by Mick Hare
At the Alexanderplast, Sean bought a ticket on the Amsterdam Express. From there to Ostend, London and then home to Dublin.
Seventeen
1939
On the day that Sean was meeting Eamonn O’Brodie and turning down his overtures to rejoin the IRA, Martha was going through Sean’s surgery. When Sean went out on his visits she was always attacked by guilt. He was a good man; a good husband. Why did she hold him at arm’s length when he was near? Why was she so resentful of him? Wasn’t he entitled to his own opinions about the political crisis in Europe? Then the spiteful nagging voice would whisper – but what is he hiding from me?
At the same time she was mildly annoyed with Mary, the cleaner, because she found a dirty dishcloth lying on a trolley beside some surgical instruments and this led her to absent-mindedly busy herself with a flurry of tidying up. She started to gather up Sean’s papers on his desk and to sort them into separate piles; medical cards, letters, bills, anything else. It was an item in the anything else pile that caused her to catch her breath and drop into his chair. It was a note on his reminder pad. It was in Sean’s handwriting and it ran thus: ring AT at HMG. This was followed by a telephone number.
Martha recognised AT as the Andrew Trubshaw of the earlier letter she had found. She knew instinctively what HMG stood for. The telephone number was preceded by the code for London.
Martha had to be sure. There was an outside hope that this was a perfectly innocent message connected to his medical practice. She dialled the number. Her heart beat against her rib cage as she listened to the ringing tone.
“Hello,” a female voice suddenly spoke. “You are through to the Ministry of Defence. How may I help?”
Slowly, silently, like a thief discovered, Martha gently replaced the handset in its cradle.
Martha went upstairs to her bedroom and cried for an hour. Her heart broke to think that this marriage, which she had perceived as a perfect partnership, was in fact a web of deceit. Not the normal web that wives traditionally dreaded. There was no mistress or unfaithfulness here. But there was secrecy. And she was angry. If Sean had to have this secret, why was he so careless about keeping it safe? If Sean had been there he would have told her that his trust for her was so total that he could not in a million years imagine her reading through his papers.
When she had exhausted her tears she rose from the bed with a firm plan of action in mind. She went downstairs into Sean’s surgery and conducted a meticulous search of his papers. For an hour she found nothing to confirm the worst fears that had coagulated in her mind. It was as she was about to give up and sneak out of there in shame that she dislodged an old, battered wooden vase from the top of the filing cabinet as she slammed a drawer shut. As it fell, a key tumbled out of it. It was a key she had never seen before. With it in her fingers she prowled about the surgery looking for the lock it must fit. She found it inside his writing desk. She lowered the drop down leaf and felt along the facia, which held four drawers. Between the drawers on a blank stretch of polished wood there was a small moulded iron gargoyle. When her hand brushed it it swivelled upwards and revealed the missing keyhole. She slid the key into it and turned the lock. A large drawer slid open exposing a brown, unlabelled, manila folder.
The contents spilled out onto the desk as she tipped it and her first emotions were curiosity and surprise. There were no incriminating letters or plans for secret rendezvous. Instead she found documentation of identity; Several identities in fact. All of them German. The photographs showed several different versions of Sean. Some of them barely recognisable as her husband. There was a birth certificate, a marriage certificate and a bank book for a Berlin branch. There were several passports. One photograph was of a red-haired Sean with a beard and moustache. With her German fluency Martha had no difficulty understanding the contents of the file.
There was no doubt in her mind that her husband was an officer in the British Secret Service. She carefully slid the file back into the drawer, locked it and replaced the key in the wooden vase.
She went into the nursery, awoke Conny from his afternoon nap and washed and dressed him for a trip to the church. Even the presence of Conny with his loving touches and his innocent questions could not bring her out of her mood that day.
As soon as he caught sight of her coming along the lane, Father O’Shea closed his missal, got up from the graveyard bench he favoured for his afternoon prayers and went to meet her at the gate. He wondered at the physical, ticklish sensation in his throat as he watched the boy and the woman hurrying towards him. The excitement he felt caused him to crave approval from this woman. As she drew near he could see at once that she had been crying.
“Martha,” he soothed as they met. “What on earth is the matter?”
He reached out to touch her forearm.
“Can we go inside?”
“Of course, of course.”
He stopped to allow her to enter a row of pews, but she kept on walking and entered a confessional.
O’Shea was taken aback but he quickly gathered his wits and knelt down at the altar to prepare himself to hear confession. When he entered the box Martha was speaking softly to Conny. She took her keys and rosary beads out of her handbag and gave them to Conny.
“Here, Darlin’ take these. Mammy’s going to confession. You know what you have to do. Sit on the bench there outside and play quietly with these. I won’t be long.”
Conny was always good in church and he lay himself out along the pew and played with the keys and rosary whilst his mother made her confession.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It is one week since my last confession.”
Martha felt herself filling up as she spoke to the priest. She restricted herself to her own sin at this first occasion. She asked for forgiveness for being a deceitful, untrusting wife. O’Shea’s curiosity was awakened. He sensed a chink in the idyllic front the Colquhoun’s displayed to the world. As a priest he could not pry too deeply. But as a man he was determined to find out more.
“For your penance I order you to take a stroll down to the harbour right this minute. Conny can stay with me and help me put out the hymn books for Benediction.”
“Thank you, Father,” whispered Martha. “You are very good to me.”
“And on Sunday you must take communion,” continued O’Shea.
“I will, Father,”
O’Shea’s hand rested on Conny’s shoulder as they watched Martha set off for the harbour. As she disappeared beyond a curve in the road O’Shea reached down, took Conny’s hand and led him into the Sacristy at the side of the altar.
O’Shea was not to be disappointed for, as the weeks passed, Martha’s confessions became more and more explicit about Sean and his secret activities. She always asked for forgiveness for being a prying and jealous wife. Through gentle questioning O’Shea garnered the details of Sean’s secret folder and the correspondences contained within it. O’Shea’s self satisfaction was complete. The secrecy of the confessional protected him like a shield. His possession of this knowledge about Sean Colquhoun excited some manipulative gene inside him that craved control over people and situations.
Soon Martha’s confessional sessions had metamorphosed into the rights and wrongs of Sean’s behaviour. Should an Irish citizen act for a foreign government? Like a good confessor he counselled her not to be too hard on herself. She had not deliberately searched through Sean’s correspondence. She had not gone to his surgery with evil intent. She must forgive herself and then she must require of herself that she believes only the best of her husband and to always give him the benefit of the doubt. Her penance was always to take a reviving walk to the harbour and to pray for God’s forgiveness as she walked, to say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys and to attend communion on Sunday. O’Shea was always happy to mind Conny while she took her reviving walk.
O’Shea’s guidance as her confessor was that she must always be prepared to act in her husband’s best interest, and to tha
t end she should continue to monitor his correspondence with the British.
Like many a Catholic before her, whenever Martha walked home after making her confession she would always feel so much better about everything. Father O’Shea would always say exactly the right things. O’Shea’s advice was always such that she was bound to return to him for further support when things got worse – as they were destined to.
Eighteen
1936
A reply from Andrew Trubshaw to Sean in Berlin had arrived faster than by return. Andrew had forwarded his response urgently through the British Embassy. A hand delivered note invited Sean to call at the Ministry without appointment as soon as he was in London. Andrew would make sure he was available.
As his train rumbled out of Alexanderplast, away from this darkening continental dictatorship and towards the coastline of mainland Europe, he fingered the note in his hands and thought about Andrew Trubshaw, the friend he had acquired in his early university days. Not only had they encountered each other whilst playing against one another in university rugby matches, they had also met playing representative rugby for English and Irish universities respectively. Andrew and his closest friend John Barberis had struck up camaraderie with Sean that had reached across the rivalries of the rugby pitch. When playing in Cambridge, Sean would bed down on the couch of either John or Andrew in their rooms, and when they played in Dublin he would return the compliment. Their post match celebrations were legendary. The friendship became more than just rugby and drink. There arose a genuine trust and affection between them. The fact that so recently in their countries’ pasts they might have been conscripted to kill each other somehow made the friendship more precious. The friends were open with each other and soon learned about each other’s pasts and hopes for the future.
Although they would have been enemies if thrown against each other during the Anglo-Irish War, John and Andrew retained a genuine admiration for Sean and the active service he had known. They acknowledged that if they had grown up in his shoes they would have seen his path as the only honourable one to take. Sean too became aware that Andrew’s ambitions were not medical. He did not hide from his friends his intention to be recruited to the secret service once his studies were completed. It was not an issue as he had no intention of ever being a field officer.
The friendship between Sean and Andrew came close to breaking point only once. Whether it was the level of intimacy the friends had achieved or the amount of drink they had consumed following Trinity’s narrow victory over Cambridge that afternoon makes no matter. Almost without realising what he was doing Andrew was suggesting to Sean that the British Secret Service would be very interested in a man of Sean’s ability, knowledge and contacts. It did not take a moment for Andrew to realise his mistake. Sean’s expression collapsed into disappointment and disbelief. Before Sean could regain himself sufficiently to respond, Andrew was apologising.
“Oh my goodness, Sean, please forgive me. I know what I have done with that crass comment. You would be quite right to infer that I am suggesting you turn traitor to your former comrades. I can’t believe I could impugn your character and honour so disgracefully. I don’t know what to say. I beg you to forget I ever spoke. Please don’t let it overshadow our friendship. I think I would rather give up all my plans for the future than to give up your friendship. If you can see your way to forgetting I ever opened my stupid mouth, I promise I will never insult your character again.”
Andrew then fell silent, realising that, all told, he had said far too much. It was an early lesson that he would never forget in his future career as a spy master.
Sean smiled inwardly. It was the formality of Andrew’s language that amused him. When stressed he reverted to the mores of the upper class from whence he came. Not knowing that an ominous portent of their future had just flickered across there lives, Sean got up from his chair and walked across to where Andrew was slumped on a sofa. He put his hand on Andrew’s shoulder and said, “I’ve already forgotten it.”
Nineteen
It is a cold man who is not moved by a feeling of insignificance when entering the Ministry of Defence Building in Whitehall, London. For an Irishman, the feeling is intensified by the knowledge that so many life and death decisions have been made within these walls affecting his countrymen and his forebears. The stone façade reaches to the blue London skyline and the immense proportions of the oak doors impose a physical as well as historical perspective on the insignificant figures that scurry in and out.
Andrew was not “at home” when Sean arrived, but his receptionist had obviously been briefed and Sean was prevailed upon to make himself comfortable with tea and biscuits whilst Andrew beat a hasty return to meet him. Andrew had been at Downing Street but had been instantly dispatched by his superiors to see what the “interesting paddy with kraut connections” might want.
When Andrew arrived he put down his bag and went directly to Sean and embraced him.
“My God, Sean, it’s good to see you.”
He guided them both to a pair of leather sofas and then called for Mrs Kitson and asked her to bring tea and toast. When she had done that he instructed her that he was not to be disturbed.
Andrew began with pleasantries. He mentioned old acquaintances and occasions they had shared, but he could see that Sean was only half interested. Something was preoccupying him.
“Andrew,” he stuttered. “I’m sorry to be rude but I’ve come here to do something and until it’s done I can’t join you in reminiscences.”
“Sure,” said Andrew, Becoming immediately attentive. “Go ahead.”
There was a long pause as Sean sat weighing up his words. He had a powerful sense that the next few sentences would change his life forever. He was about to step off the edge of normal life out into the abyss of chaos. But then he thought back to Frau Hahn and knew that his life had been deserted by normality already. When he did begin it was slowly.
“Once upon a time you said something to me Andrew that was an insult any Irishman would take exception to.”
He raised his palm to silence Andrew’s attempted interruption.
“If that insult had come from anyone else I think I would have chinned you. I want you to remember that so that you will have some understanding of the struggle I have had to arrive at the decision I am here to implement.”
He stopped and took a sip of his tea. The rattle of the cup as he replaced it in its saucer was amplified by the silence that filled the high-ceilinged office.
“For the last few years, as you know, I have been working and studying in Germany. I have seen the rise of Nazism first hand. I went there with an open mind. Well to be quite honest I was well-disposed to Mr Hitler and his party, believing a lot of the criticisms of him from this side of the Channel to be typical British arrogance and bigotry.”
A look from Sean into Andrew’s eyes silenced any protest that might have been about to emerge from him.
“My experiences have fundamentally altered my thinking. In fact, whilst your Government here procrastinates with a policy of appeasement hoping to avoid war at all costs, I, to my great shame, have already declared war on Nazism.”
Seeing Andrew’s puzzled look, Sean recounted the story of Frau Hahn. Andrew’s face betrayed no emotion.
“So, Andrew, right now you see a changed man before you. Here I sit in the Ministry of Defence where all your bloody campaigns of slaughter in Ireland were planned and approved; here I sit offering my services to the bloody crown.”
After a long silence, during which neither man moved, as if trying to absorb the full significance of the words just spoken, Andrew finally cleared his throat and said, “Let’s go out.”
He then surprised Sean by putting his finger to his lips beckoning silence. He got up from the sofa and walked across to his enormous oak desk. Opening a drawer he took out a recording device. Sean saw that it was turning and must have recorded everything that had been said. He watched Andrew switch it off and rem
ove the cylinder from the machine and slip it into his jacket pocket. He replaced the machine back into the drawer and repeated, “Come on, let’s go out.”