Echowave (Echoland Book 3)

by Joe Joyce

  Strasser sat back in his chair and studied him while he took out a packet of Lucky Strikes and tapped it on the table. Duggan held his stare, trying to look like he had nothing to fear. Strasser raised the pack to his mouth and withdrew a cigarette with his lips, keeping his eyes on Duggan. After a moment, he offered the pack to Duggan.

  ‘No, thanks,’ Duggan said, taking out his cigarette case and selecting an Afton. ‘I prefer the Irish ones.’

  Strasser lit his cigarette and then leaned across the table with the lighter still lit and put it to the end of Duggan’s cigarette. He kept his eyes on Duggan all the time. Duggan managed to stop the cigarette or his hand shaking. Nothing to fear, he kept telling himself. Nothing to fear. I’m telling the truth.

  ‘Thanks,’ he nodded as he got the cigarette going and inhaled, grateful for the second time that day for the rush of nicotine. ‘The other reason we didn’t tell you is because we’re sure we’ll be able to re-establish contact with Dr Goertz. There’s another warder we’re talking to. He’s a little nervous at the moment but will probably help when things quieten down again.’

  Strasser inhaled and exhaled heavily, almost a sigh. ‘Keep us informed in future. Of every detail.’

  Duggan gave a solemn nod, trying not to let his relief show. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, we will.’

  They smoked in silence for a time. There was no sound from the rest of the house other than occasional footsteps on the corridor outside. Eventually Duggan asked about arrangements for collecting the package he had brought with him.

  ‘That’s being worked out,’ Strasser said, finishing his cigarette and standing up. He held the door open for Duggan to leave. ‘Take your pick,’ he said, flicking his eyes towards the reception room. ‘On the house, as you say in English.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Duggan said. ‘Some other time maybe.’

  He stepped out on to the side street and pulled the door closed behind him and took a deep breath of the soft night air. There was no sign of the man who had followed them to the brothel. He thought about going back to the ship but he was too tense to do that. What he needed was a stiff drink. He turned back towards Antonio’s, hoping that Jenkins had ignored his instruction and lined up a glass of rum for him.

  Eighteen

  Duggan had a sleepless night, the dark of the cabin magnifying his worries. Jenkins snored in a drunken stupor in the other bunk, but Duggan felt stone-cold sober. All he had drunk had unknotted the tension in his stomach and calmed the shake in his hand after he had left the brothel. The bar and the banter had stilled his thoughts but they had all rushed back as soon as he lay down in the darkness.

  He got up after a while, pulled on his trousers and shirt and went barefooted on deck. The quiet of the city was broken by the barking of dogs and the sounds of a ship being loaded or unloaded somewhere downriver: a dull thudding interspersed with an engine of some kind. He sat down with his back to the ship’s bridge, on the river side, and watched the water flow towards the sea with the ebbing tide.

  He thought back over his conversations with Strasser and Wiedermeyer. The Germans were clearly suspicious, but was it of him or of the IRA? If it was of the IRA and its capabilities and its usefulness to them, that was fine. But if it was of him, that was a different matter. Was there anything to indicate that they suspected him of double-dealing? Not really. They were suspicious in general. Cautious, maybe. They didn’t have proof of anything. Or, if they had, they hadn’t shown their hand. If their suspicions were confirmed the consequences could be nasty.

  He shivered at the thought and lit a cigarette, aware that he was smoking too much. I have an excuse, he told himself, leaning his head back against the cold metal of the bridge, feeling the slow strain of the ship against its moorings and the creaking of its restricted movements on the tide.

  There were so many things that could wrong. Tip their suspicions into certainty. If one of the sailors used their whorehouse and mentioned Duggan’s arrest in Pembroke and their surprise at his reappearance. If their legation in Dublin managed to check with Goertz on whether he had given the key to their code to anyone. If any one of many things were to happen to expose the growing pile of lies he was telling them. If, if, if.

  Maybe McClure was right, he thought. We shouldn’t be playing in this league. Especially when we’re not altogether sure what the game is.

  Hold your nerve, he told himself. That’s all that’s required. Believe the cover story. Act like you’re telling the truth. Don’t over-explain.

  He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt over the side. He pulled up his knees and rested his head on his arms and drifted off to sleep.

  He woke with a crewman looking down at him and saying, ‘Jaysus, I thought we’d got a stowaway there for a minute.’

  Duggan yawned as he raised himself up against the wall. ‘It was very stuffy inside.’

  ‘You mean Jenkins’d wake the dead with a feed of drink on him,’ the crewman laughed. ‘Why do you think you got bunked in with him?’

  ‘I know now.’ Duggan gave him a rueful grin.

  The sun was just above the horizon and he stretched himself and breathed in the fresh air of a new day.

  Later the captain took him aside and told him he’d be going ashore for the day if he needed his package.

  ‘You better give it to me then,’ Duggan said. He had to give it to the Germans today whether they were ready to receive it or not: the ship was due to sail the next morning.

  He waited on deck while the captain went down into the vessel and brought up the Norden. Duggan took it down to his cabin, pulled the clothes from his kitbag and forced the box into it. It was a tight squeeze, and all too obvious that the bag contained a square box. But he had nowhere else to put it. He shoved some dirty clothes back into the bag and pushed it under his bunk, hoping it would be safe there.

  I need to get rid of it as soon as possible, he thought. Maybe bring it along to Strasser and just hand it over. Or even leave it at his brothel. But that would raise the Germans’ suspicions, if he seemed desperate to get rid of it. On the other hand, he had an excuse: their departure time was fixed.

  He checked his watch: it wasn’t quite nine o’clock. Another two hours before he could see Strasser in Antonio’s. He lay on the bunk but was too restless to stay there. He decided to go for a walk instead, burn off some of the nervous energy created by the tension and uncertainty.

  The Greek freighter behind them was casting off as he went by, churning up the filthy water at the dockside as it angled out into the river. Beyond it, bales of some material were being swung by a crane on board another freighter and disappearing into its hold. The port was busy everywhere with trucks and carts being loaded and unloaded.

  He emerged from the docks into the expanse of Praça do Comércio and took shelter from the blazing sun under the arcade running along its nearest side. Most of the buildings were offices, interspersed here and there with cafés. A queue of dark-clothed people waited along the wall outside one doorway and Duggan realised when he neared them that they were refugees from German-occupied countries queuing outside a shipping office. Some were old couples, some parents with children, a few on their own. Most of them looked pale and drawn and over-dressed for the climate.

  As he went by he thought of Gerda and how wise her father had been to get his family out of Austria in time. And he wondered if any of these people might be her relations who’d been caught in Vienna by the Anschluss. Her presence in New York would be a help in getting them American visas.

  He came to the end of the arcade and was about to step into the sunshine when a man came around the corner and brushed against him as he went by. Duggan felt the man’s hand on his before he registered who he was and, like a newborn baby grasping a finger, he took the piece of paper pressed into his hand without thinking. The man was past him in an instant. Duggan restrained an instinct to turn and look after him. He knew who he was, had recognised him in the brief moment when he registered the fac
e under the hat, the eyes staring straight ahead, not looking at him.

  He continued across the tram tracks to Rua Augusta and went under its triumphal arch, heading for the city centre. He hadn’t bothered to check if his tail was with him this morning, not caring, as he wasn’t going anywhere in particular. But now that Tom Hopkins had made contact with him, he wondered if he was being followed, and if the follower had seen Hopkins pass the note to him. He doubted it. It had happened so fast that anyone not expecting it was unlikely to have noticed it. Unless, of course, his follower the previous day had been one of Hopkins’s colleagues, a possibility that hadn’t occurred to him before.

  He walked up Rua Augusta until he came to its second café, then stopped suddenly and took a seat outside facing back the way he had come. There was no sign of his tail from the previous day.

  He ordered a café branco and a roll and the waiter brought him a large cup of coffee and a small jug of warm milk. He broke open the round bread roll and buttered it and put a dab of jam on one side. He took his time eating and drinking, all the time wondering what Hopkins was doing here and keeping an eye on the street back to the square. He didn’t recognise anyone or see anyone who looked out of place.

  When he’d finished eating, he took the note from his pocket and unfolded it. There was a number on it, a telephone number he presumed. Nothing else.

  He strolled up the street to Praça do Rossio and went by the Metropole Hotel. A man with a cigar in his mouth and the Diário de Lisboa open in his hands sat at a front table, seemingly unaware of the small boy polishing his shoes under his table. He went on into Praça Restauradores, stopping to look at the cinema posters but not recognising any of the stars’ names, and up to Avenida da Liberdade.

  He went into the post office he had used before and found a row of phone cabins in a corridor. There was a short queue of people waiting ahead of him and he joined the end of it, listening to the rumble of rapid-fire conversations of those on the phones. When his turn came he closed the door tight and dialled the number on the piece of paper.

  A woman with a crisp voice said, ‘Hello?’ He asked to speak to Tom Hopkins, his hand around the mouthpiece to keep the sound down.

  ‘Mr Hopkins is not here at present,’ she said. ‘Please call back in half an hour.’

  He continued his stroll up the avenue, as if he was a visitor seeing the sights. That phone number was no trade office in the British legation, he knew. No query about who was calling. No offer to take a message. The real questions were why Hopkins was here in Lisbon and why he had made contact. And, for that matter, how he knew Duggan was there and how he knew he was walking up that arcade at that time. There was someone else keeping an eye on him.

  He tried to figure out if anyone was following him now but it was impossible to know here. The streets were busy and the multiple lanes of traffic were separated by footpaths and the linear park with trees. A tail could be anywhere, easily keeping out of sight even if you knew where to look. He stopped at a news kiosk and joined some other men reading the newspapers pinned on a board at its side. The headlines were about Russia but he couldn’t make out much beyond that.

  The sports pages, pinned on the other side of the kiosk, had a bigger readership and meant even less to him. He used the kiosk to turn around and go back the way he had come, trying to spot anyone stopping or changing direction, but nobody did anything that called attention to themselves.

  He rejoined the queue for the phones in the post office and dialled the number again when his turn came.

  ‘Do you know the Tivoli Hotel?’ the same crisp English voice asked.

  ‘Yes.’ He had just passed it on the Avenida da Liberdade.

  ‘Go in the main entrance. Walk through the bar and the residents’ lounge and go out the door on to the side street. There is a small bar fifty yards down the street on the other side. It has an old sign advertising Sagres beer beside the door. Clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’ She hung up.

  He followed the instructions, taking his time, as if he was still meandering around the city without any specific purpose. The terrace of the Tivoli Hotel was beginning to get busy with mid-morning customers, apart from one or two tables occupied by people with the lost air of refugees. Inside, it was quiet, the residents’ lounge empty, and he went out the side door on to a narrow street.

  The bar was tiny, marked as far as he could see only by a black-and-white aluminium sign nailed to the wall by the door showing a Sagres bottle with the lid off and a slogan saying ‘A sede que se deseja’. There was no one inside except Hopkins.

  Duggan sat down beside him on a wooden chair. The place was tiny: there were only two tables, a small bar set into a corner, and faded photos of football teams on the walls. He realised Hopkins was seated at an angle which gave him a view through the single window of the side door to the hotel. ‘You like a drink?’ he asked, his eyes still on the window. He hadn’t looked at Duggan at all.

  ‘No thanks.’ There was nothing on the table in front of Hopkins and no sign of a barman. Duggan took out a cigarette and lit it.

  ‘There’s a kind of gentlemen’s agreement here,’ Hopkins said, still watching the window. ‘Leave each other alone for the most part. Keep an eye on each other of course. Compete for the favours of the Portuguese. Buy up their wolfram, that sort of thing. But no rough stuff, by and large. Although things can get out of hand now and then. Regrettable excesses of zeal. Usually involving the flash boys of Naval Intelligence. People like that.’

  ‘Somebody’s been following me,’ Duggan said.

  ‘Now?’ Hopkins flicked his eyes from the window to him.

  ‘I don’t know. Yesterday. From Cascais.’

  ‘Ah.’ Hopkins gave a faint smile as if that was understandable. ‘The new boy in town.’ He turned his attention to Duggan.

  ‘Me or him?’

  ‘You. Everybody gets interested when some fresh blood comes on the scene.’

  ‘How’d you know I was here?’

  ‘Word gets around,’ Hopkins said, giving him a slight grin which could have been an apology, and changing the subject. ‘How’s Fritz?’

  ‘Gave me a lecture. About how the IRA would have to fight its own battles. The Germans aren’t going to be fooled into doing it for them by scare stories about British invasions.’

  ‘That’s good news. For both of us.’

  Duggan nodded. ‘That the answer you wanted from the message we sent them for you?’

  ‘Could be,’ Hopkins shrugged. ‘But nobody explained to me the purpose of the message. Ours not to reason why, you know.’

  ‘That can be frustrating.’

  ‘Only if you think too much about it,’ Hopkins said, as if he was happy being a messenger. Duggan didn’t believe it for a moment. ‘He doesn’t suspect you, does he?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I’m not certain.’ Duggan told him about Strasser’s questioning and his visit to the brothel.

  ‘Ah, Pausch.’ Hopkins nodded, as if this answered a question that had troubled him, ‘Heinrich Pausch is the man you call “Strasser”. Their whoremaster. Looks like an overgrown schoolboy who can’t believe he’s been left in charge of the tuck shop.’

  Duggan recognised the description of Strasser when he was in a good mood or being pleasant.

  ‘I hope you haven’t partaken of any of Herr Pausch’s goodies,’ Hopkins was saying. ‘You might catch more than some poisonous politics.’

  ‘Was that why you wanted to see me?’ Duggan kept the question casual, wondering if he should upset this cosy chat, challenge Hopkins about the Aiken speech. If an opening presented itself.

  ‘Concerned about your welfare,’ Hopkins replied in kind. ‘When you turned up without notice.’

  ‘Should I have told you I was coming?’

  ‘No, of course not. No need.’ Hopkins brushed aside the idea, a ludicrous suggestion, with a wave of his hand. ‘Just thought we should touch b
ase. And give you the number. In case of any difficulties. Give Belinda a call any time.’

  ‘You think there might be?’ Duggan probed.

  Hopkins shook his head. ‘Unlikely. Live and let live, as I said.’

  ‘Why does Wiedermeyer keeping meeting me at the Metrolpole? So you people can see me?’

  Hopkins nodded. ‘One of Fritz’s little games. Likes to meet innocent civilians there. Ties us up trying to check them out and maybe upsets them if we step on their toes. Now and then he throws in someone who might be of genuine interest to keep us coming back for more. Like Sean McCarthy.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Duggan said. ‘So the IRA is nothing to them but a minor bait.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Hopkins said, giving him a questioning look. ‘Unless he’s been whispering meaningful somethings in your ear?’

  ‘Only giving me an earful about the IRA having to fight its own battles,’ Duggan said.

  Hopkins pushed back his chair and they both stood up. Nobody had appeared behind the bar in the time they’d been there. They stepped out into the street. ‘I’m in luck,’ Hopkins said, raising his hand at a taxi coming down the road. ‘Take care. Never hurts to be careful. And call Belinda if you need anything.’

  ‘OK,’ Duggan said as the taxi stopped. ‘Thanks.’

  Hopkins opened the passenger door and told the driver where he was going. The driver didn’t catch it and Hopkins sat in, telling the driver again where he was going as he pulled the door shut, raising his voice as he did so. Duggan was walking away and almost stopped in surprise. But he kept going, hoping Hopkins hadn’t noticed his hesitation. He recognised that address.

  Nineteen

  Strasser was waiting for him in Antonio’s by the time he got there, slightly out of breath from hurrying. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he sat down. ‘I was wandering around the city and didn’t realise how long it would take me to get back here.’

  ‘Sightseeing,’ Strasser said as if he was trying out the phrase. ‘See any interesting sights?’