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earlier in what he always referred to as ‘the four glorious years’. And he continued to be friendly with some old comrades now leading the IRA campaign against the native government.
    Inside, Captain Sullivan stopped Duggan in the corridor with his hand out. ‘You got the money for the tickets?’
    Duggan gave him one of the pound notes he had borrowed from his father and a ten-shilling note and two half-crowns. ‘You got a date for me?’
    ‘Yeah,’ Sullivan smirked. ‘Carmel’s friend Breda. You remember her? We met them in the Carlton after that Charlie Chan picture a few weeks ago.’
    ‘Yeah.’ Carmel was Sullivan’s girlfriend but Duggan wasn’t sure he could remember her friend Breda.
    ‘Don’t get any ideas,’ Sullivan said. ‘It’s not a real date. She doesn’t fancy you.’
    ‘Fine,’ Duggan laughed. The feeling was obviously mutual: she hadn’t made much of an impression on him either.
    ‘She wants you to know that. She’s only going with you because she wants to be there with Carmel and she’s not doing a line at the moment.’
    ‘Okay, I get the message.’
    But Sullivan hadn’t finished yet. ‘Actually, she thinks you’re a bit stuck-up.’
    ‘She said that?’ Duggan tried harder to remember her. Not a great looker, more than a bit standoffish, judgemental. Or maybe he was assuming that now. He couldn’t really remember anything about her and would be hard put to recognise her in the street. They’d only met for a few minutes and he’d been hurrying away. ‘Give me back half the money,’ Duggan put his hand out. ‘She can pay for herself.’
    Sullivan laughed and walked away.
    Duggan sat down at his desk, closed his eyes and stretched his neck and joined his hands behind his head. It’d been a long day, another interminable train journey back from his parents’, a scramble to finish the report on German agents, which wasn’t what they wanted after all, and then the meeting with Ó Murchú.
    ‘Thanks for that note from the man in Dundalk,’ a voice said behind him.
    Duggan opened his eyes and twisted around. Captain Liam Anderson was standing in the doorway, as if the room was out of bounds to him. Anderson was a few years older than Duggan, a red-haired Northerner. Duggan only knew him to see, had never had a real conversation with him. ‘You had no problems with him? With Murphy?’
    ‘No. The train was very late but he was still there.’
    ‘He’s a reliable man,’ Anderson nodded. ‘Very interesting info.’
    ‘Yeah?’ Duggan sounded surprised. ‘It all seemed a bit vague. Except for the list of damaged ships.’
    ‘He doesn’t exaggerate or speculate. Like a lot of people in this business.’
    That’s true, Duggan thought, thinking back to Murphy’s refusal to go beyond what he had heard. ‘Vague stuff about the British troops. Americans in Derry.’
    ‘You lads in here only deal in hard facts?’
    ‘Fair point,’ Duggan conceded. ‘It sounded frustrating though.’
    ‘The important point is that these Americans were not in uniform.’
    ‘Under cover.’
    Anderson nodded. ‘And the Brits have brought in another battalion. We’ve had corroboration from another source.’
    ‘Not rotating?’
    ‘No. Reinforcing.’
    ‘Jesus,’ Duggan said.
    ‘Don’t be too hard on the Jerries,’ Anderson pointed a finger at him. ‘We might be needing them yet.’
     
    The day was dull and cold, a mass of threatening grey clouds pressing down on the city, dampening spirits. There was snow on the tops of the Dublin Mountains, melding them into the clouds, as Duggan cycled up Rathmines Road. The drone of a heavy aircraft grew louder and louder and passed almost overhead, hidden in the cloud, and faded away towards the mountains. A bomber, he thought, from the weight of its noise. Probably lost.
    Timmy Monaghan opened the door himself. ‘Hardy day,’ he said. ‘You’re in time for the dinner.’
    ‘No, thanks,’ Duggan said. ‘Love to stay but I