Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  The silence lengthened. No one broke it. A door banged somewhere, far away down a corridor. The fire crackled, and a log fell on to the grate near Harrison’s foot. The little man muttered something, turned his pebble eyes away from Andrew, and fumbled with the tongs to put the log back.

  ‘Well, we in Dublin have had our troubles, too,’ said Sir Jonathan at last. ‘You read of the attempt on the Viceroy’s life?’

  ‘Yes, of course. And you have caught none of them?’

  ‘None; except Savage, the man who was shot. The devils melt back into the slums. No one knows anything. Or if they do, they regard us as the enemy. Even Commissioner Radford’s police can only venture out in armed groups.’

  ‘I see,’ Andrew said. He thought with amusement of his solitary walk through the city this morning, and remembered how dreary and peaceful it had all seemed. ‘You speak of it as though it were a war.’

  ‘It is a war, Mr Butler,’ said the small man, Harrison, speaking suddenly for the first time. ‘I would have thought you would appreciate that, after the loss of your home.’ His precise English voice and intense pebble eyes made him seem more than ever like a mouse; or a brain perhaps, equipped only with a rudimentary body. Andrew imagined him haunting books and codes in a library somewhere, scurrying in and out among the shelves, sleeping in a lair behind the wainscot. As if to prove it, the man pulled a crumpled paper out of his pocket, and began to read:

  ‘“We solemnly declare a foreign government in Ireland to be an invasion of our national right which we will never tolerate, and we demand the evacuation of our country by the English Garrison.” That is a declaration of the rebel MPs meeting in the Mansion House, and they claim that this gang of street assassins is their national army carrying out a war against the British invader. They have murdered eighteen policemen since they wrote that, and now they have come within a breath of Viscount French.’

  ‘Eighteen policemen,’ Andrew murmured. He thought of Passchendaele - 40,000 dead in a morning, for nothing. The best part of his three companies dead in twenty minutes, when they had gone over the top after the barrage. And now, all this fuss about eighteen policemen in a year. Ardmore was worth more than that.

  The little man misinterpreted him. ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said. ‘And many more to follow, no doubt. It is a real war, a shooting war, whatever is pretended in public. But our side are bound by the rule of law. We cannot fight back as we would wish. As you know.’

  There was a pause. Andrew waited, but none of the three men seemed willing to break the silence, and come to the point of the interview. ‘Do you not know the names of the killers?’ he ventured, helpfully.

  ‘Some of them, yes,’ said Radford. ‘Dan Breen, Sean Treacy, Sean Brennan. There will be rewards out for them soon, and my men are looking for them every day. But they are not … not really at the centre of it, for all their bravado. They are not the brains behind this business. I want to get at the man who sends them out to strike.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Michael Collins.’ Oddly, all three men spoke at once, but Andrew only heard the sibilant whisper of Harrison. The mousy little man hissed the name as though it were that of a snake, and the cold pebbly eyes seemed to swell with hatred. ‘Collins,’ he went on. ‘He has eyes even in this castle, Major Butler. He knows what we are doing; he sends his men everywhere. He picks off our best detectives, chooses their most unguarded moment to send his assassins in to kill them. He may be waiting for a moment to kill all of us here. And he is their commissar, too, their paymaster. He is collecting a loan, by force and trickery, no doubt, to finance this gang of his; and he is very efficient indeed. I would not be surprised to learn that he has collected as much in the past few months as the Inland Revenue itself. And with it he can buy more guns, more bombs. We know these things are coming into the country, even if we cannot stop them. It is my job to watch this business, Major Butler, and I can assure you that in a few months it will not be just assassination we are dealing with. This man is collecting enough money to finance a major war throughout Ireland.’

  ‘And unfortunately, he has the brains to know how to organize such a war, too,’ said Sir Jonathan slowly. ‘So that, Andrew, is why we want him dead.’

  Another pause. The grey finality of the last word sounded out of place, shocking, in the respectable book-lined room. Andrew sat very still, feeling the pulse of adrenalin flood through his veins.

  ‘And that is why you sent for me?’

  ‘That is why we sent for you.’

  Andrew looked at each of the three curiously. Despite Sir Jonathan’s bluff, decisive manner, there was a definite air of anxiety in the room. Naturally; Andrew realized that he held the reputations of a senior army officer, a police commissioner and a senior - whatever Harrison was - between his fingers. They were proposing murder. If he refused, and told this story to the press, their reputations would shatter as easily and irreparably as if he dropped his cut-glass tumbler on to the stone grate.

  He smiled, and sipped his watered whiskey. ‘Why me?’

  Sir Jonathan chose his words carefully. The night before had been a sleepless one for him, and he had thought about what he would say then. ‘First, because you are one of the best marksmen and bravest fighting soldiers I know. I have read every one of your medal citations, and I know they speak no more than the truth. You are the equal of ten other men in battle. And secondly, because you are an Irishman who believes in the Union and the Empire, and who would lose everything if these men came to power. As you have already lost your house.’

  Andrew thought for a moment. ‘And also, perhaps, because you believe that the men who died in the Blackwater last week were not killed simply for money?’ he asked softly.

  ‘That too, perhaps. We don’t know who killed them.’

  ‘No.’ Andrew held the glass between his fingers, over the edge of the grate. ‘Can you not just arrest this man Collins?’

  ‘The police are trying to do that all the time,’ said Radford irritably. ‘And they will continue to do so.’

  ‘But they don’t succeed,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘And even if we did arrest him, we have nothing to charge him with. No witness has ever seen him carrying a gun - no witness has ever seen him at all! We could only intern him, and in a few months the government would change its mind and set him free. If he didn’t charm the prison warders to do it first.’

  ‘So you want me to murder him?’ said Andrew, conversationally. He held his tumbler very gently between his fingertips; looked at it, then put it down carefully on a table.

  ‘First you would have to find him,’ said Commissioner Radford hurriedly. ‘And then, officially, of course, we would like you to arrest him. But in practice that would be very difficult for one man on his own. Collins is a big man, he is likely to be armed, and certain to resist arrest. If you could get near enough to arrest him, and he were to show fight, we would not want him to escape. There would be no danger of your being prosecuted for murder, if you were to shoot an armed gunman resisting arrest.’

  Andrew stared at him coldly. ‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘I was not offering myself for prosecution. But neither - if, as you say, I am to operate alone - do I intend to give any man the opportunity to shoot at me first, in order to justify my actions. It will be murder and you know it, just as much as it is murder for the Sinn Feiners to shoot a policeman.’

  Sir Jonathan rose to his feet. ‘If that is how you feel about it, Andrew, then I am sorry we have troubled you. Of course we had no right to ask you such a thing. When you leave here I would be grateful if you would forget everything you have heard …’

  ‘No, wait.’ Andrew held up his hand to check the flow. ‘I didn’t say I would not do it, only that we must get our terms straight. You are asking me to murder a man, and promising to lie about it afterwards. I will kill him, and you will say I did it in self-defence. Is that right?’

  Both Radford’s and Sir Jonathan’s faces were flushed, either with in
dignation or guilt; Andrew could not tell which. But the little mouselike figure in the corner spoke first.

  ‘Yes, Major Butler. That is quite right.’ A ghost of a grey smile flashed under the cold, pebblelike eyes, and was gone. ‘Of course these gentlemen will lie for you. That would be the least you could expect. In the strict eyes of the law it would be murder, of course, but in fact you would have done a brave, daring deed for your country. Think of it as an act of war. For there is a war, whatever the strict legal position may be. The IRA have declared war upon us. They have tried to kill our most famous general. In justice they can hardly complain if you do the same to them. You would deserve the gratitude of us all.’

  ‘I see.’ Andrew looked at them each in turn, in silence. For a while no one spoke. ‘And apart from gratitude, what else?’

  ‘Two things,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘You would be paid, of course - at the full rate of a major in the Intelligence Service, with six months’ seniority restored. But I scarcely think you would do it just for that.’

  ‘No,’ Andrew agreed.

  ‘And then there is a reward, of £10,000. For information leading to the arrest of Michael Collins, dead or alive. It will not be publicized, because the man is not charged with any offence. But it will be paid. You have my word as a gentleman on that. And I will give it to you in writing, too, if you wish.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Andrew slowly. ‘I would like that. That would help to rebuild Ardmore.’

  ‘So you agree? Or do you need more time?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Andrew shook his head mockingly. ‘I agree. If I can have your signature on the document about the reward. And you promise to lie for me, as this man says.’

  Sir Jonathan stiffened. He had hoped to avoid this, but he had meant what he said. He got up and walked to the desk. ‘I have it typed here, with a copy for each of us. One will be kept here in Mr Harrison’s safe. The other is for you. I need hardly stress to you that it is to be kept most secret. Its propaganda use to the enemy would be enormous.’

  He took out his pen and signed two sheets of paper. Radford and Harrison watched. Andrew took one and put it in his pocket.

  Sir Jonathan held out his hand. ‘Capital, my dear fellow! I knew we could count on you! And you have my word on it, there will be no repercussions. None.’

  Commissioner Radford held out his hand too. ‘We’ll need to keep in touch, so that we can give what help we can. My department can offer some cooperation, so long as we keep your main purpose secret. You can come down to my office this minute, if you choose. We do not have much on Collins, but I can show you the files.’

  ‘I would not dream of it.’

  ‘What, man?’

  ‘I said I wouldn’t dream of it. Let me ask you one question, gentlemen. Who knows of this plan, outside this room?’

  The three men looked uncomfortable. ‘No one,’ said Sir Jonathan, awkwardly.

  ‘No one?’

  ‘The idea has - er - has been discussed in very general terms at the highest government level. Only along the lines that such an action would be a blessing to the country. No more than that.’

  The highest government level. That could only be the Cabinet itself. Churchill, Fisher, Lloyd George, even. Andrew considered. This meant he could count on full support from everyone who mattered. Insofar as anyone could ever rely on politicians. These three men were asking him to do the government’s will.

  On the other hand, politicians were notoriously bad at keeping secrets. He looked at Sir Jonathan carefully.

  ‘My name has not been mentioned?’

  ‘My dear chap, no! Of course not!’

  ‘So the details of this plot have been thought up by you three gentlemen on your own?’

  ‘If you choose to put it like that, yes.’

  ‘Good. That is how it must remain. I shall not come to police headquarters, Commissioner Radford - not now, nor at any time. As you say, you have already lost most of your best officers. That can only mean that someone in your force is feeding information to Collins. If he hears about me, I shall be dead on the street in a day. I do not want my name to be mentioned by you to any person at any time. Is that clear?’

  Radford flushed. ‘Of course. But surely you don’t mean to proceed without any help from us at all? My men are not all traitors and fools, you know!’

  ‘I hope not, for your sake. But I cannot run the risk. I’m no good at disguises and I don’t intend to use them. Indeed, with a face like mine I could not. What I can do, though, is cooperate with you personally. Any equipment or information which I need, you can bring to me at an address which I will give you.’

  Reluctantly, Commissioner Radford agreed. He took a small, creased photograph out of his pocket and gave it to Andrew. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is all most of my officers have to go on. It is the only photograph that we have of Michael Collins. If you can identify him from that, you’re a better detective than I am.’

  Andrew looked at it. It was a blurred, overexposed picture of a man with black hair brushed sideways across his forehead, a round, rather heavy face, with a strong chin and dark, shadowed eyes. The face was staring at the camera, rather vacant, lost - like a young man leaving home, Andrew thought, off to the war or a job in a distant city.

  ‘It was taken in 1916, after the rebellion. He was being sent away to prison in England with the rest. They spent the next six months in a camp at Frongoch, in North Wales.’

  Living off the fat of the land, after they had tried to shoot us in the back, Andrew thought. While I was stuck in Flanders, knee-deep in mud and bones.

  The young man in the photograph looked awkward, vulnerable; but Andrew did not feel sorry for him at all.

  14. Minister of Finance

  WHEN ANDREW’S German grandparents had first visited Dublin, in the 1880s, they had bought a three-storey terraced house in Nelson Street. It was not very grand, for they were not that rich, but it was in a decent enough street, which at the time looked as though it might become fashionable. It had not done so, but that was not his grandparents’ fault. His mother had loved the house, and Andrew, in turn, had lived in it as a student. Now it was the only house he owned; a private, lonely place full of mould and damp and memories, where he could brood without interruption. A place, too, where no hotel porter or waiter working for Sinn Fein could report on him as a visiting British officer. He had not realized how important that was, until he had met Sir Jonathan in the Castle.

  After the meeting he sat alone in his living room, smoking. The smoke curled in lazy circles above him, obscuring the ceiling. He considered the possibilities.

  Killing Collins would be easy enough. He could do it with a gun, a knife, a bomb, with his bare hands if necessary. Andrew had killed enough men to know that all he needed was surprise and utter determination. The problem was how to find the man. The more he thought about that, the more impossible it seemed.

  Collins was able to move freely around Dublin because half of the city supported him, and the other half was afraid or didn’t want to become involved. Andrew had no doubt that any phone call he made, any letter he sent to the police or the army, could be intercepted by Sinn Fein workers in the Post Office. Hotel staff, delivery boys, news vendors, hospital nurses, doctors, shop assistants - any of these might be Sinn Fein supporters, ready to pass along information they thought suspicious, not to the police, but to the IRA. This was what the government’s clumsy policy of coercion, delay, and deceit had led to: exactly the opposite of the normal situation, in which the public supported the police.

  But the politics of it were not Andrew’s concern. The Republicans had burnt his home, they had conspired with Germany during the war and killed his mother; that was enough for him. But how would he go about finding the man?

  He imagined himself wandering the pubs and hotel bars in the city, striking up conversations with strangers, asking if they had seen Mr Collins lately. Perhaps he could pull the photo out of his pocket to jog their memories, offer them a sm
all reward? The idea was absurd; the Shinners would be on to him as soon as he opened his mouth. And once seen, his face was against him: he was so much easier to recognize than other men.

  Perhaps he could offer to join the Volunteers, saying he had fought in the war and seen the light? Not impossible, but highly unlikely. They would be suspicious, check up on him. If they found out he was a landlord, they would never believe him; so he would have to invent a whole new identity. And even then it was highly unlikely he would get to see Collins: he would be a new recruit, given simple duties at first, watched to see how well he did.

  So how could he get near the man? Collins was Finance Minister as well as being in charge of Intelligence operations and assassinations of the police. Andrew wondered about the embossed receipt Slaney had tried to sell him at Ardmore. A receipt printed with the signature of Michael Collins. What would Slaney have done with the money once he had collected it? Brought it up to Dublin, probably, delivered it to the Finance Minister in person. What if Andrew took his place? He could turn up with a bag of notes, and shoot the man while he counted them.

  Fine. But how would he know where to take the money? Only by catching someone like Slaney, and forcing the information out of him. The man would not only have to be tortured to get the information, he would have to be kept out of circulation so he couldn’t warn Collins afterwards. There might be passwords, well-known meeting places, couriers to collect the money at the station. Couriers who knew who normally brought them the money.

  Too complicated, Andrew thought. Another bad idea.

  He stubbed out his cigarette, and pulled the blurred photograph of Michael Collins out of his pocket. This was the only picture they had, of a wanted man who was a Member of Parliament and holder of four posts in a rebel government - one three-year-old cutting from a group photograph.

  He stared at it for a long time, but it told him nothing. I have to get into that man’s mind, he thought. If I am going to catch this beast, I must learn to think like him. I need something that will take me straight into his presence, without anyone being suspicious about my face or my background. But what?