by Declan Burke
I glanced down at my notes to break the spell of those half-wild eyes. Hypnotic, almost, in their mute pleading. Desperate to be believed, to be taken seriously, for one last chance at seeing this one thing through.
‘A dying man,’ he said, ‘if he is any kind of man, will live beyond the law.’
He shifted in his seat as the words tailed off, uncomfortable perhaps with the pompous tone. Then he subsided into an awkward posture, angled towards me along the bench, slack and hunched over, favouring his right side. Haunted but not yet entirely resigned. Those rheumy eyes searching mine.
Right around then, yeah, I felt pretty bad about myself.
It was when we were crossing town, walking up Grafton Street, that Jack tried to justify his decision not to tell Gerard Smyth about Shay Govern. At first it had been standard client confidentiality. ‘Also, you don’t want to just dive in there and tell a guy, a pensioner who looks like he’s on the ropes, that there’s this American multi-millionaire searching for a long-lost friend. You tell him that, he’ll tell you anything you want to hear.’
Finding Gerard Smyth had been a relatively straightforward affair. He was of a certain age, so Jack availed himself of the information on the Department of Social Welfare and focused on those Gerard Smyths in receipt of a state pension. After that it was a matter of time and shoe leather. Keen to string out his lucrative per diem as long as possible, and curious as to why Shay Govern wanted to track down Gerard Smyth in a clandestine fashion, Jack watched Smyth for a couple of days before finally approaching him in a bookies. It wasn’t long before he started to hear the archaic formality of Smyth’s speech, the odd inflection on certain words. So he dropped it in casually, asking Gerard Smyth where he was from, originally.
Denmark? Really? And how long have you lived here …?
This was when he realized Shay Govern wasn’t playing it entirely straight, was keeping a few cards back. So Jack, with Gerard Smyth already in his pocket, decided to play it the same way.
‘I don’t know,’ Jack had said, ‘maybe he wasn’t used to talking to people any more. But once he started, he just wouldn’t quit.’
Which was how we ended up sitting in the park on Merrion Square with Gerard Smyth, an old man under the impression that his new friend, Jack Byrne, had persuaded a journalist to tell this story he’d kept bottled up for most of his life.
‘Let me first say thank you, Mr Smyth, for trusting me with your story. It’s a fascinating—’
‘It is not a story.’
‘No, I understand that. What I mean is—’
‘It happened, Mr Noone. Many years ago, yes, but it did happen. Those children were murdered. But if no one is prepared to say what they saw, then it’s as if it never happened at all. Do you understand me?’
‘Of course. You want to see justice done.’
‘Justice? No.’ He leered, although I believed he meant it as a smile. ‘Jack tells me that you also write detective novels. I am afraid, Mr Noone, that this is not a fairytale.’
Now he looked away, rubbing his hands in the fretful way old people do, those frail hands of spidery blue calligraphy that had been whisperingly dry when we shook. His grip had been no stronger than a child’s. The probability that his mind was the same had grown with every word he’d said.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
‘There was a time, Mr Smyth,’ I said – his formality was infectious – ‘when I was arrogant enough to believe I knew more than fairytales can tell. These days I’m not so convinced.’
That brought the rheumy eyes back up to meet mine. They weren’t so wild now.
‘I do appreciate,’ he said, ‘why you might find it difficult to believe.’
‘It’s not a matter of belief, Mr Smyth. It’s a matter of proof.’ I nodded at the manila folder on his lap. He had offered it to me as soon as he’d arrived but I’d asked for a verbal synopsis, which he’d delivered in that quivering rasp, the words carefully chosen, his grammar so precise it would have betrayed him if I hadn’t already known English wasn’t his mother tongue. ‘Is there anything in there by way of independent corroboration?’
He shook his head. I waited for the ‘but’ and the standard justification, that the very absence of proof was itself testament to the extent of the conspiracy, how high into the shadowy corridors of power the cover-up went.
‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘that you will have to take my word for it.’
From his tone I understood that he was of a generation of men who offered something precious when they gave their word, precious and possibly even profound. He placed his shaking hand on the manila folder and in his eyes I saw my father as he slipped away, a yellow stain against those crisp white hospital sheets, his hand a chicken claw as it reached out for mine.
I am afraid, Mr Noone, that this is not a fairytale.
I’d met Gerard Smyth so many times before. Him and his kind. Iggy once told me they recognize a kindred spirit, that they sense me out there in the ether. Lost souls so desperate for any kind of recognition, even just the acknowledgment that they are still alive and worth talking to, that they’ll spin any yarn they think might fly.
Maybe Iggy’s right. They tell their tales, I tell mine. Maybe the only difference is that behind it all, no matter how old and bitter, how wild their eyes or how close to the sun their flights of fancy soar, they’ve somehow retained that heart-twisting innocence in the belief that the truth matters, that it is both real and pure, a tangible that belongs on the table of elements. That it can be excavated like diamonds or palladium and, being rare, can be wonderful.
Martin fixed another brace of vodka tonics.
‘You don’t suppose,’ he said, ‘that Jack Byrne coached him? I mean, if this guy Smyth is on the ropes, like you’re saying, and prone to hanging around in bookies, then all Byrne has to do is set him up with a story that—’
‘I get it, Martin.’
‘I’m just saying.’ He sipped on his drink. ‘You believe him, though.’
‘You’re hearing what I heard.’ I’d recorded the entire conversation on the digital recorder in my jacket pocket. If Jack Byrne hadn’t been doing the same, he was a much changed man. ‘What do you think?’
‘He sounds the part,’ Martin said, ‘but then I’m no expert. Are you playing the whole thing?’
‘If you want to hear it.’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘You mightn’t want to get involved.’
‘It’s a bit late for that, Tom. Have on.’
The recorder’s Pause button was blinking its red light. I pressed Play.
‘So, just to clarify a few details. You’re saying you’re Danish.’
‘I was born in Denmark, then served in the German navy. But I’ve been Irish since before you were born.’
‘Any supporting documents? A birth certificate?’
‘Everything was lost during the war.’
‘Of course. What about identification papers? Surely as a sailor you’d have been issued with some kind of ID, dog tags, something along those lines.’
‘They took everything away when I was interned. And I was moved around every few months. I wasn’t what you might call an ordinary internee.’
‘I suppose not. And at this point it’s unlikely there’s anyone who could verify that they served with you.’
‘Unlikely, yes. Our mission was a covert one, to land an agent on the Donegal coast. Those missions were classified as special operations, during which all crew were sworn to secrecy. You may smile, Mr Noone, but such things were taken rather more seriously in those days, especially as the penalty for a security breach was a firing squad.’
‘But even now? Nearly seventy years after the fact?’
‘You are more than welcome to try, Mr Noone. The operational details are all in the file.’
‘OK. So what about the rest of your family? Can we trace you back to Denmark?’
‘Perhaps. I really don’t know.’
‘Yo
u’ve never tried?’
‘I joined the German navy in 1938, Mr Noone. My welcome in Denmark would have been on the cool side, or so I would imagine, had I ever returned home.’
‘You weren’t conscripted?’
‘No. But the actions of that young man are irrelevant in the context of our discussion.’
‘Some might say otherwise.’
‘They are entitled to their opinion.’
‘They certainly are. Look, you have to understand that your behaviour then, the actions of the young Gerhard Uxkull, will colour the story. You can’t expect people to ignore the fact that you volunteered for the Nazis.’
‘You are still a young man, Mr Noone. But you are old enough to have made many important decisions in your life. Tell me, have you ever made a choice, a truly crucial decision, on the basis that it was the wrong thing to do at that moment in time?’
‘Firstly, this isn’t about me. More to the point, retrospective justification won’t fly. That old excuse about only obeying orders is—’
‘I was a U-boat sailor, Mr Noone. In the Kriegsmarine.’
‘Just one of the millions of blue-eyed boys who made it all possible.’
‘Have you always been so perfect, Mr Noone? Always acted as you should?’
‘Again, it’s not about me. No, I’m not perfect—’
‘Thank you.’
‘But if I do take this on, your whole life becomes fair game. All of it. I’m not, as you say yourself, in the business of writing fairytales.’
‘I accept that. I welcome that.’
‘It’s also only fair to warn you that Jack and I have access to resources you wouldn’t. I’m talking about search programmes that can think laterally when cross-referencing. You’d be surprised at what we can do now.’
‘Pleasantly surprised, I hope. But Mr Noone, you must understand that there was a time when I could have been shot rather than allow for the possibility that I might some day do what I am trying to do. Even now the material is considered sensitive. They told me it would be best if they conducted an official investigation, and that I should not speak to anyone until it was concluded.’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘They told me it would be best if—’
‘Who told you? Who’s this they?’
‘I was given no names.’
‘OK, but who were they? Who did they represent?’
‘It was not a conversation of introductions and how-do-you-dos. They did not ask my name. They simply said—’
‘This was where, at home?’
‘No, they came walking up beside me. On Molesworth Street. I was on my way home after collecting my pension. I can only presume they waited for me outside the post office.’
‘And?’
‘The younger man was young enough to be my grandson, perhaps even my great-grandson. He sounded reasonable. Patient, even. The way the young sound when they speak to old men and pretend to respect them. But then he offered to carry my shopping home. It was the older man who told me that the information I requested would not be forthcoming via the conventional channels. That there was a blockage, as he put it. He said it would be best if I allowed for an official request to be submitted in the government’s name, and that in the meantime I should not speak to anyone about the incident.’
‘You put in an official request?’
‘That is correct.’
‘And you interpreted this approach as a warning?’
‘I appreciate politeness and a prompt response as well as anyone, Mr Noone. But if these gentlemen, or more likely their superiors, had wanted me to know that the information I requested was not available and that an official investigation would follow, a letter or even a telephone call would have sufficed. In this day and age, what government department can afford to send two men out on a social call to an old man who may very well be deluded or senile? Or perhaps you’re naïve enough to believe that these two men were simply on their way home after work, together, and decided to detour to the post office where I collect my pension in the hope of saving the cost of a stamp.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought that was standard procedure, no.’
‘No. I should also point out, Mr Noone, that I made my request to the German and British embassies. The two men who came to see me were Irish.’
‘That wouldn’t be unusual in itself.’
‘Except for the fact that they came to speak with me in person.’
‘Except, as you say, that they came to see you. When was this?’
‘Almost eight months ago. I do appreciate, Mr Noone, that you believe my story improbable. I can only assure you that it is true. You have no reason to trust me, or take my word as given, but all I ask is that you read what I have to say before you decide not to investigate further. Is that too much?’
‘No. But tell me this – aren’t you afraid we’re being watched right now?’
‘I know we are being watched. The young woman behind the counter has been glancing this way ever since we sat down, perhaps because you look like the type to run off without paying. And of course God, or so they tell us, is eternally vigilant. But if you’re asking me if I’m paranoid enough to believe that I am the subject of a covert operation, Mr Noone, then my answer is no. Who could justify that expense? The idea is ridiculous. I am hardly a threat to national security.’
‘But you still believe these guys were sent to warn you off.’
‘I believe “fob off” would be more accurate.’
‘OK. Well, I’m afraid I can’t read your file right now. Would you mind if I took it with me?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘You have your own copy?’
‘That is the only copy.’
‘In that case I’d suggest you print off another copy and—’
‘I used a typewriter. And before you ask, there are no photocopies resting in deposit boxes or gathering dust in the offices of some unnamed solicitor, to be revealed to the world should I trip down the stairs or fall in front of a train.’
‘Did you burn the typewriter ribbon?’
‘I’m afraid not. You may not have noticed, Mr Noone, but some commentators believe we are on the verge of an economic crisis.’
‘I’ve been told, yeah.’
Click.
‘I was always given to understand,’ Martin said after a moment or two spent contemplating the silent recorder, ‘that the Irish government couldn’t afford to run a secret service.’
‘You and me both.’
‘Except that,’ he nodded at the recorder, ‘sounds a lot like spooks to me.’
‘That does seem to be the implication.’
‘And he’s involved the British and German embassies?’
‘A feisty chap, our Mr Smyth. Doesn’t like being pushed around.’
‘Or fobbed off. Jack Byrne knew about this?’
‘According to Jack, this is the first he’s hearing about spooks or semi-official warnings and threats. I believe him. Afterwards he was talking about hacking into the Department of Foreign Affairs, tapping emails and so forth. See if he could get a fix on any mention of Gerard Smyth. Sounded to me like he was out of his depth, thrashing around.’
‘Did he sound anything like you do now?’
‘Maybe a little bit, yeah.’
‘Then I’d be worried.’
‘I am worried.’
‘Good. I hope you put the kibosh on him hacking into Foreign Affairs.’
‘I told him, yes, it was a bad idea.’
‘And?’
‘He said he’d back off, for now anyway.’
‘You think he will?’
‘No idea. For all I know he’s cracking firewalls right now.’
‘It’s safes that get cracked, Tom. Firewalls are a different deal.’
‘Right now would be a bad time for semantics, Rain Man.’
As far as Jack Byrne was concerned, Gerard Smyth was his toy, to play with as he saw fit. And Jack, tracking down
Smyth in the first place, had already wormed his way into the Social Welfare files.
Martin was sitting hunched forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, his glass cradled in both hands. He took another nip, then reached out and tapped the manila folder with the tip of his forefinger.
‘Have you had time to read this yet?’
‘Skimmed it, yeah.’
‘And?’
‘You’re sure you want to know?’
‘Christ, Tom. Don’t leave me hanging now.’
‘OK. So basically, there’s a German submarine, it sails into Lough Swilly, drops off this spy who’s headed for Derry to do a deal with the IRA. He gets blown, I guess his contact was a double agent, and the next thing there’s a party of German soldiers – or sailors, I guess – rounding up the locals on Delphi Island, wanting to know where the double agent is. Morrigan they’re calling him, his code name. Anyway, the locals don’t want to play along, so the Germans line up a group of six kids and force them into a church and … What’s wrong?’
‘Hold on,’ Martin said. He got up and went to the bookshelf in the corner, took down a book that was lying horizontally across mine. ‘I dug this out earlier, when Jenny told me your news. Thought you might find it useful.’
The book was a paperback, nicely battered, one corner torn off the cover on the bottom right. The image featured an artist’s impression of the island of Santorini, smoke billowing in a plume from the village of scattered white dice on the cliff-top. In the foreground a submarine was fountaining spray, having just breached at a rather improbable 70-degree angle.
Rendezvous at Thira by Sebastian Devereaux.
‘You’ve read it?’ I said.
‘Sure. That and another one, it was something to do with Cyprus. I can’t find that one though. If memory serves it wasn’t as good as Thira, so maybe I chucked it. You’ve never read him?’
‘I’d never even heard of him before this morning.’
‘He was good, yeah. Alistair MacLean stuff but a bit more stylish, like Joseph Hone.’
‘Who’s Joseph Hone?’