The Poison Tide (48 page)

‘You heard about the New York police?’ Wiseman enquired eventually. He leant close to fill Wolff’s glass. ‘The President’s people are going to hold them off. Don’t want a scandal.’ He lifted his champagne to the dying light. ‘This isn’t bad. Actually, it’s bloody good – 1911. What do you think?’

‘Yes, it’s good. Thank you.’

‘Yes, it is.’ He lifted the glass to his lips then lowered it again without drinking. ‘Unfortunately there is a price for fending off our friends in the police. Thing is, President Wilson has promised the people he won’t allow foreign spies to flout the law, and it’s an election year, so it’s a promise he wants to keep.’ He offered an ironic smile. ‘What’s more, we’re supposed to be the good boys. The President’s on our side, well, his advisers are . . .’

Wolff interrupted: ‘So you want me out of the way?’

‘They do, old boy, they do. Persona non grata, I’m afraid.’

For a while they didn’t speak, their silence filled with the sea’s sad cadence.

‘Perhaps it’s for the best – it isn’t safe for you here,’ Wiseman said at last. ‘When America comes into the war this nonsense will be . . .’

‘You think she will enter the war?’

‘I do. One last heave, I say.’

‘But it isn’t nonsense, is it? The death of the informer.’ Wolff swept his hand across his eyes. ‘I did kill him.’

‘Yes, you had to.’ Wiseman shifted his chair a little to look Wolff in the eye. ‘And you were extraordinarily brave. HMG owes you a great debt of gratitude. It owes me the price of the best champagne I could buy to thank you properly on its behalf,’ and he raised his glass in salute.

‘I thought we were toasting the victory at Jutland?’

‘Course not. Another costly stalemate. It would be a waste of good champagne.’

Wolff smiled weakly. ‘You know, I’ve done nothing of real worth.’

‘Now you’re fishing for compliments, old boy.’

‘They’ll culture more poison. Probably send another von Rintelen.’

‘Of course they will,’ he huffed, ‘it’s a war – goodness, a bloody brutal one. A war of attrition. We’ve enjoyed a few victories, that’s all, we haven’t won it. But when they come back it will be harder. The President has told his advisers America must start protecting its interests more vigorously – happily, those interests correspond with our own.’

He paused to sip his champagne, his lips smacking a little. ‘It’s one of those little ironies thrown up by war that the more trouble the enemy causes us here in America, the better we like it, because our hosts are losing patience.’

The tide had crept up the beach and would soon be at the full, the sea quite calm, a feathery trail of mist lifting from its face but a shining firmament above.

‘When do I leave?’ Wolff asked, offering his cigarette case.

‘No, thank you. My pipe,’ Wiseman said, tapping his blazer pocket. ‘Soon, I think – a fortnight? Is that all right? White will accompany you.’

‘That isn’t necessary.’

‘We think it is. Don’t want you dumped over the side like a sick horse.’

Wolff bent to the flame he was cupping in his hands and inhaled deeply. ‘I’ve a favour to ask.’

‘Ask away.’

‘Something I must do. Actually someone I must see. I’d like a driver for a day, perhaps two.’

Wiseman frowned thoughtfully. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

‘No.’ Wolff drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘No, it isn’t wise. It
is
something I must do.’

‘I see.’ Wiseman took out his pipe and spent a few minutes preparing and lighting it. Teeth clamped on the bit, he muttered, ‘Just this pipe, then bed.’ The tide was high now and breaking gently thirty yards from the house. Soon it would turn and draw away from the fringes of the earth.

‘This business with the poison – the anthrax,’ he said, inspecting the bowl of his pipe. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Wolff, it’s shaken my faith in the march of man, or for want of a better . . . civilisation. Is that an inevitable consequence of war, I wonder – any war?’

Wolff examined the back of his hands. ‘I have a friend who says only a great moral cause is worthy of such sacrifice. Is ours a great moral cause?’

Wiseman sighed. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it is too late to ask.’

The Consulate Cadillac collected Wolff from the beach house two days later. It was midday when they parked outside Laura’s apartment on the Upper West Side. He didn’t expect her to be in at that hour. Campaigning for a new world
,
he thought, instantly ashamed of his cynicism. He sent the driver to eat and sat gazing at her front door. An old lady hobbled out to a waiting carriage and a short time later a concierge helped a nurse and her young charges to another. There was a chance that he would be there for hours.
He was torn between impatience to see her and relief that he couldn’t. In the many idle hours of his recovery he’d often pondered what he might say. He couldn’t explain, and why would she believe him if he said he loved her? He was sorry and he hated what he’d done; that much he should say, he had to say.

When the driver returned from lunch Wolff instructed him to leave his hat and jacket in the motor car and join New York in the park. Was Laura there too? It was an overpoweringly hot afternoon; he guessed the thermometer was pushing ninety-five. An expensively dressed young couple came out of the adjoining block and floated arm-in-arm along the street. At three o’clock, Laura’s aunt took a cab west towards the river. Oppressively stuffy in the Cadillac, by half past three he’d smoked his last cigarette. For God’s sake, he thought, what’s the point of hiding?
He felt a little better in the sunshine, leaning against the scorching bonnet and meandering short distances, the heat shimmering over the sidewalk. I’m glad to be alive in spite of this, of everything,
he reflected, and if he felt a little weak and tired of waiting he was sure it was the right thing to do. It was possible he would be there all evening.

But it didn’t happen like that in the end. At a little after five o’clock he saw her walking briskly from the direction of the Columbus Circle subway. She was wearing a cream dress and floppy sunhat to protect her fair skin, wisps of hair escaping as always, lifting her left hand to tidy them away, and again after only a few steps; leather portfolio in her right hand; bending into her stride, unmistakably a woman of purpose. He felt sick with confusion but at the same time full of joy and sudden, crazy, crazy hope. He began to walk towards her –
when will she see me?
– but she was occupied with her thoughts. He could imagine the little frown of concentration hovering at her brow. Taking a shaky breath, he stepped lightly into the street, his gaze fixed on her advancing figure.

He was a few yards from her when she lifted her head and caught him there. She stopped abruptly, eyes screwed tight shut, an anguished expression, and biting her lip. Then, dropping her chin so her face was hidden by the brim of her hat, she set off again, her pace quickening with every step.

‘Laura,’ he called. His voice sounded distant, uncertain. ‘Can we talk?’ He tried to step closer, but she raised her hand as if to push him away.

‘Laura, I want to say . . .’ but he wasn’t able to – not yet. ‘Please stop. Please speak to me.’

‘Leave me alone,’ she said in barely more than a whisper. He was at her side, step for step.

‘Did you know about Dilger? Doctor Dilger?’

She ignored him.

‘Dilger – you were sheltering . . .’ He was trying to engage her, but her stride didn’t falter. ‘Look, I know what you must think of me. I’m sorry – believe me – I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t think I would . . .’ Words stuck in his throat again. Without thinking, he reached a hand out to her.

‘If you were a gentleman, you’d leave me alone,’ she said quietly, her voice shaking with anger.

She’s right, he thought with sudden cold clarity, like a drunk in a fleeting moment of sobriety. ‘Of course, if you wish . . .’

‘How can you doubt it?’ and she glanced up at him, her blue-green eyes sparkling with a fury that cut deeper than the German sailor’s knife.

‘Yes, I’ll leave,’ he said softly. ‘I wanted to say how sorry I feel – and that I did – I
do –
love you.’

She ignored him, lifting the hem of her dress to lengthen her stride, almost scuttling, frantic to cover the last few yards to her door. That was almost the end of the affair, but in her hurry to escape she tripped and, pitching forward, dropped her portfolio. It burst, spilling papers on the sidewalk. ‘Oh God, no,’ she cried in frustration.

He bent down to help her, anchoring as many as he could, their hands close as she scrabbled for the papers with her nails, one hand still to her hat. He couldn’t see her face but he saw her shoulders rise and fall heavily as she struggled to control her feelings, and a few seconds later he heard her strangle a sob.

‘Oh Laura, I’m so sorry.’

And then she looked up, her lower lip trembling, her fine eyes wet with tears. ‘How could you? How could you?’ she asked, and the dam burst, her words flowing in an agonising torrent: ‘Who are you, who – how could you when I loved you? – but I don’t know you – you betrayed Roger – and Nina – everyone – you let me love you, and you lied – liar! You liar! Liar!’

He tried to touch her but she brushed his hand away. ‘Liar! What do you care – liar – you care for nothing, no one – I don’t even know your name – liar,’ and with a heart-wrenching groan she rose from the sidewalk, papers clenched in her tiny fist, and turning to the door – somehow she managed to find the key – closed it quietly behind her. He could hear her sobbing in the entrance hall and a moment later saw her silhouette at the pane of blue glass to the left of the door. She was bent almost double in tears.

‘Laura.’ He rapped on the door once. ‘Laura, let me in – please.’

There was only a thickness of glass between them but she didn’t turn to look at him or reply.

‘Laura, I love you. Please,’ he pleaded, longing to cherish her. But she wasn’t going to open the door. She couldn’t forgive him and perhaps she wanted to punish them both, because she stood crying at the window for at least ten minutes. Wolff waited in silence beside her.

Then, standing straight and without a backward glance to the shadow in the glass, she walked away. He followed her footsteps across the mosaic floor and heard the elevator doors open and close and knew she’d gone. Her leather portfolio was still lying on the sidewalk, papers fluttering in the gusts from passing cars. Moving slowly and in a mist, he painstakingly collected them all and posted the portfolio through the letterbox.

A few days later, he took a passage to England.

B
ERLIN WAS NOT
the city it used to be. Everything was changing and for the worse, Anton Dilger reflected as he shuffled from the platform on to the station concourse. He could read it in the creased face of the factory worker beside him in the queue, and in the rheumy eyes of the old lady with her eggs to sell at market, and he could hear it in the frazzled voice of a mother scolding the children at her skirt. Greyer, grubbier, thinner, the city was shrinking from the fine-figured lady she used to be into a street urchin. Every day of the three months he’d been home had brought new sadness. He shut his eyes for a second, trying to force from his mind the scenes he’d witnessed in Karlsruhe just a few days before, but he could hear an endless echo of them in the huff and rumble of the station.

His sister, Elizabeth, had taken it sorely when he had announced, after only a few weeks, that he was leaving Berlin to become a surgeon at a hospital closer to the Front.

‘You’ve only just come back to me,’ she had protested.

‘Karlsruhe, isn’t so far,’ he had assured her.

Count Nadolny had tried to persuade him to stay, too.

‘Take some time, but we need you here,’ the Count had insisted. ‘Things are worse in Germany – open your eyes, you’ll see.’

And here I am again, he thought.

It was five in the afternoon and the queue for cabs stretched across the front of the station and round the side. Too impatient to wait, he threw his bag on his back like a soldier’s knapsack and set off at a brisk pace. It was a fine June day and he hoped some vigorous exercise and sunshine would lift his spirits a little. But it was impossible to walk away from the war. Cripples begging in front of a church; at a street corner a gang of women in flat caps and bloomers, wielding picks and shovels as their menfolk at the Front used to do; and crossing the Tiergarten in silence a column of fresh young recruits – passers-by turning away, frightened to look them in the eye.

Walking on, the sun blinking, blinding through the trees, Dilger’s mind was confused with angry thoughts, his chest tight with the unconscious pain of memory. Only the death of his sister’s son, Peter, had hurt him like this before. Perhaps he’d been naïve not to understand the enemy’s hate sooner.

In his first week home, his sister Elizabeth had asked him to visit a family in the working district of Wedding in the north of the city. The widow of the footman, she’d explained; the poor man had been killed a few months after her Peter and they had no money for a doctor. Dilger had found the family at the top of a tenement block, mother, grandmother and nine pale children in two rooms and a kitchen. The flat was almost empty of furniture and their clothes were riddled with more holes than a Swiss cheese. The youngest was lying listless in her cot, a scrap of skin and bone.

‘How old is she?’ he’d asked.

‘Almost two,’ came the reply. Shocked, he had berated the mother for neglect and she’d burst into anguished tears. What could she do with so many mouths to feed and no money? Scraping by on 120 marks a month, she said; they couldn’t even afford the local food kitchen, and the ration of milk had been cut to a pint a day. They were living on tea and potatoes. ‘We’re all suffering from the sickness,’ she’d sobbed.

‘From what?’ he’d asked.

‘The English sickness,’ she said.

Before he left he gave her some money and perhaps they’d eaten a little better for a few days. When he had described the visit to Elizabeth, she had said it was the same with most of the families in the district. ‘You don’t understand, Anton, you’ve come back from the land of plenty. It’s the same in every city – your English sickness.’ The curse of the blockade, the enemy’s grip on the Atlantic – hadn’t he seen it with his own eyes? Fleets of British ships loading grain, cattle, horses, shells, and America growing fat on the trade while Germany wasted away. His old neighbours in Chevy Chase called it ‘neutrality’. ‘If we don’t win soon, we’ll all be sick,’ his sister had observed.