Echobeat (5 page)

‘And there were other bombs?’

‘One north of Drogheda, another one near Enniscorthy. And the anti-aircraft unit in Dalkey saw two parachutes come down over Wicklow.’

‘Parachutes?’

‘Parachute mines apparently.’ McClure looked at his watch. It was after six o’clock, more than three hours to daylight. ‘This bloody night will never end. We haven’t got any reports of explosions or where they came down yet but we’ll get a spotter plane up at first light. And hope nobody stumbles across them before then.’

Captain Anderson from the British desk looked in, saw McClure and said, ‘You were looking for me, sir?’

McClure waved him to another chair. ‘Do we know where was hit in England tonight?’

‘I haven’t got a comprehensive report yet,’ Anderson said. ‘Seems to have been around the Severn estuary. Cardiff, Bristol.’

‘So it could have been someone off course.’

‘The lookout post at Carnsore said there were three planes in
formation,’ Sullivan had put down his phone. ‘Heinkell IIIs, he thinks. There was a fair bit of cloud at the time there so he didn’t get a long look at them. They were heading due north.’

‘In formation,’ McClure repeated to himself.

‘Not a lost stray then,’ Anderson said.

‘You could put everything else down to someone being off course,’ McClure said. ‘But not hitting the lit-up city area.’

‘What about the parachute mines?’ Duggan offered.

‘And those,’ McClure agreed. ‘Whoever dropped them must’ve seen the city lights too.’

‘Were they not aimed at shipping? At Dublin bay?’

‘The Luftwaffe uses them on land too,’ Anderson said. ‘In the London blitz. They can wipe out a whole street, no problem. There would’ve been a lot of deaths if they came down on the city.’

‘But they haven’t exploded,’ McClure said, lighting himself a cigarette. ‘We would’ve had reports of explosions in Wicklow if they had. Which suggests that their fuses were set for the sea. And that they were meant for our ships.’

‘Or that they’re on timers,’ Anderson suggested.

McClure nodded. ‘Put out a warning about timers to the ARP people, the guards. They should know not to go near them but just in case.’

An orderly came by with a tray carrying mugs of tea, a bottle of milk and a bowl of sugar. They each took one and sipped the strong tea, alone with their own thoughts for a few moments.

‘Was it the same plane that dropped the bombs and the mines?’ Duggan asked.

McClure gave Sullivan a questioning look. ‘It’s not clear yet, sir,’ Sullivan said. ‘Some of the reports suggest it was but we haven’t got all the timings and directions straightened out.’

‘So,’ McClure looked from one to the other. ‘What does it all mean?’

‘The start of something?’ Duggan asked.

‘A new year,’ Anderson shrugged with a twisted grin. ‘Happy New Year.’

‘You mean the start of an invasion?’ McClure said. ‘No. If they wanted to soften us up it would be with a much greater blow. Like Rotterdam. Wipe out Cork, someplace like that. To intimidate.’

‘It could be a signal,’ Anderson suggested. ‘A message.’

‘Could indeed,’ McClure agreed.

‘A reminder of what could happen if we give up our neutrality,’ Anderson added. ‘They were only small bombs on the city. They could’ve dropped much bigger ordnance. Like the parachute mines.’

‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions yet.’ McClure got up and said to Duggan, ‘Give Bill there a hand with collating all the reports and working out the chronology of events.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Duggan said.

McClure and Anderson left and Duggan moved down the table to Sullivan’s space. ‘At last you get to do some real intelligence work,’ Sullivan passed him a wad of handwritten notes and torn-off pages from the telex.

He was about to leave and get a few hours’ sleep when the phone rang at the other end of the table. He had to stand up to get it, noticing that the window was now a dull grey, no longer a darkened mirror. The tiredness hit him suddenly, his mouth felt dry and scratchy from too many cigarettes and his stomach was hollow with hunger.

‘How’s the captain?’ a cheery voice said.

‘Busy,’ Duggan said, letting his shoulders sag partly at the sound of his uncle Timmy’s voice.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Timmy said, as if busyness was to be taken for granted. ‘You missed a great party last night. Drop around for the dinner and I’ll tell you all about it. You’ll love all this stuff.’

Duggan yawned, trying to figure out what he was talking about. Had Timmy been at the Friends of Germany event after all? Had he missed him going in? ‘I’m just on my way to bed. Been up all night.’

‘Wait’ll you hear this,’ Timmy chortled. ‘It’ll wake you up.’

‘What?’

‘Can’t tell you over the phone.’

‘I won’t make it for dinner,’ Duggan sighed, knowing that Timmy had his dinner in the middle of the day. ‘Maybe later. There’s a lot going on here.’

‘Sure you don’t know the half of it,’ Timmy gave a happy laugh.

‘You heard what happened last night. This morning,’ Duggan corrected himself.

‘You’d have to be as deaf as a Blueshirt faced with the truth not to hear it. Wasn’t that far from here. As the crow flies.’

‘I’ll call you later.’

‘Do that.’ Timmy dropped his voice to underline his seriousness. ‘This is more than gossip. Things you fellows need to know.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like don’t be looking in the wrong direction.’

Duggan didn’t try to hide his impatient sigh, knowing what Timmy meant. At least he was predictable. On this subject, at any rate.

‘This is the time of year for pantomimes, isn’t it,’ Timmy’s voice rose again, back to the cheery tone. ‘Look out behind you!’

Duggan put down the phone and rested his hands on the table, letting his head drop down between his shoulders as the adrenaline of the last few hours ebbed. Timmy in that kind of good humour was more wearying than staying up all night. It meant only one thing: he was up to some kind of political skullduggery, deep in some conspiracy or other. That was the only thing that could make him so happy.

‘Captain,’ McClure snapped his fingers from the doorway. ‘Go to bed. That was an order.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Duggan straightened up.

‘And be back here by two o’clock,’ McClure lightened the instruction with a grin.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Duggan replied, deadpan.

The city seemed to be holding its breath. Air-raid wardens strolled the streets, alert for warning sounds. They had been put on standby for the night after a day of intense debate. People with air raid shelters considered spending the night in them, not wanting to overreact to one bombing, not wanting to regret their casualness later. Officials argued over whether sirens should be sounded at the approach of any aircraft. Should the reduced city lighting be turned into a full blackout? Everyone wondered if the early morning bombing had been a one-off event or the start of something. Whichever it was, the distant war had become more real.

Duggan cycled the way he had driven earlier but was stopped at a cordon blocking off the bomb site on the South Circular Road. A small group of people stood at the barrier looking past the bored young garda. There was nothing much to see: the area was lit by arc lamps and workmen moved to and fro against the sounds of hammering and sawing. He thought of using his ID to get through but decided not to: there was nothing more for him to see there. The investigators had finished their work, recovering enough fragments of the bombs to confirm that they were German.

He turned right onto Donore Avenue and crossed the Grand
Canal and cycled down by its right bank. Across the dark water he could make out the gash torn in the other bank by the second bomb. Frost was beginning to settle on the raw earth and the lights from the workmen’s lamps on the road beyond shone through the gaps left in roofs and walls by the bomb. He turned onto Rathmines Road at the next bridge and pedalled as fast as he could between the tram tracks up the open road.

He still felt tired after a few hours’ sleep, a brief glimpse of daylight as he went from the barracks to the Red House, and an afternoon of collating information, trying to determine the meaning of the night’s events. The parachute mines had been found in farmland near Kilmacanogue and blown up by bomb-disposal officers. They were magnetic mines, intended to destroy ships.

‘Did they check that they were armed first?’ McClure had asked an officer from the ordnance disposal unit reporting on the mines.

‘No, sir,’ the officer made it clear with his tone that that would have been a crazy idea.

‘So we don’t know if they were armed?’

‘There’d be no point in dropping them if they weren’t.’ The ordnance officer gave him a look that questioned McClure’s sanity but Duggan, following the exchange, knew what the commandant had in mind. The Germans had dropped two small bombs on a relatively well-lit city that was easily identifiable and two parachute mines with much greater destructive capacity near the same easily visible area. If they were intended for shipping, how could they have missed the sea?

‘It’s looking like a message to me,’ McClure said after the ordnance officer had gone.

‘But what?’

McClure looked around to make sure there was no one within earshot. ‘Maybe the serious consequences our friend in External
Affairs told us about last week. A warning to do what we’re told about extending their legation.’ McClure paused. He was looking tired now, his early morning beginning to catch up with him. ‘Who knows? It could be just a reminder of our vulnerability.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘A sort of “Happy New Year” as Anderson said, and a “Remember to behave yourself”. Or it could be an accident. But I find that hard to believe.’

It was hard to believe as well that it was still only New Year’s Day, Duggan thought. The world seemed to have shifted along with the calendar. There had been so many warnings and scares and theories since the German blitzkrieg ended the phony war and overran France the previous summer that he had become fatalistic, no longer worrying so much about when the war would come here and how he would handle himself. Still, the bombing was a jolt, a reminder of how quickly things could change.

‘Remember Mr Ó Murchú’s warning,’ McClure continued. ‘Keep that speculation to yourself.’

‘Yes sir,’ Duggan said, aware that that was an order.

He arrived at Timmy’s house feeling energised by the cycle. Timmy was still in high good humour, formally shaking his hand and wishing him a happy New Year at the door. ‘Going to be an interesting one,’ he added, rubbing his hands. ‘The one that’ll sort out a lot of outstanding issues.’

Timmy led him into the same room as before, its dining table still covered in documents overseen by a stack of free-postage Dáil envelopes that threatened to topple over. He sat down at the table, his back to the log fire, and Duggan took a chair opposite him. So this was a sort of official visit, he thought.

‘You got to the party after all?’ Duggan took the initiative.

‘No, no. That was just in case anyone was ear-wigging on the
phone. But I had a word with someone who was there. It was a bit of a damp squib. They didn’t get the crowd they were expecting. No one of interest turned up.’

‘I wonder what they think of their friends after last night.’

‘Things aren’t always what they seem,’ Timmy said.

‘The government has sent a formal protest to Berlin,’ Duggan retorted. ‘There was no doubt the bombs were German.’

Timmy snorted his disbelief and reached for a large brown envelope under his box of cigars. He took out three ten- by eight-inch photographs, looked at them, shuffled them into order, leaned across the table and placed them, face up, in front of Duggan. He took a cigar from the box and lit it slowly.

‘The last of the cigars until next Christmas.’ Timmy leaned back in his chair with satisfaction and blew smoke at the ceiling light. ‘Unless there’s something to celebrate before that. Though, to be honest with you, I’m not a great man for the cigars. An odd one is nice but I’d prefer a cigarette any day.’

Duggan was looking at the first photograph. It was of a document, taken at an angle from below, and the lighting was bad, too much on the top half, fading away lower down. He could read the headings easily,
MOST SECRET
and
TO BE KEPT UNDER LOCK AND KEY
, both underlined. But the text was more difficult as he scanned down the page, its typescript elongated by the angle and slightly out of focus. He took up the photograph, as though that would make it easier to read. Then he turned to the second and third photographs: they were also typewritten but on different typewriters and each from a different document.

Timmy watched him with an amused smile, humming a made-up tune in between blowing out streams of smoke without inhaling. ‘Interesting, aren’t they?’ he said when Duggan finished reading and looked up.

‘Are they authentic?’

‘The real McCoy.’

‘Have you got the rest of them?’ Duggan took up the three photographs and spread them between his hands.

‘There’s enough there.’

There was indeed. Duggan glanced at the photographs again, reading phrases here and there. There certainly was enough there. If they were genuine.

‘Where did you get them?’

Timmy gave him a disappointed look. ‘You know I can’t tell you that.’ He straightened up and put out his cigar in the full ashtray, taking care not to push other butts and ash onto the table. ‘What I want you to do is to make sure they get into the right hands.’

‘Okay.’

‘And I don’t mean that fellow McClure.’

‘He’s my commanding officer.’

‘I marked your card about him before,’ Timmy pointed a finger. ‘He can’t be trusted when it comes to the Brits. He’s a Protestant. Father was in the British Army.’

‘He’s totally loyal,’ Duggan protested.

‘To who?’

‘To this country.’

‘He’ll bury them,’ Timmy said with an air of certainty. ‘You have to make sure they get into the right hands.’

‘Whose?’

Timmy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I hear there’s a good lad there. From the North.’

‘Captain Anderson?’

Timmy nodded. ‘That could be him. A fellow with reddish hair?’

Duggan nodded and waved the photographs at him. ‘Does the government know about these?’

‘Don’t worry about that. Or about the army brass. G2 needs to know. So you’re not all looking the wrong way.’

‘They’re going to want to know where these came from,’ Duggan said. ‘That’ll be their first question.’

Timmy sighed, as if his patience was being tested. ‘There’s always a patriotic Irishman everywhere. Even in unexpected places.’

‘They’re from someone in the British government?’

‘Lookit,’ Timmy shook his head with impatience, ‘they’re real. Which is obvious to anyone with a brain in his head. Churchill’s made no secret of what he thinks. He wants a rematch of the War of Independence. Still hasn’t got over the fact that we beat the great empire. The British gutter press is howling for our blood. They’re going to try and starve us first and then invade if that doesn’t get them what they want.’ He pointed at the photographs. ‘It’s all there.’

‘Okay,’ Duggan nodded. ‘I’ll make sure they’re passed on. But they’ll still want to know where I got them.’

‘Don’t you fellows have your own sources of information?’

‘Yes, but they’ll want to know which one.’

Timmy grimaced, thought for a moment, and then nodded. ‘If you have to,’ he said. ‘But only if you have to. And keep it vague.’

He tossed over the envelope and Duggan put the photographs in it. ‘Jaysus,’ Timmy said, business now concluded to his satisfaction. ‘I forgot to ask if you had a mouth on you.’

‘I’m all right. I had something to eat before I came out.’

‘Are you sure now? I was always starving at your age. And look at me now,’ he rubbed a hand over his bulging stomach and laughed. ‘Eight months pregnant.’

‘I better get back,’ Duggan stood up.

‘How’s your father for petrol?’ Timmy got up too.

‘All right,’ Duggan said, used to Timmy’s sudden conversational swerves. ‘He had more than half a tank at Christmas.’

‘That won’t last long now.’

‘They’ve started already?’ Duggan asked in surprise, raising the envelope of photographs. One of them contained a plan to cut off imports to Ireland of essential supplies of oil and coal and exclude other Irish supplies from Atlantic convoys.

‘Maybe,’ Timmy sighed. ‘Word is there’s going to be a shortage anyway for the next few weeks. If your father needs any more I’ve got a few cans. Tell him they’re in the turf shed, on the left. Under the turf.’

‘Okay. Thanks.’

‘Don’t tell him on the phone. Or in a letter,’ Timmy warned.

‘I don’t know when I’ll be down there next. You’ll probably be down before me.’

‘Just send word. He can just drive in and fill up himself if he needs it.’

‘Thanks,’ Duggan repeated, knowing that his father would walk any distance before he would ever take up Timmy’s offer. His father had had a low opinion of Timmy ever since their days together in the old IRA during the War of Independence. Duggan knew why and his father knew he knew, but neither had ever mentioned it again after their one and only conversation about it.

‘At least the bastards can’t starve us into submission this time,’ Timmy said, leading him out to the hall door. ‘They can cut off the petrol and coal and tea and things. But we’ve got more than potatoes to eat now.’

Timmy opened the door but stopped with it half open, blocking Duggan’s exit. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘that party last night. The Friends of Germany. Damp squib, like I told you. One of their own head bottle washers didn’t even turn up. Fellow called Quinn. Lives over in Ranelagh someplace. Word was that he was too busy entertaining a VIP visitor over the Christmas.’

Duggan raised a quizzical eyebrow. Timmy raised his shoulders in a ‘how would I know’ gesture. Neither said anything.

‘Mind how you go,’ Timmy called after him as Duggan pushed hard on the pedals to get the bicycle moving through the gravel of the driveway. ‘It might be a bit slippery out there.’

Duggan replayed the conversation in his mind as he cycled, his breath swept away by his speed through the cold air. With Timmy, what he didn’t say was often as important as what he did say, so you had to parse and analyse everything. But Timmy’s conversation faded in importance compared to the photographs in the envelope now flapping in his right hand as he gripped the freezing handlebar.

Ten divisions, he kept thinking. A hundred thousand men or so. That’s what the British Army thought they’d need to capture the ports on the west coast and to hold enough of the country for the move to work. And we’ve got what? Fifty thousand badly-armed men, few heavy weapons, no tanks to speak of, hardly any air force. And they were bringing in the numbers already, as the man he had called Murphy in the back of the pub in Dundalk had told him.

But the information in the photographs seemed to suggest that the invasion was the third stage of their plan. The first was to reduce imports to Ireland of various things, cutting back their space on supply convoys. The second was to escalate it into an all-out economic war, adding things which Duggan didn’t really understand about currencies and insurance for Irish ships. And if these moves didn’t work, if they didn’t persuade the government that the fate of the convoys was as essential to Ireland’s survival as to Britain’s, and to provide ports on the west coast, then they’d invade.

Which meant, he thought as he topped the canal bridge at Portobello and freewheeled down to Kelly’s Corner, that the war was coming here. If we give the British what they want, the Germans will see it as an act of war. If we don’t, the British will invade and the
Germans will come to our aid. The only choice, if there was a choice, was who to fight.

McClure caught sight of him as he came into the Red House and was stopped in his tracks by something in Duggan’s face. ‘I need to talk to you,’ Duggan said in response to McClure’s unasked question. McClure led him without a word to an unoccupied office and shut the door. Duggan handed him the envelope and tried to unbutton his overcoat but his fingers were numb with cold. He blew on them for a moment while McClure propped himself against the windowsill and looked at the photographs.

‘Your uncle?’ McClure looked up. Duggan nodded.

McClure held the photographs in one hand and got out a cigarette packet and shook it so he could put one in his mouth without touching it. Duggan stepped forward and lit it for him and shrugged off his overcoat and lit a cigarette for himself.