by Joe Joyce
‘Jaysus,’ Timmy shot him a sideways glance. ‘Put that away before you hurt yourself.’
They went up the length of the long road. ‘Stop here,’ Timmy said as they reached the church at the top.
‘Here?’ Duggan said in surprise, letting the car coast to a stop by the church.
‘You two wait here,’ Timmy said, opening his door. ‘I’ll go on from here. Bring him back to you.’
‘No,’ Duggan said. ‘We’re going with you.’
Timmy stopped with one foot on the footpath and looked back at him with a sigh. ‘They’re only expecting me. They’ll have scouts out and if they see a carload coming they’ll think it’s a raiding party and start shooting.’
Timmy got out of the car and walked around it to the driver’s door. Duggan turned back to Gifford, who shrugged. ‘I’ll drive,’ he said as Timmy opened his door. ‘Just the two of us.’
Timmy considered for a moment, then went back around the bonnet again. Gifford climbed out onto the footpath and leaned back in. ‘Take this,’ he handed Duggan the revolver, butt first. Timmy rolled his eyes as Duggan took it and left it on his lap.
Gifford stepped back and Timmy sat in and Duggan moved off. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Timmy said. ‘Put it away.’
Duggan took the gun in his right hand and bent down to slide it under his seat.
‘Who’s the cowboy?’ Timmy demanded.
‘Special Branch.’
‘Jaysus.’ Timmy snorted, like that was the final straw.
‘He’s all right. Helped me find Nuala. Hasn’t said a word to anyone.’
Timmy waved vaguely to the right and Duggan slowed and took the next turn to the right and was soon lost in a maze of suburban streets, following directions.
‘Who suggested you meet Kitty Kelly?’ Duggan asked as he took a left, then another right. We’re going round in circles, he thought, but he couldn’t be sure.
‘Someone I met.’
‘At the German legation.’
Timmy grunted.
‘Herman Goertz?’
‘Who?’
Duggan hunted in his memory. ‘The fellow called Robinson. That you met in Herr Hempel’s house.’
‘No,’ Timmy said. ‘Someone else.’
‘That you met there?’
Timmy nodded.
‘A German?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘An Irish person?’
Timmy indicated his lack of interest with another shrug. ‘I don’t know. I can’t tell you. You can’t trust anyone these days. Not even family.’
Duggan accepted the rebuke in silence.
‘Take it easy along here now,’ Timmy said after they turned into another road. He leaned forward and peered at the houses, obviously unaccustomed to finding the house he was seeking. ‘Next one on this side,’ he said at last. ‘Pull into the driveway.’
Duggan edged slowly in between open iron gates and stopped behind another dark car. The house ahead of them was a two-storey-over-basement Victorian, semi-detached. There was a light visible behind the fanlight in the hall door but no other sign of life in the gloom created by the trees and heavy bushes separating it from the neighbours. They got out of the car slowly, closing the doors gently.
Timmy led the way alongside the steps to the front door to the entrance to the basement. The house was almost a mirror image of the one in Dartmouth Square where Bradley had been held. There were bars on the window and a similar small entrance door down two steps.
Timmy stepped down to the door and gave three decisive knocks. Duggan stood behind him on the first step and they waited patiently. A slight sound behind him in the silence made Duggan aware that someone was there and he tensed, resisting the temptation to turn around, half expecting a blow. What have I walked into? he wondered suddenly. Has Timmy set me up? You can’t trust anyone these days, not even family. What if he wants to get rid of me? Because I’m the only one who knows about his contacts with the Germans. And the IRA.
He reassured himself with the thought that Gifford also knew. But Timmy now knew that Gifford knew. And Gifford was waiting by the church wall back in Rathgar. A sitting duck. Unarmed. Fuck. He took a deep breath as quietly as he could to try and calm himself.
There was a metallic click as a bolt was shot and the door creaked open a few inches. An eye stared over Timmy’s shoulder at Duggan.
‘He’s with me,’ Timmy said evenly. ‘One of the family. My nephew.’
The door opened and Timmy edged through the narrow gap past the man holding it. Duggan followed him into a low stone hallway, not looking at the door opener. The only light came from a window at the far end of the hall and the air was still warm from the day and stuffy with overuse. The silhouette of another man appeared ahead of Timmy. ‘How’s the men?’ Timmy said to him with an echo of his usual joviality and shook his hand.
‘He’s ready and waiting,’ the man indicated a room to his left and Duggan followed Timmy in.
The curtains were closed and there was no light in the room. It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the gloom before they recognised the figure lying on the floor under the window.
The man who had greeted Timmy touched the figure with his shoe and said, ‘Up you get. You’re going home.’
The figure didn’t move and the man who had opened the door came around from behind them and bent down and pulled him to his feet by one arm. He wobbled unsteadily and Duggan stepped forward and held him under his other arm. He was a dead weight, barely able to stand, his head dropped down on his chest. Duggan couldn’t make out any of his features in the gloom. He stank of urine and stale sweat.
Duggan and the door opener began to edge him towards the hallway. A third man, who had followed them into the basement, stepped back to let them through. His arms hung by his side and Duggan made out the faint shape of a revolver hanging from his left hand.
‘Hold on a minute,’ Timmy said. ‘He had something belonged to me when he was picked up.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ the main man said.
‘An envelope,’ Timmy added. ‘With money.’
Jesus, Duggan thought and tried to keep moving but the door opener stopped on the other side of Bradley and he had to stop too.
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ the leader repeated.
‘I want to see about getting it back.’
‘We’ll be very disappointed if anyone turns up here later,’ the leader said. ‘We won’t be here. But we’ll be keeping an eye on it.’
‘Nobody’s going to turn up here,’ Timmy assured him. ‘See about the money.’
‘Come on,’ Duggan said to Timmy, repressing an urge to scream at him. ‘We can’t hold him up.’
‘Check it out,’ Timmy said to the leader. ‘And get it back to me.’
The leader said nothing and they started shuffling forward again, moving sideways through the door and up the steps to the lawn and driveway. Duggan got his first sight of Bradley as they emerged into the twilight. The right side of his face was discoloured from old bruises and his eyes were closed underneath a shock of brown hair. His shirt was stained with brown blotches and his feet were bare and filthy.
They manhandled him into the back of the car where he curled up on the seat. The door opener nodded to Duggan and went back inside. The other two had remained in the basement.
Duggan and Timmy sat into the car and opened the windows and Duggan leaned back and shook Bradley’s shoulder. ‘Jim,’ he said, ‘Jim. Can you hear me?’
Bradley stirred and opened his eyes. They were dull and blinked in the feeble light. ‘You’re safe now,’ Duggan said. ‘It’s all over.’ Bradley gave no sign of understanding, just stared back, his blue eyes dull.
‘Get the fuck out of here,’ Timmy muttered.
Duggan started the car and drove away, following Timmy’s directions again.
‘You won’t try to find that place again,’ he instructed.
‘I
won’t,’ Duggan agreed. Not that he could anyway.
‘Or tell anyone about it.’
‘No.’
Gifford was still sitting on the wall of Rathgar church when they pulled up around the corner on Highfield Road. He ambled towards them, looking unconcerned until he came up to the car and saw Bradley sprawled on the back seat. ‘Jesus,’ he said.
He and Duggan propped Bradley up and Gifford sat in beside him, breathing through his mouth.
‘We’ll drop you home,’ Duggan said to Timmy.
‘What?’ Timmy sounded startled. ‘You can’t bring him round there.’
‘Won’t Nuala want to see him?’ Duggan said, unable to resist it.
‘Like that?’ Timmy nodded over his shoulder at Bradley. He hadn’t looked at him since they had found him.
‘She’d never talk to you again if she saw him like this, would she?’
Timmy gave him a vicious look.
‘We’ve got to take him to hospital,’ Duggan said.
‘Better get your story straight first,’ Timmy said. ‘You don’t know who he is. You found him wandering along the street.’
‘We’ll leave you home first,’ Duggan repeated. ‘If we can keep the car for a couple of hours?’
‘As long as it’s in the driveway when I come out in the morning,’ Timmy sighed. ‘And doesn’t smell of piss.’
Timmy told him to stop when they were a couple of houses away from his own. He walked around the front of the car to the footpath. ‘That’s it then,’ he said through Duggan’s open window. ‘Case closed.’
‘You’ll tell Nuala?’
Timmy gave a slight nod and then shook his head with regret. ‘You could’ve had a great career in politics.’ He walked away.
‘What’d that mean?’ Gifford asked as they drove away.
‘Goodbye,’ Duggan said.
They drove up to the steps of Sir Patrick Dun’s Hospital and Duggan got out and went in and asked for Nurse Maloney. The same porter was there, a full ashtray on his desk. ‘This is a hospital, you know,’ he said.
‘We have a sick man outside.’
The porter was about to say something when Gifford walked in, putting his revolver back in its holster. The porter picked up his phone.
‘And we need a wheelchair or something,’ Duggan added. ‘He can’t walk.’
The porter spoke into the phone and then told him he’d find a wheelchair down the corridor opposite. Gifford went to look and came back with one. They left it inside the door and went to get Bradley.
It took a while to get him out of the car and up the steps. As they came in the door Stella was coming across the hall. ‘Oh, God, Jim,’ she said, as she saw him. She rushed forward and put her arms around him while Duggan and Gifford held him up. His head fell forward onto her shoulder.
Stella stepped back and looked him over quickly. ‘What happened? He hasn’t been shot or anything, has he?’
‘I don’t think so. He’s just been …’ Duggan searched for the word and came up with, ‘… treated badly.’
Stella manoeuvred the wheelchair behind them and they eased Bradley back into it. She hunkered down in front of him and put her hands on his. ‘Jim? Can you hear me?’
He raised his head slightly and looked at her and nodded and tears coursed down his cheeks. She touched his cheek and said. ‘It’s okay, you’re safe now.’ She glanced at Duggan, seeking confirmation.
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘It’s all over.’
‘We’ll get you cleaned up,’ Stella said to Bradley and straightened up. ‘Do you want to wait?’ she asked Duggan and Gifford.
Both shook their heads as one. ‘When you get a chance would you call Nuala and let her know he’s here?’ Duggan asked her. ‘She might be at home. In her parents’ house.’
Stella touched his arm. ‘She’s lucky to have you for a cousin.’
‘Remind me,’ Gifford said when they came out the hospital door, ‘to shoot first if I ever see your relations again. And not to bother asking questions afterwards.’
Duggan stopped on the steps to light a cigarette. The last lingering light of day had been replaced by an inky blue, darkening from the east. There was a faint rumble in the distance, barely on the edge of audibility, that could have been a train or trucks or aircraft or rolling thunder. Or in his imagination.
‘Do you want a lift somewhere?’
‘Typical,’ Gifford laughed. ‘We have this big fast car and nowhere to go. And no one to impress.’
Seventeen
‘He’s waiting for you,’ Sullivan nodded his head at the corridor when Duggan walked into the office in the morning. ‘In a bad mood.’
‘Why?’ Duggan asked, taken aback.
‘That fellow they picked up off the train at Kingsbridge yesterday,’ Sullivan glanced at the door to make sure no one was there. ‘An Indian who claimed to be an Irishman. Landed in Kerry and thought he had come ashore in Dublin bay.’
Duggan made a questioning gesture.
‘Couldn’t have fooled a seven-year-old,’ Sullivan added. ‘He thinks the Abwehr is deliberately insulting our intelligence. Sending people like that.’
Duggan took a deep breath and went to face the music.
‘Well,’ McClure tipped back his chair, the inevitable cigarette in his hand. ‘You have something to tell me.’
‘It’s a bit awkward. It’s about my uncle.’
‘Deputy Monaghan?’ McClure waved him to a chair.
Duggan sat down and told him about following Kitty Kelly and seeing Timmy meet her and Timmy’s explanation about captured weapons.
‘So,’ McClure leaned forward with a nod of satisfaction. ‘He’s the one.’
‘What?’ Duggan said, confused.
‘We’ve had indications that the Germans were negotiating through some back channels with the government. Or thought they were. You saw the reference in Harbusch’s last letter.’
‘I thought it referred to some faction of the IRA.’
‘Could’ve been that too. But there were indications that some politicians were involved as well. There was a short list of suspects. But,’ he gave Duggan a crooked smile, ‘we can’t be following our masters or intercepting their phone calls.’
Duggan tried to stop his face betraying his whirling thoughts. So Timmy had had him moved to G2 to try and have a source inside intelligence. Or had G2 brought him in to spy on Timmy? And did they know all about Bradley and all that?
‘When you accosted him,’ McClure was continuing, ‘did he claim to have government backing?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Interesting.’ McClure seemed surprised.
‘Could he have?’ Duggan asked, knowing that Timmy didn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t have given in so easily to Duggan’s pressure to release Bradley.
‘The wiles of politicians,’ McClure shrugged. ‘Who can be up to them?’
‘He seemed to think he’d been set up.’
‘By who?’
‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. Possibly by someone he met in Herr Hempel’s house at the reception a few weeks ago. I got the impression someone there suggested he meet Kitty Kelly.’
‘He wouldn’t say who?’
Duggan shook his head. ‘He muttered something about provocateurs.’
McClure grunted. ‘What about Kitty Kelly?’
‘He thinks that’s her real name.’ Duggan paused. ‘I had a thought about her. A mad thought. That she and Eliza Harbusch are the same person.’
McClure pondered that for a moment. ‘You’ve never seen them at the same time?’
Duggan shook his head, relieved that McClure hadn’t laughed. And that they’d left the subject of Timmy.
‘What’d be the logic of that?’ McClure asked.
‘That we’re keeping an eye on Harbusch and Eliza who are highly visible but don’t seem to do anything much. While she is the real spy and can move around freely in this other persona. An old woman.’
‘A
nd meets Goertz. And your uncle.’ Duggan winced at the juxtaposition. ‘And God knows who else. But we’re keeping an eye on her now.’
‘Ah, only some of the time. The Special Branch seems to have dropped its surveillance on her. Or some of it.’
‘Really?’ McClure was surprised. ‘We’ll have to see about that. We better put more effort into finding her true identity. Fingerprints, photographs, whatever else we need. Perhaps send someone to visit her when Frau Harbusch is out. To prove or disprove your theory.’ He thought for a moment. ‘A woman collecting for the African missions.’
Duggan smiled at the idea, happy that McClure was taking his theory seriously and that he had some clear instructions to follow.
‘And anything else you can come up with to find out who she is,’ McClure said with an air of finality. ‘I’ll get surveillance back on her full time. With any luck she’ll lead us to Goertz again.’
Duggan stood up and his curiosity got the better of him. ‘Any more word on that British spy the IRA kidnapped?’ he asked.
McClure looked up at him and paused. Duggan instantly regretted his stupidity. ‘No,’ McClure said evenly. ‘There was no follow up to the first threat. No publicity. Nobody missing. Nothing. They’ve decided it was a hoax. Just disinformation. Trying to create confusion and discord.’
‘Right,’ Duggan said and left in haste. Outside the door, he wondered again if McClure knew all about Bradley but, if he did, he was prepared to let it go. He felt the weight of all the pressure Timmy had put on him over the past few weeks dissipate at last.
‘What are you so happy about?’ Sullivan demanded as he returned to their office.
‘I’ve got a job to do,’ Duggan smiled.
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction set against real events in May and June 1940, but it should not be taken as a strictly accurate timeline of those events. Real people mentioned include Hermann Goertz, who also used the names Brandy and Robinson, the most important German spy to be active in Ireland during the Second World War. Irish military intelligence did not find out his true identity as quickly as is suggested here but other details about him are broadly accurate.