by Joe Joyce
‘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 ge
t 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.
He couldn’t quite believe that he was about to get Bradley released. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? After all his agonising. He couldn’t trust Timmy not to try some last minute stunt. He had given in easily. But then, he reminded himself, I’ve got all the aces. Or enough of them anyway.
As he crossed O’Connell Bridge the sun glared down the river, just above the bridges, blinding him when he looked westwards. A street photographer snapping couples ignored him and he crossed to the other side, weaving between a few bicycles and a tram heading for the Pillar. He continued up a shaded O’Connell Street where the lights were lit in café windows and the ugly concrete public air-raid shelter squatted on the central median.
There was a small queue in the blaze of light outside the Metropole and he went around it and into the building and up the stairs to the restaurant. Posters advertised The Farmer’s Daughter with Martha Raye and Charles Ruggles and Parole Fixer with William Henry and Virginia Dale. The Farmer’s Daughter must be the romantic one Sinéad wanted to see, he thought. Gifford hadn’t had much hope of persuading her to wait for the other. The Farmer’s Daughter had already started and they’d have gone in, he thought, but he looked into the restaurant anyway.
They were at a table by the window overlooking the street. Gifford gave him a slit-eyed look as he saw him approach. ‘Well, hello,’ Sinéad seemed pleased to see him.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Duggan said, standing by their table. Their plates were empty, Sinéad’s cup still half-full of tea. A couple of triangles of sliced pan remained on a plate in the centre of the table.
‘But,’ Gifford prompted.
‘Timmy knows where Bradley is. He’s taking me there in half an hour.’
Sinéad looked from one to the other, not knowing what he was talking about.
‘And you want backup,’ Gifford sighed. He took the linen napkin off his lap and folded it carefully. He nodded to himself and put it on the tablecloth by his plate. ‘I have to go with him,’ he said to Sinéad.
‘What?’ she demanded.
‘I’m sorry,’ Gifford gave her a soulful look. ‘Really, I am.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ Duggan added.
‘Oh, always at your service,’ she quoted the slogan from the restaurant’s menus with heavy sarcasm and threw her napkin on the table.
‘Look at it this way,’ Gifford pleaded. ‘Would you ever forgive me if this eejit went off and got himself killed because I wasn’t there to mind him?’
‘This is dangerous?’ she said, startled.
‘No,’ Duggan said. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘So what do you need him for then?’ she shot back.
‘Because he’s not used to being out by himself in the big city yet,’ Gifford offered. ‘I’ve had to save him from being beaten to a pulp once already.’
Sinéad narrowed her eyes at Duggan. ‘You didn’t fall off the bike?’
Duggan shook his head. Gifford caught a waiter’s eye and signalled for the bill. ‘There’s a man’s life at stake,’ he said to Sinéad. ‘And we’ve a chance to save him without any trouble. Right?’ he added to Duggan.
‘Right,’ Duggan agreed. ‘There won’t be any trouble.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ she sighed.
‘You could go into the picture anyway,’ Gifford suggested.
‘Are you mentally defective?’ she retorted. ‘I’m not going in there by myself. I didn’t even want to see that gangster thing. You kept me talking so that we missed the other one.’
Gifford gave her a sheepish grin as they got up. ‘I am really sorry,’ Duggan offered as they waited for Gifford to pay at the desk. ‘I had no idea this was going to happen this evening.’
‘Just be careful,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t let anything happen to him.’
Outside, Gifford offered to walk her to her bus stop.
‘I can find it by myself,’ she said. ‘I’ve found it before.’
They were beginning to get suspicious looks fr
om the sentry at the Merrion Square entrance to Leinster House by the time an usher opened the gates and Timmy drove out more than ten minutes late and stopped halfway onto the road.
‘Whoa, whoa,’ Timmy said as Duggan opened the passenger door and Gifford began to climb into the back. ‘Who the fuck is this?’
‘A friend of mine,’ Duggan said. ‘A colleague.’
Timmy turned to look at Gifford and the stench of whiskey shifted with him. ‘What kind of friend?’
‘He knows everything,’ Duggan said. ‘Unofficially. He’s the only one. He helped me find Nuala.’
Timmy grunted. Gifford waved his hand in front of him and asked, ‘Should you be driving? We don’t want to end up in someone’s front garden.’
‘I’ll drive,’ Duggan said, aware that Timmy had had a lot to drink in the last couple of hours, probably even more than he knew about. To his surprise, Timmy didn’t protest.
‘You said you’d kept it in the family,’ Timmy hissed at him as they crossed in front of the bonnet, exchanging places.
‘Where are we going?’ Duggan asked as he let out the clutch.
‘I’ll direct you,’ Timmy said, pointing to the right.
They went up Merrion Street and across into Stephen’s Green and up Harcourt Street and turned right past the railway station. Timmy signalled with his fingers and said, ‘Up Rathmines Road.’ Duggan thought for a mad moment that Timmy might have Bradley hidden in his own house; they were headed in that direction.
‘How did you meet Kitty Kelly?’ he asked, partly to break the silence.
Timmy lit himself a cigarette. ‘She contacted me,’ he said at last.
‘Why?’
‘Because …’ Timmy said, seeming unsure of the reason himself.
‘Someone said you should meet?’ Gifford suggested from the back seat where he was lounging sideways on one elbow. Timmy nodded. ‘Hans Harbusch?’ Gifford added.
‘Who?’
‘Have you ever met Hans Harbusch?’ Duggan asked. ‘At the German legation maybe?’
‘No,’ Timmy said without interest. He waved to the right, directing the car up Rathgar Road. They lapsed into silence. Gifford took out his revolver, broke it open and checked that all the chambers were full. He clicked it closed and spun the cylinder.