Blind Arrows

by Anthony Quinn

  Kant handed the clerk the reference code for the file Merrin had given him on the day she disappeared, and asked for directions to where it had been shelved. He hoped the neighbouring files might shed light on its mysterious list of numbers and dates.

  The clerk frowned and looked disconcerted.

  ‘Where did you get the code?’

  ‘From a contact.’

  ‘Did the contact have the actual file?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was hoping that perhaps it might have been rescued…’ He left the sentence hanging in the air, as if unsure of how to finish it.

  ‘What do you mean rescued?’

  The clerk gave him directions to where the file had been stored. ‘You’ll find out what I mean when we get there.’

  He escorted the reporter down a damp corridor and left him at an alcove filled with a different, earthier odour to the rest of the archives. The gas lamp above the recess threw enough light to reveal what at first Kant thought were the signs of neglect and decay, but then realised were the remnants of a fire, the metal filing cabinets scorched black, a fine layer of ashes coating the shelves. The section containing the other files relating to Merrin’s stolen dossier appeared to have been at the centre of the blaze. He ran his hands along the ashes and was reminded of the fire in Merrin’s boarding house bedroom.

  The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted him from his reverie.

  Spectral in the gaslight, a figure appeared in the corridor.

  ‘Hello, Kant.’ It was Isham. ‘Fancy finding you grubbing about here. I thought you fellows preferred to be out at large and not stuck in a crypt like this.’

  ‘Just following orders.’

  ‘Whose?’ Isham’s eyes were blank.

  ‘General Stapleton’s.’

  Again an empty gaze.

  ‘I have to say, you’ll not make much progress in here.’ Isham flicked through a row of files in the opposite alcove to hide his irritation. ‘You know this is not really an intelligence archive in the strictest sense of the word. You’ll not find names or dates or identifying traits that will lead you to the enemy. What you see here is nothing more than the popular Irish wish of getting one up on one’s neighbours.’ He turned deeper into the murky shadows between the shelves. It was so gloomy Kant could barely see him at all. ‘If you listen closely, you can hear the endless whispering, the malicious gossip, the petty complaints in a hundred different bog and mountain accents, the layers of parish rivalries that go back generations. It is unfortunate, but our intelligence system has allowed all this bitterness to rise to the surface.’

  ‘You’re depressing me.’

  ‘Take it as advice from one professional to another. You’re wasting your time burrowing away in a place like this. The enemy is out there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Everywhere. Strolling through the streets, drinking in the pubs, betting on the races, praying in the churches…’

  ‘Thank you, corporal. I’ve been warned. By the way, what happened to the files in this section?’

  ‘Oh those, they were burned to cinders.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do fires usually start? Because of stupidity, carelessness. One of the clerks was dim-witted enough to leave a candle burning. By the time the idiot raised the alarm, the whole alcove was ablaze. General Stapleton should really close the entire place down to everyone but the intelligence chiefs. The whole place could go up like tinder.’

  He joined Kant in the alcove, sniffing at the stench of damp ashes.

  ‘Between you and me, Kant, the general is driving us all mad. He wants to turn our spies into peace envoys. Every day he rants about pulling back and not provoking Collins.’

  ‘The general is very dedicated to his goals of a political settlement.’

  Isham eyed the reporter closely. ‘I hear a rumour he’s appointed you as an intermediary with Sinn Fein.’

  ‘I’m sure I’m not the first spy from Dublin Castle asked to make secret contact with the IRA.’ He watched Isham for a reaction, but there was none.

  ‘My dear Mr Kant,’ said the corporal in a tone that was somewhere between polite distaste and ironic respect, ‘have you ever stopped to consider what the general has really planned for you? Why he dropped you in this difficult role at such short notice?’

  ‘I don’t have an answer to that. I’m not sure what exactly he wants me to do, or why he even asked me in the first place.’

  ‘Let me give you a hint. Stapleton is a career general, and a cunning one at that. He wants to seal his reputation with one final historic victory before he retires. Right now, he’s filing a report outlining how he has brought Collins to the brink of a political compromise. Keep digging around the disappearance of Merrin and you risk alienating Collins and messing up Stapleton’s plans for a grand success. Think about it carefully.’

  ‘What if there is a madman out there murdering women for the thrill of it? What if he’s one of ours, working under the protection of Dublin Castle?’

  The clock tower in the castle began to chime the hour. It had a grave bass note. Afterwards there was an uncomfortable silence during which Isham kept glaring at the reporter.

  ‘Let me make one thing clear,’ said Isham at last, as if he’d been considering if that one thing was worth explaining to the reporter. His voice was his own now, no longer convivial, but cold and arrogant. ‘No one in Dublin Castle is interested in how these women were murdered. Their deaths are regarded as stray events, part of the arbitrary nature of things during war. But we are interested in the bigger picture. And it is important that you should be discreet in your investigations.’ The shadows of his face grew deeper. ‘Think about this, if Collins becomes hell bent on war and rejects the general’s peace overtures, Stapleton will be able to blame you and your meddling. He might even accuse you of being an agent provocateur and have you arrested. Who knows? I might even shop you in myself.’ He flashed a sardonic grin.

  Kant shrugged. ‘Right now I’m more interested in finding out what happened to Lily Merrin. And so should you and the rest of Dublin Castle.’

  ‘Before you get carried away with your little investigation, let me tell you something of what I’ve learned about Collins. He’s a black-hearted, thorough-going spawn of the bog women-hater.’ Isham’s eyes did not blink once as he stared at the reporter. ‘But he’s also a clever bastard. He has recruited a circle of devoted IRA women, who regard him as their hero, their great liberator, because he sets them tasks straight from the pages of a fantasy spy novel. He has given them faith in their powers as individuals, and in return, they show him undying loyalty. If anyone is behind the disappearance of Merrin it is Collins. He has made these female recruits his unquestioning slaves. He has turned secretaries into spies, typists into terrorists, nuns into assassins, expectant mothers into gun smugglers. And whenever they have served their useful purpose, they become expendable.’

  ‘Sounds like you know him quite well.’

  ‘I’ve been busy with my sources. Much better than sniffing in the dirt of this place.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Collins and the IRA’s finances?’ Now it was Kant’s turn to watch Isham closely.

  Isham shrugged. ‘He’s been fiddling around with substantial amounts of money. What makes you so interested in his spending habits?’

  ‘Just following a line of enquiry, that’s all.’

  ‘Who suggested the enquiry?’

  ‘A member of Sinn Fein’s ruling council. A man called Cathal Brugha.’

  Isham relaxed a little, as though the conversation had been pulled back from a dangerous brink. He stared at Kant, expecting further detail, but at that moment, Kant leaned against the shelves, and broke into a coughing fit. His chest sounded more alarming with its rattling echoing back from the dank cellar walls.

  ‘It’s n
one of my business,’ said Isham, ‘but I don’t think Dublin is doing you any good. It’s too full of smoke and too near the sea. Damp all year round. Why don’t you go back to England, or Scotland even? Get a post up in the hills, away from these clouds of charcoal and ash.’

  ‘Dublin isn’t good for any of us. But I have a mission here. A sense of direction and purpose that gives me satisfaction.’

  ‘Not for much longer, I’m afraid. You’ll soon see that you’re here like the rest of us. By accident. The only sense of direction we have is the one carrying us blindly towards death.’

  Neither spoke for a while.

  ‘It’ll be Christmas, soon,’ said Isham, turning to leave. ‘Make sure you don’t work yourself into an early grave.’

  When Kant returned to the front hall of the war office, he saw that the old woman was still there. By now, she had set off a black panic of vexation among the clerks and their manager. The more annoyed they became, the more emboldened were her pleas.

  The manager was trying to control the exasperation in his voice. ‘I keep telling you, the pension is paid through separate bank accounts, not Dublin Castle,’ he explained.

  ‘Why would the banks pay me a pension when my husband never worked for them? He worked here. At Dublin Castle. It’s you who have made the mistake, not me.’

  The manager threw his arms in the air as if the old woman’s insistence was a criminal provocation. He marched away, his face plunged into desperation, leaving the old woman on her own, muttering to herself. Kant went over to her and offered his assistance. She stepped forward, as if about to faint, and he grabbed her. He ignored what she was gabbling about and concentrated on reading the bundle of papers that the clerks had scorned. He saw a death certificate, letters from the British War Office, and details of a pension paid through a company registered on Leeson Street.

  There were dozens of signatures in the documents, which alerted Kant’s curiosity. They suggested a complex financial machinery. Several times, he spotted the address of the Dublin Life Assurance Company, and in a jumble of signatures, he made out in blotched, barely legible handwriting, the name of a man that burned him with the white-hot iron of a dangerous secret. The name was Michael Collins, and next to it was the signature of Moya Llewelyn Davies, the aristocratic owner of Furry Park, and a well-known republican sympathiser. He was at pains not to show his surprise. The clerks and their manager had obviously not bothered to scrutinise the finer details of the pension. Now that he had spotted the names, they were unignorable, hovering above the flat figures and account details, perfect and complete-looking in spite of their hurried scrawl. He tracked them through the documents. The payments into the woman’s bank had been made from a number of ordinary deposit accounts from obscure banks, sometimes in the name of the Dublin Life Assurance Company, and sometimes in others.

  ‘Who asked you to fill in the pension application form?’ he asked her.

  ‘A man came to the door one night after my husband died.’

  ‘Which department was he from?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’ She gripped his arm. A coldness passed through her fingers. She had seen the look of uneasiness on his face.

  ‘Is there any reason why the Republican Army might be paying your husband’s pension?’

  A look of fear fluttered across her gaunt features. She mouthed a prayer in silence. ‘Sweet Jesus, why would those murdering bastards be paying a pension for my poor Oliver?’

  SIXTEEN

  With his wheezing cough and English accent, Kant felt ill-suited to the company as he made his way through the packed bar in Vaughn’s Hotel. Collins had marched into his bedroom that evening, and ordered him to get dressed. Without saying a further word, he had walked out, leaving the door open. It took a moment for the reporter to realise the IRA leader was inviting him on an expedition. He had followed Collins’ broad shoulders onto the street and through a labyrinth of back alleyways, eventually descending a dank set of steps, into the cellars and then up another flight and through the front door of the offices next to the hotel.

  He passed a gruesome gallery of drunken IRA types, who looked as though they had gathered for a night’s entertainment and debauchery. He felt the crowd swarm around him, closing in tightly, people shouting and joyfully yelling, laughing heartily and embracing each other, while above their heads, borne aloft by waiters’ hard-working hands, floated frothy pints of stout.

  Collins guided Kant by placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing it tightly. He was wearing a soft grey business suit, and twirled a hat with an elegantly dented crown in his hand. He reminded Kant of a man who had just come from a wedding or a day at the races.

  The IRA leader’s eyes were eager and hard.

  ‘I’ve an important message for your general. I want you to tell him that the old battles between Ireland and England are no more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m talking about battles like the Boyne or Aughrim, the orderly advance of regimented troops, the bugle-call for the charge. These days, Irish patriots hide in the shadows. Improvisation and chaos are our military strategies.’ He pulled out two bar stools. ‘The general wants me to steer the IRA towards peace and compromise, but he might as well ask a man to seize a racing engine wheel with his bare hands. Sit here a while and you’ll soon understand what I’m talking about.’

  Collins left behind his jacket and hat, and joined a stag party that had turned rowdy in a corner of the bar. He instantly assumed the role of master of revels. The men stood closely together, ringing round Collins’ broad-backed form, surrounding him with alcohol-filled bravado, as he scribbled plots and diagrams on scraps of paper, and then crumpled them into little balls and flung them into the turf fire.

  A group of musicians struck up a reel, and Collins began to dance through the crowd. With the men he jumped about, ducking and jabbing, feinting and bobbing. He half-wrestled one young man to the floor and roared with laughter, while with the women, he grabbed their waists playfully and twirled them in time with the music.

  Kant trailed Collins as he moved randomly through the bar, surrounded by his bodyguards and a host of admirers and hangers-on. The IRA leader began questioning a police officer sympathetic to the republican cause, and at the same time, a reporter from the US newspaper, the World’s Pictorial News, attempted to interview him for an upcoming article. In the lobby, another crowd was waiting for him, messengers with loan funds, intelligence officers with reports, officers from the country seeking arms or ammunition. Kant listened with his reporter’s ear, as Collins went through them one by one, flinging out plans and proposals that made the bravest of his men shudder with dread at their impromptu recklessness. He had a mystifying gift for putting strangers at their ease and then, with a few words whispered in their ears, making their faces turn white with dread.

  Collins disentangled himself from the crowd and raised his eyebrows at Kant.

  ‘What do you see now?’ His face was shining with sweat, receptive suddenly.

  ‘Do you understand what you didn’t understand before?’

  He grinned at Kant as though the answer was crystal clear. When the truth finally dawned on Kant, he gave a short laugh and then he was off again, with a toss of his heavy fringe, and a flash of something like mirth in his eyes, as he plunged into the crowd of plotting IRA men. Kant realised that Collins had shown him the secret heart of his war, and revealed the innermost workings of his organisation, the key to the IRA’s success – that there was no organisation at all, that a central republican command did not exist in the truest sense of the word, that targets were chosen by Collins and his men at a drunken flip of the coin, plots hatched out of jest and bravado, bombing raids conducted on a whim. All his notebooks, his countless meetings in every quadrant of the city, were just tricks to preserve the illusion that he was a mastermind at work.

  Barging from one dangerous con
versation to another was Collins’ natural model for social contact, but Kant could see that this shambling association of spies, assassins and bodyguards was a fragile raft, perpetually on the tip of a whirlpool. With all his plots, counterplots, betrayals and secret alliances, one moment of inattention could plunge Collins’ war into disorder and violence.

  Kant took advantage of a pause in Collins’ hectic socialising and handed him the letter from the widow.

  ‘I rescued this from Dublin Castle’, he said.

  Collins read it, his eyes lighting up with recognition.

  ‘This is the price of terminating a contract. Her husband was one of our informers in Dublin Castle, murdered by an English spy. When he died, I couldn’t let his wife and his children starve. It’s all part of the business of running a war.’

  ‘Is that how you look after the relatives of all your informers, all your operatives in Dublin Castle?’

  ‘It’s only right that the IRA should look after its own.’

  ‘What about Lily Merrin and her son?’

  ‘Let’s say her contract is a little more complicated. One that’s very difficult to negotiate a termination.’ Collins handed him back the letter.

  ‘Why do I get the strange feeling I’m the only who wishes to find her?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Both you and Dublin Castle appear more interested in distracting me from my search.’

  Collins grinned, turning his face into a round, inscrutable mask.

  ‘Just tell me the truth; do you know if she is alive or dead?’

  ‘Alive.’

  ‘Do you want me to find her?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Lily was one of our best intelligence agents. She supplied information about upcoming raids, Sinn Fein members on the wanted list, and most importantly of all the names of paid informers. She was smarter than all the others put together.’

  ‘She worked for you because you kidnapped her son and used a mother’s love to blackmail her. She was not spying out of personal choice.’