Echowave (Echoland Book 3)

by Joe Joyce

  And then there were the Germans. What’ll Wiedermeyer think if I fail to deliver what I promised? he wondered. They’re already suspicious. It’ll confirm their suspicions if I don’t do it. Break the radio link we’ve got with them. And at a time when they’re clearly planning something, if the money they’ve deposited into the supposed IRA account is anything to go by. Something that we certainly need to know about.

  He got up to stub out the cigarette on the sill through the open window. The tiled roofs of other houses fell away below him into the valley of Baixa between the two hills and he looked across at the Castelo de São Jorge squatting on top of Alfama. It seemed like an age since he’d been there a few hours ago, rambling around like a tourist. His mind hopped about the events of the morning and something struck him. That could be a plan, he thought, trying to calm his thoughts into order, looking at things from several angles. He flicked the dead butt out the window, not caring where it fell.

  He got dressed and swung the heavy kitbag over his shoulder and made his way down the stairs. There were sounds behind the doors on some floors; it seemed the house was divided into apartments. It would make sense for the OSS to have numerous pieds-à-terre around a city like Lisbon.

  He walked quickly down the Rua da Condessa, hurrying with the hill past the Largo do Carmo, down towards the river, until he came to Rua Garrett and found a taxi leaving a well-dressed woman outside an expensive clothes shop. He got in and gave the driver the same address in Lapa that Hopkins had given his taxi after their conversation in the bar earlier.

  Maisie Figueras opened the door herself this time and stepped back to pull it wider. ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

  ‘Can’t get rid of a bad penny,’ he grinned, encouraged by her reaction. This was going to work, though he didn’t know how yet.

  ‘Straight off the boat.’ She eyed his kitbag. ‘You brought me a present?’

  ‘Only a token,’ he said, taking his unopened spare packet of Sweet Afton from his pocket.

  ‘It’s the thought that counts,’ she said, taking it. ‘Come on in.’

  He followed her along the cool hallway to the reception room they’d been in the last time. ‘Rosario’s having a siesta,’ she said. ‘So no Russian tea today unless you insist I make it myself.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ he said, leaving his bag down.

  ‘Then gin it is.’

  She opened the latticed door of a wooden cabinet and took out a bottle of gin and a siphon of tonic and two glasses. He watched her pouring large shots into each glass, wondering if she knew her husband had been the one who had shopped Aiken to Hopkins. Almost certainly, he had already decided. In fact he suspected she was as likely to be the British spy as her husband. Or both of them were. Hopkins hadn’t been coming round here in the middle of the morning to meet her husband. And her performance last time had been perfectly pitched to deflect suspicion from them: the hints that she was an Aiken supporter from the civil-war days; the criticism of Britain’s treatment of its old ally Portugal in the past; the casting of suspicion on the patrician Maud Browne.

  ‘Say when,’ she turned to him, finger on the trigger of the siphon.

  ‘Fill it up please.’

  She dropped one eyelid at him in a disappointed gesture but did as he asked and then gave her own glass a short squirt of tonic. She handed him his glass and raised hers to his and said ‘Sláinte.’ She gestured at the couch and asked as they sat down how things were in Dublin.

  ‘Not getting any easier,’ Duggan said. ‘Supplies are drying up. No petrol any more and lot of worries about coal shortages next winter.’

  ‘You should come here for the winter.’

  ‘If I’m lucky,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard that we’re opening a legation here.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s why you’re here?’

  ‘Looking at some details,’ he said, keeping it vague.

  ‘You know Mr Kirwan in the Madrid legation?’

  Duggan sipped at his drink as if he was trying to place him. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’ He had no idea who she was talking about.

  ‘He was here about ten days ago or so.’

  ‘Did you meet him?’

  ‘Just heard about it on the grapevine. He was meeting the Foreign Ministry about the arrangements.’

  ‘I hope nobody there is going to cause difficulties,’ he said, giving her a knowing look, hinting at Maud Browne’s Anglophile husband.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said, taking the hint and going to open the packet of Afton. He interrupted her, holding out his open cigarette case. ‘Have one of these,’ he said. ‘Keep those for later.’

  She took one and touched his hand as he leaned over to light it for her. ‘Did you talk to Madam Maud?’

  Duggan nodded. ‘She wasn’t very helpful.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ Maisie said in a contented tone. ‘Did you get to the bottom of that whole business about General Aiken?’

  ‘Not really. Came to a dead end.’

  ‘Bit of a storm in a teacup,’ Maisie said, giving an airy wave of her cigarette, leaving a faint question mark of smoke in the still air. In the courtyard outside, the sun sparked through the small plume of water from the fountain.

  ‘Like a lot of political and diplomatic things.’

  ‘You’ll be able to keep a closer eye on the likes of Maud Browne when you’re based here.’

  ‘Not much chance of me being posted here, unfortunately.’

  ‘You still saying you’re a researcher?’ She gave him a coy smile.

  He smiled back as he nodded, injecting an air of ambiguity into his words. ‘I just do the low-level stuff the diplomatic types can’t be bothered with.’

  ‘Low . . . level,’ she repeated, separating the words as if to examine them individually. ‘You mean underhand?’

  ‘God, no. That’s for the diplomatic types.’

  ‘So what low-level things are you doing this time?’

  ‘Looking around for possible accommodation. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Well, this is the area to look,’ she said. ‘Most of the embassies are around here. But you’d want to be careful. You don’t want to end up next door to the wrong people. Or even in the same street. You can be judged just by your neighbours these days.’

  ‘That was one of the things I was hoping you would be able to help me with,’ he said, seizing on the opening she’d given him.

  ‘Only one?’

  ‘I was also hoping we could have that lunch you mentioned last time,’ he said, holding her gaze.

  ‘That’s a nice idea,’ she said. ‘What do you like to eat?’

  ‘I’ll try anything.’

  ‘The adventurous type. That’s good.’ She finished her drink and held up the glass. ‘Another?’

  ‘No thanks.’ His glass was still half full. ‘I’ll have to go. I actually have to meet someone near here about accommodation.’

  She gave him an inquisitive look as she got up and went back to the cabinet and poured herself another gin and a splash of tonic.

  ‘An auctioneer who’s to advise us on property.’ He searched his memory for some landmark, hoping she wouldn’t ask who the auctioneer was, though he’d memorised the name off a sign on a building he’d passed on the way in case she did. ‘I’m meeting him at that big cathedral.’

  ‘The Basilica da Estrela,’ she said as she came back with her drink and sat down.

  ‘That’s it,’ he agreed. ‘I’d like to get your opinion afterwards on whatever he has to say. To make sure we don’t make any mistakes. Get in with the wrong crowd.’

  ‘I’ll be going out in an hour.’

  ‘We could do it over lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘Where would you like to go?’

  ‘I’m in your hands,’ Duggan said, spreading his hands.

  ‘You could just come here. I’ll try and think of something nice.’

  ‘That’d be great.’ He finished his gi
n and tonic in one long swallow and stood up. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

  He picked up his kitbag and she led him down the hall, her drink in her hand. ‘Would you mind,’ he hesitated when they got to the hall door, ‘if I left this here while I meet this man? Don’t want to be carrying it around. Looking like I’m straight off the boat.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll probably be gone when you get back but I’ll tell Rosario you’ll be picking it up.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, leaving the bag behind the door.

  She raised her cheeks to be kissed: first one, then the other. ‘Great to see you again,’ he said.

  ‘And you,’ she said.

  He went down the hill, heading for the tram tracks, checking his watch and thinking that the meeting had gone perfectly. He suppressed a sliver of doubt, suggesting that he might be wrong. She might be completely innocent, not know what her Portuguese businessman husband was up to. Maybe she was just having an affair with Hopkins, nothing political in it at all. But then she’d hardly be flirting with me.

  Doesn’t matter, he told himself. What matters is that she and her husband know Hopkins. And one or the other will tell him about the package I left there and never came back to collect. Especially after they look into the kitbag and see what it is. And let Hopkins handle it. Let him give it to the Germans if the British know about the spy ring in America. Or give it back to the Americans.

  He came to a steep street with tram tracks and crossed to the down line and looked for the nearest stop. A Number 28 came almost immediately and he got a single seat on the right and took out his notebook and jotted down Maisie’s address and tore out the page. Then he leaned his elbow on the open window, savouring the breeze as the tram careered downhill to the level ground by the church in Largo Corpo Santo.

  He got off at the stop by Rua Augusta and hurried up to Praça do Rossio, thinking of getting back to Gerda as he went by the Santa Justa elevador again. Wiedermeyer was in his usual place at the back of the Metropole’s terrace, looking relaxed as always behind his glass of clear liquid. Duggan weaved his way between the tables and sank into the wicker chair beside him, perspiring heavily. Wiedermeyer gave him a look that mixed curiosity with disdain.

  ‘Someone’s following me,’ Duggan said, looking back the way he had come.

  ‘Who?’ Wiedermeyer asked, keeping his attention on Duggan, careful not to follow his gaze.

  ‘Fucking Brits.’

  ‘You saw them?’

  Duggan nodded.

  ‘You see them now?’

  ‘No. I think I gave him the slip. Jumped off the tram and ran.’

  Wiedermeyer took a sip of his drink and asked the passing waiter for a Sagres. ‘What did he look like?’

  Duggan gave him a description based on the man who had followed him from Cascais, but nothing precise enough to identify him. ‘Do they have many spies here?’ he added.

  ‘Of course,’ Wiedermeyer said. ‘They think this is part of their territory. But it’s not any more.’

  ‘Should we be meeting in such a public place?’ Duggan couldn’t resist asking, casting a nervous eye around their surroundings.

  ‘We’re just having a drink,’ Wiedermeyer said as the waiter came with the Sagres. ‘Calm down.’

  ‘There’s another thing,’ Duggan said when the waiter had finished pouring half the bottle. ‘We’ve got a tip-off that they’re going to search our ship.’

  ‘Who?’ Wiedermeyer’s interest was piqued. ‘The British?’

  ‘The Portuguese. Their Special Branch or whatever they call it. The captain got a tip-off from one of his friends in the harbour office. The British are behind it.’

  ‘He told him that?’

  ‘It’s obvious.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why are they following me? They know I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘How would they know that?’

  ‘Fuckers have spies and informers everywhere.’

  ‘You suspect some of the ship’s crew?’

  ‘Jesus, I don’t know.’ Duggan took a long drink and followed it with a cigarette, like a man at the end of his tether. Don’t overdo it, he warned himself. ‘But it’s okay,’ he said, breathing out a calming stream of smoke and lowering his voice. ‘I got the bombsight off the ship. To a safe place.’

  Wiedermeyer said nothing. His demeanour hadn’t changed. He still looked relaxed, with neither a care nor a suspicion in his mind. ‘Where’s this safe place?’ he asked at last.

  ‘With a friend of ours here. A sympathiser.’

  ‘You can trust him?’ Wiedermeyer asked, a hint of interest creeping into his voice at finding someone else in Lisbon who might turn out to be useful.

  ‘Her.’ Duggan corrected him. ‘Yes. She’s reliable.’

  ‘Were you followed there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Yes. I took precautions. That’s why I noticed him later, but he didn’t follow me there. I’m sure of that.’ He took the note with Maisie’s address from his pocket and held it under the table. Wiedermeyer disappeared it into his fist with scarcely a movement. ‘If you ask her for the bag I left, she’ll give it to you.’

  ‘When does your ship sail?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’ Duggan poured the remainder of his beer into the glass and drank some of it. ‘We have to call at one of the British ports on the way back. I’m fucked if they know anything.’

  They lapsed into silence again, Duggan drinking and smoking in a display of nerves, hoping that Wiedermeyer would attribute them to the fears he had articulated. But Wiedermeyer was the real source of his nervousness. It was impossible to tell how much he believed, if any, of the story Duggan had spun him.

  ‘It’s good to be careful,’ Wiedermeyer said at last. ‘But not to the point where it stops us from doing what’s necessary.’

  Duggan nodded as if he knew what that meant, and finished his drink. He took some coins from his pocket but Wiedermeyer waved them away. ‘I’ll take care of this,’ he said. ‘You be careful.’

  ‘I will,’ Duggan said. ‘I’ll send a message when I get home.’

  ‘And remember what I said,’ Wiedermeyer added. ‘Keep us informed of everything. And not only what suits your own aims.’

  ‘I understand,’ Duggan said as he stood up.

  There was a queue for the Santa Justa elevador this time and he had to wait near the top of the line for a second car. He watched it fill up behind him, looking for any possible tails. Most of the people getting in looked like office workers, and they all looked like they were Portuguese. Though, he realised, that didn’t mean anything. Gerda could easily pass for a Portuguese woman too with her black hair and dark eyes.

  He dawdled along after they got off on the top, and stopped to light a cigarette until everybody on the elevador had passed him by, hurrying home after work. He took his time following them and did a half-circuit of Largo da Carmo, cutting back through the park and pausing to circle its old fountain as if he was examining it. Satisfied that nobody was following him, he made his way up Rua da Condessa and knocked on the door.

  Gerda opened it and gave him a worried look and whispered, ‘Go upstairs.’ She disappeared into a room off the small hallway as he climbed up to the top of the building to the room they’d been in before. He pushed off his shoes without unlacing them and took off his shirt and stood at the open window, feeling the cool air on his skin and looking at the stacked rooftops on Alfama mellowed by the sinking sun.

  He lay down on the bed after a while and tried to figure out the possible consequences of what he had done. With a bit of luck it would upset everybody’s apple carts. So much the better if Wiedermeyer sent someone to collect the Norden from Maisie’s. Hopkins would surely hear about it from her, and MI6 would tell the OSS. And I can tell Linqvist I’ve delivered it to the Germans, Duggan thought. But they can’t use it against us, say we’ve given American secrets to the Germans, when the conduit
was actually a British spy.

  And it sent the British a message too: ‘We know who’s working for you in Lisbon, helping you poison our relations with the Americans.’

  If the Germans did call to collect the Norden, that would add to the confusion. Would they try and recruit Maisie, thinking she was an IRA sympathiser? That’d get Hopkins interested. On the other hand, what if the Germans realised, or even knew, she was a British agent? That would not be good for Sean McCarthy, though he could still bluff his way through it. ‘We’ve been misled too by this traitorous Irish woman,’ he could say.

  Gerda pushed open the door with her foot and came in carrying a tray with bread and cheeses and cold meats, and a bottle of wine and two glasses. ‘You look happier,’ she said as he moved sideways to make room for the tray and she sat down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be happy? Alone with you at last.’

  ‘I was worried when I left. You looked so sick.’

  ‘I’m fine now.’ He pulled her closer to him and dropped his voice. ‘Thanks for telling me.’ He kissed her closed eyelids. ‘I love you.’

  She smiled and poured him a glass of wine. ‘You like red wine?’

  ‘What I’d really like would be a nice cup of tea.’ He took the glass.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, exaggerating her Cork accent, ‘a nice cup of Barry’s tea.’

  ‘Proper Irish tea,’ he corrected her.

  ‘That’s Barry’s.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’ He sipped the wine. ‘But this’ll do for the moment.’

  She broke off a piece of bread and held it up. ‘What would you like on it?’

  ‘I’ll try that,’ he said, pointing to a lump of solid-looking cheese.

  She cut some pieces off it and put it on the bread and handed it to him and watched him eat.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ he asked, his mouth full.

  She shook her head. ‘We have to build up your strength.’

  He drank some wine to wash down the food. ‘Is that a promise or a threat?’

  ‘It’s a precaution.’

  ‘It’s not needed at the moment.’

  ‘In that case . . . ’ she said, lifting the tray and putting it down on the floor. She stood up and took the wine glass from his hand and began unbuttoning her shirtwaister.