message,’ he said in the same relaxed, pleasant voice, ‘was not true.’
‘What?’
‘About the British planning to invade southern Ireland. It’s not true.’
‘That’s the information we have. They’re increasing their numbers in the North. Why else would they do that?’
Wiedermeyer shook his head as if he was disappointed, and ignored Duggan’s question. ‘Don’t think you can fool us into fighting your battles for you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Duggan asked, trying to figure out what this sudden change of direction meant. Did the Germans have a source of information about British intentions? Was this why the British wanted that message sent to the Germans? To see how they would react? To confirm their own suspicions?
‘You have to fight your own battles,’ Wiedermeyer said with an air of patience. ‘We will not be fooled into doing that for you.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Duggan protested. ‘I thought we’re on the same side.’
Wiedermeyer gave a slight nod that signalled little conviction. ‘We will not come to your rescue just because you keep telling us that the British are about to reconquer Eire.’
Ah, Duggan realised, the IRA have probably been telling them this since the start of the war and the Germans are fed up hearing it. ‘It’s the information we have,’ he said, letting the words sound lame. ‘And the only reason for them to increase their forces in the Six Counties is because they’re getting ready to come across the border and invade the South.’
‘We will offer any assistance we can when it happens,’ Wiedermeyer said, also making it sound less than convincing. Like a ritual restatement of positions that had lost meaning through repetition. ‘But first you must do something yourselves. Something more than talk and warnings.’
‘It’s not easy,’ Duggan offered. ‘So many of our people have been interned. And confused by Free-State forces sowing dissent and causing confusion through their provocateurs. We’re trying to regroup and build up an effective force.’
Wiedermeyer nodded, as if he had heard all that before too. He finished his drink and stood up and shook hands with Duggan. ‘We will be in touch,’ he said with a slight bow.
Duggan watched him go, threading his way between the tables and heading north towards the Avenida da Liberdade. He lit a cigarette when he had gone from his sight and took a hungry drag. The message was clear, a reassuring one for Ireland. The Germans had no intention of making the first move, however much the IRA might hope. This was probably reassuring for the British, too, he realised. They didn’t need to keep half an eye on their back door, could even reduce their numbers in the North. Unless they had something else in mind, of course.
But why wasn’t Wiedermeyer more interested in the Norden? He’d showed no interest in it other than some almost polite enquiries after that first flash of surprise. Said nothing about the handover.
Duggan took his time finishing the beer and his cigarette, keeping a close eye on everyone who passed by, and those near him. The terrace was filling up, the waiters moving about faster, their high trays fuller. Nobody paid him any attention. Nobody looked like they were there for any reason other than to meet friends and have a drink.
They arrived at Antonio’s in high spirits, all wound up for another night’s drinking. Duggan hadn’t meant to go along but he’d been persuaded by his card-playing partners. They’d had another few rounds of Twenty-Five on the ship, the pennies moving from one to another, nobody ever seeming to win or lose much in the randomness of the good and bad hands. Then most of them had gone off to their cabins to tidy up and Jenkins had persuaded Duggan to come along to the bar too. He’d had no good reason to explain why he couldn’t.
But I’m going to pace it properly tonight, he told himself as they entered. The bar was busy, a layer of smoke already becoming visible along the low ceiling. The guitar player was in his alcove plucking the strings but the notes were lost in the hubbub of conversation. They sidled their way towards the bar in single file and Strasser appeared from somewhere in front of Duggan and indicated that he should follow him.
Duggan turned to go after him and said to Jenkins behind him, ‘Be back in a little while.’
‘Business is business,’ Jenkins said, giving a knowing wink. ‘I’ll order you a rum.’
‘No,’ Duggan said, passing him. ‘Beer only tonight.’
Strasser, waiting by the door, said, ‘We need to talk.’
Duggan nodded, assuming that he meant about delivery of the Norden, and followed him out on to the street. It was dark, and seemed darker now than it had before he’d gone into the bar because of the lights inside. ‘There’s a place we can talk in private,’ Strasser said, leading him downhill.
Duggan thought he heard footsteps fall into place behind him and he realised that this might not be what he thought it was. He didn’t look back, thinking, I don’t like this. Should I just cut and run? He was fit and fast and could almost certainly outrun Strasser and whoever was behind him, if there was someone behind him. Race them down to the dock gates and through the checkpoint there. But that would blow his cover, put an end to the operation. His thoughts raced while his ears tried to pick out the sounds of footsteps behind him. What if he didn’t deliver the Norden? Would Linqvist reactivate his threat against Gerda?
Strasser turned into a narrower street and Duggan stopped. ‘Where’re we going?’ he asked.
‘Just here,’ Strasser said, stopping at the first door and ringing the bell.
Duggan glanced back the way they had come. A man had stopped about ten yards back. His face was in shadow but Duggan knew from his stance and shape that he wasn’t the one who had followed him on the train. He was broader and not as tall.
The door opened while Duggan was still weighing up whether to wait or to run. He followed Strasser inside and the door closed after them, locking out the man behind. They were in a small square area and then a door in front of them was opened by a middle-aged woman with rows of pearls covering the lace top of her high-necked blouse.
Strasser nodded to her and she stepped aside to let them through. They were in a larger room where several girls sat on couches in various states of undress. Some of them stood up as the door opened and began to adopt provocative poses. They stopped and sank back on to the couches when they saw Strasser.
He ignored them and went through a doorway opposite and into a short hall. Duggan followed and waited while Strasser opened the door of the first room off the hallway with a key.
The room was small, made even smaller by the dark red wallpaper and a chaise longue which took up one wall in front of a faded gold-brocade curtain. A small table covered in the same material stood in the centre of the room, a red upholstered chair on either side. Strasser tossed his hat on to the chaise longue and pointed to a chair. Duggan sat down, remembering that the captain had told him on his first visit about the British claims that the Germans ran brothels in this area to gather intelligence from sailors.
Strasser sat down opposite him. ‘You lied to me,’ he said.
Duggan stared at him, every sense on high alert, not knowing what Strasser was talking about but aware that his response could spring a trap. He shook his head slowly.
‘You said you were in contact with Herr Dr Goertz.’
‘Yes,’ Duggan said, and bowed his head in a gesture of contrition. He knows I'm not Goertz's messenger. A tripwire in the code? Or that trick mention of all being well in Mannheim in the first message? Or something that Henning Thomsen managed to communicate to Goertz without G2’s knowledge during one of his visits? ‘I should have told you. Our contact with Dr Goertz has been broken but we’re confident of restoring it soon.’
Stra
sser said nothing, waiting for him to explain. Duggan looked him in the eye. ‘The prison warder involved was dismissed. But we’re trying to re-establish contact through someone else.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Who?’
‘The warder who was arrested.’
‘He wasn’t arrested,’ Duggan said, making it up as he went along. ‘He was suspected of carrying messages in and out of the prison. They questioned him but couldn’t prove anything, so they just fired him.’
‘His name?’ Strasser demanded.
‘Seamus O Cathain,’ Duggan said, staring back at him, unblinking.
‘In English?’
‘James Kane. But he doesn’t use the English version.’
‘Where does he live?’
Duggan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I can find out.’
‘When?’
‘When I go back.’
‘He’s one of yours?’
Duggan shook his head. ‘Not a volunteer. Just a man who helps out. Helped out.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘It wasn’t that important,’ Duggan said, looking apologetic. ‘Because we’ve got the direct radio link established now.’
‘That link was set up for our agent to communicate with us.’
‘We thought Dr Goertz wanted it so you could communicate directly with us. Now that he’s not free to act as an intermediary.’ Duggan could feel the sweat running down his back and hoped it wasn’t going to break out on his face too.
‘If you have lost contact with Herr Dr Goertz then he did not code your messages.’
‘No,’ Duggan agreed. ‘He gave us the code.’
‘He gave you the code?’ Strasser’s voice rose with disbelief.
‘Yes,’ Duggan said, holding his sceptical gaze. ‘O Cathain knew he was under suspicion and he told Dr Goertz, and Dr Goertz gave him the code for us. So we could continue communications with you if he was cut off. You know how much work he had put into getting a secure link to you. Even when he was free. He didn’t want it to fail now that we’ve finally managed to establish it.’
