The Poison Tide (23 page)

‘I must go,’ said Laura, picking up her skirts.

‘Will I see you soon?’ he called after her.

Grinding his cigarette end into the grass, he turned with a sigh and strolled towards the little group of conspirators beneath the trees. As he approached, a very fat man detached himself from it and began to waddle away. He cast a furtive glance at Wolff, his face florid like a Bavarian butcher’s, chins rolling on to his chest, head rocking from side to side. Ageless, as fleshy people often are, and guilty, Wolff thought, the perpetrator of an unspeakable crime that would be discovered in the fullness of time.

‘Well met, Mr de Witt.’ Rintelen stepped out from beneath the tree to offer his hand – or was it to distract Wolff from his associate? ‘I saw you talking to Miss . . .’

‘McDonnell.’

‘An Irish lady?’

‘And American.’

‘What does Miss McDonnell think of our strike?’ His own view was plain enough, written boldly in his face.

‘Our strike?’

‘Another of Mr Gaché’s enterprises,’ he explained smugly.

Wolff nodded. ‘Mr Gaché is a resourceful man. Actually, he asked me to meet him here.’

‘To consult you on . . . let’s say, a technical matter.’ Rintelen looked carefully around the park. The meeting was over, the longshoremen were drifting home or chatting and smoking in tight circles. At a trellis table to the left of the dais, Laura and other members of the Clan were taking the names of those hoping to benefit from Gaché’s munificence. ‘I have an office, we can talk there,’ he said.

‘But first it was necessary to drag me out here.’ Wolff’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Rintelen laughed his short yelping laugh. ‘No, no, Mr de Witt, patience, patience, you shall see.’

S
HE WAS BATHED
in the last golden light of the setting sun like a large soprano taking her curtain call at the Hofoper.

‘Our piece of Germany,’ Rintelen observed as they walked along the quay towards her.

‘Fifteen knots?’

‘So, always the engineer,’ he replied coolly. ‘Yes, fifteen, with a fair wind
.
’

Top-heavy, thought Wolff, her fine Atlantic lines spoilt by too much amidships, with all the passenger cabins in the superstructure: uncomfortable in a high sea. Two yellow funnels, probably two sets of quadruple expansion engines – that would be typical of her class – two minutes to walk from stem to stern, half a block on Broadway. Once the pride of the Norddeutscher Lloyd
fleet, idle and rusting at a pier, the largest ship in a graveyard of ships.

A hefty sailor, a stoker once perhaps, was guarding the foot of the gangway. Instinctively he stiffened, his arm rising in what would have been a salute but for Rintelen’s sharp ‘Nein’.

‘A good German crew,’ he said as they walked up the gangway. ‘They know how to keep their mouths shut and von Kleist works them hard for me. So, welcome aboard the
Friedrich der Grosse
,
Mr de Witt.’

A junior lieutenant had scurried down from the bridge to greet them. Did the
Kapitän
require assistance? he panted. The captain required two stout seamen to guard the passageway to his office. Just a precaution, he said with a strangled laugh, to be sure no one listened at the door, a British spy.

Wolff concentrated on his smile. Water-bloody-tight? Christ, it better be.

‘She’s perfect for my enterprise,’ Rintelen continued. ‘Is there a general at the Front in France with a finer headquarters than the
Friedrich der Grosse
?’ Cabins, kitchens, workshops, one way on, one way off, impossible to approach undetected by day, and no one to hear a prisoner scream, Wolff thought, or discover a body weighted and buried according to the customs of the sea. Watertight? The damnedest thing; if his cover story leaked like an old bucket he wasn’t going to have an opportunity to take it up with Gaunt.

‘His Majesty stood where you stand now, Mr de Witt.’ Rintelen turned to the young officer, ‘A famous day, Braun.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Fifteen years ago.’ Rintelen shook his head as middle-aged men seeking the sympathy of peers at the passage of so much time are wont to do. ‘And you were fighting in South Africa?’

‘On my way.’

‘Different times. But the Emperor saw this day. He knew there would be war in Europe.’

‘Everyone saw this day, Captain,’ said Wolff curtly. No point in pretending de Witt had any affection for their Kaiser.

‘Not just that there would be war, but here, aboard the
Friedrich der Grosse
,’ said Rintelen, tapping his foot and pointing animatedly to the few feet of deck between them. ‘He predicted how it would be fought, Mr de Witt. War in our time.’

‘I see. Well, when the cheering stops,’ replied Wolff sarcastically.

Rintelen’s smile came slowly. ‘I forgot – you are a practical man – and an impatient man. So,’ he said, with a gracious sweep of the hand, ‘we are ready.’

From the shelter deck, the lieutenant escorted them into a polished-panel passageway and up the main companionway to a stateroom on ‘A’ deck. ‘The dark invader’s office,’ said Rintelen without any trace of irony.

It was no more than a large first-class cabin with two ports on the starboard side, flock wallpaper, black lacquer furniture, and the bed had been replaced by three large oak filing cabinets. Rintelen walked over to the middle one and took out a folder and a cylinder of paper which he unrolled and anchored to the table. It was a draughtsman’s drawing of a cargo ship.

‘A technical matter, Mr de Witt. She is not the
Titanic
but an associate of mine thinks he has come up with a plan to cripple her rudder at sea – here . . .’ he nudged the file. ‘What do you think?’

‘And for this advice?’

He lifted his chin haughtily. ‘You will be compensated –
if
you are the engineer you claim to be.’

Wolff nodded and reached for the file. ‘A glass of water, please.’

‘Whisky?’

‘Yes.’

Careful notes, some sketches, a simple plan on paper; its architect knew what he was doing. Attach the charge to the rudder of the ship. In the tip of the charge, a needle-shaped pin to connect to the rudder shaft. Shaft turns, pin turns, boring its way into the mercury fulminate, detonating an explosion powerful enough to blow the rudder. Ship left helpless.

‘Well?’ Rintelen set the whisky on the table in front of Wolff.

‘It’s technically possible, yes.’

‘You do not sound sure.’

Wolff lifted his glass, squinting reflectively at the plans through the twinkling crystal. ‘It is possible.’ He raised it to his lips but lowered it again without taking a sip. ‘Is it a good plan? No, it isn’t a good plan.’

‘Ha,’ exclaimed Rintelen, sweeping his hand above the table in a grand gesture. ‘Enlighten me.’

‘You want to sink or damage the enemy’s supply ships, but this—’ Wolff was interrupted by the door. Hinsch
rolled into the room, tossing his coat over a chair. ‘Well?’ He nodded curtly towards Wolff. ‘Is he any good?’

Rintelen ignored him. ‘Please, Mr de Witt.’

‘Simply because it will be very difficult for the diver to fit the detonator without being caught,’ Wolff’s hand trailed over the drawings, ‘and what about the water in winter? There are easier ways.’

‘A little more?’ Rintelen held up the whisky bottle.

Wolff shook his head. ‘And the diver would need to know what he was doing with the charge.’

Rintelen nodded thoughtfully. ‘So, what would you suggest?’

‘Don’t you know? You’re the Dark Invader.’ Yes, of course he knew; Wolff could see it in his face. ‘Just light the touchpaper, Captain. These ships are waiting to go off.’

‘The ammunition?’

Wolff laughed. ‘Enough. No more games. You know that’s what I mean, and you’ve tried, haven’t you?’

Silence as they stared at each other. A tinkle of ice. Hinsch was fixing himself a whisky American-style. Rintelen’s eyes flitting around Wolff’s face. He wanted to swot them away. One step forward and slap.

‘So, here . . .’ Rintelen looked away at last. Reaching for the file, he took out a copy of the
Shipping News
and spread it on the table in front of Wolff. ‘This report. The English ship,
Beatus
– lost with all hands and many tons of ammunition.’ He was fidgeting with the edge of the paper excitedly. ‘
Our
success, Mr de Witt.
Ours.
’

‘You sank her?’ Wolff raised his glass in salute. ‘Congratulations.’

‘There have been other English ships, but many failures.’

Hinsch snorted disdainfully. ‘Twenty-two.’

‘Too many, yes.’

‘The detonator?’ Wolff asked.

Rintelen shook his head. ‘The detonator is good . . .’

‘The Irish,’ interjected Hinsch. ‘The Irish are stupid . . .’

‘That is why we need you, Mr de Witt,’ Rintelen continued. ‘It could be profitable for both of us.’ He lifted the draughtsman’s plan from the table and began to roll it into the cylinder. ‘If I can trust you, of course.’

‘Isn’t it a bit late to decide?’

Rintelen was pretending to concentrate on the tube, long fingers scrabbling it tighter. ‘There!’ he remarked with a chillingly false nonchalance. He lifted the tube and his gaze to Wolff. ‘Not too late, Mr de Witt.’

‘No, I suppose it isn’t.’

‘But I
can
trust you . . .’

‘Yes, of course. Correct.’

‘Good.’ Scooping up the rest of the papers, he walked over to the filing cabinet and locked them back in the top drawer. ‘Now, Hinsch,’ he turned back to them both with his little smile, ‘let us show our new comrade the stock.’

Half-lit companionways from carpeted ‘first’ to steerage, into the echoing body of the ship and down to the boiler room; a stoker keeping vigil, tending the flame of a single furnace; plating clatters, bulkhead doors icy to the touch. Cursed by idle darkness, they walk in silence or whisper like intruders at the heart of a mountain, in a place where it is impossible to say ‘to thine own self be true’, until they come at last to a workshop, buried in the ship like the embers of a dying fire, full of noise and light that breathes, a dozen seamen grinding away at lathes, sparks and shavings showering the deck and their heavy workboots.

‘I bought the machinery through one of my companies,’ Rintelen shouted above the noise. ‘You see – Gaché is a proper businessman.’

Wolff picked up a strip of lead tubing from one of the workbenches. ‘Detonator casings?’

‘The business of destruction, Mr de Witt.’ He was revelling in the role he’d cast for himself. ‘Your Westinghouse, yes? I’ll buy what I can and blow up what I can’t.’

‘You attach some sort of timing mechanism?’

‘No, no, much better.’ He nodded to the chief petty officer and stepped back into the passageway. ‘So you see.’ He was still shouting, his voice ringing in the emptiness. ‘We set the detonator to go off when the ship leaves American waters. I will show you how, but not here.’

‘Yes, that would be useful if you want me to set them for you.’

This time Rintelen detected the irony and frowned disapprovingly, his small close-set eyes lost beneath his brow. ‘I am not short of people, Mr de Witt. I have people here and in Baltimore, Boston – in every port. But I need someone who can show them where to place the charges. My travelling representative, if you like.’

Wolff nodded slowly. ‘And for this service you will pay?’

‘I will pay well.’

A fine rain was falling, the lights of Manhattan almost lost in a soft mist. Rintelen tried to persuade him to stay because there was no possibility of a taxicab at that hour. Safer not to, Wolff replied.

‘You are careful,’ he remarked approvingly. ‘You are right to be. The English have spies, and the New York police sometimes. You need money?’

‘I want money.’

‘Visit Dr Albert. He will see you this time.’

‘You know how to contact me, Captain,’ Wolff said, pulling up the collar of his mackintosh.

‘Yes, I know how to contact you.’ His handshake was surprisingly limp and cold.

‘Goodbye.’ Wolff stepped on to the companionway.

‘The Emperor said we must be like the Huns, Mr de Witt, ruthless in pursuit of our victory.’

Reluctantly Wolff turned to face him again.

‘Here on this deck;’ Rintelen moved closer. His cheeks were shining wet in the ship’s lights, sallow like a Chinaman’s. ‘No prisoners. No quarter. I am a gentleman but this is not a business for gentlemen. I have become the Dark Invader.’

The preening villain again, von Brüning in
The Riddle of the Sands
, but Wolff was too afraid of him to laugh. ‘Your point, Captain?’

Rintelen’s sharp brown eyes were dancing about Wolff’s face again, his mouth hard and straight like an iron bar. ‘I’m sure we understand each other, Mr de Witt.’

The rain was quickening, heavy drops thundering on to the steel companionway steps, and Wolff was soaked to the skin by the time he reached the quay.

‘But my God, you look rough,’ observed Gaunt in his typically bluff fashion the following morning. He had arranged a room at the Prince George Hotel, between Madison and 5th. ‘The assistant manager’s son is on our side, he explained; ‘have to pay him, of course.’

The window was open, the room reassuringly full of the street three floors below.

‘Seen the papers?’ he enquired. ‘They shot Edith Cavell.’

‘Oh?’ Wolff didn’t have the slightest notion what he was talking about. ‘Is there any coffee?’ he asked, dropping into an easy chair. A shaft of sunlight burst through the window and he closed his eyes.

‘Wake up, for God’s sake, man,’ Gaunt commanded. ‘The British nurse . . . you must have read about her – here.’ He thrust a cup at Wolff. ‘She helped chaps caught behind enemy lines. Bad business.’ Standing above Wolff in his white uniform, bone-china cup almost lost in his fist, thin lips pursed in thought, ‘. . . but good in a way – it’s upset the Americans.’

He gazed down his long nose at Wolff for a few seconds more, then sat down, perching on the edge of the chair. ‘A fine-looking woman for her age,’ he noted between sips of coffee; ‘jolly fine.’