by Joe Joyce
‘Like what?’ Timmy demanded with the air of someone confident that there was no answer to his demand.
‘Like German activities here.’
Timmy waved his cigar in the air, dismissing the idea as if it was as insubstantial as the trail of smoke left behind.
‘The more reasons they have, the more likely they are to invade,’ Duggan went on. ‘Especially if they can point to German plots.’
‘Hah. It didn’t work the last time,’ Timmy said, referring to the Easter Rising and British attempts to portray it as a German plot.
‘Doesn’t mean it won’t work this time. Especially with an American president who’s dying to get into the war on the British side.’
‘His party won’t let him. We’ve still got a lot of clout there.’
‘Not enough clout to make him sell us the weapons we want,’ Duggan shot back. ‘And need.’
Timmy conceded the point with a small nod and drew heavily on his cigar. ‘You know where you could’ve got the weapons you need. Offered to you on a plate but you wouldn’t take them.’
‘Your party leader turned down the Germans’ offer,’ Duggan reminded him. The government had rejected a German offer to supply the Irish army with British weapons captured in France.
‘On the advice of you lads,’ Timmy snorted. ‘Are you still working with that fellow McClure?’
Duggan nodded, knowing what was to come.
‘I warned you about him, too. A Prod. Father in the British army. Whose side do you think he’ll be on when they come over the border?’
‘On our side,’ Duggan said. This wasn’t going at all as he had planned. ‘Listen,’ he added, going straight for Timmy’s weak point, his desire to be involved in every political conspiracy. ‘We need your help. There is a very delicate situation at the moment.’
Timmy tried and failed to keep the flicker of curiosity from his face. Inside information was life’s blood to him.
‘I can’t go into details,’ Duggan went on, ‘I’d love to and I know that you’d appreciate just how dangerous the situation is. But I’m under orders not to. The fact is that there are things happening which will make a British invasion inevitable. And the Germans will come in on our side. And then the whole country will be a battleground like France was or Greece is now. And thousands and thousands of our people will be killed and the country, this city, laid waste. It’s that serious. It’s one thing wanting Germany to win the war so that we have the country reunited. I understand that totally. People are entitled to support whomever they want. But having the country turned into a battleground is another thing entirely. Everybody knows this war isn’t like any other. It’s all about killing civilians – women, children, everybody.’
Timmy studied him as if he was seeing him for the first time as an adult, not just his sister-in-law’s young fellow. Duggan returned the stare, hoping he hadn’t overplayed his hand: he hadn’t meant to end up appealing to Timmy’s better nature. It was doubtful if such a thing existed.
Timmy finally looked away to toss his cigar into the fire. ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘Remember last summer,’ Duggan suppressed a sigh of relief, ‘you ran into a man called Robinson at a party in Herr Hempel’s house?’
Timmy gave him a sly eye. So he knows now that Robinson was really Hermann Goertz, Duggan thought. ‘Have you ever run into him again?’
‘Seemed a decent type,’ Timmy said, playing for time. ‘Should be left alone. Not doing us any harm.’
He does know, Duggan thought. Maybe more than I know. ‘I’m not trying to track him down. I just want to know if he’s been talking to Herr Hempel or his staff again.’
‘And why wouldn’t he talk to Herr Hempel or anyone he wanted to? It’s a free country.’
‘I’m not saying he couldn’t. I just want to know if he has.’
‘You’re not trying to catch him anymore,’ Timmy gave a satisfied nod. He’s heard the rumours too, Duggan thought. That Goertz’s ability to evade arrest was not an accident. That he was being allowed to remain at large for political reasons. As another conduit to Germany, should the need arise. ‘That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard in a long time.’
Duggan waited, hoping he was about to get what he wanted.
Timmy’s face was a study in concentration, whether searching his memory or running through different scenarios Duggan couldn’t tell. ‘I haven’t seen him since then,’ he said at last.
‘He wasn’t at any other receptions in the German legation?’ Duggan tried to hide his disappointment.
‘I haven’t put a foot inside Hempel’s house since then.’
‘What about the legation itself?’
Timmy shook his head.
‘Have you seen him at any other things?’
Timmy pursed his lips. ‘Somebody told me that they had met him at something. A few months ago.’ He thought for a moment. ‘At a meeting of the Irish Friends of Germany. In the Red Bank. You know the Red Bank?’
Duggan nodded. He had never been in the restaurant in D’Olier Street but he knew from reports that it was the regular meeting place for the Friends of Germany, a small group of fascist supporters.
‘Any of the German diplomats there too?’
‘I don’t know. Somebody mentioned that they’d run into a few people there, including Robinson. Didn’t know who he really was, of course. That’s why it stuck in my memory.’
‘When was that?
‘Not that long ago. Early November maybe. Around the time they celebrate the Munich beer hall stuff.’
‘Have you been to their meetings?’
‘Some of them lads are off the wall,’ Timmy avoided the question and waved at the pile of letters on the table. ‘They keep sending me invitations. They’re having something on New Year’s Eve.’
‘You going?’
‘Mona’s dragging me along to something else. But I might be able to look in for a few minutes. If you want me to.’
Duggan made a non-committal noise. He wanted information from Timmy but the last thing he wanted was to have Timmy insinuate himself into G2’s operations.
Three
Duggan climbed the stairs to the Adelaide Agency, hoping he was timing his arrival right. It was almost lunchtime and he was banking on Gerda Meier’s boss going out to eat to allow them to talk without hindrance. At least she hadn’t gone out: he could hear a typewriter clacking as he approached the door and knocked.
She stopped typing as he came in and she said ‘good afternoon’ in a businesslike voice and put her finger to her lips.
He nodded and said, ‘I was wondering if you’ve got anything new on your list this week.’
‘I’m typing it now,’ she said. ‘There is something in Donnybrook that may suit you. Morehampton Road.’
She began to flick forward the pages of a notebook, taking her time over each page of shorthand squiggles. The door behind her opened and Montague came out, muffled against the cold with a scarf tucked into his overcoat as well as a hat. He glanced at Duggan and then glanced at him again and nodded to him; maybe he was a potential customer after all.
Gerda let the pages of her notebook fall closed after he left. ‘You can’t come here every week,’ she said when his footsteps had faded down the stairs.
‘I could meet you somewhere during your lunch break,’ Duggan nodded. ‘But it’s better if we’re not seen together.’
‘Come here at one thirty then. He won’t be back until one forty-five.’
‘Okay. So, how did it go?’
‘There were only three Germans there. A Luftwaffe crew who had to land when they ran out of fuel, Mrs Lynch said. She knew them well. One officer and two others. One of the others had an Irish girl with him and they were going to see a film. The officer reminded him to boo if there were any British newsreels, especially if they mentioned the RAF. The Irish woman said she would too.’
‘Did they talk about anything else interesting?’
&nb
sp; ‘No. Most of their talk in German was about the crewman’s girlfriend. Not nice things.’
Duggan was about to ask her what they said but stopped himself. He could imagine.
‘She didn’t speak German?’
Gerda shook her head. ‘Her boyfriend spoke some English. Not very good. When they left, the other two didn’t talk much. A little about their families and what they do every Christmas. Did.’
Nothing much there, Duggan thought. Maybe this was a waste of time.
‘Mrs Lynch told me there are usually more of them. She thought there might be something on somewhere else.’
‘Like what?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘Do you know who the Irish woman was?’
‘Her name was Patricia. That’s all I know.’
‘How did you know one of them was an officer?’
She gave him a withering look. ‘I don’t need to see a uniform to know a Nazi,’ she snapped.
That wasn’t the question, he thought. And being an officer didn’t mean he was a Nazi. Especially in the Luftwaffe. But he let it go. ‘Did Mrs Lynch know their names?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘Did they talk to anyone else?’
She shook her head. ‘There was a man who tried to talk to them but they ignored him.’
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Lynch said he is an artist. From England.’
‘An Englishman?’
She nodded.
‘He’s a regular?’
‘She said he came last week the first time, just before Christmas. Asked her if he could hang some of his paintings on her wall. To sell them. She said no.’
‘Did she know his name?’
‘Glenn.’
‘Is that his Christian name or his surname?’
‘His family name. His first name is Roderick – Roddy.’
Duggan nodded. ‘And what happened when he tried to talk to the Germans?’
‘I couldn’t hear,’ she said. ‘He was by himself at a table beside the window. I noticed him because he seemed to be nervous. He was playing with his cup. Twisting it,’ she indicated with her two hands. ‘Looking around a lot, like he was expecting somebody. Then he went over to them and said something. They didn’t look pleased. Told him to go away.’
‘You heard them?’
‘No. But it was clear what they meant.’ She gave a dismissive wave in illustration.
‘Was he being abusive?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t near the table.’
‘He knew they were Germans?’
‘Oh yes,’ she nodded. ‘They don’t keep their voices down.’
‘He shouted at them?’
‘No. He tried to say something. But they pushed him away.’ She gave the dismissive wave again.
Duggan thought about that for a moment. Something to be filed away. Maybe. But very little real information overall. ‘Okay,’ he said, masking his disappointment with a cheerful smile. ‘Thank you very much for doing that. You’ll go again next Saturday?’
‘Yes.’ She reached under her desk and came up with a purse, took two halfpennies from it and held them out in the palm of her hand. ‘They left me a tip.’
‘That was all? A penny?’
She nodded. ‘You take them.’
‘No. You keep them. You earned them.’
‘I don’t want their money.’ She mocked a spit at the coins.
‘I thought—’
‘I changed my mind,’ she interrupted. ‘Here.’ She pushed her palm forward, making it an order. He took the coins. ‘They left their coffees too.’
‘Why?’
‘It tastes like piss.’
‘You sound like a Cork woman,’ Duggan smiled and she laughed.
On his way back to headquarters Duggan dropped the two coins into a tin cup held out by a heavily shawled woman sitting at the base of the Pillar. He typed out a brief summary of what Gerda had told him and went to McClure’s office to leave a copy on his desk. McClure was standing by the window, staring out at nothing, smoking a thoughtful cigarette.
‘Well?’ he turned from the window, breaking his reverie.
Duggan gave him a synopsis of what he had written.
‘What about the other matter?’ McClure asked.
‘Nothing more. I’ve gone through the reports of the Friends of Germany meetings for the last few months. Back to June. No mention of Robinson. Or any of Goertz’s other names. Or anybody that might’ve been him.’
‘You went through the Special Branch reports too?’
Duggan nodded. The Branch carried out surveillance outside the meeting while G2 had an informant who was a member of the organisation. Duggan didn’t know who he was and didn’t ask but had read his reports. They assumed the Branch also had its own man or woman among the Friends but that information was not shared with them.
‘I’d be surprised if Goertz ever goes near them,’ McClure said. ‘Can’t see that he’d have anything to gain. They’re of no significance militarily or politically.’
‘Some of them expect to get positions of power if Germany wins the war.’
McClure stubbed out his cigarette and went behind his desk and slumped into his chair. ‘Herr Thomsen’s visit to Dundalk was of no use to us either. He went to visit a German woman who’s been married there for nearly twenty years.’
‘Isn’t that unusual? That he’d go all the way to see her? Instead of her coming to the legation, I mean.’
‘Not in the circumstances,’ McClure sighed. ‘He went to tell her that her sister was killed in a bombing raid on Hamburg.’ He paused. ‘We’ve got nothing more for Ó Murchú.’
‘The Branch have nothing on IRA men meeting the Germans?’
McClure shook his head. ‘Not that they’re sharing with us. Their priorities are different anyway.’
‘Can we pick up Goertz?’ Duggan asked.
McClure leaned back in his chair and fixed him with an inquisitive look.
‘I mean,’ Duggan continued, fearing that he was going out on a limb. While McClure never treated him as an underling and encouraged him to speak his mind, he was moving into unexplored waters here. ‘There are rumours. That Goertz is being allowed to remain free. That it’s no accident that he’s always one step ahead of us.’
‘Tell me more,’ McClure ordered.
‘Just that,’ Duggan said. ‘That that’s why he keeps giving us the slip. Why he’s never in the place that’s raided. Has always just left.’
‘Someone’s tipping him off.’
Duggan nodded, relaxing a little. ‘More than that. That the powers that be want him on the loose. As an unofficial channel to the Abwehr, the Wehrmacht. In case we need it.’
‘If the British invade?’
‘Yes.’
McClure put his hands behind his head and stayed silent for a few moments. ‘How widespread are these rumours?’
Duggan shrugged. ‘I’ve heard it hinted at a few times. Nobody saying it directly.’
‘Around here?’
Duggan nodded.
‘And outside?’
‘I don’t know,’ Duggan said, restraining himself from pointing out that he spent little time outside the army or even G2.
‘Your uncle?’
‘I think so.’
‘Meaning? What did he say?’
Duggan searched his memory for what Timmy had said. ‘Nothing directly,’ he said. Typical Timmy. As slippery as an eel. Everything was nods and winks. ‘But the idea didn’t seem to be a surprise to him.’
‘So, it’s in the political system too.’ McClure straightened up behind the desk and lit himself another cigarette. ‘It could work,’ he said after a moment.
Duggan waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t. Instead he picked up the phone and asked for the Department of External Affairs. McClure nodded to dismiss him while he waited to be put through.
Duggan was almost at the door when McClure said, ‘
By the way, the colonel says it’s not true. We’re not just going through the motions looking for Goertz.’
Duggan was hardly back in his office when McClure called and told him they were going to External Affairs. A gentle flurry of small snowflakes settled on the windscreen as he drove, turning into drops of water so quickly that they seemed like an illusion. Government Buildings was more alive this time, lights everywhere, sounds of typing behind closed doors, the corridors feeling used. Ó Murchú, however, looked like he hadn’t moved since they had seen him last, still at the edge of his pool of light. He didn’t bother with the perfunctory handshake this time.
‘The Secretary is meeting the Germans in a couple of hours,’ he said as they sat down. ‘Fortunately, it’s the German Minister himself, Herr Hempel. A much more civilised man to deal with. However, he’s going to be looking for the details they requested. When they can fly their men into Foynes. So …’ He held out a hand, palm up, passing an imaginary baton to McClure.
‘As I said on the phone,’ McClure accepted the baton, ‘I believe that Hermann Goertz could be used as a counterweight to their demands.’
Ó Murchú nodded. ‘Let’s go through it. See where it takes us. You are sure, for a start, that this man Goertz is a spy?’
‘Without doubt. He served a sentence for spying in England during the 1930s. We’ve found irrefutable evidence here of his activities.’
‘And that he has been in contact with the German legation?’
‘Yes,’ Duggan said. ‘We know he attended their victory celebrations last June in Herr Hempel’s own house. Shortly after he arrived here.’
‘And since then?’
‘We don’t know. But it would seem probable.’
‘So we are bluffing if we complain about him?’
‘To an extent, sir,’ McClure said. ‘Herr Hempel must know that Goertz was in his house, even if he didn’t meet him himself. Which is unlikely. And he must know of their other contacts with him. So, he can’t deny any knowledge of him. And he can’t know what else we know.’
‘Okay,’ Ó Murchú nodded to himself. ‘Where do we go from there?’