Echobeat (2 page)

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Anything happening?’ Duggan opened the empty Gold Flake packet Murphy had given him and shook it upside down. A few strands of tobacco fell out.

‘There’s a war on,’ Sullivan said.

‘Still?’ Duggan pulled at the silver paper in the packet and a small pad of folded paper came out with it.

‘Your secret mission didn’t end it after all.’ Sullivan made no attempt to hide the hint of resentment at not having been told where Duggan had gone and what he’d been doing. He was in his mid-twenties, a couple of years older than Duggan, whom he believed was favoured by their immediate commander.

Duggan gave a short laugh and turned his attention to unfolding the pad of paper. Torn from a lined copybook, it had a handwritten list of ships’ names in neat capital letters. He typed his report quickly, its structure already clear in his head, and added the vessels’ names at the end. He read it through when finished and signed his initials at the bottom.

‘By the way,’ Sullivan said as Duggan got up. ‘Are you coming to the New Year’s Eve dinner dance in the Gresham?’

‘Yeah,’ Duggan said without enthusiasm. ‘Sure.’

Sullivan held out his hand. ‘One pound fifteen.’

‘One pound fifteen?’ Duggan stopped. ‘That’s very expensive.’

‘It’s New Year’s Eve.’

‘I haven’t got anyone to bring.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll fix you up with someone. But I need the money by Thursday.’

‘St Stephen’s Day?’ Duggan scratched his head, thinking he could maybe borrow a few quid from his father over Christmas.

‘That’s Thursday,’ Sullivan said, as if Duggan was a little slow. ‘You back on Thursday?’

Duggan nodded and left, dropping his report for Captain Anderson into the office that dealt with the British and went on to Commandant Charles McClure’s office. There was a visible haze of cigarette smoke over McClure’s desk as usual, stoked by a spiral of fresh smoke from a cigarette lying in an ashtray. Duggan gave him a quick run through of what Murphy had told him and of seeing Thomsen on the train.

McClure leaned back and picked up his cigarette without thinking. ‘It’s not good,’ he sighed. He was in his mid-thirties, a narrow face with bright brown eyes. ‘If they go on losing ships at this rate.’

Duggan nodded, knowing what he meant. It wasn’t good for neutral Ireland. The British had to do something about the losses and one option was to blame the lack of port and other facilities on the west coast of Ireland for making it more difficult to defend the transatlantic convoys. Everyone in G2 was all too aware of the danger, especially now that Churchill had made it clear in his recent speech how impatient he was with the situation.

McClure and Duggan had talked it through afterwards.

‘Invading us doesn’t make much military sense,’ McClure had suggested. ‘But they’ve got to do something. And that just might be it. Seizing Berehaven and re-establishing their naval base down there.’

‘That’s as far away from the border as you can get,’ Duggan had pointed out.

‘Exactly. So they’d have to launch a full-scale invasion to get there. It’d be madness. A pointless diversion, causing needless havoc.’

‘Surely their politicians aren’t that mad,’ Duggan had offered, more in hope than belief. He had a politician uncle and knew just how carried away they could get when they persuaded themselves of something.

McClure changed the subject now, switching to the new element in Murphy’s information. ‘Tell me again about the Americans in Derry.’

Duggan told him. ‘It seemed very vague,’ he concluded. ‘Just gossip really. Maybe somebody jumping to conclusions.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me if it was true.’

‘But why would they be there?’

‘Planning. Looking at setting up their own naval facilities in Lough Swilly.’

‘But Roosevelt’s promised not to get involved in the war,’ Duggan said.

‘The election’s over,’ McClure gave him a wry smile. ‘Besides,’ he raised one finger, ‘he only promised not to involve American soldiers in foreign wars. He’s been doing his best to provoke Germany into declaring war on America with all the help he’s been giving the British and so on.’

‘You think they will?’

‘Been too smart to fall for it so far. But it’s going to cause us a lot more trouble if the Americans get involved.’

‘It could shorten the war, though.’

‘And drag us into it. They’d be much more demanding than the British and even more impatient with our neutrality if they abandon theirs. Anyway,’ McClure stubbed out his cigarette and began flicking through a pile of papers on the right of his desk, ‘let’s not get carried away with hypothetical situations. We’ve enough on our hands. External Affairs wants a briefing on our German friends.’

‘Yeah?’

‘We’re going to see them on Thursday,’ he came to the bottom of
his pile of papers without finding what he was looking for and began again from the top, more slowly. ‘Put together a report on all the suspected agents.’

‘All of them?’ Duggan asked, thinking of the work involved and the lack of time. He was due to take the train west to his parents’ home the following day, Christmas Eve, and return on the first train the day after the holiday. On the other hand, he could do most of it off the top of his head. He didn’t need to consult too many files.

McClure thought for a moment. ‘No. Just the confirmed ones.’

‘With Hermann Goertz at the top?’

‘As usual,’ McClure sighed. Goertz was an experienced German spy and had evaded capture since the previous summer when he parachuted into Ireland. He’d been in contact with the IRA and other pro-German groups and individuals, but always seemed to be one step ahead of the Irish authorities.

McClure found what he was looking for. He fished out a single sheet of paper from his pile and handed it across the desk to Duggan. There was a name and address handwritten along the top of the page – ‘Gertie Maher, Iona Road, Drumcondra’ – and ‘Adelaide Agency’, with an address in O’Connell Street, underneath.

‘She could be the one we’re looking for,’ McClure said, changing the subject again. ‘The person to work in Mrs Lynch’s place.’

Mrs Lynch’s café on Liffey Street was popular with German airmen and sailors who had been washed up in Ireland one way or another and interned in the Curragh military camp. They were allowed out on parole on day releases and tended to congregate in the café when they visited Dublin.

‘Real name Gerda Meier,’ McClure continued. ‘Aged twenty. From Vienna. Jewish. Her father wisely got his family out in 1935, seeing the way the wind was blowing. Came to Cork and set up some kind of textile factory.’

‘She speaks English?’

‘With a Cork accent,’ McClure smiled. ‘It mightn’t fool Corkmen but I doubt if our German friends will be able to detect the discrepancy. She’s a shorthand typist or receptionist with that flat-renting agency in O’Connell Street and is willing to give up her Saturday afternoons to be a waitress in Mrs Lynch’s and let us know what she hears.’

‘And it’s been cleared with Mrs Lynch?’

McClure nodded. ‘But she won’t pay her. And on condition that Gertie, Gerda, doesn’t frighten the customers by talking politics.’

‘So are we paying her?’

‘She doesn’t want money. She’s happy to strike a blow at Herr Hitler any way she can. Go and meet her and see what you think. Make it clear to her that we only want her to keep her ears open. Listen to whatever they’re chatting about. Not to engage in any chat with them. And, obviously, not to let them know she understands German.’

He was already stuck in Henry Street the next morning when he realised his mistake: he shouldn’t have come this way on Christmas Eve. The street was crowded with shoppers who had taken over the roadway as well, reducing traffic to less than their own walking pace. He abandoned his attempt to cycle through them and walked with the bike up past the raucous shouts from Moore Street. He was almost at the side of the GPO when the crowds thinned enough and he threw his leg over the saddle and pedalled up to the Pillar and turned left.

The Adelaide Agency was close to the Carlton cinema, a shiny metal plate beside a narrow doorway leading straight onto stairs. He went up to the first floor where a sign on a door identified the agency
and said to knock and enter. Inside there was a cramped reception area with two bentwood chairs and a small square table between them and a desk with a young woman behind it. She was talking on the phone, running through the details of flats to let in Rathgar.

Gertie Maher, he thought, Gerda Meier. She had black hair that curled up in a flounce just above her shoulders and dark brown eyes and was gesticulating with her right hand as she enumerated the advantages of the flat she was describing. He listened carefully to her accent. He doubted it would pass muster with any Corkman, probably not sing-song enough, but it was hard to place.

She paused to listen to something on the phone and then began to describe another flat. He picked up a typed list from the table and glanced down at it. The Adelaide Agency’s market was immediately clear to him: larger flats in the better southern suburbs, suitable, as one said, ‘for two ladies (Protestant)’. The prices looked expensive, £60 a year for a two-bed.

She finished on the phone and he turned to her, unsure which name to call her by.

‘I’m Paul Duggan,’ he said, showing her his identity card. She looked at it carefully and put her hand out and said, ‘Pleased to meet you’.

‘I understand you’re willing—’ he began but she put a finger to her lips.

‘We must speak quietly,’ she said, dropping her voice and pointing over her shoulder to the door behind her.

Duggan nodded and continued in a quieter tone, ‘—that you’re willing to help us.’

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘I will spy for you.’

‘It’s not exactly spying,’ he said, taken aback by her directness. Then, realising what he had said, he added, ‘I mean, not like that. It’s not dangerous.’

She shrugged. ‘I’ll start on Saturday, after lunch. We’re open here only for the morning and I’ll go to the café at two o’clock.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘That’s great.’

The door behind her opened and a middle-aged man came out with his overcoat on and his hat in his hand. He glanced at Duggan and immediately dismissed him as a client.

‘I’ll be about an hour, Gertie,’ he said to her, ignoring Duggan.

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied. And to Duggan, ‘If you decide which area you prefer we’ll identify the best places for you.’

Duggan looked after the man and dropped the list he realised he still had in his hand, on the desk. ‘Your boss?’ he asked.

‘Mr Montague,’ she said.

‘Does he know your real name?’

‘My real name is Gertie,’ she gave him a defiant look. ‘Gertie Maher.’

‘I mean, where you come from?’

‘Sprechen sie Deutsch?’

He nodded.

‘He doesn’t know anything,’ she continued in German. ‘We don’t have conversations.’

Duggan nodded. ‘You know the arrangement with Frau Lynch?’ he asked in German.

‘Yes.’

‘And you know what we want?’

‘Yes. I’m to listen to what they talk about and see who they meet and report to you. I’m not to talk to them about politics or the war. They must not know I understand German.’ She rattled it off like a lesson she had been taught.

‘Good. That’s what we want. Nothing dangerous.’

‘Can I flirt with them?’

Duggan laughed and then wondered if he had understood her German correctly. ‘Only in English,’ he said, in English.

She nodded, as if she was merely accepting another instruction.

‘I’m sorry they won’t pay you,’ Duggan continued, not specifying who ‘they’ were. ‘Since you’re giving up your Saturday afternoons.’

‘It’s nothing. Maybe I’ll get some tips,’ she gave a hint of a wintry smile. ‘Take some money back off the Nazis.’

‘I hope the work won’t be too hard.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she shrugged. What was there to serving tea and coffee and pastries? ‘Are you the spymaster?’

‘Me?’ Duggan laughed in disbelief at the idea. ‘No. Do I look like a spymaster?’

‘Who do I report to?’

‘Oh,’ he realised what she meant. ‘To me.’

‘I will see you there?’

‘No, I won’t go there. I will call here on Monday.’ He took a fountain pen from the desk and wrote his phone number on a sheet of paper and added his first name only. ‘If there’s anything urgent you can call me at that number. If I am not there and it is really urgent ask for him.’ He leaned down and added Commandant McClure’s name under the number.

‘You can’t come here every time.’ She took the sheet of paper and folded it over and over until it was as small as she could make it.

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Just this Monday. Then we’ll make another arrangement.’

‘Okay,’ she stood up and held out her hand. She was about five feet ten, a couple of inches shorter than him. ‘I will see you then.’

‘And thank you very much for doing this,’ he repeated as he shook her hand. ‘We really appreciate your help.’

As he went down the stairs, Duggan felt slightly uneasy. She insisted she was Gertie Maher, not Gerda Meier, but she seemed keen to speak German. Would she do what they wanted? Or did she just want an opportunity to hurl abuse at some Germans?

‘Good Christmas?’ Commandant McClure asked as Duggan drove along the northern quays. It was getting dark and the streets were empty, in the last hours of their holiday torpor before public social life began again.

‘The usual,’ Duggan passed a couple of cyclists. ‘At my uncle’s for Christmas Day.’

‘How is he?’

Duggan glanced at him, unsure whether that was just a polite inquiry or something more. His uncle was Timmy Monaghan, a Fianna Fáil backbench
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, with whom he now had an uneasy relationship since Duggan had managed to assert his independence earlier in the year. A constant manipulator, Timmy had been responsible for Duggan’s move to G2 from an infantry battalion and had since tried to use him in various ways.

‘Still his old self,’ Duggan sighed. He hadn’t wanted to meet him after their previous disagreements but Duggan’s mother had insisted on the annual ritual of going to Timmy’s country house for Christmas dinner. Timmy had carried on as if nothing had happened between them, his usual bluff self. For which Duggan was grateful in one way: it removed the apprehension with which he had gone home for Christmas. ‘How was it for you?’

‘Exhausting,’ McClure said. ‘Children up in the middle of the night with Santa Claus. Got back to sleep again after a couple of hours but this double summer time makes you feel like you’ve been up for three days with only one night’s sleep.’

Duggan laughed, not sure what he meant, and turned into Merrion Square at the traffic light on Clare Street. He drove by the National Gallery and Leinster Lawn and let the car coast across the street to the kerb outside Government Buildings. All the offices along the street were shut, their windows dark.

‘Unusual time for a meeting, isn’t it?’ Duggan offered, looking for a sign of life in the building. There was none.

‘Unusual times, full stop,’ McClure replied as he went up the steps and pressed a large round bell. They waited in silence, McClure tapping the file with Duggan’s report on the known German agents against his thigh. The street was deserted, the cowled street lights at the corners throwing down pools of feeble light. The cold air smelled of turf smoke tinged with a noxious edge of coke from the gasworks down by the river when the cold northern breeze shifted a few degrees.

The door swung open and a young uniformed garda looked at them.

‘Commandant McClure and Captain Duggan for an appointment with the Secretary of External Affairs,’ McClure flashed an identity card at him while Duggan held out his.

The garda nodded and let them into the small lobby. ‘Hang on a second till the porter comes back and he’ll bring you up.’

The porter took them along a spacious corridor with little lighting, mimicking the partial blackout in the streets, and up a stairs and down another dimly lit corridor and knocked on a door. There was a sound from within and he opened it and stood back to let McClure and Duggan enter.

It was a perfunctory office, an upright hat stand with a dark hat and heavy coat on it inside the door, and a couple of chairs in front of a desk. The only light in the room came from a green-shaded art deco desk lamp. ‘Gentlemen.’ The man behind the desk stood up and introduced himself as Pól Ó Murchú and gave each of them a cursory handshake. He was approaching forty, gaining weight and balding, and the world’s many cares were beginning to etch his face. ‘The Secretary has been delayed’ – he paused as he sat down again and reconsidered the word – ‘detained with the Taoiseach. He asked me to brief you.’

Duggan glanced at McClure at the mention of a briefing. McClure gave no indication of surprise as he extracted Duggan’s report from his file and passed it across the desk. Ó Murchú set it down in the centre of the light like a gourmand relishing the sight of a new dish. He took his time reading it, only touching it to turn the first page.

‘This man, Hermann Goertz,’ he put the first page back on top again and looked up from the list. ‘He’s the most important one?’

‘Yes, sir,’ McClure said. ‘As far as we’re aware. He has proved to be more elusive than the others too. More competent.’

Ó Murchú read through the list again. ‘What about the espionage activities of the German legation itself?’

‘We’re not aware of any,’ McClure said. ‘Not of anything untoward. They meet a lot of people and are presumably collecting information, but we’re not aware that they are overstepping the line between diplomacy and espionage.’

‘Hmm,’ Ó Murchú sighed, ‘a fine line.’ He tapped the report with his middle finger. ‘Do any of these gentlemen have any dealings with the legation?’

‘Not to our knowledge, not on a regular basis.’ McClure hesitated. ‘Though their paths may cross on occasion. Captain Duggan here
spotted Dr Goertz attending a reception in the German Minister’s home on one occasion.’

‘Ah,’ Ó Murchú brightened up. ‘Tell me more.’

McClure signalled to Duggan, who said, ‘Dr Goertz was at a party in Herr Hempel’s house last June to celebrate their victory in France.’

‘And he would have had an opportunity then to speak to Herr Hempel himself?’

‘I presume so, sir,’ Duggan said. ‘I wasn’t in the building and can’t confirm that he did or didn’t. There were a lot of people there.’

‘Indeed,’ Ó Murchú nodded. ‘Including some of our own.’

And ours, Duggan thought. Among those he had seen enter was Major General Hugo O’Neill, the man in charge of repelling any British move across the border. Along with some of the best-known people in the country.

‘Herr Hempel is a very careful and correct diplomat,’ Ó Murchú went on. ‘I imagine he keeps strictly to the rules. But what about the others in the legation?’

‘We try and keep track of them insofar as we can,’ McClure offered. ‘And insofar as can be done with discretion and without hindering their legitimate activities.’

Ó Murchú gave him a look that said, I know exactly what those vague words mean: you have no idea what they’re up to.

‘I’m sorry,’ McClure said, interpreting the look correctly. ‘We weren’t aware that you were looking for information about the German diplomats. We had been told only that you wanted a report on the known German agents who’ve tried to operate here.’

Ó Murchú settled back in his chair and rested his elbows on its arms and pressed his palms together in thought for a moment. ‘A delicate situation has arisen with the Germans,’ he began. ‘They want to expand the numbers at their legation, bring in three more people from Germany. Cultural attachés, commercial types, they say. In reality, of
course, they are more likely to be military types, intelligence agents. In a way it doesn’t matter what they are. What matters as usual is perception. And the British are almost certain to perceive any increase in German diplomatic strength here as a threat.’ He paused and looked from one to the other. ‘You know their attitude to the German and Italian legations?’ McClure and Duggan nodded: the British demanded with monotonous regularity that both should be shut down. ‘So,’ Ó Murchú went on, ‘they will be unhappy at what they will see as our acquiescence in a German expansion. Given their current attitude to our neutrality, that would not be helpful.’

He paused to consider something else behind his hands. ‘Strictly speaking, the Germans don’t need our permission to increase their personnel. As they have made clear to us in no uncertain terms. In normal circumstances it is usual to have the agreement of the host country before expanding an embassy. But these are far from normal circumstances. Regrettably, the common diplomatic courtesies are becoming a thing of the past,’ he gave a nostalgic sigh in memory of a more considerate age. ‘The language of diplomacy is giving way more and more to that of the bully boy.

‘They have informed us of their plan and demanded that we make arrangements for the arrival of the newcomers at Foynes. Flight plans, wireless frequencies, call signs, and so on,’ he waved away the practicalities with a dismissive hand.

‘And the British will know about it as soon as they are filed,’ McClure said. The Foynes seaplane base at the Shannon estuary was Ireland’s only air link with North America and Europe through a service to Lisbon. But they were operated by the British Overseas Airline Corporation and were effectively restricted to officially sanctioned passengers. Furthermore, some of the BOAC staff there were British security agents, secretly approved by the Irish government.

‘Indeed,’ Ó Murchú nodded. ‘If they don’t know already. What is
important for us is that we maintain the present status quo vis-à-vis the German legation, and that we aren’t seen to be collaborating with them. On the other hand, we cannot simply reject Germany’s wishes.’

He fell silent and let his information sink in. Duggan felt his stomach lurch, the return of a hollow feeling that had begun in the summer with the German successes on the Continent and the scares of an imminent invasion of Ireland as well as Britain. But this sounded even more dangerous. We’re being trapped, he thought, our options closing down. The next decisive move in the war was likely in the spring, notwithstanding the battles going on in North Africa. The Germans might invade as part of the invasion of Britain. Or the British might invade Ireland to get west-coast ports and protect their Atlantic convoys. Either would make us a target, ensuring the other belligerents would then come in, and all-out war would be waged here.

After allowing them what he considered to be a suitable time for consideration, Ó Murchú added, ‘And they want to fly their men in before the end of the year. Next week.’

‘Can Foynes be closed?’ McClure enquired.

‘We can pray for bad weather,’ Ó Murchú gave another hint of his wintry smile, a cultivated speciality that verged on a grimace. ‘The only thing we can do is to explain to them the problems posed by their wishes and to try and delay them. We can’t give them an outright “no”. That could be interpreted as an unfriendly act, possibly with its own consequences. So all we can do is try and put them off for the moment. Hope they lose interest. Or other matters intervene. And in that context,’ he looked from one to the other, ‘it would be very useful to know if any of their existing staff was engaging in inappropriate activities.’

‘The radio transmitter?’ McClure offered. The German legation’s radio was their only direct method of communicating with Berlin,
and a regular bone of contention with the British, who wanted it put out of commission. Tracking it down was a cat-and-mouse game, with the British offering technical assistance to try and pinpoint its location.

Ó Murchú nodded. ‘That’s been played to a standstill, diplomatically. It would be helpful if we had any other cards. To create more diversions, so to speak.’ He sat forward and tapped Duggan’s report again. ‘This is useful information about Dr Goertz. Do we know how often he’s been in touch with the legation or its staff?’

McClure shook his head with regret. ‘We’ve lost track of him in recent weeks,’ he admitted. ‘The IRA is believed to be hiding him. Perhaps others as well.’

‘In this context he is of less importance than the accredited diplomats,’ Ó Murchú said. ‘It could be very useful if we were to find any further evidence of collusion between them and unauthorised agents.’

‘I don’t like deadlines like this,’ McClure said when they were back in the car, lighting cigarettes before they pulled away.

‘Should we drop everything else?’ Duggan pointed the car towards St Stephen’s Green and headed for Grafton Street.

‘God, no.’ McClure wound down the window a fraction to let out the smoke. ‘Can’t afford to do that. Just need to put our thinking caps on.’

Grafton Street was coming back to life after the holiday, cars and buses slowed by cyclists and people, heavily wrapped against the cold, heading for restaurants, gathering outside the cinema, and checking the shop windows advertising the post-Christmas sales due to begin in the morning.

‘I’ll have a word with the Special Branch,’ McClure continued. ‘See if their surveillance of the legation has thrown up anything they haven’t bothered to tell us. We’re not looking for much, after all. Just some people to be in the same place at the same time.’

Duggan braked gently as two middle-aged couples dashed across the street in between cars and hurried, laughing, down the laneway into Jammet’s oyster bar to round off a day spent at Leopardstown races.

‘That’s it,’ McClure clicked his fingers and brightened up. ‘We need to look more closely at the Germans’ IRA connections. Much easier to build up a dossier of their contacts with subversives. That’d suit Ó Murchú’s purposes just as well. Allow him to have a go at the Germans for interfering in our internal affairs. Helping those who’re conspiring to bring down our state.’

‘He didn’t say anything about them.’

‘Never mind,’ McClure retorted. ‘We’re more likely to get some quick results on that front from the Branch. They’re much more interested in the local gunmen than in invasion threats.’

Freed from Grafton Street, they sped across the river and headed along the quays. McClure rolled down his window and tossed out his cigarette butt, narrowly missing a Guinness dray carrying empty barrels as they overtook it. Deep in thought, he didn’t notice.

‘The Branch might know who Thomsen was meeting in Dundalk,’ Duggan suggested.

‘They were following him?’

‘I don’t know. But they were at Amiens Street when he got off the train,’ he paused. ‘At the customs check.’

Duggan flicked out the car’s indicator and turned into Infirmary Road and stopped while the sentry raised the barrier at the gate into headquarters. He parked and turned off the engine but McClure made no move to get out. Duggan waited.

‘You might talk to your uncle as well,’ McClure looked at him.

‘Okay,’ Duggan said in surprise. It was the first time McClure had ever suggested he use his family connections for work.

‘He’s a man about town, isn’t he?’

‘He’s certainly that,’ Duggan laughed, wondering if McClure
knew something about what his uncle Timmy was up to. Timmy made no secret of his support for Germany, though his public pronouncements were restricted by his party’s insistence on strict adherence to neutrality. Timmy had little interest in Hitler’s vision of a new Europe but still believed in the old Irish revolutionary dictum that England’s difficulty was Ireland’s opportunity and that a German victory would reunite the country. Timmy, like Duggan’s father, had fought the British less than twenty years earlier in what he always referred to as ‘the four glorious years’. And he continued to be friendly with some old comrades now leading the IRA campaign against the native government.