The Poison Tide (11 page)

Wolff couldn’t see the policemen among the crowd at the tram stop but he was sure they could see him. He was going to have to take his time, work through a routine; his mind was so blunted by fatigue that it would be easy to make a mistake. He strolled beneath the gate to the Adlon and drank a cup of coffee in its palm house. Then he walked up the Unter den Linden to the
Chicago Daily News
office and browsed through the papers in its public reading room. He left after forty-five minutes and took a horse cab to Spandauer Strasse. Outside the City Chambers, he hailed a motor cab and paid the driver two marks and twenty pfennigs to take him to the theatre on Schumannstrasse. After enquiring about tickets for a revue, he walked across the river and into the Tiergarten. It was half past eight by the time he reached the statue of Lessing and fine rain was falling again. From the tree stump at the edge of the gravel path, he counted one hundred paces due east. They’d chosen a distinctive-looking cherry with a fork high in the trunk, but it wasn’t easy to locate in the dark and he ripped the pocket of his coat pushing through the undergrowth. Reaching up through the branches, he felt inside for the flat head of a drawing pin. Having found it, he carefully released a strip of damp paper. He made his way back to the path and stopped beneath a streetlamp to glance at the note. The damn fool had written it in ink and it was barely legible.

Café Klose

Wolff knew the place – first floor, corner of Leipziger and Mauer – too smart, too central, but at least Christensen was still in business. Rolling the paper into a ball, he flicked it into the gutter.

It took a while to give the security police the slip the following morning and he was late for their rendezvous. Christensen was at a corner table with a coffee and was plainly in an evil temper. His mood didn’t improve when Wolff refused to discuss their business in the café. They left separately and caught trains to the old cemetery on Chausséestrasse where they wandered about the graves of the famous in the spring sunshine. Why had Wolff missed their rendezvous the other day? What did the Count say? It was too dangerous, he said, they must stop. Wolff knew he didn’t mean to. He was greedy and for all his blustering he enjoyed the cast-iron confidence of a youthful chancer.

‘You shouldn’t speak to Sir Roger,’ he protested. ‘He likes me, trusts me. You can leave it to me.’

They stopped at a philosopher’s grave and Wolff crouched forward as if to read the inscription. ‘You’re offering me scraps,’ he said. ‘I need to know what he wants from the Germans and what they want from him.’

Christensen waited until Wolff rose to stand at his side again. ‘I do have something.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘It’s worth a lot.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that. Well?’

But he wouldn’t be drawn for less than forty marks and a promise of forty more. ‘You understand the risk . . .’ he said. ‘It’s a fair price. Roger told me why he thinks you’re useful . . .’

‘Not here,’ interrupted Wolff. ‘We’ve been here too long.’ They ambled along the path into an unfashionable corner of the cemetery some distance from the gate.

‘This will do,’ Wolff nodded to an ugly granite temple dedicated to an architect and his family. It was gloomy and damp inside and someone had used it as a lavatory. ‘Is this necessary?’ Christensen gave a little shudder.

‘Are you afraid of ghosts?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘Here,’ Wolff offered him the marks. ‘Tell me what you know and we can leave.’

‘It was the Count,’ the Norwegian muttered, slipping the money into his pocketbook. ‘What I mean is, the Count told him you were in South Africa. That you’d served with an Irishman . . .’

‘MacBride.’

‘Yeah, MacBride. That’s why he wanted to speak to you.’

‘That’s it?’ He stared at Christensen for a few seconds, then reached for the lapel of his coat, pinching its edge as if testing the weight of the cloth. ‘Is that all?’

‘Sir Roger was excited.’

‘I know,’ he snapped.

‘No. You don’t understand. I mean, yes, he likes this man MacBride, but it’s the brigade. Like the one you served in . . .’ he frowned. ‘If you did. He’s trying to, well, form his own Irish Brigade.’

Wolff let go of his lapel. ‘Here?’

‘Yes. Irishmen in the British Army, prisoners – the Germans have captured some – thousands.’

Wolff looked at him sceptically.

‘Hundreds.’

He didn’t know how many.

‘To fight in Ireland?’

‘I suppose.’ He shrugged his square shoulders. ‘Why else?’

‘You’re sure about this?’

Christensen said he was certain. He had listened to Sir Roger explaining his plans to a man who’d arrived from Switzerland. An Irishman, someone important, he said. No, he didn’t catch his name nor did he hear mention of a date for a rising.

‘All right.’ Wolff patted his arm. ‘Good. See if you can find out.’

Christensen smiled. ‘I told you. You can leave it to me. You will leave it to me, won’t you?’

‘What does it matter, if I pay you?’ he replied.

It was impossible to avoid Casement even if he had wished to. They met for breakfast and walked through the Tiergarten again, then on the following day for dinner. He insisted on taking Wolff to the theatre and arranged for an invitation to a soirée in Count Blücher’s rooms at the Esplanade. Would you fight again? he asked. What might you risk to bring England low? He hated injustice, he hated the prejudice of his own class, he hated intemperate sacrifice, the machine grinding relentlessly on the Western Front. He hated all those things, and yet he spoke to Wolff of ‘England’ without reason, raging at her ‘perfidy’ and the ‘moral debauchery’ of her public servants, rejoicing in the thought that she would be made to ‘pay’ in time.

Did Wolff like him? Ordinarily it was a question he didn’t ask himself. As they walked the same circuits, round and round, he listened and recognised a man twisted to distraction by doubts: charming, funny and fragile. ‘Spies follow me everywhere too,’ Casement observed at dinner. Was he imagining it? There was always a policeman trailing Wolff so it was impossible to say. ‘I’m worse than a refugee – an outcast,’ Casement continued. ‘My friends despise me, the Germans don’t trust me, and the rest of the world wants to hang me.’

‘You’re respected as a man of principle,’ Wolff assured him, but it wasn’t true.

He noted it first at the Blüchers’ soirée. The Count and his wife were old friends from Casement’s London days. ‘People of our mind,’ he remarked breezily, but a few minutes later he was urging de Witt to accompany him into the ‘lion’s den’.

The Esplanade was a new hotel in the French style, brash, opulent, a favourite of the Kaiser’s before the war and, since, a refuge for the rich returning from abroad.

‘Do you think I look well?’ Casement asked as they presented their hats and coats to a footman.

‘Of course.’

He smiled appreciatively. ‘I’m sure it will be a pleasant evening,’ but he didn’t sound sure.

The Count’s suite was one of the finest in the hotel, with French windows opening on to an elegant courtyard garden of trimmed box borders and pine. Some of his hardier guests were smoking on the terrace but most were sipping champagne in his drawing room: gentlemen of middle years and their ladies in expensive, sombre dresses, black and grey the new fashion, with only a little discreet jewellery. The Countess glided towards them like a ship in full sail.

‘Sir Roger says you’re American and Dutch.’ She offered Wolff a cold hand. Her English was as finely cut as the room’s Venetian chandelier. ‘Americans are always something else as well, aren’t they?’ She turned her head a little to gaze at Casement, a small frown on her brow. ‘But in this ghastly war all our loyalties are being tested.’

‘I pray something worthwhile will come from it,’ ventured Casement.

‘I can’t imagine what you think will be worth the sacrifice, Sir Roger,’ she replied stiffly. ‘Mr de Witt . . .’ she caught Wolff’s eye. Her dark looks and no-nonsense manner reminded him of his mother. ‘There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to, another of your countrymen.’

Weber was a middle-aged Californian, a gruff soldier with a shaggy blond moustache like General Custer’s. He talked incessantly about the war in a deep and somnolent voice, pausing only to sip his champagne. Wolff let his plans for a ‘knockout’ blow in the West wash over him, his eyes on Casement as he drifted from circle to circle. Weber must have followed his gaze. ‘That’s Sir Roger Casement,’ he said, a hand to his face, as if sheltering a secret from the room. His breath smelt of alcohol and strong tobacco. ‘You’ve seen his name in the papers, I reckon?’ Wolff admitted that he had. ‘People say he’s raisin’ a brigade to fight against the British. You heard that? The thing is . . .’ and he edged closer still. ‘It leaves a bad taste, don’t it?’ Wolff raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘Course I want Germany to win this shootin’ match, but a fella who’s betrayed one country won’t fuss about betrayin’ another.’

Drawing-room whispers, sideways glances, and Wolff saw the backs of one small circle turned like a wall. In his crude way, Weber spoke for them all. Sir Roger wasn’t Sir Roger any more. The Count had invited his old friend for what he’d been, not what he’d become. His wife put it more bluntly.

‘He says you’re his friend,’ she remarked to Wolff as she led him away from Weber into the chill air. ‘Persuade him to go back to America.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Wolff said, genuinely perplexed.

‘Sir Roger’s making a fool of himself; you do see that, don’t you?’

‘Why?’ he asked coolly.

‘He’s humiliating himself. My husband says no one here is sure they can trust him – traitors, spies, who can be certain of the difference? You’ve heard of his Irish Brigade?’

‘No.’

‘Madness. He’s being used and I’m sorry.’ Her regret sounded genuine. ‘You know I am, well, I
was
very fond of him.’

‘Whether he’s being used or not, I can’t say,’ replied Wolff. ‘I confess, I barely know him, but I do believe him to be courageous and, yes, a good man. A good man fighting, as he always has – for liberty and justice, but this time for his own people – for Ireland.’

‘Then you are as foolish as Roger,’ she declared haughtily.

They left the party a short time later, police spies in tow. Casement looked strained and said little. To their surprise, Christensen was slumped on a couch in the lobby of the Minerva, his face flushed with drink. He fussed over Casement, adjusting his silk scarf, summoning a waiter for a glass of water.

‘You see how Adler looks after me, de Witt.’ Casement’s voice shook a little.

‘You’re a lucky man.’

Christensen scowled at Wolff indiscreetly.

‘Really? Do you think so?’ asked Casement sadly.

As soon as they’d gone, Wolff went up to his room to rescue the note beneath his door. They had arranged to make their drops at the cemetery but he knew Christensen was angry and frustrated and was at the hotel to say so. The damn fool was going to give them away. Heart thumping, he checked the powder he’d lightly dusted on the door handle – no sign of a print. Christ, he could see a corner of the paper under the door. Thankfully Christensen had written no more than a time.

Calmer, settled in shirtsleeves, Wolff stood at the window of his sitting room with a cigarette, gazing down on the empty boulevard, a gathering wind rattling flag ropes, shaking the spring limes, sickly in the lamplight. He’d been in Berlin almost six weeks and the only thing he knew for sure was that Casement was recruiting a brigade – it seemed to be common knowledge in some circles – no numbers, no dates. C liked to be kept informed, if only to be sure his agents were alive and still on ‘our side’, but that was before the war when everything was simpler. Of course, C would know from his bank account at Deutsche in New York that he was alive. Wolff could imagine him poring over the statements and fuming to his secretary that he’d heard nothing for weeks and wasn’t getting his money’s worth. He was as hot as hell about money. ‘Serves him bloody well right,’ Wolff muttered, grinding his cigarette into an ashtray.

The following morning he visited the bank and withdrew another hundred marks, then registered at the police station as foreigners were required to do. It took a little longer to lose his tail. At the cemetery a work party was polishing the tombs and raking the paths. Wolff nodded to the foreman, thankful that he’d taken the trouble to buy a small wreath at the station florist. He wandered for a while in the sunshine, stopping every now and again to read an inscription. Satisfied at last that the police weren’t hiding among the monuments, he made his way to the architect’s temple. Christensen arrived a few minutes later, short of breath, his face red and a little swollen.

‘Too used to the good life,’ Wolff teased. ‘You’re out of condition.’

He was bent double over his knees, his wool jacket stretched so tightly across his broad back that its seams were easing apart.

‘Have you the forty marks you owe me?’ he gasped at last.

‘Not here – inside.’

The little temple smelt worse. Wolff waited until his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, then hoisted himself on to a ledge.

‘Can’t we meet somewhere else?’ grumbled Christensen.

‘Next time. What do you have for me?’

‘Where’s my money?’

Reaching into his jacket, Wolff took out his cigarette case and offered it to him: ‘All in good time.’

Christensen waved it away irritably. ‘I don’t want to do this any more.’

‘Got a better offer?’

‘You don’t need me.’ He took a step away, reaching up to a marble bust of the architect’s wife, running his large forefinger down her nose. ‘I told you to leave it to me,’ he added resentfully.

‘Are you jealous?’

‘If you can do it on your own, why don’t you?’ he said, turning to gaze at Wolff.

‘Belt and braces, Adler, I need you. Of course I do.’

‘Roger likes you. He’s spending too much time with you.’

‘You’ve spoken about me?’

Christensen nodded.

‘Damn stupid. One small mistake and we’ll end up here.’ Wolff gestured angrily to the view of the cemetery beyond the temple columns. ‘But not before a lot of pain.’