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of course. That’s why it stuck in my memory.’
    ‘When was that?
    ‘Not that long ago. Early November maybe. Around the time they celebrate the Munich beer hall stuff.’
    ‘Have you been to their meetings?’
    ‘Some of them lads are off the wall,’ Timmy avoided the question and waved at the pile of letters on the table. ‘They keep sending me invitations. They’re having something on New Year’s Eve.’
    ‘You going?’
    ‘Mona’s dragging me along to something else. But I might be able to look in for a few minutes. If you want me to.’
    Duggan made a non-committal noise. He wanted information from Timmy but the last thing he wanted was to have Timmy insinuate himself into G2’s operations.

Three
    Duggan climbed the stairs to the Adelaide Agency, hoping he was timing his arrival right. It was almost lunchtime and he was banking on Gerda Meier’s boss going out to eat to allow them to talk without hindrance. At least she hadn’t gone out: he could hear a typewriter clacking as he approached the door and knocked.
    She stopped typing as he came in and she said ‘good afternoon’ in a businesslike voice and put her finger to her lips.
    He nodded and said, ‘I was wondering if you’ve got anything new on your list this week.’
    ‘I’m typing it now,’ she said. ‘There is something in Donnybrook that may suit you. Morehampton Road.’
    She began to flick forward the pages of a notebook, taking her time over each page of shorthand squiggles. The door behind her opened and Montague came out, muffled against the cold with a scarf tucked into his overcoat as well as a hat. He glanced at Duggan and then glanced at him again and nodded to him; maybe he was a potential customer after all.
    Gerda let the pages of her notebook fall closed after he left. ‘You can’t come here every week,’ she said when his footsteps had faded down the stairs.
     
    ‘I could meet you somewhere during your lunch break,’ Duggan nodded. ‘But it’s better if we’re not seen together.’
    ‘Come here at one thirty then. He won’t be back until one forty-five.’
    ‘Okay. So, how did it go?’
    ‘There were only three Germans there. A Luftwaffe crew who had to land when they ran out of fuel, Mrs Lynch said. She knew them well. One officer and two others. One of the others had an Irish girl with him and they were going to see a film. The officer reminded him to boo if there were any British newsreels, especially if they mentioned the RAF. The Irish woman said she would too.’
    ‘Did they talk about anything else interesting?’
    ‘No. Most of their talk in German was about the crewman’s girlfriend. Not nice things.’
    Duggan was about to ask her what they said but stopped himself. He could imagine.
    ‘She didn’t speak German?’
    Gerda shook her head. ‘Her boyfriend spoke some English. Not very good. When they left, the other two didn’t talk much. A little about their families and what they do every Christmas. Did.’
    Nothing much there, Duggan thought. Maybe this was a waste of time.
    ‘Mrs Lynch told me there are usually more of them. She thought there might be something on somewhere else.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘She didn’t say.’
    ‘Do you know who the Irish woman was?’
    ‘Her name was Patricia. That’s all I know.’
    ‘How did you know one of them was an officer?’
    She gave him a withering look. ‘I don’t need to see a uniform to know a Nazi,’ she snapped.
    That wasn’t the question, he thought. And being an officer didn’tmean he was a Nazi. Especially in the Luftwaffe. But he let it go. ‘Did Mrs Lynch know their names?’
    ‘She didn’t say.’
    ‘Did they talk to anyone else?’
    She shook her head. ‘There was a man who tried to talk to them but they ignored him.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Mrs Lynch said he is an artist. From England.’
    ‘An Englishman?’
    She nodded.
    ‘He’s a regular?’
    ‘She said he came last week the first time, just before Christmas. Asked her if