Echoland (31 page)

Duggan nodded. ‘And I’ll tell my captain everything tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘Won’t they wonder why you didn’t know who Bradley was when I did?’

A smile spread across Gifford’s face. ‘But I’m under orders to tell you nothing. And I presume you’re under orders to tell me nothing too.’

Duggan nodded.

‘So,’ Gifford spread his hands.

Duggan sat up on his bicycle. ‘I’m going to talk to Nuala. Tell her what I’m going to do so she’s prepared. Do you want to come and meet her?’

‘Jaysus, no,’ Gifford recoiled. ‘I don’t want to meet any more of your family. Give me nightmares for the rest of my life.’

Duggan arrived at the house in Ranelagh where Nuala was hiding after circling back on his tracks twice to make sure he wasn’t being followed. There was probably nobody left to follow him now that Billy Ward’s little group had been rounded up but he didn’t want to take any chances. He checked his watch before knocking on the door. It was just after eleven o’clock.

It took so long for anyone to answer that he was about to leave when the door opened a crack and a young woman peered at him.

‘Is Nuala in?’

‘There’s no one of—’

‘I’m her cousin. Paul,’ he interrupted.

She hesitated a second and then opened the door and led him down the dark hall into a well-lit kitchen. There was no one there. He
turned to look at the woman who had let him in but she was no longer behind him. The back door opened and Nuala stepped in.

‘You weren’t followed?’ she said.

‘No. The fellows we think kidnapped Jim have been rounded up.’

‘Jim?’ she asked in hope.

‘We haven’t found him yet.’

She sank into a chair at the table and he sat down opposite her and put his arms on the table.

‘He was being held in a flat in Dartmouth Square. But he’d been moved before we got there.’

‘Just up the road?’

Duggan nodded.

‘Is he still alive?’

‘I don’t know,’ Duggan sighed. ‘There’s no reason to think he’s not. A dead hostage is no use to anyone.’

‘D’you think they’ll release those prisoners in the North?’

Duggan said nothing, gave an almost perceptible shake of his head. Her eyes filled slowly with tears and they overflowed down her face. She made no effort to stop them or wipe them away.

‘Talk to your father,’ Duggan said. ‘He’s our best hope. He might be able to get him freed.’

‘What did he say? You talked to him?’

‘He said he’d do his best. But he wants you to come and talk to him.’

‘And say I’m sorry.’

‘He didn’t say that.’

‘He didn’t have to.’ She sniffed and wiped the tear tracks from her cheeks with her thumbs. Her eyes were dry.

‘It’s the only way,’ he said. ‘You can say sorry if you have to. You don’t have to mean it.’

She appeared to struggle with the idea and he went on, ‘The other
thing is that I have to report Jim’s disappearance to my superiors. And some of the background to it, at least. Who his father was.’

‘You can’t do that,’ she said in horror.

‘We have to. It’s the only other thing we can do to try and get Jim freed.’

‘It’d kill my mother.’

‘What? You told me she knows already.’

‘I told you I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew. But it’d kill her if it came out in public. She couldn’t go on living in that house.’

‘It won’t come out in public,’ Duggan said, trying to keep up with her objections. ‘There’s censorship. Timmy’ll make sure it doesn’t get into the papers.’

She looked at him as if he was stupid. ‘Word will get around. People will know.’

Jesus, Duggan thought, they really are two of a kind, herself and Timmy. ‘Okay. I won’t say anything about Timmy’s deal with Jim’s mother. Or about your attempt to blackmail him.’

‘It wasn’t blackmail,’ she shot back.

‘Well,’ he spread his hands, ‘whatever you want to call it.’

‘Justice.’

‘The point is that they will probably want to talk to you about Jim. It’s up to you what you tell them about Timmy and all that.’

‘You’re washing your hands of it.’

Duggan slumped back in the kitchen chair and put his hands in his pockets and stared at her, trying to control his anger. She stared back, challenging him. He thought of walking out but restrained himself and went on in a calm voice: ‘I’ve done all I can. The two best chances of freeing Jim are to get Timmy to call off his friends and to give the guards all the information we have which might help them find him. We can’t let this run its course without doing everything we can to have an innocent man released.’ Whose only crime was to
befriend you, he thought.

She dropped her eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t think straight
anymore
.’

He accepted her apology with a nod and leaned forward, arms on the table again. ‘I’ll go with you to talk to Timmy if you like,’ he offered on the spur of the moment.

She thought about that, then said, ‘Okay.’

‘We could call around to the house in the morning. Before he goes to the Dáil.’

‘No, not there.’

‘Where, then?’

‘Somewhere neutral.’

‘Okay.’ Somewhere public, he thought, so they don’t start
screaming
abuse and tearing each other’s eyes out. ‘I’ll think of somewhere. Is there a phone here?’

She told him the number.

‘Is there anything else that could help find Jim?’ he asked as he stood up.

‘I don’t think so.’ She walked down the hall with him.

At the door he asked her if she’d ever heard of an IRA man called Carey. She shook her head.

‘Ever hear your father mention him?’

She thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so. The name didn’t stick if he ever did.’

‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘Thanks,’ she said as if it was an effort and closed the door behind him.

He walked to the office in the morning, determined to put an end to the problems Timmy had caused him. He was going to tell McClure about Bradley. That his cousin suspected, no, believed, her boyfriend was the man kidnapped by the IRA as a spy. And what little he knew about Jim Bradley. Which was nothing, really. A student at Trinity College. Son of a former RIC inspector wounded in the War of Independence. Which they would assume could be a motive for
spying
for the British. What if he was? he thought. I wouldn’t blame him. After what happened his father.

But he wasn’t going to get into any speculation. It was up to Nuala to decide what she wanted to tell them. How far she wanted to
implicate
Timmy. And herself, for that matter.

That was the easy option, passing the hard part to Nuala, and he knew it. Letting her tell the whole story. That it was really Timmy who was behind the whole thing and the reason why. But
withholding
that information, even for a few hours, could delay the further investigation. Even decide Bradley’s fate. Time was running out. His father had said that he didn’t owe Timmy any loyalty. But, still. He was family. More his family than his father’s family in a way. His mother would be devastated. She’d always felt a need to defend Timmy for her sister’s sake.

And what about Billy Ward? He’d promised to leave him out of everything. It wasn’t his fault that Bradley had been moved after his arrest. What a mess, he thought, acknowledging the sentry’s salute at the Infirmary Road gate to headquarters. He’d keep it simple. But that depended on McClure’s response. If he starts asking loads of questions I’m fucked. I’ll have to tell all.

He took a deep breath as he walked into the office. There was no one there. One of the morning papers was open on the table, a
double
page spread, editorials on the left and the war news on the right. The main headline across the right-hand page said ‘French Army Lays Down Its Arms’. Stacked under one side were three sub-headings: ‘Armistice Signed With Italy’; ‘Day of National Mourning Ordered in France’; ‘Hitler Calls For Bells And Flags’.

He skimmed down through the opening paragraphs. The French Army had laid down its arms at 12.35 that morning, shortly after he had gotten back to the barracks. Hitler thanked the Almighty for
victory
and ordered bells to be rung for seven days and flags to be hung for ten. The war on the continent is over, the editorial on the
opposite
page said.

Sullivan came in with a mug of tea as he continued to read bits and pieces. ‘Peace in our time,’ Sullivan nodded at the paper.

‘You think that’s it?’

‘The English will agree terms now. Swap around a few bits of the empire with the Germans and it’ll all be hunky dory,’ Sullivan said. ‘So my father says. And he’s a military expert.’

‘Why should they stop now? The Germans?’

‘Because we want them to,’ Sullivan gave him a crooked grin.

‘If we’re lucky,’ Duggan agreed. ‘Where’s the captain?’

‘Gone down to Kingsbridge. There’s a German spy coming in on the train from Kerry.’

‘What?’

‘Some fellow who landed on the Kerry coast yesterday. Seen
acting
suspiciously. His English is not too good. Or they couldn’t
understand
him in Kerry. Which might mean his English is too good. Anyway, he got on the train this morning. They’re down there
waiting
for him.’

‘When will he be back?’

Sullivan shrugged. ‘He left the latest letter from Hans for you.’

Duggan looked around the table and lifted the newspaper and found it underneath. It was addressed to the Abwehr’s house in Copenhagen and signed by Harbusch. He sat down and read through it twice. ‘We are on the point of making a profitable sale,’ it said. ‘It would be the wrong time to end negotiations now. We admit that progress has been very slow but we advise that a new manager has now taken an interest in the order. He is enthusiastic and we are
confident
of making a successful sale in the coming weeks. Please send a further payment on account to cover the extra expense.’

It was a reply to the letter from the woman in Amsterdam, Duggan decided. That letter had been an order to end negotiations. But Harbusch was arguing against it. And asking for more money, as usual. All these letters from Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Zurich were parts of the same correspondence.

Duggan pulled over the Harbusch file and extracted the copies of all the letters to and from Harbusch. He lit a cigarette and read through them all in sequence, immersing himself in the detail. There were a few gaps but by and large they did add up to a continuous
correspondence
about the supply of weapons to the IRA. Possibly to
different
factions. The ‘new manager’ was probably another faction.

He sat back, thinking that there was only one big gap in the
picture
. Harbusch never met anyone as far as they knew. They had been following him now for weeks and he never went anywhere other than his regular walks to Grafton Street. And nobody ever called on him,
as far as they knew. He had Kitty Kelly posting letters for him and picking up replies. And she had led them to Goertz. She could be meeting other people as well, they’d only been following her for a few days. Unlikely as it seemed, maybe she was the real agent and Harbusch was just a front, a diversion to attract their attention and deflect them from the real action. After all, Duggan had only
discovered
Kelly’s role by accident. And she had actually led them to Goertz.

The other possibility was that Harbusch was merely a confidence trickster, making up these stories for the Germans and making a good income from doing nothing more than writing a few letters. The Abwehr probably has loads of money, he thought, but they’d hardly waste it on a con man. He must be producing some real results or they must have reason to believe that he can produce them.

He slouched back in the chair and closed his eyes and the fanciful idea he’d had on the train flashed before his mind’s eye and he
dismissed
it again with an unconscious shake of his head.

‘Pleasant dreams?’ Sullivan interrupted. ‘Was that another dirty letter?’

Duggan opened his eyes. ‘No, just a business one.’

‘Pity.’

Duggan picked up the phone and asked for Timmy’s home
number
. He had to get this other stuff out of the way, free himself to
concentrate
on Harbusch.

‘Well?’ Timmy said when he got through to him, a note of
suspicion
in his voice.

‘Can you come to the Shelbourne Hotel at three o’clock?’

‘Why?’

‘To meet someone.’

‘Someone I know?’

‘Someone you want to meet.’

Duggan toggled the pips on top of the phone to break the
connection
and get the switchboard’s attention and asked for the number Nuala had given him.

‘Is Nuala there?’ he asked when a woman’s voice answered.

‘There’s no Nuala here,’ she said. ‘You must have a wrong number.’

‘This is Paul,’ he ignored her. ‘Tell her to be in the Shelbourne Hotel at three o’clock. It’s important.’

The woman said nothing and Duggan thanked her and hung up.

Sullivan was watching him. ‘Got another one on the go?’

‘I can hardly keep track of them all,’ Duggan winked.

‘You’re all talk, Duggan. Full of shite.’

‘Hello, stranger,’ Sinéad said as he passed by her office.

He turned back and said hello.

‘I was beginning to think you’d been promoted or something.’

‘More likely to be demoted,’ he said.

‘And why would that be?’

‘Because we’re not making much progress.’

‘Following the little fat fellow and his floozy?’ she asked.

‘You’ve seen them?’

She shifted in her chair and looked away. ‘Petey asked me to go with him yesterday. For cover, he said. I was just going out to lunch when he was following them.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly.

‘Where did they go?’

‘Oh,’ she replied. ‘Down to Grafton Street. Where they always go, Petey said. Had lunch together.’

‘That’s a change,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen them eat together.’

‘She’s not his wife.’

‘How do you know?’ he asked with more than a passing interest.

She gave him a patient look. ‘Because,’ she said. ‘Look at him. Look at her. She’s after his money. Or something else.’

‘Doesn’t mean they’re not married,’ he suggested, thinking that’s the second time in twenty-four hours a woman has given me that ‘are you slow’ look.

‘It won’t last, if they are. She’s with him for what she can get out of it. Probably money. And he’s with her to show her off and tell everyone what a great fellow he is.’

‘You could be right. What does Petey think?’

‘He just wants to ogle her backside.’

‘Oh,’ he said, surprised at her directness.

‘Men,’ she shook her head and dismissed him.

Upstairs, Gifford had his chair propped in the window and his feet up on the folded shutter on the other side and was reading an evening paper.

‘Hiding behind women’s skirts now,’ Duggan said. ‘For cover.’

‘Much better cover holding hands with her than holding hands with you.’

‘Oh, you were holding hands.’

‘Had to. Cover.’

‘She didn’t tell me that bit.’

‘And what did she tell you?’

‘That you were only interested in Eliza’s arse.’

‘She said that? Eliza’s arse?’

‘Not in those words.’

‘Whew,’ Gifford stood up. ‘I should hope not. I wouldn’t like to think of Sinéad using such coarse language. Like a common solider.’

‘What did you think of her theory?’

‘That Eliza’s a whore?’

‘She said that?’

‘Not in those words.’

Duggan laughed. ‘That they’re not married. That she’s after
something
else.’

‘Elementary.’ Gifford glanced out the window. ‘Oh, time for our daily exercise. They’re on the move.’

He grabbed his jacket and Duggan followed him down the stairs, two steps at a time and jumping down the last three to the hall. Gifford paused at Sinéad’s office and said, ‘He won’t let me hold his hand. It’d be great cover.’

She threw a pencil at him. It bounced off the jamb and hit Duggan as he went by. ‘Sorry,’ she called after him as they went out the hall door.

The day was overcast but warmed by a strong breeze from the south. They ambled along more than fifty yards behind Harbusch and Eliza, the routine now so familiar they barely noticed them. She tottered along on her high heels, linking Harbusch and taller than him even with his hat on. He held himself erect, his girth causing him to roll slightly as he walked.

Duggan filled in Gifford on the latest letter from Harbusch and what he thought it meant. ‘Something struck me,’ he added. ‘It might be ridiculous.’

‘But,’ Gifford prompted.

Duggan hesitated. Would it sound even more fanciful if he said it out loud? he wondered.

‘What?’ Gifford prompted again.

Duggan took a deep breath and said it. ‘Eliza and Kitty Kelly are the same person.’

Gifford stopped and gave him an admiring look. ‘You have a
devious
mind,’ he said. ‘I like it.’

‘My mind or the idea?’

‘Both.’ Gifford started walking again and turned his attention to
the couple ahead of them. ‘But I don’t like to think of Eliza as an old woman.’

‘Why does she wear those very high heels?’ Duggan asked, voicing the questions that he had been asking himself. ‘Why is she
exaggerating
her height? The difference between them?’

‘Because she’s a whore,’ Gifford suggested, speeding up so they could get closer. ‘Like the other culchie says.’

‘Because she wants to look as different as possible,’ Duggan
persisted
. ‘So you’d never think she was Kitty Kelly in her other disguise.’

‘But you think it.’

‘Imagine her without the heels. With an oversize old coat. Shoulders hunched. Scarf flattening her hair. Shuffling along.’

‘Oh Eliza,’ Gifford sighed. ‘Are you really an old woman?’

‘No,’ Duggan said. ‘She’s really the spy. Hansi is the cover. A
pretend
spy.’

‘Have you been drinking one of those strange country drinks that looks like water?’

‘Has anyone seen Kitty Kelly and Eliza at the same time?’

Gifford stopped for a moment. ‘We need to have a look in Kitty’s flat.’

‘Yeah,’ Duggan nodded as they continued on to the corner of Clare Street and waited for a motorbike with a side-car to roar by.

‘Even a look through the window might do,’ Gifford suggested.

‘That could be enough.’

They walked along into South Leinster Street, both paying more attention to Eliza swaying alongside Harbusch and wondering if it were possible.

‘Where’d you get this crazy idea?’ Gifford asked.

‘My cousin Nuala.’

‘Oh, Jaysus,’ Gifford sighed.

‘Something she said to me about picking up the ransom money I
had left in Wicklow Street. There were lots of women wandering in and out of the shops there. And she had put on an old coat and scarf to go into the building and pick up the envelope and Billy Ward and his friends didn’t notice her.’

‘Because they weren’t looking for an old woman. Nobody pays any attention to old women.’

‘Exactly.’

Gifford nodded as the idea took hold. ‘Have you told your
superior
intelligents this theory?’

‘No. Not yet. I wanted to bounce it off you first.’

‘Oh, I like it,’ Gifford laughed as they crossed Kildare Street. ‘And I’d really love it if it was true.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s just so …’ Gifford searched for a word. ‘Smart.’

‘They know we’re watching and they have us looking the wrong way.’

‘Exactly.’ Gifford groaned. ‘But Eliza as an old woman. I don’t really want to think about that.’

‘But she’s not. She’s a young spy.’

‘That does make me feel better. If she just asked I’d tell her all my secrets. Wouldn’t you? Which reminds me,’ Gifford punched him in the shoulder, ‘have you told the powers that be your own secrets yet?’