by Joe Joyce
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.
Inside, Captain Sullivan stopped Duggan in the corridor with his hand out. ‘You got the money for the tickets?’
Duggan gave him one of the pound notes he had borrowed from his father and a ten-shilling note and two half-crowns. ‘You got a date for me?’
‘Yeah,’ Sullivan smirked. ‘Carmel’s friend Breda. You remember her? We met them in the Carlton after that Charlie Chan picture a few weeks ago.’
‘Yeah.’ Carmel was Sullivan’s girlfriend but Duggan wasn’t sure he could remember her friend Breda.
‘Don’t get any ideas,’ Sullivan said. ‘It’s not a real date. She doesn’t fancy you.’
‘Fine,’ Duggan laughed. The feeling was obviously mutual: she hadn’t made much of an impression on him either.
‘She wants you to know that. She’s only going with you because she wants to be there with Carmel and she’s not doing a line at the moment.’
‘Okay, I get the message.’
But Sullivan hadn’t finished yet. ‘Actually, she thinks you’re a bit stuck-up.’
‘She said that?’ Duggan tried harder to remember her. Not a great looker, more than a bit standoffish, judgemental. Or maybe he was assuming that now. He couldn’t really remember anything about her and would be hard put to recognise her in the street. They’d only met for a few minutes and he’d been hurrying away. ‘Give me back half the money,’ Duggan put his hand out. ‘She can pay for herself.’
Sullivan laughed and walked away.
Duggan sat down at his desk, closed his eyes and stretched his neck and joined his hands behind his head. It’d been a long day, another interminable train journey back from his parents’, a scramble to finish the report on German agents, which wasn’t what they wanted after all, and then the meeting with Ó Murchú.
‘Thanks for that note from the man in Dundalk,’ a voice said behind him.
Duggan opened his eyes and twisted around. Captain Liam Anderson was standing in the doorway, as if the room was out of bounds to him. Anderson was a few years older than Duggan, a red-haired Northerner. Duggan only knew him to see, had never had a real conversation with him. ‘You had no problems with him? With Murphy?’
‘No. The train was very late but he was still there.’
‘He’s a reliable man,’ Anderson nodded. ‘Very interesting info.’
‘Yeah?’ Duggan sounded surprised. ‘It all seemed a bit vague. Except for the list of damaged ships.’
‘He doesn’t exaggerate or speculate. Like a lot of people in this business.’
That’s true, Duggan thought, thinking back to Murphy’s refusal to go beyond what he had heard. ‘Vague stuff about the British troops. Americans in Derry.’
‘You lads in here only deal in hard facts?’
‘Fair point,’ Duggan conceded. ‘It sounded frustrating though.’
‘The important point is that these Americans were not in uniform.’
‘Under cover.’
Anderson nodded. ‘And the Brits have brought in another battalion. We’ve had corroboration from another source.’
‘Not rotating?’
‘No. Reinforcing.’
‘Jesus,’ Duggan said.
‘Don’t be too hard on the Jerries,’ Anderson pointed a finger at him. ‘We might be needing them yet.’
The day was dull and cold, a mass of threatening grey clouds pressing down on the city, dampening spirits. There was snow on the tops of the Dublin Mountains, melding them into the clouds, as Duggan cycled up Rathmines Road. The drone of a heavy aircraft grew louder and louder and passed almost overhead, hidden in the cloud, and faded away towards the mountains. A bomber, he thought, from the weight of its noise. Probably lost.
Timmy Monaghan opened the door himself. ‘Hardy day,’ he said. ‘You’re in time for the dinner.’
‘No, thanks,’ Duggan said. ‘Love to stay but I can’t.’
‘On duty?’ Timmy gave him a sideways look as he led him into his study. A fire blazed and the large table he used as a desk was littered with papers. He lowered his bulk into the armchair to the right of the fire, his back to the window, and Duggan sank into the other one. ‘So, this is an official visit?’
Duggan shook his head. ‘Not really. I just hoped you might be able to help me with something.’
‘Or else?’ Timmy gave him a hard stare.
‘Or else nothing,’ Duggan felt flustered, taken aback by Timmy’s hostility. Gone was the avuncular, smiling, back-slapping host of Christmas Day. The usual Timmy, in fact. ‘It’s to do with work but …’
‘Ah, always happy to help you lads,’ Timmy said, changing his demeanour, and pulled himself up by the arms of the chair. ‘You’ll have another one of those cigars your father gave me.’
‘No, thanks.’ He’s just trying to knock me off my stride, Duggan thought, unsettle me. It migh
t’ve worked in the past but not anymore. I’m up to his ways. ‘Too strong for me.’
Timmy took a cigar from the open box of Don Carlos Imperiales on the desk, sat back down and made a production out of lighting it. ‘So,’ he said through a cloud of smoke, ‘the penny has dropped, has it?’
‘Which penny?’
‘That our neighbours will be paying us an unwanted visit any day now.’ Timmy gave a crooked smile, liking his own metaphor. ‘Coming in the back door without as much as a by-your-leave.’
‘That’s not my area.’
‘It’ll be everyone’s area soon enough.’
‘It’s a complicated situation.’ Duggan shifted in his chair and lit a cigarette.
‘Nothing complicated about it. You saw Churchill’s speech. As plain a message as anyone could ask for. You don’t have to be in intelligence to read it.’
‘So why would they send such a plain message if they planned to invade?’ Duggan said, immediately regretting allowing himself to be dragged into a Timmy-style debate.
Timmy gave him a congratulatory nod, recognising a debating point. ‘To soften us up. Prepare the ground in America.’
‘The point is,’ Duggan tried to get the conversation back on his track, ‘that we don’t want to give them any excuse.’
‘When did the Brits ever need an excuse to fuck up Ireland? I marked your cards for you months ago. But you didn’t want to know, for some reason.’
‘Any excuse,’ Duggan went on, avoiding the invitation to rehash old conversations, ‘that they could use in America. That might work in America. To justify their action.’