As arranged over coffee the previous evening, Barry met Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Holland at the Irish Sea Airlines offices on Lower Belgrave Street at 9:00 A.M. the morning after his so-called Fear-of-God meeting at 10 Downing Street. Holland was wearing a light worsted suit and Barry had dressed in his inevitable tweeds. From Belgrave Street the two men took the airport coach out to Croydon in time to catch the flight to Bristol.
Their aircraft was an elegant, eight-passenger DeHavilland Rapide, a twin-engined biplane, freshly painted in the Aer Lingus green-and-white livery. It was a lovely spring day with clear skies, and they took off exactly on time, flying due west toward the sea. The sound of the engines made conversation virtually impossible, but Barry was more than content to stare out the window at the unfolding landscape a few thousand feet below.
It was the policeman’s first flight and he enjoyed it immensely, ignoring the occasional shudder and swoop as well as the moanings of a female passenger in the seat directly behind him. Beside him, Holland slept for the entire hour, waking only as they started to land at Whitechurch Aerodrome, a few miles south of Bristol.
The aircraft refueled, Barry and Holland each had a fried-egg sandwich and coffee in the aerodrome café, and then the flight resumed. For the first hour of the ongoing journey Barry kept watch at the window as they flew northwest across the Severn, then on above the Welsh hills of Monmouth, Brecknock and Cardigan, leaving the land entirely at Aberystwyth, heading out over Cardigan Bay, and finally the Irish Sea.
The engines droned on monotonously, sending a light, continuous vibration through the airplane. The sun glinted brightly on the ruffled sea far below and eventually Barry turned away from the window, put his head back and closed his eyes. When he opened them again it was to discover that the weather had deteriorated to a dullish overcast and they were preparing to land at Dublin’s brand-new Collinstown Airport. As they touched down on the runway Barry glanced at his wristwatch. Not quite one in the afternoon. An arduous, exhausting journey that would have taken at least twenty hours via train and ferry had just been accomplished by air in less than four. Barry commented on it as they climbed down out of the aircraft and walked across the tarmac to the broad curve of the snow-white, multistoried terminal building.
“Yes, wonderful.” Holland nodded as they went through the swinging doors and into the Arrivals hall. “And all things being well we’ll be back in London by midnight.”
Since they carried no luggage Customs was merely a formality. They showed their passports to a uniformed official and Barry was given a second look when the man saw first his place of birth and then his occupation.
“Come home to join the Garda then?” asked the official. “Or is it to take a job with Special Branch?”
“Neither,” Barry answered, ignoring the man’s tone. “Just over for a pint of Guinness and a stroll across St. Stephen’s Green.”
“Mile failte”—a thousand welcomes—said the official without meaning a word of it, handing Barry back his passport.
“Go raibh mile maith agat”—And may as much good fortune be yours—Barry answered without hesitation. At first the official looked surprised, then confused. He finally scowled, waving him onward. There were no thousand welcomes for Holland, ill-meant or otherwise.
Once out of the Customs hall they crossed the echoing concourse and stepped outside onto the pavement. The sky had darkened even more since they had landed, making the white concrete arc of the terminal building even brighter and the grass of the roundabout in front of them a startling green.
There was a small, blunt-nosed Leyland coach in Aer Lingus colors parked beside the curb as well as half a dozen taxicabs of varying vintages and states of repair. “Which shall it be?” Holland asked. “Coach or cab?”
Barry shrugged. The officer inside the terminal had almost certainly begun to spread the news of their arrival, either by telephone or into the ear of a mate, and the coach driver and cabbies were either IRA themselves or had friends who were. One way or another their presence in Dublin would be common knowledge before the day was done. It was an odd feeling, but there was no doubt in Barry’s mind that in most ways, this deceptively familiar place was actually enemy territory and potentially dangerous.
“I don’t suppose it really matters,” Barry said finally.
“I don’t really fancy the coach,” said Holland, watching as it began to fill up. “Let’s splurge and take a cab.” They went to the end of the queue, waited their turn, then climbed into a fragile-looking Swift at least a decade old with a bit of rag stuffed into the radiator plug and skinny tires completely barren of tread. The driver was old and fat with thin white hair over a scalp that was frighteningly red. He was reading The Irish Press and puffing on the fuming stub of a wet-ended cigarette.
“Where to?” he asked, barely shifting to turn in his seat as Barry and Holland climbed into the back.
“Two Foster Place,” said Holland. “You know where it is?”
“ ’Course,” said the cabby. “Three punt.”
“Two,” Holland answered.
“Done,” said the driver. “Since you’re not having luggage wit’ ya.” He flipped the cigarette end out the window, turned the key and pressed the starter. The engine caught and the automobile chattered away from the curb. They made their way around the traffic circle, then followed the newly paved access drive to Swords Road, where they turned right and headed south toward Santry and the city beyond.
The driver plucked another short end of a cigarette from a rusty Players tin on the seat beside him and lit it with a Vesta, blowing clouds of smoke at the windscreen. “A fine soft day it is,” he said, turning his head slightly toward his passengers, smiling around the cigarette fixed to his lower lip.
“It is that,” Barry answered, accenting the words.
The driver looked back in his mirror. “In from London, are you?”
“We are,” Barry said.
“But not from there,” said the driver. “Not you, at least.”
Barry smiled. “No, that’s true, that’s true. Born in Cork I was. You’ve got me there,” he answered, laying the accent on with a trowel, turning the o in Cork into a broad, flat a.
“Ah,” said the driver. “A culchie.” The word was untranslatable, combining backbiting, gossiping, cheating and conniving with a general sense of uncultured rural stupidity. It was a word that Dubliners had applied to Corkmen for as long as anyone could remember.
“Being culchie is a state of mind,” Barry answered. “I’ve seen it as often on the banks of the Liffey as I have on the banks of the Lee. And at least the Lee has swans, culchie though they may be.”
“Well, that’s true enough.” The driver grinned. He paused and puffed on his cigarette. “On the other hand, I’ve heard that Corkmen have been known to hunt the poor bloody birds down and eat them on occasion. A very culchie thing to do, that.”
“It’s true,” muttered Holland. “Put two Irishmen in a room and you’ll have an argument.” He shook his head. “You’re all mad.”
“Driven to it without a doubt by a thousand years of British oppression and occupation,” the driver responded pleasantly. “We fight among ourselves to keep in training to deal with the likes of you.”
As they continued on in silence, open land gave way to built-up estates and small factories, and by the time they crossed the narrow trench of the Santry River there was little greenery to see at all. They kept on Swords Road through Whitehall and Drumcorda, a brownish haze gathering around them the farther south they drove. By the time they crossed the Royal Canal in sight of the brooding stone pile of Mountjoy Prison, the air was thick with the yeast and sawdust smell of hops and barley spreading up and out in a dense pall from the massive Guinness Brewery at St. James Gate, still more than two miles away on the other side of the Liffey.
“My God,” said Holland, wrinkling his forehead and pushing his spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose. “I’d forgotten the stench.”
“If beer could shit, that’s what it would smell like,” Barry answered.
“Meat and drink to me,” the cabby said, without being asked for his opinion. “Even a beggar won’t starve in Dublin if he has a nose. Food of the gods is Guinness.”
“Sounds like an advert,” Holland said with a laugh.
The driver finally found his way down to the broad reach of O’Connell Street and they drove its length, going past the elegant facade of the Gresham Hotel, the black finger of Nelson’s Column, the General Post Office—still bullet pocked from the 1916 Rising—and finally the statue of O’Connell himself, peering balefully at the clattering dark green trolleys crossing the wide bridge over the Liffey that was named for him.
A No. 17 omnibus turned in front of them with a large Gold Flake tobacco advertisement on its side, and out of the corner of his eye Barry caught a glimpse of the huge Players Please illuminated sign attached to the roofline of the Hopkins Store on the corner. On the opposite side of the wide street there was another sign, this one vertical, advertising Craven A. The might of the British Empire had failed to conquer Ireland’s heart and soul, but British commerce had certainly conquered her lungs.
The taxi veered slightly to the right up Westmorland Street and soon reached College Green, the sooty Georgian expanse of the Bank of Ireland on their right, the walled white confines of Trinity College on their left. They sputtered around the columned arc of the bank, once Ireland’s Parliament and House of Lords, then took the first right turn down a narrow, tree-lined cul-de-sac.
“Foster Place,” said the driver, pulling to a stop. In front of them at the end of the street was a looming blank wall of cut stone and to their right was a side entrance to the Bank of Ireland. To the left was a short row of tall, mid-Victorian buildings, the last with a strong neoclassical porch supported on cast-iron columns. “It’ll be the Royal Bank you’re going to then?” asked the driver.
“Quite right,” said Holland. He climbed out of the Swift with Barry close behind, and paid the driver. He stood on the curb for a moment, waiting for the cabby to make his turn in the narrow street, but instead the white-haired man simply lit another cigarette end and picked up his newspaper. He glanced up at Holland and Barry. “Changed your mind, have you?” he asked.
“No.” Holland smiled.
The driver shook his newspaper, folding back a page. “Thought I might be of assistance when your business is concluded.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” Holland answered. “We shan’t be long.” He turned away from the taxi and went up the low steps to the porch of the bank.
“Keeping an eye on us,” said Barry.
“Of course,” Holland said. “Only to be expected, really.” He pulled open one of the doors and stood aside to let Barry enter before him.
The central banking hall was enormous, a beautiful barrel-vaulted-and-coffered ceiling in cream and brown supported by cast-iron Corinthian columns, the roof artfully lit by hidden clerestories that flooded the upper part of the room with light. The floor was marble, a long foyer bound on the left by a waist-high, dark oak counter and on the right by several arched niches set with comfortable-looking leather chairs for waiting patrons. At the far end of the entranceway the counter was fitted with an opening, allowing access to the rows of desks in the main portion of the hall.
“They have their little spies everywhere,” Holland said as he grinned. “I should think this all started when we arrived at the Irish Sea Airlines office this morning.”
Barry agreed. The uniformed ticket clerk had taken his information for the passenger manifest from their passports and could easily have placed a call to Dublin. The strawberry-faced driver of the Swift would stick to them like glue for the duration of their visit.
“What do we do about him?”
“Follow me,” said Holland. He marched down to the far end of the counter, walked through the opening and smiled politely at the frowning young man who rose up from behind his desk. He was wearing a dark suit with the trousers too short and a white shirt with a very frayed collar. He had sandy hair and freckles across his nose. He looked no more than twenty.
“Help you, sir?”
“Certainly,” Holland said, his voice clipped and imperious. “Meeting with Mr. Louth about my accounts.”
“Yes, sir,” said the young man. “I’ll fetch him, shall I?”
“No need, no need,” said Holland, brushing past him. “Know the way. Use your facilities first, if you don’t mind.”
“No, sir. Of course not, sir,” the young man said, calling after them. “It’s—”
“Know the way there too, lad,” Holland said with a wave.
They threaded their way between the desks until they reached the rear of the hall, then went through a pair of glass-windowed doors onto a rear landing. A narrow flight of stairs led up, another, shorter flight led down. Holland went down. Reaching the foot of the stairs he turned to the right and they walked past doors marked WC-GENTS and WC-LADIES. Continuing on down the passage they reached another short flight of steps, went up, turned right and then went down yet another, even narrower hallway. Barry was thoroughly lost but Holland seemed to know exactly where he was going.
At the end of the hall Holland pushed through a swinging door with a tarnished brass palm plate and Barry suddenly found himself in what was obviously the bank’s luncheon room. There were a half dozen plain wood tables and chairs, a coffee urn and a doorway leading into the small kitchen beyond. Barry could smell sausages and chip grease. There were several people at the tables, all dressed in dark suits like the young clerk upstairs. Two of them were drinking tea and reading their newspapers while the third, an older man, was fast asleep, his head tilted back in the chair, his mouth open.
There was a heavy-looking wooden door at the far end of the room, and someone had jammed an old shoe into the crack to keep it open, letting in fresh air. The two men reading their papers never even looked up as Holland and Barry crossed the room and went through the door. As he passed by, Barry noticed that the door was fitted with a large brass lock and several bolts and that there was no handle on the outside at all. He smiled to himself as he stepped out onto a narrow cobbled lane at the rear of the bank. The door had been designed to keep unsavory characters from getting in, not out.
“This way,” Holland instructed, turning to the left, heading out toward Dame Street.
“You’ve done that before,” said Barry, smiling.
“Once or twice.”
“Chancy.”
“Not really. I do have an account at the bank, as a matter of fact, and I’ve dealt with Mr. Louth before. If he remembers me at all it’s as the English fellow who goes off to pee and never comes back.”
They reached the head of the cobbled lane and stepped out onto the pavement of Dame Street, four lanes divided by a narrow stone median. The traffic was as heavy as a broad street in London, filled with bicycles, taxis, buses, trucks and trolley cars ebbing and flowing in both directions.
“Where to?” Barry asked.
“Not far now,” Holland answered. “But let’s put some distance between us and our friend the curious cabby.”
Holland turned right and together he and Barry made their way briskly down Dame Street, past Crow Street and Temple Lane, finally crossing Dame Street at the point where Great George Street curved down to meet it, moving south. By now they were well away from the taxi driver waiting beside the curb in Foster Place but Holland was taking no chances. They continued up Great George Street until they reached the entrance to the old covered market, then turned in, moving quickly between the rich-smelling stalls of meats and cheeses, fish and produce, finally exiting onto Drury Street.
They paused there long enough to smoke a cigarette, waiting to see if anyone was following them. Satisfied that they were on their own, Holland nodded to Barry and they turned left this time, moving north again, walking in single file down the narrow crumbling pavement through what passed for Dublin’s garment district—an assortment of ground-floor wardrobe shops and milliners topped by narrow-windowed factories on the floors above. Eventually they reached Exchequer Street, turned right, then left again onto St. Andrew’s Street, finally ending up in front of St. Andrew’s Church itself, a squat and unattractive seventeenth-century pile of soot-stained granite.
“We’re going to mass?” Barry asked as they stopped in front of the entrance to the church. A woman as squat as the church scuttled in through the doors, pulling a black shawl over her head as she disappeared into the gloom within.
“We’re going for a pint, just like you told the man in the Customs hall,” said Holland, pointing to an elegant Victorian structure of polychrome brick and timbered windows directly across the street. The ground floor was a public house, with O’Neill’s inscribed in gold on the green wooden name board above the long, curtained windows. They crossed the street and went inside.
The interior was noisy, dark and hazed with smoke. It was also crowded with the remnants of the lunchtime trade, mostly barristers and bankers from the well-dressed looks of them. The pub was made up of a long bar on the left and a series of stall-like niches on the right running the length of the room, with benches and several tables in each stall.
They found a table halfway down the room and sat down. “You fetch the drinks,” said Holland. “I’d only attract attention.”
“What’ll you have?” asked Barry, standing.
“Guinness.”
Barry edged his way between the patrons chatting at the rail and ordered Holland’s Guinness and a black and tan for himself. He carried the tall glasses back to the table and sat down again.
Holland took a small sip and licked the foam from his lips. “They say if you drink enough of this you don’t mind the smell of the city so much.”
“Drink enough of that and you don’t mind the smell of anything,” Barry answered. He took a pull at his own ale-and-stout mixture and tried to recall the last time he’d taken drink in a Dublin pub. Too long ago to remember. He lit a cigarette and glanced at Holland. “You said we were coming here to get answers,” the policeman said, pitching his voice low enough not to carry far.
“In time,” said Holland.
Barry sighed; he’d had enough of secret meetings and cryptic phrases. “Are we waiting for someone?”
“Yes,” said Holland. He took another sip of the Guinness, looking over Barry’s shoulder toward the door.
“Who?”
“A young lad. His name is Brendan. A cutout.”
“Cutout?”
“A go-between,” Holland explained. “Nothing more than an errand boy, really.”
“You know him?”
“I’ve used him before.” Holland paused, looking over Barry’s shoulder again. “There he is.” He lifted his hand and waved. “Behan!” A few moments later a young man appeared and slid onto the bench beside Holland. He was no more than sixteen, short, square-shouldered and fat-cheeked with hard-brushed mouse-brown hair that seemed to stand straight up on his large head. He had the soulful eyes of a basset, a large nose and a small, almost girlish mouth. He glanced down at the glass of Guinness.
“Finished with that, are you?” he asked.
Holland smiled and pushed the pint in front of the boy. He picked it up and drank deeply, almost emptying the glass. He set down what was left and gave a little sigh of contentment.
“Thirsty?” Holland asked.
“Always.” The boy glanced across the table at Barry, then turned to Holland. “Who’s this then?”
“A friend, Brendan.”
The eyes narrowed. “Not of mine.”
“A countryman,” Holland soothed.
The boy stared, then lifted the Guinness and drained it away, his eyes never leaving Barry’s face. He put the glass down, belched lightly and then began to sing to the tune of “The Rising of the Moon.”
They told me, Francis Hinsley,
they told me you were hung . . .
He left it hanging in querying invitation.
Barry grinned, took a pull on his black and tan and finished the verse.
With red protruding eyeballs
and black protruding tongue.
Behan laughed and continued the test. “Up a long ladder . . .”
“And down a short rope . . .”
“To hell with King Billy . . .”
“And God bless the Pope.”
“And if he don’t like it . . .”
“We’ll tear him in two . . .”
“And send him to hell with his red, white and blue.” Behan nudged Holland in the ribs. “No offense to the flag meant, yer honor.”
“None taken,” said Holland.
Behan pointed to Barry’s black and tan. “Done with that?”
“I suppose I am,” said the policeman, repeating the ritual of pushing the glass in the young man’s direction.
“It’s laid on then?” Holland asked as Behan finished the drink.
The round-faced boy nodded and put down the glass. “I’ll go out first and then you follow. I’ll be ahead on my bike, a hundred feet or so. If there’s trouble I’ll get off and give you a signal.”
“What kind of signal?” Holland asked.
“How about if I scratch me arse?” said Behan. “Will that be clear enough to ya?”
“Abundantly.”
“You see me doing that, clear out of it, quick. Either it’s the Boys or it’s the Garda, which means tomorrow they find me bolg anairde in the Liffey, or having my horrible cobble in the Joy, neither of which would please me or my sainted mother very much, thanks but no thanks.” He stood up and slipped out from behind the table. “Give me a minute to get clear.” And then he was gone.
“A bogman in the making,” said Barry. “Or trying to be.” At sixteen the boy was already familiar with the broken bodies of informants floating belly-up in the river and the quality of the food in Mountjoy Prison.
“Fancies himself a writer,” Holland commented. “Joined the Fianna Eireann when he was twelve and started publishing articles in their magazine.” Barry nodded. Fianna Eireann was the Republican version of the Boy Scouts and bore a disturbing similarity to Germany’s Hitler Youth. Like that organization, Fianna Eireann was also a way of breeding recruits for the more serious activities of its adult counterpart.
“Do you know where he’s taking us?” Barry asked.
“Haven’t the faintest,” Holland said.
As it turned out, the young boy on his bike led the two men, on foot, back across the river to O’Connell Street, then down Talbot Street past the bookstalls and haberdashers to Amiens Station. At no time did young Behan climb down from his bicycle and scratch his arse, so they assumed they were safe, at least for the moment. The two men followed him into the plain brick railway terminal, sat down on a bench and watched as the boy leaned his bike against a wall. He went to one of the ticket windows, spoke to the agent briefly then turned away, purchasing an orange from a vending cart. He brought the fruit over to where they were sitting and peeled the orange in one long strip of rind, standing in front of the rubbish bin beside the bench.
“There’s a train to Wicklow Town in five minutes, track five. You’ll be met.” The pie-faced young man finished peeling the orange, split it and popped a section into his mouth. “For the scurvy.” He grinned and popped another section into his mouth, then walked away. Holland and Barry did as they were told, purchasing their tickets and climbing aboard just as the train began to move.