Authors: Derek Robinson
“I'm not constipated, sir. But I hope I'm patriotic.”
“Comes to much the same thing, in this country. Nobody's bowels have moved since we all took the oath of loyalty in what was it? 1934? Ever since then the entire German nation has been standing to attention, blocked solid, too frightened to fart. Too frightened to think. That's all this is, you know.” Oster rapped the sheet of cardboard with his knuckles. “Somebody did his thinking on paper. Believe it or not, it is possible to be patriotic
and
intelligent.”
Christian took a chance. “Did you prepare this, sir?”
“Heavens, no. If I'd prepared it I'd be on it, and up near the top, too.”
“So who did?”
“An opposition group. They exist, you know. Very respectable, too, some of them. You must have heard of the Kreisau Circle? Count von Moltke's pals? They meet regularly at his country estate to discuss Alternatives, with a capital A.”
“Kreisau's in Silesia,” Christian said. “Back of beyond. Nothing ever happens in Silesia. Besides, the Circle doesn't believe in violence, or so I'm told.”
“There are others. Schulenberg, for instance; he was our ambassador in Moscow. Ulrich von Hassell, he's another; he's the son-in-law of Admiral von Tirpitz. And Carl Goerdeler, used to be mayor of Leipzig. Men of that stature. They can't stand the Nazis, they get plenty of sympathy from the old guard, and some of them won't mind a bit of blood on their hands if they think it's for the good of Germany.”
“Does Admiral Canaris know about them?”
“Canaris knows everything,” Oster said. “And nothing.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Christian thought. He said, “Well, I suppose it's none of my business.”
“Isn't it? You certainly look ⦔ Oster chewed his lip while he picked the right word. “Concerned,” he said.
“It just seems to me that these people are planning to overthrow the government, and they ought to be arrested.”
“No. Not a good idea.”
“High treason?”
“Yes, but there would have to be a trialâseveral trialsâand a lot of undesirable publicity, and then they'd be hanged and they'd turn into martyrs. Besides, you'd never catch everyone. Far better to watch them and see what bright ideas they come up with.” Oster nodded at the sheet of white cardboard. “This isn't bad, you know. Somebody's done a lot of work. Those are three key men at the top: Lieutenant-General Thiele is the Army's communications chief, General Olbricht is an experienced organizer, and Field-Marshal von Witzleben is just the chap to enforce internal security while they're about their business.”
“Meanwhile the new Fuehrer, General Beck, proceeds to win the war,” Christian said. He felt free to use a little sarcasm; Thiele, Olbricht and von Witzleben were nobodies; Beck was a retired nobody. If these were the biggest names the plotters could recruit, their crime was not so much high treason as low farce.
Oster wandered over to the window and pulled back a corner of
the blackout curtain. “The moon's down,” he said. “They'll be ashore by now. That's why you couldn't sleep, wasn't it?”
“Was it, sir?” Christian didn't understand the question but he wasn't going to admit it to Oster. Oster had already scored too many points.
“We send them off to death or glory, Christian,” Oster said, “and after that there's damn-all we can do to help them, except stay awake and worry. Tell me the truth, now: would you rather be with them?”
Christian scratched his beard.
“No,” Oster said. “Neither would I.”
The suitcases were too heavy. Even Ferenc Tekeli, whose hands were hardened by prison work, began to suffer. Docherty found a broken fence and slid a rail through the handles of two suitcases. With each pair of agents carrying a rail on their shoulders, they marched on until Laszlo complained that his feet hurt. “We can't stop now,” Stephanie told him. “We are the vanguard, remember? We lead the advance. You don't want the advance catching up and trampling all over you, do you?”
“Go to hell,” Laszlo growled. He felt badly let-down by Madrid
Abwehr.
After three years of war, you'd think they'd have installed someone in Ireland with a car to meet new arrivals. Elementary, that was.
“Don't you dare use that tone of voice to me,” Stephanie said. “I'm an Englishwoman, remember? The English are always polite.”
“Go to hell, please,” Laszlo snarled. “Thanks so very awfully, I am terribly obliged, you are fearfully dreadfully kind, what a very nice lady.”
“Who is this appalling foreigner?” Ferenc asked in an aristocratic drawl. “I say, do piss off, you dago.”
Stephanie giggled.
“Do not take liberties with me,” Laszlo warned. “I have been given a mission and it is no joke to me.”
“Awfully frightfully fearfully sorry,” Ferenc said.
Dawn had broken when they reached a signpost that said three miles to Galway. Docherty told the others it would be a mistake to arrive in the town too early: nothing would be open, nobody
would be about, four strangers would be very conspicuous. They found a falling-down barn and rested inside it for a couple of hours, then strolled into town as casually as their nagging hunger and their leaden suitcases allowed. Docherty, by some instinct, went straight to the railway station. It was shut.
“Now isn't that just our luck,” Docherty said to a man who was unloading milk-churns from a cart.
“What train were you wanting to catch?” the man asked. He had a round face with cheeks that were apple-red.
“The Dublin train.”
“Ah, that won't be in for a long time yet, if it's on time. It's a very good train, so they say.”
“We were hoping to leave our bags in the left-luggage,” Docherty said.
“Old Mick has the key to the left-luggage,” the man said. “But he's not here now. He'd have nothin' to do, you see.”
“To be sure,” Docherty said. “Well, that's the way it is, then, and we'll just have to make the best of it.”
The man unloaded two more churns. “Of course you could always carry your bags inside yourselves,” he said, “if you don't mind payin' Old Mick when he does get here.”
Docherty pointed to the padlock on the gates.
“That thing hasn't worked in years,” the man said. “Not since Old Mick lost the key.” He unhooked the clasp and the gates swung wide. The agents trailed after him. It was a small station, with just two platforms. The left-luggage office was shut but the man, chatting easily with Docherty about the weather and the crops, groped along the top of the doorframe until he found a key. They put their bags inside. Docherty took four numbered tickets from a roll that hung on a loop of string, the man re-locked the door and put the key back where he found it.
“D'you mean we're just going to leave them there?” Stephanie asked.
“Sure. Why not?” Docherty said.
“Because there's no security!
Anyone
could just walk in and ⦠I mean, think of the
risk.”
She was pink with concern. “At least let's take the
key.”
“Ah, the key's just for show,” the man said. “You can easily get in without it, just give the handle a good hard twist, it's a very old lock, so it is.”
“If it worries you, Stephie,” Ferenc said, “you stay here and keep guard while we go and get some breakfast.”
Stephanie followed them out of the station, but she was not happy. “Anyone could just walk in there and steal those radios,” she hissed at Docherty.
“No, no. It's not at all likely.”
“How can you say that? Obviously the whole of Galway knows how to get into that room.”
Docherty put a fatherly arm around her shoulders. “So nobody would go looking to find anything worth taking, would they? Especially before breakfast. There's not a big demand for short-wave radios around here, you know. I doubt if many folk would get up this early to go and steal a suitcase, come to that.”
Galway was not a very dynamic town. Grass grew in the streets and the solitary statue (of the late Pádraic O Conaire, poet and wit) held an empty stout bottle in its outstretched hand. There was only one place that looked as if it might provide breakfast: a gray, square hotel near the harbor. The dining room was empty but in the bar a boy wearing a stained white apron reaching to his ankles was sweeping the floor. “Me da's out gettin' in the lobster pots,” he said. “The bar won't be open till ten.”
“To tell you the honest truth, it's a bite of breakfast we were hoping for,” Docherty said, “and here's an English half-a-crown that I just found in the street, probably fell through a hole in your pocket.”
“Me mom's out the back collectin' the eggs. Will you have a drink while you're waitin'?”
“Waiting for what?” Laszlo asked suspiciously.
“Waiting for the bar to open,” Docherty explained, like a parent with a very dull child. “Four pints of Guinness, if you please,” he told the boy. “You're in the cradle of civilization, remember,” he told Laszlo. The boy heaved carefully on the pump handles. Laszlo watched the rich black stout rising in the glass, slowly pushing up its thick and creamy head, and he felt uneasy. This was not how he had expected to serve the Third Reich.
Breakfast turned out to be not only possible but impressive. The bacon had been sliced thick and there were new-laid eggs, black and white puddings, fried mushrooms, a bowl of boiled potatoes, grilled pork sausages and a new loaf of soda bread with a pound of farm butter on a glass dish. Long before it arrived, Ferenc Tekeli had
finished his first pint of Guinness. Docherty watched with interest as Ferenc drank it in three long swallows and handed his glass to the boy for a refill.
“You want to be careful, Ferenc,” he said. “The stuffs stronger than it seems.”
“Don't worry, chum. I won't let anybody else get hold of mine.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“The Irish are very friendly, aren't they? I'm beginning to think this was a damn good idea.”
Laszlo said, “It would be a damn good idea if you began to think.”
“I don't like the taste,” Stephanie said. “Can't I have a brandy?” She gave the remains of her Guinness to Ferenc. “Of course you can, darling,” he said. “Have a double and save on the washing-up. Put it all on the bill and have one yourself,” he told the boy.
“I'm not allowed to drink yet,” the boy said. He was no more than twelve.
“Then rub it on your chest!” Ferenc cried. “Pour it on your hair!”
“Can I have a Mars bar instead?” the boy asked.
Laszlo tapped Docherty on the shoulder, hard. “This is not good enough,” he said. “This is not professional. We should not be wasting time here. When is the train?”
“You've tons of time,” the boy said. “It never leaves until half-an-hour after it gets here.”
“And that is when?” Laszlo asked.
“Depends. Old Mick at the station would know, for sure. You should askâ”
“He's not there,” Stephanie said crisply.
“Well of course he's not there,” the boy said. “Why would he be there? There's nothin' for him to do until the train comes in, is there?” He gave her a look of mild contempt.
The first customers drifted into the bar as the agents were finishing breakfast. Prison had taught Ferenc to eat quickly; he had cleared his plate twice and was now drinking Guinness and playing gin rummy with the boy when an old man with a nose like a potato and a mane of white hair sat beside them. “I'm Patrick Mooney,” he said. “Formerly harbormaster here.” They shook hands. “I expect you'll be tourists?”
“Yes.”
“He's no such thing,” the boy said, busily improving his hand, “he says he's a spy, and his name's Frank Tickley.”
“Ferenc Tekeli,” Ferenc said.
“See?” the boy said.
“You hold your peace, you little ruffian,” Mooney said. “What sort of a spy would go about telling the likes of you that he's a spy? Have some sense, man.”
“Is there anything for a spy to spy on here?” Ferenc asked.
“There is, too. We had a German U-boat came into the bay just two months ago. And a big American bomber fell in a field not two miles from Ardnasodan the day after the races.”
“And you told me nothing ever happened here,” Ferenc accused the boy. “Your glass looks seriously empty,” he said to Mooney. “What was in it?”
“Guinness,” said Mooney.
“Gin,” said the boy, fanning his cards on the table. “Now you owe me fivepence. So there!”
At the other end of the bar, Laszlo was twitching with rage. “That Hungarian idiot is blind drunk!” he told Docherty and Stephanie. “He will ruin everything for all of us! Have you heard what he is saying?”
Docherty nodded, and smiled. “This is Ireland,” he said. “Nothing is really serious in Ireland, you know. Ferenc isn't really serious.”
“Ferenc is turning into a disaster,” Stephanie said dourly.
“So what? Jesus Christ, if all the disasters in Ireland were serious the entire bloody island would have sunk under the weight of its anxieties long ago. Now for God's sake take a drink and cheer up. You both look as if you've wet your last pair of drawers.” Docherty walked away and left them.
Laszlo did not cheer up. “This is not good enough,” he said. “Something will have to be done.”
Julie had a longish list of comments, questions and proposals concerning Eldorado's latest draft report. Luis and Freddy discussed them with her and Luis rewrote several passages. Most changes were in the interests of consistency: if Hambone had reported the disembarkation of a new American infantry division in Plymouth a week ago, it was time some other sub-agent noticed their arrival at a camp in Yorkshire or wherever. That sort of thing. After a couple of hours' work, Freddy took the amended sheets away to be retyped. He was very pleased.