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German and Italian legations?’ McClure and Duggan nodded: the British demanded with monotonous regularity that both should be shut down. ‘So,’ Ó Murchú went on, ‘they will be unhappy at what they will see as our acquiescence in a German expansion. Given their current attitude to our neutrality, that would not be helpful.’
    He paused to consider something else behind his hands. ‘Strictly speaking, the Germans don’t need our permission to increase their personnel. As they have made clear to us in no uncertain terms. In normal circumstances it is usual to have the agreement of the host country before expanding an embassy. But these are far from normal circumstances. Regrettably, the common diplomatic courtesies are becoming a thing of the past,’ he gave a nostalgic sigh in memory of a more considerate age. ‘The language of diplomacy is giving way more and more to that of the bully boy.
    ‘They have informed us of their plan and demanded that we make arrangements for the arrival of the newcomers at Foynes. Flight plans, wireless frequencies, call signs, and so on,’ he waved away the practicalities with a dismissive hand.
    ‘And the British will know about it as soon as they are filed,’ McClure said. The Foynes seaplane base at the Shannon estuary was Ireland’s only air link with North America and Europe through a service to Lisbon. But they were operated by the British Overseas Airline Corporation and were effectively restricted to officially sanctioned passengers. Furthermore, some of the BOAC staff there were British security agents, secretly approved by the Irish government.
    ‘Indeed,’ Ó Murchú nodded. ‘If they don’t know already. What isimportant for us is that we maintain the present status quo vis-à-vis the German legation, and that we aren’t seen to be collaborating with them. On the other hand, we cannot simply reject Germany’s wishes.’
    He fell silent and let his information sink in. Duggan felt his stomach lurch, the return of a hollow feeling that had begun in the summer with the German successes on the Continent and the scares of an imminent invasion of Ireland as well as Britain. But this sounded even more dangerous. We’re being trapped, he thought, our options closing down. The next decisive move in the war was likely in the spring, notwithstanding the battles going on in North Africa. The Germans might invade as part of the invasion of Britain. Or the British might invade Ireland to get west-coast ports and protect their Atlantic convoys. Either would make us a target, ensuring the other belligerents would then come in, and all-out war would be waged here.
    After allowing them what he considered to be a suitable time for consideration, Ó Murchú added, ‘And they want to fly their men in before the end of the year. Next week.’
    ‘Can Foynes be closed?’ McClure enquired.
    ‘We can pray for bad weather,’ Ó Murchú gave another hint of his wintry smile, a cultivated speciality that verged on a grimace. ‘The only thing we can do is to explain to them the problems posed by their wishes and to try and delay them. We can’t give them an outright “no”. That could be interpreted as an unfriendly act, possibly with its own consequences. So all we can do is try and put them off for the moment. Hope they lose interest. Or other matters intervene. And in that context,’ he looked from one to the other, ‘it would be very useful to know if any of their existing staff was engaging in inappropriate activities.’
    ‘The radio transmitter?’ McClure offered. The German legation’s radio was their only direct method of communicating with Berlin,and a regular bone of contention with the British, who wanted it put out of commission. Tracking it down was a cat-and-mouse game, with the British offering technical assistance to try and pinpoint its location.
    Ó Murchú nodded. ‘That’s been played to a standstill, diplomatically. It would be helpful if we had any