The Poison Tide Read online

  Eighty or so men in a ragtag assortment of uniforms were gathered in one of the camp canteens. Wolff recognised the cap badges of Irish regiments but also the artillery, engineers and the naval division. They got reluctantly to their feet when the commandant and his party entered the room but made no effort to fall into line. Nor did they welcome the patriot. Casement was on edge. He’d taken off his trilby and was gripping it firmly in both hands.

  They were all a long way from home, he said. Was anyone from Ballymena? Oh, how he longed for the soft wind from the west on his cheek, to stride out at first light, the bright mist dissipating in the glen, scald crows cawing, the comfort of family, craic with ‘our friends’. Then he told them why he was an exile in Germany. Irishmen should only give their lives for their own country. The war against Germany wasn’t their concern, the slaughter, the waste, for what? Let England fight her own battles. They must save their strength for the rebuilding of their nation. He spoke with quiet passion; he spoke with the colour and romance of one who loves the timbre of words; he spoke of their Christian duty; he spoke in his soft, educated English accent; he spoke like a gentleman, and they listened in attentive silence but they listened without respect. Hands aggressively on hips, shuffling their feet; Wolff could see from the frowns, the sideways glances, that they thought little or nothing of the man. Regulars, they owed their duty to the uniform and when the lousy war was over they would be content to draw an army pension.

  ‘You’ve all heard tell of MacBride and his Irish in Africa. Mr de Witt here,’ Casement placed a hand on Wolff’s arm, ‘fought alongside MacBride. Now Irishmen like you are volunteering for a new brigade. Germany will win the war . . .’

  He was interrupted by an angry murmur. Someone shouted, ‘Shame.’

  ‘. . . but it isn’t our war,’ continued Casement. ‘Let England fight for the extension of her Empire. What matters is that . . .’

  ‘Sir Rah-jer,’ drawled a sergeant at the front. He had a Belfast accent you could cut with a knife and the squashed features of a fist fighter.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sir Rah-jer, Sir Rah-jer,’ he chanted. ‘Sir Rah-jer, Sir Rah-jer . . .’

  Some of the others began to laugh.

  ‘Sir Rah-jer, Sir Rah-jer . . .’

  Casement coloured. ‘Just Roger.’

  The big fella smirked. ‘I wuz seein’ what it was like, you bein’ a knight an’ all. Sir Rah-jer the black traitor knight.’

  ‘How much are the Germans paying you?’ someone shouted from the back.

  ‘I’m here for my country,’ he replied with quiet dignity.

  ‘Bloody traitor dog, ye,’ said another.

  ‘Not to Ireland.’

  But it was too late for reason. The gate was opening and through it bitterness poured in a yelping, howling chorus. Casement the enemy’s friend – Wolff could hear it plainly: the hard labour and short rations, the loneliness, the neglect, the careless cruelty of camp life. The big Ulsterman was full of menace, little eyes darting to and fro as he warmed to his comrades’ anger, an old pugilist anxious to please his crowd. It was going to end badly. Casement must have sensed it too. He’d given up trying to be heard. Wolff jogged his elbow: ‘Roger, we must go.’

  ‘I . . . yes, we must,’ he said, but he didn’t move.

  It wasn’t going to be easy; his countrymen wanted to punish him. A private in the engineers pushed his shoulder, someone else spat at him.

  ‘Come on, Roger,’ insisted Wolff. Casement was standing in a stupor, a thread of spit clinging to his beard. ‘Come on.’ For goodness’ sake, stop playing Christ. The Ulster sergeant was sweating, biting his lip, edging closer. Then he threw his punch, with a right hand heavy enough to fell a horse but slow. Wolff managed to shove Casement aside and the big man was at full stretch. Before he could find his balance Wolff caught him with an upper cut.

  ‘I’ll fix ye, ye bastard,’ he raged, and he lunged at Casement again. This time Wolff took the blow just below the collarbone. Before the sergeant could throw another, he grabbed his throat, digging nails into his windpipe, jabbing at the soldier’s side with a kidney punch. Gasping with pain, he crumpled and Wolff struck him under the chin with his knee.

  Someone was pulling at Wolff’s shoulder but for a few seconds he was trapped in a heaving scrum of fists and boots, his face wedged against a shoulder, rough wool against his cheek and the smell of stale sweat and cabbage. Then curses shouted in German, a rifle butt driven at a face as the camp guards forced the circle open. Wolff dropped to one knee but strong hands reached down to haul him back to his feet.

  ‘I’m fine, Roger, really,’ he said. ‘Just a little dazed.’

  They didn’t say much in the car on the journey back to Berlin. Casement stared out of the window, his hands wrestling in his lap. As soon as they’d left the military zone, Wolff wedged his shoulders between the seat and the door and shut his eyes. His chest was sore and a prisoner must have kicked him in the melee because his right knee was aching. Mad, bonkers, round the bend, so mad he wanted to laugh. Hands off my traitor, he thought. Exchanging punches with British soldiers: perfect – or it would have been if he’d thought it through, if it had been cold policy. It had been an impulse of anger and of sympathy. He opened his eyes and looked at Roger, his shoulders bent, his face turned away with just the faint sad reflection of his frown in the window. He’d scratched the back of his left hand with his nails. Wolff shut his eyes again. Damn it, now he knew how it was with the prisoners, yes, he felt sorry for the man – just the man.

  ‘Will you take dinner with me later?’ Casement asked suddenly.

  Wolff smiled warmly. ‘A pleasure, Roger.’ Then, catching his eye, ‘An honour.’

  They dined in Casement’s rather down-at-heel rooms on a simple meal of boiled chicken, cabbage and potato: it was that sort of hotel. Conversation was a struggle. Only when the plates were cleared and they were sitting by the fire in easy chairs was Casement ready to speak of the camp.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said simply, and choked with emotion he rose to stand at the chimneypiece with his back to Wolff. ‘I haven’t been myself these last few weeks. I’ve been awfully low,’ he said when he’d collected himself. ‘You came to my defence. It was a truly Christian act . . .’

  Wolff didn’t suppress a little smile.

  ‘It was a fine thing,’ Casement protested. ‘You’re a good man, Jan.’

  ‘Because I traded punches with a British soldier?’

  ‘Irish. At no small risk to yourself – you shake your head but you’re the sort of fellow who’s prepared to step forward to help others.’ He lifted a trembling glass to his lips to disguise his feelings. ‘I won’t forget it.’

  They sat quietly for a minute. Was his emotion sickening or touching? Wolff wondered, gazing into the heart of the fire.

  ‘You can see how difficult it’s going to be to raise a brigade,’ Casement declared at last. ‘But there are other ways – I have plans, but I need help, someone I can trust.’

  He waited a few seconds but Wolff didn’t reply.

  ‘There’s Adler, of course. I’ve given him the evening off. Yes, Adler, but there’s only so much I can ask him to do. And . . .’ he hesitated. ‘Well, you see, our German friends don’t trust him.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I don’t really know.’

  Wolff could see the lie in his face.

  Fifty prisoners had volunteered for the new brigade, he said. He’d designed a smart olive-green uniform with emerald facings. The Germans promised rifles and machine guns for the rising but it wasn’t enough: they needed money and more men, and the only place they could hope to find enough of both would be in America.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the authorities here. There are thousands of young Irish in America who’ll fight for the cause,’ he explained. ‘They can travel here. The Germans will train them well and when the time is right, land us all in Ireland. A brigade like MacBride’s.’

  He rose f
rom his chair and stood facing Wolff, the fire flickering about him like an apostle at Pentecost.

  ‘It will take a little time, of course,’ he continued. ‘We must prepare – we won’t be ready until next year. I’m sorry.’ He bent to pick up the wine from the hearth, leaning forward to fill Wolff’s glass. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Think of what?’ he asked.

  ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘Roger, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Will you speak to them for me, the Irish leaders? You’re going back to America, aren’t you? You told Maguerre . . . I need someone I can trust, a friend. Adler’s going but . . .’ he hesitated. ‘Someone they’ll respect, I may as well say it, someone our friends in America, the Clan, will respect more than Adler.’

  His grey eyes were shining with excitement. Wolff didn’t know what to say so he frowned, turning, turning the stem of his glass on the arm of the chair. Comic but also sad, a wild flight of fancy: the Germans had given Roger his new olive-green uniform but they knew it was a piece of nonsense. They were using him.

  ‘Well?’ prompted Casement.

  ‘I’m flattered, Roger,’ he replied cautiously. ‘It’s just . . .’

  Mercifully, he was interrupted by a loud knock at the door. It was Christensen and he was soused.

  ‘Roger, it’s your Adler,’ he slurred, and with the drunk’s gift for the obvious, ‘I’m back.’ He looked as if he was going to fall on Casement like a sailor’s tart.

  ‘Mr de Witt’s here, Adler,’ said Casement sharply.

  Christensen swayed, taking half a step to steady himself. His tie and waistcoat buttons were undone and there was a large stain at the top of his trousers.

  ‘You better sit down.’ Casement took him by the arm and steered him towards a chair. He collapsed into it like a sack of potatoes.

  ‘Him,’ he sneered, blinking lazily at Wolff. ‘Don’t worry about him. He knows, Roger, he knows . . .’

  ‘Be quiet, Adler,’ Casement demanded, a note of panic rising in his voice.

  The damn fool was too pie-eyed to be sure what he was saying. Which of our secrets is he intent on betraying? thought Wolff. I’m not going to let the bastard give me away, no – and he leant forward, ready to spring.

  ‘No, Roger, I mean . . .’ Christensen frowned, trying to concentrate on what he wanted to say.

  Casement was intent on shutting him up, too. ‘Come on, I’m putting you to bed,’ he said, dragging him roughly from the chair. Wolff jumped up to help: ‘Allow me.’ But Christensen was off balance. He lurched forward, clutching at the edge of a small occasional table to check his fall. Arm straight, it toppled under his weight, sending glasses and cups crashing to the floor.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ exclaimed Casement, prodding him with his foot. ‘Get up, why don’t you?’

  But the man was out cold, sprawled like a fallen tree on a carpet of shards and splinters, and there was a little blood where his head had struck the hearthstone. For a few seconds Wolff wondered if his – or was it their? – problem was over. Casement began fussing guiltily, falling to his knees like a Magdalene, loosening Christensen’s collar, smoothing the hair from his brow. ‘He is all right, isn’t he?’ he asked plaintively.

  Wolff bent to feel the pulse in his neck but before he could confirm life, Christensen stirred, then lifted his head a little and vomited on the rug.

  ‘Sorry, Roger,’ he coughed. ‘Sorry.’ He sounded like a little boy again.

  Another reason to say goodbye to Berlin, Wolff reflected as he crossed the hotel lobby five minutes later. He’d been lucky. Christensen had served his purpose: it was time to go before he knew it. Casement was offering Wolff the excuse – America.

  He expected another summons the following morning and the bellboy brought one to his rooms as he was taking breakfast. But the note wasn’t from Casement – it was from Count Nadolny, an instruction courteously disguised as an invitation to visit him at the General Staff Building at a little before ten; and, to be sure, the young lieutenant with the mad blue-grey eyes and two security policemen were waiting in the lobby to escort him there.

  10

  Necessary Work

  THERE WAS NOTHING remarkable in his appearance. More smart New England academic than engineer, tall, straight military back, neatly cropped beard; the sort of fellow Dilger might pass on a New York street without a glance.

  ‘If you don’t trust him, Count, why are you sending him to America?’

  ‘With men of his sort, Doctor, one is obliged to take a risk,’ Nadolny observed. ‘I’m merely easing his passage with a little money.’

  From their vantage point in the General Staff Building, they gazed down upon de Witt in the gloomy courtyard below, pacing a few yards of gravel, smoking, and exchanging occasional words with his escort. Could he sense there was someone watching him? Ordinarily, no one waited for a motor car at the building the locals called the ‘Red Hat’: Prussian timekeeping was famously precise.

  ‘Sir Roger Casement says he’s a man of principle. Maguerre says he is a businessman . . .’ Nadolny enunciated the word with disdain, ‘. . . a profiteer, a mercenary – but we use these people. Keep away from him. He’ll be travelling with two companions. There’s no reason why your paths should cross in America.’

  A black Opel pulled up to the steps and de Witt climbed inside.

  ‘Shall we?’ the Count asked, gesturing to the door.

  His office was on the other side of the building with a view of the Reichstag, dark even on a bright day and furnished with uninspiring mahogany pieces. The paintings of battles and officers and the Kaiser belonged to the room but there was also a small scene in a bar at night, painted with heavy brushstrokes in the modern French style. ‘Do you like it?’ he enquired.

  Dilger nodded politely. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know anything about art.’

  ‘You’re interested in music?’ the Count remarked, indicating the armchair in front of his desk.

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘But you’re a friend of Frau Hempel’s?’

  ‘I can’t see how that can be a concern of yours, Count.’

  ‘Your safety is my concern,’ he said coolly. ‘She’ll be in New York at the same time as you?’

  Dilger nodded curtly.

  ‘She has many friends, not all of them are reliable.’

  ‘I don’t like your . . .’

  ‘Doctor,’ interrupted Nadolny, ‘I merely observe it would be wise not to be seen too often in public with her. You will draw attention to yourself.’ He bent over his desk, opened a drawer and took out a buff envelope. ‘Your contact is Mr Paul Hilken of the Norddeutscher Lloyd Line. Under no circumstances visit our embassy in Washington. We must assume the British follow its movements closely.’ He paused, elbow on the desk, his thumb stroking the band of his red signet ring. ‘Perhaps the Americans too,’ he added with an old-world smile. ‘Now, I have something for you.’ Rising from the desk, he presented the envelope to Dilger with a small bow.

  ‘Who . . .?’

  ‘Open it, why don’t you?’

  It was a short handwritten note from the Chief of the General Staff.

  Herr Doktor Dilger . . . the great service you do your Fatherland . . . sensible of the danger . . . most necessary work . . . following in the footsteps of your illustrious father . . . a great honour . . .

  Signed simply, Falkenhayn.

  ‘You see.’ The Count was standing at his side. ‘Your work is important enough to command his personal attention.’

  ‘He knows of my father?’

  ‘He would have liked to have spoken to you in person, but official duties . . .’ The Count held out his hand. ‘May I?’

  Dilger didn’t understand.

  ‘The General’s letter,’ the Count explained. ‘It has to be deniable – you understand.’

  Do I? Dilger wondered as he was escorted from the building. The purposeful click of military boots filled
the broad marble stairs as young men in field grey passed him without a glance, proud of their uniform, with nothing to deny. The following day he would make his last secret visit to the Military Veterinary Academy to take possession of the case. Until then, he wished to stroll in the May sunshine without fear of being jostled by a careless passer-by; sip coffee and eat cake at the Aschinger, meet friends, visit the cabaret, drink champagne – forget. But Frieda was in America already and he found it difficult to be merry without her. His friends wanted to know why he’d left the hospital. ‘We need you,’ they said, and in a drunken exchange one of them had accused him of desertion. The memory made him wince.

  In the end he walked slowly home to his sister, rehearsing his goodbye. Since his nephew’s death, Elizabeth had relied on him so. The colonel never left the Front, the house was always empty, no visitors, no parties, just the servants, and she was losing the butler and the footman to the war.

  She greeted him in the hall with a kiss. ‘I thought you were at the hospital.’

  ‘I have to talk to you,’ he said, leading her by the hand into the drawing room.

  ‘Should I ask for some coffee?’ Her voice trembled a little. ‘I’ve had a letter from the colonel. He writes that he’s well – is there ever anything else worth saying?’ She rang for the maid, then sat beside him with her small hands resting lightly in her lap. ‘What is it, Anton?’ Her anxious brown eyes fixed on his face. More mother than sister; was there anyone in the world who knew him better? He’d left Virginia to live with her when he was a teenager.

  ‘You’re going to the Front,’ she said, raising her right hand a little in alarm.

  ‘No, no,’ he assured her. ‘I’m going home, to America.’

  ‘America?’ For a second she was relieved. ‘For how long?’

  Before he could answer there was a knock at the door and the maid entered with a tray. The china rattled as she brushed the back of a chair. Elizabeth sighed irritably. She’d been impatient with the servants since Peter’s death, and it was a wonder they had any. Good staff were hard to come by since the start of the war. There was going to be a shortage of pretty much everything.