Echoland (33 page)

‘But she led us to Goertz once already,’ Duggan protested.

‘Your lads are more interested in Goertz than mine. Anyway,’ Gifford smiled, ‘you can stay here and watch. Cover for me while Sinéad breathes sweet nothings in my ear.’

Duggan snorted and glanced at the phone. He still wanted to talk to Nuala, find out what Timmy and she had agreed, if anything. And he had nothing better to do.

Duggan squashed the sodden newspaper into a ball and tossed it into the far corner of the room. He licked the grease and vinegar from the fish and chips off his fingers and dried them on his knees.

He lit a cigarette and picked the
Evening Herald
from the floor where Gifford had dropped it and straightened the pages and read through the accounts of the French surrender. The war in the west was over, the German high command had announced. Did that mean
they were going to leave England alone? And Ireland? Was it a
hopeful
sign or was it disinformation? You could hope it was true but you couldn’t let yourself believe it.

Outside, the cloud had broken up and the evening sun glanced off the top floors of the houses and touched some of the higher trees. The wind had died and the treetops were still. Down below, the street was empty. All was peace and calm, a sleepy evening fading into the half-night of midsummer. It was difficult to imagine it being torn apart by war.

The building creaked around him, its night sounds beginning to assert themselves in the silence. Sinéad had put the main phone line through to his extension before she and Gifford left. He was still waiting for Nuala to phone, undecided whether it was a good sign or a bad sign that she hadn’t called him back. Probably good, he
decided
: it meant she didn’t want anything from him anymore. Which probably meant that she and Timmy had sorted out their differences and that he’d get Bradley released. But it’d be nice of her to let him know, one way or the other. Nice, though, was not a word he
associated
with Nuala.

He noticed the figure shuffling up the other side of the square
several
moments before he registered who it was. He threw the
newspaper
on the floor and stood up, pressing against the window to see where she went at the junction. She crossed Mount Street into Fitzwilliam Street and he ran down the stairs and pulled the hall door shut after himself.

He slowed down and turned the corner into Fitzwilliam Street and cursed under his breath. She was only about thirty yards ahead of him on the other side, moving very slowly. He should’ve given her more time. There was no way he could slow down to her crawl
without
looking suspicious. She can’t be Eliza, he thought. It’s too difficult to walk that slowly unless you have no choice.

He adopted a casual pace and overtook her before she had gone a further twenty yards. He kept looking straight ahead, resisting the urge to try and get a close look at her face, and turned right into Baggot Street. He slowed and went down about half a dozen houses and stepped into the doorway of a building whose half-drawn ground floor blinds said solicitors and commissioners of oaths.

He faced the door, pretending to push at one of the bells beside it, hoping she didn’t turn this way too. She couldn’t help seeing him if she did. There were few people about. He kept glancing back towards the junction, wondering what could be keeping her. Maybe she had gone into one of the houses on Fitzwilliam Street.

She appeared at the corner and he reached towards the bells as he watched. She turned left without looking in his direction and went in the door of Larry Murphy’s pub.

Duggan sauntered towards the pub, willing himself to slow down, give her time to do whatever it was she was doing there. He went by the pub and turned back and took a deep breath and went in.

The bar ran parallel to the street and there was a snug enclosed with wooden and coloured glass walls at the end. A couple of elderly men sat at the centre of the bar staring at pints and smoking. The snug, he thought. He could see the shadow of two heads inside,
distorted
by the dappled glass. He felt his excitement rise and tried to calm it. She hadn’t come in to buy a little bottle of whiskey or
something
to take home. She was meeting someone.

What if it was Goertz again? His heart began to pound. What should I do? Try to arrest him? But I’m not armed. And what if Goertz was? Follow him, he decided. Wait for a chance to call in reinforcements.

The elderly barman gave him an enquiring look and Duggan ordered a half pint of Guinness. Two other regulars came in behind
him and settled on stools at the bar. The barman started filling two pint glasses for them without asking.

Duggan moved to an empty stool between the first two men and the snug. He could hear a mumble of voices from within but
whatever
they were saying was drowned by the desultory conversation of the two men at the bar about characters who once lived in some local street.

‘Killed in the Boer War,’ one said. ‘And his brother wounded. Never the same again afterwards.’

One of the figures in the snug knocked on its hatch to the bar. The barman topped off Duggan’s glass and put it in front of him as he went to the serving hatch.

‘Yes sir?’ the barman said.

‘A glass of the lady’s favourite sherry and a small Paddy,’ a man’s voice said.

Duggan’s stomach leapt as he recognised the voice.

Duggan stared at the mottled mirror advertising Kilbeggan whiskey behind the bar and tried to order his thoughts. Various pieces fell into place. The reference in Harbusch’s letters to a new manager, for instance. But was Timmy acting for the IRA? It made sense, explained how he was able to use Billy Ward and his friends to try and find Nuala and catch Bradley. And he shared their aims and their interest in a German victory. Jesus.

He took another small sip of the Guinness, trying to make it last, and lit another cigarette even though his mouth felt as dry as the ash in the tray by his hand.

Had Ward been secretly laughing at him when he threatened to tell the IRA that Ward was working for Timmy? No. He didn’t think so. Ward had given in to their pressure, to their threats to let the IRA know he was freelancing for Timmy. So what did that mean? That Ward didn’t know Timmy was part of the IRA? Which meant that he wasn’t. Or did it? What would a low-level volunteer like Ward know anyway? As much as a low-level lieutenant, he thought.

Duggan left the cigarette on the ashtray and rubbed his face with both hands. He stared at his own reflection above the bottle tops in the dulled mirror and waited.

The two men beside him had moved on to footballers they had seen play for Shamrock Rovers. ‘No one could touch Bob Fullam,’ one said. ‘Give it to Bob,’ the other chuckled, a catch cry of the
supporters
. ‘A hard man,’ the first said. ‘I remember him well on the docks.’

One of the shadows in the snug stood up and Duggan caught the movement in the corner of his eye as the door opened. He glanced sideways and saw Kitty Kelly emerge and he watched her pass behind him in the mirror. She was huddled into her coat and her features were muffled by the dull mirror. Timmy emerged a half minute later. Duggan turned around on the stool and faced him.

Timmy made no effort to hide his surprise.

‘Another Paddy?’ Duggan offered.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Who was that?’ Duggan nodded towards the door Kitty Kelly had gone out.

‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ Timmy stepped sideways against the bar, his right arm resting on the counter, ‘but she’s the
sister
of an old comrade. A man who saved my life once. God rest him.’

‘In Cork?’

Timmy gave him an odd look, then raised a finger to the barman and signalled for two drinks.

‘Or in London?’ Duggan kept his eyes focussed on Timmy.

‘Okay,’ Timmy nodded. ‘You know who she is. Kitty Kelly.’

‘She’s not Kitty Kelly.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s not Kitty Kelly,’ Duggan repeated.

‘Then who is she?’ Timmy appeared confused.

‘You tell me,’ Duggan shrugged. ‘You’ve known her a long time, have you? Since the War of Independence?’

Timmy rooted in his pockets for his cigarettes and lit one, taking his time, calculating. He inhaled deeply and blew a strong stream of smoke across the bar.

‘No,’ he said, at last. ‘I knew her brother. Died a few years ago.’

The barman put a half glass of whiskey and a glass of water in front of Timmy.

‘Does she talk about him?’ Duggan laughed. ‘If she remembers him at all.’ Timmy said nothing. ‘Kitty Kelly is in Torquay, in the south of England, at the moment,’ Duggan added.

‘Then who was that?’

‘You know who it was,’ Duggan snorted. ‘A German spy.’

Timmy frowned at his whiskey and dumped a splash of water into it.

‘What’s her real name?’ Duggan demanded.

‘I don’t know,’ Timmy said. ‘She told me she was Kitty Kelly.’

‘And does she talk a lot about her brother?’ Duggan made no effort to hide his sarcasm.

Timmy took a deep swallow of watered whiskey, silently
conceding
that his flimsy cover story had evaporated. He looked over Duggan’s shoulder, checking to see if there were any other military men in the bar. The barman put another half pint of Guinness in front of Duggan. He ignored it.

‘How old is she?’ Duggan demanded.

‘What?’

‘How old is she?’

‘Jaysus, I don’t know,’ Timmy sighed, agreeing to humour him. ‘She’s well preserved. Not as old as she looks, I suppose.’

‘Not as old as she looks,’ Duggan nodded to himself with
satisfaction
. Maybe I’m right after all. ‘A lot younger than she looks? Shuffling around like she does?’

Timmy thought about that for a moment, curiosity fighting with
his poker face. ‘Could be,’ he nodded. ‘Yeah.’

Bingo, thought Duggan.

Timmy caught his satisfaction. ‘Who is she?’

‘An English fascist,’ Duggan said. ‘Living with a German spy.’

Timmy finished the whiskey in another gulp and raised the glass towards the barman. He took a fistful of change out of his trouser pocket and put it on the counter.

‘Interesting times,’ he said, at last. ‘Interesting but tricky. There’s a lot to play for. A lot to be gained. A lot of dangers too.’

‘You still in the IRA?’

‘God, no,’ Timmy looked surprised. ‘What gave you that idea?’

‘Your negotiations with German spies. Your use of IRA men to look for Nuala and kidnap Bradley.’

‘No, no,’ Timmy said. ‘That was just someone doing me a favour. For old times’ sake.’

‘Some favour.’ Duggan felt the initiative beginning to slip away from him again and unconsciously straightened himself on the stool. He couldn’t let his satisfaction about being right about Eliza and Kitty get in the way of pushing his immediate advantage with Timmy. He held all the cards now, just had to play them right. And time was of the essence.

‘Yeah, yeah. I know a lot of people. Even some Blueshirts who’d do me a favour. And who I might even do a favour for.’ Timmy gave a short laugh, recovering something of his usual demeanour. ‘For old times’ sake.’

‘So why are you having secret meetings with a German spy?’

Timmy stepped back and took his time looking around the bar again. ‘Secret? What secret?’

‘Why were you meeting a German spy?’ Duggan persisted.

‘These are interesting times,’ Timmy repeated. ‘We have to keep all options open.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means what it says. Talk to everyone. Rule nothing out, nothing in. Be flexible.’

‘That’s not government policy.’

‘Ah, Paul,’ Timmy said as the barman put another Paddy in front of him and selected coins from the scatter Timmy had left on the counter. ‘And have one for yourself,’ he said to the barman.

‘Thanks,’ the barman said and asked Duggan if he wanted
another
Guinness. Duggan shook his head.

‘You’ve hardly been a wet week at this job,’ Timmy continued in his best avuncular tone, turning the conversation around. ‘And you’re good at it. I’m impressed. But it takes time to get a true feel for things. To be able to read between the lines, figure out what people are
really
saying behind all the
plámás
and the rest of it. It’d be a mistake to assume you know everything.’

‘I know what the government’s position is,’ Duggan said as
another
piece of the puzzle clicked into position. Timmy was the new
customer
in Harbusch’s letter. ‘About accepting arms from Germany.’ The immediate return of Timmy’s poker face assured him he was on the right track and he continued, ‘The offer of providing Lee Enfields and other captured British weapons has been turned down by the government. It’d be a step too far, a breach of neutrality, a clear
message
to the British. There’s no flexibility about that.’

The barman put another whiskey in front of Timmy and he
concentrated
on a careful pouring of water into it. ‘There’s many ways to skin a cat,’ he said at last.

‘Does the Taoiseach know what you’re doing? Does the
government
approve of your secret negotiations?’

‘We’re practically defenceless,’ Timmy said. ‘You know that. We have the men. Good men like yourself. But we don’t have the guns. We have to be able to defend ourselves against all comers.’

‘If you take guns from the Germans, especially captured British guns, you’re taking sides. There’d be only one comer then. Is that what you really want, to provoke the British into invading so that we can take back the North with German help?’

Timmy sipped at his drink, said nothing. Duggan stared at him in the mirror. ‘Jesus,’ he said as the implications of Timmy’s scheming became clearer. ‘How many people will die over that?’

‘Don’t let your imagination run away with you,’ Timmy said, lighting another cigarette off the butt of his old one. ‘It’s nothing like that.’

‘What is it then?’

‘They’d provide us with a few thousand guns. Up to twenty
thousand
. Quietly. Small quantities at a time so no one would notice.’

Duggan snorted. ‘No one would notice?’

‘Not if it’s handled right.’

‘How would no one notice?’

‘There’s ways of doing things,’ Timmy shrugged.

‘How much?’

‘For nothing,’ Timmy said in surprise. ‘This isn’t about money. In return for maintaining neutrality. That’s all.’

‘And when the British find out about it?’

‘They won’t give us guns. Won’t even sell them to us. What do they expect us to do? Sit back and let anyone who wants to walk in?’

‘And if they decide your deal with German is a breach of neutrality?’

‘That’s their decision.’

Duggan shook his head. ‘You’re playing with fire.’

They fell silent. Duggan lit a cigarette. Behind him the bar had filled up and the air was thickening with smoke. One of the men
nearest
him began to cough, a slow hacking sound broken only by his deep intakes of breath.

‘I’ve got to report all this,’ Duggan said at last.

‘You can’t,’ Timmy said decisively.

‘I have to. I’m on duty here.’

‘If you do it’s tantamount to telling the British about it,’ Timmy said. ‘I warned you before about some of the people in your place. They can’t be trusted.’

‘It’s only a problem if you’re acting for the government,’ Duggan said. ‘If you’re on a solo run it’s nobody’s problem but yours. And the Taoiseach’s, I suppose. He’ll have to decide what to do about you.’

‘Paul, Paul,’ Timmy said with an air of sadness. ‘You know I’ve always looked on you as the son I wished I had. And I always had it in mind that you’d take over the Dáil seat when the time comes. That’s why I got you into G2. To get some experience of the real world instead of wasting your time square bashing and all that stupid stuff.’

He paused and continued. ‘There’s nothing in this for me. It’s going out on a limb. I accept that. But I’m doing it for the good of country. To make sure that we can defend ourselves. You understand that?’

Duggan nodded, half convinced. ‘You’ve got to stop,’ he said.

‘Maybe I underestimated the dangers,’ Timmy said with an attempt at humility. ‘I can see that’s a possibility.’

‘What about Jim Bradley?’ Duggan demanded out of the blue.

‘What about him?’

‘Has he been released yet?’

Timmy sighed. ‘I promised Nuala I’d do my level best to get him out.’

‘Which means he will be let go unharmed?’

Timmy nodded.

‘So you know where he is?’

‘I don’t know the details.’

‘Yes, you do,’ Duggan insisted. ‘I want him released now. Tonight.’

Timmy took a final drag on his cigarette and bared his teeth in a
grimace as he stubbed it out in the full ashtray. ‘Okay,’ he held out his hand.

Duggan ignored it and they stared at each other for a moment until Timmy dropped his hand with a shrug. I don’t believe it, Duggan thought. He’s known where Jim Bradley is all along. Could’ve got him out any time but was leaving it to the last minute. ‘Why?’ he asked aloud. ‘Why’d you let them go on holding him when you knew you’d have to let him go? That he wasn’t a spy?’

‘Because,’ Timmy said slowly, ‘people have to learn there are
consequences
to their actions.’

Duggan started laughing in spite of himself. ‘That’s fucking
priceless
,’ he said. ‘There are consequences for secret dealings with German spies too. Dealings that are contrary to national policy.’

‘That’s different,’ Timmy said.

‘Some might see it as treason,’ Duggan said. ‘Putting the safety of the entire nation at risk.’

‘Ah, Paul,’ Timmy shook his head. ‘Calm yourself.’ He paused. ‘We have a deal anyway.’

‘We have a deal,’ Duggan agreed carefully. ‘If Bradley is freed now I won’t tell anyone that you were behind his kidnapping and the IRA threat to execute him.’

‘They weren’t supposed to threaten anything.’

‘That’s neither here nor there. They did. And I want to come with you to get Bradley now.’

‘Ah, Jaysus,’ Timmy sighed. ‘And the other stuff?’

Duggan shook his head. ‘The deal covers the family stuff only. I’ve got to report the other stuff.’

‘You’re a hard man,’ Timmy said, a ritual phrase that meant
nothing
. He was already figuring out his defences. ‘When will you be reporting it?’

‘Tomorrow,’ Duggan shrugged.

‘I’ve been played for a fool here too, you know,’ Timmy said, thinking aloud. ‘She’s not who she pretended to be. This agent
provocateur
.’

Duggan closed his eyes, feeling a wave of exhaustion rise. You can’t stop him, he thought. He can’t stop himself. Wheeling and dealing. Dodging and weaving. Kitty Kelly was now being turned into a British agent.

‘Have you fellows given any thought to who she might really be working for?’ Timmy asked. ‘Where she came from?’

‘We know who she’s working for,’ Duggan cut him short. ‘Can we get on with it? Get Jim Bradley?’

Timmy looked at his watch and clapped his hands once, taking charge. ‘I need to send word to some people,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t do to turn up unannounced. I’ll pick you up outside Leinster House in an hour. The back gate.’

Duggan took his time walking to O’Connell Street. Gifford was
taking
Sinéad to the Metropole for something to eat and a film. They were probably gone in by now but he had nothing to do for the next hour anyway. And he was too energised to sit in the stakeout room. And he needed to talk to someone. And there was no one else he could talk to about this. About the whole story.