by Joe Joyce
‘Some people appear to believe that we’ve deliberately allowed Goertz to remain free. We can presume the German legation has heard those rumours and may believe that too. So we could suggest to Herr Hempel that we can no longer tolerate Goertz’s activities. He’s compromising our neutrality. And interfering in our internal affairs by fomenting subversion through the IRA.’
‘So we must arrest him. As we can do at a moment’s notice?’
McClure nodded.
‘Really? We know where he is?’
‘No, sir. But we can make an all-out effort to find him.’
‘Another bluff.’
McClure conceded the point with a slight nod.
‘What if they call our bluff?’
‘It’s unlikely. We make it clear that we must arrest Goertz and put him on trial. Which means his contacts with the legation and with the IRA will be made public. Cause a major diplomatic problem. Even justify abandoning neutrality. On the side of the Allies. Or give the British an excuse—’
A look of horror crossed Ó Murchú’s face and he raised his hand for McClure to stop. ‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘Hold your horses.’ He steepled his hands on the desk and leaned his chin on them and ignored McClure and Duggan for what seemed an age. Then he sat back and placed his left hand, palm down, on the desk. ‘Their request to strengthen the legation,’ he said. He put his right hand, palm down, on the desk, leaving a wide gap between his two hands. ‘Our concerns about Dr Goertz’s activities,’ he nodded, looking from one hand to the other. ‘Side by side on the table. No linkage. And,’ he looked up at McClure, ‘no threats.’
‘No, sir,’ McClure accepted the reprimand.
‘Thank you gentlemen,’ Ó Murchú dismissed them. They stood up to leave but Ó Murchú changed his mind. ‘It may help you to know how sensitive this matter is,’ he said. ‘They have now spoken of serious consequences if we don’t make the arrangements they require.’
They waited. ‘Serious consequences?’ McClure prompted.
‘They have hinted at breaking diplomatic relations,’ Ó Murchú paused to let the implications sink in. ‘It is possible, but not likely, that they are trying to engineer such a breach. Which would be very serious and probably be a prelude to military action. They insist they want us to remain neutral but who knows what their real plans are.’
McClure and Duggan remained halfway to the door. Ó Murchú ran a hand down over his face, looking tired and dropping his diplomatic demeanour. ‘I don’t need to remind you these are dangerous times. And of your obligations under the Official Secrets Act.’
‘No, sir,’ McClure said. ‘Of course not.’
‘I’m telling you this information so you understand the importance of what’s happening. Keep it to yourselves as far as possible.’ He switched back to his formal self. ‘Keep me informed of any developments.’
On the way back to headquarters, McClure suggested it would be no harm to keep an eye on the Friends of Germany meeting in the Red Bank restaurant that evening. In case Goertz turned up. ‘I know it’s unlikely but you never know,’ he added. ‘He may think he’s immune from arrest too. We’ve got to pull out all the stops.’
Duggan murmured his assent, wondering if he wanted him to do it in person.
‘You’re going dancing tonight?’ McClure asked, confirming his suspicion.
‘Bill Sullivan organised a table at the Gresham.’
‘Big date?’
‘No,’ Duggan smiled, remembering Sullivan’s advance warnings from his companion for the evening. ‘Far from it.’
‘Wouldn’t matter then if you were a little late.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Good,’ McClure nodded. ‘You’re the only one who actually knows what he looks like. Take this car,’ he added. ‘Hang on to it for the evening.’
The night was cold, a raw edge to it that threatened more snow than the earlier hint which had left nothing more on the ground than a wet sheen now freezing on the streets. Duggan was parked on D’Olier Street, across the road from the Red Bank. The car’s windows were steamed up and he had the driver’s window open a couple of inches to watch the restaurant’s entrance.
He shivered and jammed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, trying to remember what Goertz looked like, how he walked, carried himself. A military bearing. Straight and straight-forward. A sharp-faced profile. It wasn’t much to go on, unless he got a long look at him, which was unlikely at this distance and in the reduced street light. And with a hat down and coat collar up …
It was a waste of time. The straggle of people going in walked quickly and were huddled in overcoats and hats. Hitler himself could walk in there and you wouldn’t recognise him from here, he thought.
A figure appeared at the driver’s window and two eyes glared in at him through the gap, making him jump. ‘Would you look at what the cat brought in?’ a voice said in a Dublin accent.
Duggan watched while the figure, a shadow through the muffled windscreen, walked around the front of the car and opened the passenger door. Garda Peter Gifford sat in.
‘Jesus,’ Duggan breathed. ‘You frightened the shit out of me.’
‘So I should,’ Gifford said. He was a member of the Special Branch, a couple of years older than Duggan. They had been friends since the previous summer when Gifford had helped Duggan with family problems while they were engaged in a joint operation against a suspected German spy. Their friendship contrasted with the mutual suspicion between their respective organisations. ‘That’s what we do to people loitering in cars on dark streets.’
Duggan turned to look back down the street and then spotted the car on the other side with a man at the wheel. The Special Branch. He hadn’t noticed it earlier. Some use I am at surveillance, he thought.
‘What’re you doing here?’ he asked, knowing the answer.
‘Same as yourself,’ Gifford said. ‘On the punishment detail.’
‘What’ve you done wrong now?’
‘Not keeping my mouth shut, as usual. And you?’
‘Keeping an eye out for our friend, Herr Goertz.’
‘Mr Brandy,’ Gifford nodded to himself, another of the names Goertz had used, and the one by which he was best known to the Special Branch.
‘Any sign of him? I can see fuck all from here.’ Duggan opened his coat and fished in his jacket pocket for his cigarette case and lighter.
‘Oh, an officer and a gentleman,’ Gifford smirked, catching sight of Duggan’s bow tie and dinner jacket. ‘This the new G2 uniform for stakeouts? Where are you on your way to?’
‘The Gresham.’
‘Who’s the lucky girl?’
‘Nobody. A friend of a colleague’s girlfriend.’
‘A blind date. The best kind.’
‘How’s Siobhan?’ She was Gifford’s girlfriend after flirting with both of them for a time and remained friendly with Duggan.
‘She’s fine. We’re like an old married couple now.’
‘You haven’t done it yet, have you?’
‘No. You’ll be the first to know. Best man and bridesmaid in one.’
Duggan laughed and exhaled a stream of smoke out the window and looked over at the restaurant. The street was empty now.
‘Jaysus,’ Gifford muttered, shaking his head. ‘Don’t they teach you anything in G2? Don’t blow smoke out a car window on a stakeout on a cold night.’
‘It’s a tactical manoeuvre,’ Duggan nodded his head back towards Gifford’s car. ‘They’ll try to avoid me and run straight into your friend’s arms.’
‘That’s G2 all right. A distraction. Bit of a diversion.’
‘Have you seen anyone interesting tonight?’
‘I wouldn’t recognise your man Goertz if he walked by me.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Like who?’
‘Anyone from the German legation? Or the IRA?’
Gifford thought about that for a moment. ‘Interesting,’ he said, ‘that you lump them together. But no.’ He no
dded across at the Red Bank. ‘They’re a bunch of fantasists. Spend their time debating which of them will be Gauleiter for Munster or Dublin when the Nazis take over. Even the local lads couldn’t be bothered with them. Never mind the Germans.’
‘So why are we all sitting here then?’
‘In case they’re right, of course,’ Gifford laughed. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
Duggan tossed his cigarette end out the window and looked at his watch. It was well after eleven o’clock.
‘Go up to the Gresham and thaw yourself out,’ Gifford opened his door. ‘I’ll let you know if anything happens here.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Trust me,’ Gifford gave him a lop-sided grin. ‘Happy New Year.’
Duggan dumped his coat with a bored woman in the cloakroom and headed for the toilets. The Alex Caulfield band was playing a foxtrot, the music spilling out of the ballroom with the heat. Bill Sullivan pulled open the door of the gents as he was about to push it in.
‘Hah,’ Sullivan laughed. ‘You’re in the shithouse already.’
‘Didn’t you tell her I was going to be late?’
‘But not nearly three hours late.’
‘Fuck’s sake, I told you I might be.’
‘I hope it was worth it,’ Sullivan pushed him out of the doorway to let someone else enter.
‘What?’
‘Whatever it was you were doing.’
‘Where are we sitting?’
‘Round to the right. At the back.’
Duggan stopped inside the ballroom and lit a cigarette, trying to identify their table. The dance floor was crowded, couples circling the room in a steady stream round the fulcrum of the revolving crystal ball, which sprayed out splashes of coloured light. A couple of the tables at the back right were empty, drinks standing like lonely sentinels, ashtrays full, but he couldn’t figure out which was theirs. He turned to the bar and joined the queue and asked for a Paddy.
‘Just the one?’ the barman shouted at him.
Duggan nodded and leaned into the counter to pour water into the whiskey. He turned back to the dance floor and Sullivan and his girlfriend Carmel swept past. Sullivan indicated behind him with his thumb and gave him a broad wink. His would-be companion, Breda, was dancing with a tall man with blonde hair, moving fluidly and having an animated conversation. Carmel wiggled her fingers at him and gave him a sympathetic look over Sullivan’s shoulder.
The music ended and couples drifted back to their tables. Duggan followed Sullivan and Carmel to a table in the corner and she greeted him with a peck on the cheek.
‘Sorry I’m so late,’ he said.
‘You missed the dinner,’ she said, looking around for Breda. A couple of their colleagues and their partners arrived at the table and greeted him.
‘She’s over there,’ Sullivan pointed to the bar where Breda and the man she’d been dancing with were continuing their animated conversation. ‘Go and get her.’
‘She seems happy enough,’ Duggan replied. ‘It was only a matter of convenience, wasn’t it?’
Carmel gave Sullivan a slit-eyed look that put him on notice of trouble later. Duggan smiled to himself, sipped his whiskey and relaxed into the warmth.
The band leader began the countdown to the new year and there was a ragged cheer, mainly from those who were already drunk, as 1941 was announced. The band broke into ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and they all stood and joined hands and wished each other a happy New Year, the unspoken fears of what it would bring making the atmosphere of enforced gaiety brittle.
Duggan had a couple more whiskies and danced with all his colleagues’ wives and girlfriends, but Breda never came back to their table.
‘You know who she’s with?’ one of his work colleagues whispered to him, looking over at the table she had joined. ‘Somebody from the American legation.’
‘Really?’ Duggan followed his gaze to the distant table.
‘That’s David Gray, the US Minister. On the left.’
Duggan identified the elderly man on the left of the table. ‘Who are the others?’ he asked.
‘The only other one I recognise is Chapin, the first secretary. Sitting next to Gray’s wife. Don’t know who your friend’s with.’
Duggan was about to point out that Breda wasn’t his friend but didn’t bother.
She finally joined them after the national anthem marked the night’s end, nodded briefly at Duggan and went off with Carmel to the ladies and to get their coats.
‘Definitely want my money back now,’ Duggan said to Sullivan.
‘You’ll have to get it back off her,’ Sullivan grinned drunkenly.
When the two women came back Duggan offered a lame apology for his lateness. ‘That’s all right,’ Breda said. ‘I had a great time, thanks.’
The four of them left the hotel together, the sharp cold like an invisible wall that stopped them for a moment as they stepped out onto O’Connell Street. Taxis were lined up, a growing proportion of them old horse-drawn cabs as a result of the petrol rationing.
‘Let’s get a horse cab,’ Carmel said.
‘I’ve got a car,’ Duggan announced, nodding across the street to where he was parked.
‘How’d you get that?’ Sullivan demanded as they crossed to it. ‘Do they know you took it?’
‘Do you want a lift or not?’ Duggan said.
‘Yes, please,’ Carmel shivered.
Breda sat in the front with him and Duggan asked where they were going.
‘Home, James, and don’t spare the horses,’ Sullivan commanded from the back seat.
‘You can drop me first,’ Breda said. ‘Glasnevin. It’s on the way to Carmel’s.’
‘You better direct me,’ Duggan said. ‘I’m not sure of the way.’
He felt a little light-headed from the whiskey and the car waltzed slightly on a bend and he realised the road was slippery and slowed down. In the back Carmel was giggling and Sullivan whispered something to her and she said, ‘Stop that, Captain Sullivan,’ in a tone that suggested she didn’t mean it.
Breda leaned around her seat to look at them. ‘Oh, captain, my captain,’ she said and the two women burst into laughter at some private joke.
She directed him into a cul-de-sac of red-brick houses behind iron railings and small lawns and indicted where to stop. ‘I’ll walk you to the door,’ he said, putting the car into neutral and pulling up the handbrake.
‘There’s no need. Thanks, I had a great time.’ She turned back to Carmel. ‘I’ll call around tomorrow at two.’
Duggan dropped Carmel and Sullivan at her house in Mobhi Road and followed her directions back to the North Circular Road, heading for army headquarters. The road was empty, its trees spidery in the cold, the tall houses dark. He realised he was starving and lit a cigarette to kill the hunger.
He wasn’t sure at first that he had heard it over the engine of the car, the flat crump-crump of explosions. He opened the window and there was a faint drone of an aircraft fading into the distance. Otherwise the silence of the road was undisturbed.
He sped up and went down Infirmary Road and turned into the Red House, seeing immediately that something was up. The sentry was already at the barrier, alert.
‘What’s happened?’ Duggan asked.
‘There’s been an explosion across the river.’
‘A bomb?’
‘Sounded like two, sir.’
Duggan parked and hurried into the building and into the duty office where a harassed-looking lieutenant was on a phone, jotting down notes with his other hand. Another phone was ringing and Duggan picked it up and said, ‘Duty office.’
‘Who’s that?’ Duggan recognised McClure’s voice and identified himself. ‘What’s happening?’ McClure demanded.
‘There seems to have been a couple of bombs.’
‘Two, I think,’ McClure interrupted. ‘Unless there was an echo. Not far from here.’
Duggan knew he lived in Rathmines but his knowledge of t
he area was vague: the only times he’d been there had been to go to his uncle Timmy’s house. The lieutenant, waiting for someone on the phone, signalled to him and pointed to a spot on a map of the city on his desk.
‘Griffith Barracks,’ Duggan said into the phone.
‘What? The barracks was hit?’
The lieutenant shook his head and moved his finger a little to the right.
‘No,’ Duggan said. ‘Near there. South Circular Road.’ He twisted his head to read the street name under the lieutenant’s finger. ‘Donore something or other. I’ll get up there.’
‘Do that,’ McClure said.
The lieutenant raised a finger to hold Duggan while he finished his conversation. ‘Wait a moment,’ Duggan said to McClure.
‘There’s more reports of explosions north of Drogheda and near Dundalk,’ the lieutenant said, putting down his phone. It rang again immediately. ‘And somewhere near Enniscorthy,’ he added, picking up the phone.
Duggan repeated what he had said.
‘Jesus Christ,’ McClure said. ‘I’m on my way in.’
Four
Duggan drove fast, his window open and collar up, listening for further sounds of planes and explosions. But the night was quiet, broken only by the distant bell of a fire engine or an ambulance. He followed the directions the sentry had given him, across Kingsbridge, right onto James’s Street and left after the hospital. An ambulance bell began ringing as he got closer and then there were people hurrying along the footpath beyond Rialto. He parked the car near a cigarette factory and joined them, hurrying up the middle of the road, littered with stones and glass and bits of slate.
The street lighting, such as it had been, was out, but there were lights on the road ahead, vehicle lights and flashlights darting back and forth. The windows were gone in all the houses, curtains hanging out, and roofs blotched with random holes. Some of their occupants stood by their doors, looking shocked, overcoats and dressing gowns over their nightclothes, their breaths ballooning in the cold air, staring in silence at the centre of activity farther on. The air was sharp and bitter and smelled of gas and cordite and left a taste of dust on the tongue.