The Poison Tide Page 7

  ‘I do mind,’ he said impatiently. They – whoever they turned out to be – would expect him to mind.

  ‘My orders are to fetch you,’ the officer glanced over his shoulder to his men, ‘whether you wish to co-operate or not . . .’

  At the front of the hotel, an Opel with curtains across the windows, the driver in a uniform he didn’t recognise. The rain was bouncing off the pavement and dripping through the hotel awning on to Wolff’s hat and coat. It reminded him of the evening at Rules and the morning at the safe house in south London – the morning he’d caved like a wet paper bag. C had rubbed his hands and chuckled like Bunter with a cake. ‘They’ll be intrigued by Mr de Witt, we’ll make sure of that,’ he’d promised.

  They escorted Wolff to the car in the rain and he sat in the back between their damp shoulders, trousers clinging to his legs. When they turned right along the canal and passed the palace he knew they were taking him to the Alexanderplatz Police Headquarters.

  ‘Make them tease it from you,’ C had observed. Wolff had listened to his plan at the window of the safe house, gazing across acres of wet slate. He remembered reaching for his handkerchief and catching the scent of Violet’s perfume.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ C had upbraided him. ‘Do you want to stay alive? Concentrate, for God’s sake.’ Concentrate.

  The police driver cursed as he braked for a man scuttling across the road beneath an umbrella. It was almost ten o’clock but the lights were still on at Tietz’s on the north-west side of the square. In front of the department store, a banner with the slogan ‘God Punish England’ was wrapped around the statue of the city’s protector, the wind lifting it immodestly from her full figure. They turned and Wolff glimpsed the dome of the Police Headquarters over the driver’s shoulder. In the course of one of his operations he’d passed it on foot, resisting the urge to walk faster and walk away. He remembered wondering if there was a country in the world with a larger police station: 19,000 square yards of neo-Gothic brick, according to Baedeker – all you needed to know about the new German order. He had stepped from its shadow into the square confident that he would never be obliged to visit the place. In his early twenties he was sure of a lot of things.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he asked, as the car drew up to the security barrier. The officer didn’t reply. A brief exchange with the guard and they were moving again, passing beneath a high arch into a courtyard, then on into another. ‘This is all part of the scheme,’ he told himself. ‘Keep your faith,’ C had said at their last meeting. But he’d said the same thing before the Turkish operation.

  The car stopped at the bottom of broad steps and guards stepped forward to open the doors.

  ‘Out, out, out,’ the young officer shouted, a little hysterically.

  Wolff smiled. Poor fellow’s wound even tighter than me, he thought. The anxiety and anger of others always made him feel calmer. Sliding across the seat, he stood in the rain with his hand on the door and with a sergeant at his back, grinding his cigarette into the gravel of the immaculately swept yard.

  ‘All right, let’s get on.’

  6

  Inside the Alex

  ‘YOU’RE NOT AN American, Herr de Witt. Who are you, I wonder?’

  ‘I have an American passport.’

  ‘Easy for a resourceful man like you.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what you mean,’ Wolff retorted impatiently.

  The officer didn’t explain but stared at Wolff intently as if the past could be read in the lines of his face. Foreign Office or General Staff, Wolff guessed. He had introduced himself as Lieutenant Maguerre; lieutenant of what, he didn’t say. Too well spoken and cultivated for a junior police officer, he was resting his fingertips on the table like a pianist, and his suit was cut in Paris. Mid to late thirties, of slight build, his name and fine Gallic features suggested a family tree that criss-crossed the border. He looked like the sort of fellow who’d have felt at home in any drawing room in Europe – before the war.

  ‘No one knows you’re here, Herr de Witt,’ he said at last, ‘and would Ambassador Gerard care if he did?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here for Westinghouse, you know that.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. I’m not a patient man. If you want to behave like a spy I can arrange for the policemen . . .’ he enunciated the word contemptuously ‘. . . who generally carry out their business in this room to treat you like one. You see—’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ interrupted Wolff. ‘I’m a consulting engineer.’

  ‘Enough.’ Maguerre’s chair screeched as he pushed it sharply from the table. He stood glaring at Wolff for a few seconds, then turned and walked over to the chimneypiece. Picking the poker from its stand, he began stirring the embers so vigorously that the last of the heat was quickly lost from the fire. It was a bare brick room, stripped of anything that might distract from the pursuit of truth: windowless, timeless, its vaulted ceiling in shadow. ‘They’ll only believe in Herr de Witt if they smoke his story from you,’ C had counselled. In the Alex, only lies were held to be simple and offered freely. The truth was spoken on the edge, mumbled sometimes through cut and swollen lips. Wolff was relieved when Maguerre put the poker down and returned to the table.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ said Wolff sulkily. ‘I’m a consulting engineer and sometimes I work for Westinghouse, or I used to.’

  ‘Our people say no one at Westinghouse knows what you’re doing in Germany.’

  Wolff frowned. ‘I don’t suppose it matters. I’ve lost my job,’ he muttered. ‘I was involved in a little private business. It didn’t go . . .’ he hesitated. ‘It didn’t go quite as I’d hoped and, well, that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘And what was the nature of this private business?’

  ‘May I have a cigarette?’

  ‘Come on, come on.’ Maguerre leant forward, his elbows on the table. ‘Your private business?’

  His right hand was balled in a manicured fist but he wasn’t the sort to swing a punch – that he would leave to the regulars at the Alex.

  ‘Your private business,’ he persisted.

  ‘A small matter . . .’

  ‘A small matter of guns?’

  Wolff flicked the ash from his cigarette and said nothing.

  ‘All right.’ Maguerre bent to pick up the briefcase at his feet. ‘The story’s everywhere.’ Taking out a leather-bound file, he opened it and slid a small cutting across the table. ‘From The Times of London.’

  ‘Oh?’ Wolff glanced at it for a few seconds, then pushed it back.

  ‘Is it you?’ demanded Maguerre.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘What are you hoping to gain from this nonsense?’ He was losing his temper. Good interrogators never lost their temper.

  ‘Are you the man the British are looking for?’

  Wolff looked at him coolly. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘That isn’t polite.’

  ‘Please, Herr de Witt . . .’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘This is foolish. The rifles. They’re your rifles – for your people in South Africa, General Maritz’s forces – the Boers. Your shipping agent in Norway told us everything – for a price, of course. A thousand rifles hidden in a shipment of mining machinery. The M-1891 Westinghouse is making for the Russians. You see?’

  ‘If you’re right, I don’t believe it’s any of your business,’ replied Wolff belligerently.

  ‘You know the old saying: “My enemy’s enemy is my friend”. We help our friends.’ Maguerre paused and looked down at his hands. Then, lifting his eyes to Wolff’s face again, ‘But perhaps it’s a clever story and you’re a spy.’

  Wolff shrugged. ‘I might be. I’m not Germany’s friend or enemy. I’m a businessman.’

  ‘But you hate the British?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘What did you say?’


  ‘I said “yes”, damn it. Yes, I hate the British. Satisfied?’

  Maguerre gave a short laugh. ‘I don’t understand why . . .’

  ‘Why I’m discreet?’ Wolff dragged a hand through his hair in frustration. ‘I don’t want to be chased across Europe. I don’t want a reputation for trouble. I don’t want to be a face in a secret policeman’s file.’

  ‘Too late, you’ve made your choice,’ Maguerre said, lifting the cutting. ‘Isn’t that why you’re here in Germany?’

  ‘I’m here for my health,’ replied Wolff with a wry smile. ‘When it improves I’ll return to America.’

  ‘It won’t improve in the Alex, Herr de Witt.’

  Wolff sighed.

  ‘All right.’ Maguerre got to his feet wearily and drifted to the door. ‘Hey,’ he shouted, rapping it with his fist. It was opened by the more solidly built of the Unteroffiziere who’d followed Wolff the previous day. Christ, thought Wolff, his body tensing, that ape isn’t necessary, and for a couple of seconds old images, fists, boots, faces, flashed through his mind like a fairground whirligig.

  ‘Fetch us some coffee, would you,’ demanded Maguerre ungraciously.

  The door closed quietly behind the policeman.

  ‘Why was it necessary to conduct this business in the middle of the night?’ Wolff enquired fiercely, his skin still prickling with sweat. A more observant man than the lieutenant would have noticed his discomfort.

  Maguerre scratched his temple thoughtfully. ‘I think you know the answer. But we’ll come to that later,’ he said, easing behind the table again. ‘You’re not an American. Your German is excellent; your Dutch too?’

  Wolff nodded.

  ‘Who are you, Herr de Witt?’

  Who? What? Why de Witt? Your life, de Witt, like a babbling stream through the early hours.

  ‘Who am I? Dutch, I suppose,’ he told Maguerre. ‘My father and mother were Dutch, from Maastricht, but they lived in England with my grandfather for a time.’

  The story was as close to his own as he could make it, and he’d rehearsed it until it became his life entirely, first with C, then with Bywater and the old South Africa hand, Landau. Jan Cornelius de Witt, the only child of farmers, religious zealots quick to recognise the Devil in their neighbours and sometimes in their son. School in England and Holland, then the polytechnic college in Delft. It was 1900 and in South Africa the Boers were fighting the British.

  ‘It was the romance of David and Goliath – farmers fighting an empire for their freedom,’ he explained to Maguerre. ‘And I was bored of narrow streets and flat country, the smallness, the tidiness of everything. Bored with the polytechnic. It wasn’t a difficult choice – I joined the Dutch Volunteers.’

  There were others – Germans, Frenchmen, Americans, a few Russians; de Witt had served alongside MacBride’s Irish for a time. The Dutch didn’t see much action. They did see crops and homes burned, the bodies of farmers shot in their fields, their wives and children dying of hunger and disease in concentration camps. That’s when de Witt learnt to hate the British. In the autumn of 1900, he was taken prisoner and sent to a camp in Ceylon. He was twenty-two when he left it, no money, no prospects, no country to speak of, but resolved to make his way in the world, harder and with that ember still glowing inside. No, Lieutenant Maguerre, hatred wasn’t too strong a word; hatred not just for the British but for all empires, and for all who refuse to acknowledge the rights of small nations. With the outbreak of war in Europe, the Boers under General Maritz were fighting again. Westinghouse trusted him, the opportunity to send arms was there and Wolff had taken it even though he was sure this rebellion would fail too. Why he’d decided to risk so much he found it impossible to say.

  Did Maguerre believe him? At a little before four o’clock he was joined at the table by a man with a face baked and wrinkled by the sun. He said his name was Cronje and that he’d served in the ‘last war’ and had the honour to be Maritz’s representative in Germany. He looked as if he’d just ridden in from the Highveld in his long tweed waistcoat and jacket, and after a few minutes he slipped into the taal.

  ‘Don’t take me for another of your farmers,’ Wolff replied curtly in Dutch.

  But Cronje wasn’t a simple Boer. He gazed at Wolff with the dispassionate eye of the experienced interrogator, the eye of one who has witnessed the worst a man can be. For an hour he picked at the threads of Wolff’s story, his questions always to the point, probing, probing for the smallest inconsistency to threaten the fabric of the whole. Perhaps he thought he’d found it because he kept returning to the identity of de Witt’s go-between for the arms shipment. A name, he insisted in his tight-lipped South African way, a name.

  ‘Maritz’s people call him “the Stork”,’ Wolff said at last.

  ‘And only you know his real identity, Herr de Witt?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he replied. ‘You know in Holland, Herr Cronje, the stork is . . .’

  ‘The bringer of treasure.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And who paid for this treasure?’

  ‘Friends who trust me to keep my mouth shut.’

  ‘Who has that sort of money?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I won’t say,’ he snapped.

  ‘We’re friends here.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ interjected Maguerre. He’d been wriggling impatiently for a while, breaking into exchanges to insist they were repeated in German, making no effort to stifle his yawns. It was plain that he had no time for the Boer. ‘We have enough information to speak to the Count,’ he said, rising from the table. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Herr de Witt.’ He gazed down his nose at Cronje for two or three seconds, then turned to the door.

  Cronje didn’t move, he didn’t reply. His face was inscrutable, with only a suggestion of colour rising to his cheeks. His dark-brown eyes were fixed on Wolff, his rough hands clasped on the table. Then, slowly, theatrically, he looked away and down as if he were itching to spit on the stone floor.

  ‘Herr Cronje, we mustn’t keep the Count waiting,’ commanded Maguerre from the door.

  The Boer caught Wolff’s eye again. ‘Shit,’ he muttered in the taal. ‘Shit.’ He stroked his chin thoughtfully with his thumb and forefinger, then, dropping his hands to his knees, he gave a heavy shrug to suggest that he suspected him but didn’t care: his ‘Shit’ was a plague on both their houses.

  Once, as a small child, Wolff had lost his way in a fenland mist, conscious that a step from the path might be his last, alive to every sound, the reeds rustling on the banks of the dyke, a large bird breaking its waters, his pulse racing, and yet floating, detached, as if in a dream. Stretching on his bed in the hotel the following morning, he reflected that he’d found his way through his interrogation in much the same way. After Turkey, he’d wondered if he would be able to. Self-belief was a spy’s armour. Other performers could draw confidence from the approbation of an audience but no one slapped a spy on the back after his turn. Spies pulled their tricks alone. Only a job for the right sort of person, C liked to say. ‘That, sir, is a meaningless cliché,’ Wolff had once had the audacity to remark. ‘Who is the right sort of person?’

  ‘You’re the right sort of person, Wolff. An adventurer, clever, resourceful, patriotic . . . ah, you scoff, but—’

  ‘A loner,’ Wolff had interrupted. ‘A morally ambivalent loner actually, or is that just what you become after a while in the Service? Someone who loses himself in his disguises.’

  C had leant forward to examine his face more closely, pinching the edge of his monocle. ‘That isn’t the right sort of person, Wolff,’ he’d commented. ‘That’s a professional hazard. The right sort of person holds on to himself.’

  Wolff rolled on to his side and reached across to the bedside table for his drink. He was too tired to sleep and still a little on edge. It had ended so suddenly and not at all as he’d expected. Maguerre had escorted him down the stairs at dawn and spoken as one gentleman to another. Apo
logies for the lateness of the hour . . . one or two points to clear up another time . . . and they’d walked with lazy steps as if reluctant to say goodbye. Through a window, he’d glimpsed a car in the courtyard with its acetylene lights burning, waiting perhaps to take him to his hotel. It felt wrong. Surely they weren’t going to let him go without asking him? Perhaps they weren’t going to release him after all. All sorts of possibilities had flitted through his mind.

  The Count must have watched him saunter down the stairs, coolly appraising him as only spies and clever tarts know how, processing every detail of his carriage, every flicker of emotion in his face, considering his likely qualities. Lying on his bed, tinkling the ice in his glass, Wolff could picture him in the shadow of the vast entrance hall like a magician in the wings. Click, click, his shoes had echoed round the empty hall as he approached them with a smile.

  ‘Count.’ Wolff had greeted him with a stiff bow. ‘It’s you I have to thank for my detention here, I suppose.’

  ‘And for your release too, Herr de Witt,’ he’d replied.

  ‘For that, I’ll reserve my thanks.’

  He said his name was Rudolf Nadolny and that he worked for the Foreign Ministry, but with one half of Europe at war with the other he was of more service at home than in an embassy.

  ‘Rescuing innocent foreigners from our police,’ he added smoothly.

  Wolff raised his eyebrows sceptically.

  ‘You are innocent, aren’t you, Herr de Witt?’

  ‘It depends who you ask.’

  Nadolny scrutinised him closely. There was the suggestion of a smile on his lips but not in his eyes. He wanted an answer and it wasn’t necessary to say so. But for the scar on his left cheek he looked like the middle-ranking diplomat he claimed to be, and yet the force of his personality was quite out of the ordinary. Wolff had found himself blustering that he was a businessman and an American, that he was tired and he would be grateful if the Count would arrange to deliver him to his bed.

  He closed his eyes and pulled a face at the recollection. He had wanted to present himself to them as a steady sort, discreet, reliable.