Authors: Robert Ryan
Early One Morning
A Novel
Robert Ryan
For Jack Cameron Bond
Early One Morning
is a novel inspired by the lives of Robert Benoist, William Grover and Eve Aubicq
‘It was simply terrific: 112mph and still accelerating over the crossroads past the Barn—and the road cluttered with the usual Friday-evening traffic. Along the next stretch we did 122mph and I thought, under the circumstances, that was enough, and said so in no uncertain fashion. Thereafter we “cruised” along at a mere 90–95mph, and doing just over 100mph in third gear … it was the most alarming experience ever, yet Williams drove superbly, absolutely at ease and complete master of every situation …’
—C.W.P. Hamilton describing his test run of an Atlantic in England with Williams at the wheel, 1937, quoted in
Bugatti, The Man and The Marque
by Jonathan Wood
D
UBLIN
, O
CTOBER
1926
T
HEY TOOK HIM
with embarrassing ease. The young man had left his rooms to attend the meeting at six thirty in the morning, well before the majority of workers would be out and about, and walked through a damp, drizzly Temple Bar deserted but for the odd bundle of slimy rags that marked the street dwellers’ stations. He emerged next to the looming edifice of the Bank of Ireland and was about to cross Dame Street, hesitating only to let a cart and a slow-moving Riley pass, when he was aware of a man standing too close behind him. As he turned, he was sandwiched by a second figure who stepped into the gutter. Both were big, stocky men, wearing heavy tweeds and bowlers. The one behind produced a revolver, and quickly they had him in the back of the car down on the floor behind the driver and a coarse blanket, smelling of fresh horse, was thrown across him.
Twisted into a near-foetal position in the grey gloom, a heavy boot resting on his back, his heart flapping in his chest, the young man tried hard to calm himself as they progressed through the city. He was sure that they were following the river, familiar as he was with the distinctive jarring rhythm of the oversized cobblestones, and he fancied he could smell, even over the heavy equine musk, the yeasty aroma of the brewery, but soon the sounds of motor traffic fell away, and from the bucking of the Riley he guessed that they were on country roads.
By the time they stopped he was biting his lip, trying to contain the agony of the terrible pins and needles that were shooting up his legs. The blanket was pulled back and he was unfolded from the tiny space and allowed to stretch and stamp until circulation slowly, painfully returned. The driver didn’t even look his way, and the kidnappers looked bored as he paced up and down the yard, pulling the wet air into his lungs.
He looked around for clues to his whereabouts. They had come down a long track to a cottage, once small, now badly extended with a lean-to at one side. A country drinking establishment of some kind he reckoned, where the parlour simply grew an additional space to welcome local farmers. No customers at this time of day, though. Although the road was well rutted and led off to a series of paddocks, there were no other vehicles visible, not so much as a tractor, and high hedges and a line of lime trees prevented him from checking beyond the farm for landmarks. He had no idea where they had brought him. It had been well chosen.
Satisfied his circulation had recovered, the pair pushed him inside the cottage and closed the door, leaving him alone in a gloamy half-light. The sour-smelling room was square, low ceilinged, blackened by cigarette and peat smoke, with a serving hatch crudely carved into the wall at one end, a single table, and a motley assortment of mostly home-made furniture. There was one rather grand armchair, probably the perch of the grandfather or grandmother who would hold court over this shebeen in the evenings, but now a rather dapper man was occupying it. His host was in his mid-thirties, he would guess, with a pencil moustache, immaculate brilliantined hair, well-cut suit and long, manicured fingers gripping the arms of the chair.
The stranger smiled, stood and held out his hand as if they had been introduced at his St James’s club. ‘Slade,’ he said in plummy English. ‘How do you do?’
The young man didn’t take the proffered hand, but Slade wasn’t fazed at all, turning his palm upwards in a please-yourself gesture. ‘Sorry about the transport arrangements. Doesn’t do to be seen to get into a CID car these days. Not in your line of work. Take a seat.’ Slade sat down and produced a pack of cigarettes. ‘Smoke? No?’
‘What’s going on?’
Slade lit his cigarette. ‘Oh please. The accent. You don’t have to do all that top o’ the morning bog-trotter rot for me. You’re as English as I am, man.’
It wasn’t true. He was half-French and the English part of him had a hefty dose of Irish on his paternal side. It was tracing that branch of the family that had led him to this place. However, Slade was right about the accent, he had deliberately let his vowels soften and slur over the last few months. English voices closed as many doors as they opened these days.
‘For goodness’ sake, sit down, there’s a good fellow. Nothing to be gained by standing there glaring at me. If I had wanted you arrested I could have you shipped north and imprisoned under DORA or for membership of a proscribed organisation.’
Defence of the Realm Act. Slade was British Intelligence. Reluctantly Williams grabbed a chair and lowered himself into it gingerly, as if it might collapse under his weight. ‘What is an Englishman doing with Dublin CID men?’
‘Just helping our Irish brothers.’
He snorted.
‘Trying to make sure the Irish Free State has a chance against … well, against your new chums. O’Malley, isn’t it?’ Then slowly, savouring each name, he continued, ‘Clarke, Mellows, O’Donovan, Lemass, MacBride, Carroll, O’Higgins, Kenny … nine in the flying column. Ten with yourself.’
Informer. The word flashed across his brain, illuminated in flaming letters. How else could a British spy know about all those people?
‘Now, we have reason to believe.’ Slade stopped and laughed at himself, a metallic, staccato sound, devoid of real humour. ‘Sorry, force of habit. We
know
that you drove the getaway vehicles on the night of the Knockadore Garda station attack, the Crumlin Barracks, the Dundalk Post Office and the Ballinakill bank raids. That you stole the cars for these actions. That most of them are probably at the bottom of the Liffey right now.’
He said nothing.
‘Let us take a magnanimous view of all that. Let us say that these were legitimate acts of war.’ He opened his mouth to speak and Slade raised a hand. ‘Please, I am not in the market for rhetoric. I have heard it all before. The Irish can be so poetic when their entrails are hanging out of their arse.’
‘Is that a threat?’
Slade sighed with a surprising weariness. ‘No. Just an observation. So, police stations for revenge, army barracks for weapons, banks and post offices for funds, driving the odd gun shipment up from Cork. I can see all that. But why the moneylenders?’
‘I—’ I have nothing to do with that, he had started to say, realising that it would be a confirmation that he knew something about the other matters.
‘You what?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘Is it because they are mostly Jews? Is that it?’
Although he had heard some anti-semitic remarks, especially from Kenny, he had always assumed the systematic harassment was a political action, not racial. However, he had made it clear to Sean he wanted nothing to do with the savage beatings and intimidations that the column had handed down these past weeks, no matter what the motives, and Sean had respected that.
‘It has to stop. I have here a letter for O’Malley, who I believe is your commander.’ From his inside pocket Slade produced an envelope and offered it. The young man stayed stock still, as if accepting it was a certain admission of guilt.
‘Why would you be worried about moneylenders?’ he asked Slade, knowing that the IRA had killed or shot at plenty of soldiers and police in the last twelve months.
‘That’s our business. What is in here is a … peace offering.’ He shook the letter. ‘Take it.’
Williams hesitated. Even talking with this man could earn him a death sentence from the column. Delivering messages made the bullet to the head almost inevitable.
‘I know what you are thinking. You’ll be all right. In there is the name of the informer within your flying column.’ He felt his jaw drop. ‘As an indication of our good faith. With the evidence to back up the accusation.’
Slowly the young man stretched across and took the document, half anticipating it would burn through his fingertips. He slid it into the pocket of his jacket and fancied he could feel the incendiary contents reddening his skin. ‘What kind of game is this? The Brits giving up one of their own?’
‘No game. I want the moneylenders left alone and I am willing to deal.’
The penny dropped. People desperate enough to use moneylenders were vulnerable, corruptible. It was at the moneylenders that men like Slade did their recruiting for the army of informers that plagued the city.
‘My chaps will take you back, drop you off somewhere appropriate. Best you go under the blanket again, though. Just in case.’
Slade stood up and so did the young man. ‘I can see you aren’t convinced.’
‘Why should I be?’
‘No reason. No reason at all, Mr Williams.’ So they even knew his real name. Everyone else in Dublin knew him only as Grover. ‘Except you have my word as a fellow Englishman that I am telling you the truth.’ He held out his hand again. ‘You must trust me on this.’
After a moment’s hesitation the young man took the hand and felt Slade’s long white fingers close tightly over his own.
One
A
USTRIA
, O
CTOBER
2001
J
OHN DEAKIN GLANCES
across at his passenger and wonders when she is going to speak. The old woman is sitting stock still and upright, the bony hands crossed on her lap, staring out at the backdrop of Alpine scenery. For a moment he thinks she must have fallen asleep, but he catches a movement as she blinks, a long slow stroke of a blue-veined eyelid across watery, opaque eyes. The old lady has barely said a word since Salzburg where he picked her up off the plane, other than a thank you when he helped her into the hired Mercedes.
He sees the sign for the lake and makes the right, carefully feeding through the Autobahn traffic heading east towards Linz. Habit makes him check for a tail, but nobody else pulls off and there is nothing ahead on the road snaking up into the high glacial valley where the lake sits. They have the route to themselves. At this time of year, after the summer walkers have gone, the cows brought down from pasture and before the first snows fall, the mountains and lakes get a little peace. Except for Lake Senlitz. It will not have any for a few months yet.
Not for the first time that day he wonders about the old woman next to him. Fly out to Salzburg and await instructions he was told. He’d barely been there a day when the message came from the Consulate that he was to pick up one Dame Rose Miller. Extra-VIP. Deakin hadn’t argued. The phone call that followed from Sir Charles, no less, was very clear. She deserves our respect and our thanks and she won’t be with us much longer. Indulge her this once.