The Poison Tide Read online

  Nadolny had accompanied him to the motor car. Waiting in the beam of its lamps was the young police lieutenant who’d lifted him from the hotel eight hours before. The sun was creeping up the wall of the building they had left but in the courtyard it was still dark and would be until the summer. Above the rattle of the Opel’s engine and the crunch of gravel, Wolff had heard a confused echo, a man shouting a single word over and over, perhaps a name. As he walked round the car to the passenger door it became distinct enough for him to be sure it was coming from a barred window somewhere near the top of the block facing him.

  ‘Someone less fortunate than me?’ he’d observed to Nadolny.

  ‘Yes.’

  The second the Count acknowledged the shouting, it stopped, as if at his command someone had lifted a phonograph needle from a disc. Bastards, Wolff thought.

  ‘You aren’t planning to leave Berlin, are you, Herr de Witt?’

  ‘No, Count.’

  ‘Good,’ and he’d offered Wolff his hand. ‘The Minerva, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes.’ He had glanced away as if trying to recall something he wanted to ask. The passenger door on the other side opened and shut and the engine roared as the driver slipped the Opel into gear. ‘Yes, there was one thing . . .’ the Count said at last, his voice barely audible. ‘Why did you visit . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘. . . the Eden?’

  Nadolny was still holding his hand firmly, gazing at him with a quiet authority that would have stripped an unprepared or weaker man to the bone.

  ‘The hotel? I served in South Africa with Major MacBride – Maguerre must have told you?’

  The Count didn’t reply. He had moved his head a little and the reflex from a lighted window shone in his eyes.

  ‘You see, I’d heard Roger Casement was staying at the place,’ Wolff continued.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Thought he might have word of my old comrade, MacBride,’ he paused. ‘May I have my hand?’

  ‘Who told you Sir Roger was staying at the Eden?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when you let go of my hand.’

  Nadolny gave a small smile and loosened his grip.

  ‘Thank you.’ Wolff would have liked to step away but the car was at his back. ‘Everyone knows he’s here in Berlin, of course. I don’t remember who mentioned the Eden, perhaps someone at my hotel,’ he hesitated, as if to consider further, ‘no, the embassy. The fellow I deal with . . .’

  ‘Secretary Boyd?’ Nadolny enquired.

  Wolff raised his eyebrows in a show of surprise. ‘Yes, Count, Secretary Boyd.’

  The intimacy of those last few minutes in the courtyard had shaken Wolff. As the car drove him from the Alex, he’d discreetly wiped the perspiration from his palms on his trousers. The Count was a sleek cat waiting to pounce on his mouse. ‘This mouse has escaped – for now,’ he muttered, and reaching for the edge of the counterpane he pulled it across himself and rolled on to his side in a cocoon.

  He was woken three hours later by a persistent knocking at the door.

  ‘What is it?’ he shouted blearily.

  ‘A letter, sir.’

  ‘A moment.’

  Rolling from the bed, he tucked in his shirttails and walked a little unsteadily across the sitting room. He half expected the letter to be from Christensen but the envelope was written in a cultured hand he didn’t recognise.

  ‘All right,’ he said, tipping the pageboy.

  ‘But the gentleman asked me to deliver a reply.’

  A foreigner who doesn’t speak German, the pageboy reported for a few pfennigs more. He was waiting in the hotel foyer. Taking a paperknife from the desk, Wolff opened the envelope, then stepped over to the window with the letter. It was in English.

  My Dear Sir,

  It appears we have at least one acquaintance in common and in an alien country in time of war that is quite enough to permit the possibility of friendship. I hope you will be free to join me for luncheon here at your hotel in half an hour.

  Yours faithfully,

  J. E. Henderson

  ‘Please tell Herr Henderson I would be delighted to join him for lunch,’ Wolff said, folding the letter back into the envelope. ‘In, say, twenty minutes.’

  There was only time for a shave, a stand-up wash and change of clothes. He took Mr Henderson’s invitation to be a good sign but there were other possibilities; thankfully he didn’t have the time to explore them. The family lawyer, he thought, gazing at himself in the mirror. A well-cut but sober suit and tie, hair combed off the forehead with only a little oil, expensive but understated and trustworthy.

  Mr Henderson was sitting in the foyer with his legs crossed, snoozing with his chin on his chest. He was taller than Wolff imagined and thinner. Christensen was standing at his side, an adolescent scowl on his face. As Wolff approached, he bent to whisper in Henderson’s ear. He rose at once and came towards Wolff with a smile.

  ‘Mr de Witt,’ he said, shaking his hand warmly. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  ‘And I you, Sir Roger.’

  He smiled a little shyly. ‘Please excuse my small deception. I know it’s ridiculous but my friends tell me I must be careful with my name – even here.’ He paused, his grey eyes catching Wolff’s gaze for a moment. They were deep set and a little sad, as if the thought that someone might wish him harm was still a surprise and a source of pain. ‘The English have their spies, I’m sure you know,’ he continued. ‘My friend, the Count, says you may be one. Are you a spy, Mr de Witt?’

  ‘Would you believe me if I said “No”?’ Wolff asked. ‘Make up your own mind over lunch – if you’re prepared to take the chance?’

  He gave a little laugh. ‘I’m prepared to take the chance.’

  7

  A Hard Street

  HE DIDN’T EAT much and chose the least expensive dish on the menu. Christensen said he was short of money. Or was it habit? Someone had noted in the Bureau’s file that he recorded even the cost of his newspaper in an account book. He was fiddling with his knife and his cigarette case, and Wolff recalled that the same report described him as ‘restless’, ‘impetuous’, ‘unstable’. But that was the view from Whitehall after his fall from grace.

  ‘Have you visited Ireland, Mr de Witt?’ he asked, as the waiter drew the cork from their wine.

  ‘No, Sir Roger, I’m afraid I haven’t,’ Wolff lied.

  ‘Then your mission is bound to fail.’

  ‘My mission?’

  ‘To report to Whitehall on my state of mind.’

  ‘That mission.’

  ‘Many that have been free to walk the hills and the bogs and the rushes will be sent to walk hard streets in far countries,’ he intoned softly. ‘Yeats.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The file had mentioned that Casement wrote a little poetry but not that he spoke it like an English gentleman, with only the trace of an Irish accent.

  ‘You do understand, don’t you?’ he prompted.

  ‘Ireland isn’t the only country fighting for its freedom, Sir Roger,’ Wolff replied reprovingly.

  ‘Are you fighting for the freedom of your country, Mr de Witt?’

  Wolff shook his head a little. ‘I’m fighting for myself now. If I have a country it’s the land of the free.’

  ‘But you fought in Africa. Isn’t that what you told our friend the Count?’

  ‘For a short time.’

  ‘And you’re here because you’ve upset the British again.’

  ‘I thought I was a British spy. Or have you made up your mind about me already?’

  Casement smiled apologetically. ‘My friends tell me I’m too trusting, Mr de Witt. I find it difficult to be any other way. Here in Berlin, especially. One is always grateful for companions on this hard street.’ He paused, still turning the cigarette case in his right hand. ‘I like the Germans but . . .’ his candid frown suggested he’d thought better of sharing a confidenc
e; ‘well, you know the expression “Your enemy’s enemy is your friend”, I’m sure; it’s on everyone’s lips today. But we’re still foreigners, and foreigners are only tolerated in a war for as long as they’re useful.’

  Wolff nodded.

  ‘I’m fortunate in Adler, of course,’ he continued. ‘He speaks German, you see.’

  ‘Adler?’

  ‘My man, Adler Christensen. I hope I haven’t hurt his feelings – I should have introduced you.’

  The waiter returned to their table and they sat in silence as he served the hors d’oeuvre of smoked goose. Casement gazed abstractedly at his plate, then into the body of the room. There was a diffidence, something half apologetic in his manner, that hadn’t made it into the file. He looked older than the photographs too, still handsome, in good condition for fifty, his thin face tanned by his years in Africa and South America, his black curly hair and beard tinged with silver. Everyone commented on his eyes. He noticed Wolff watching him and smiled. They were a dreamy grey. He wasn’t as Wolff had imagined him to be – sadder. A sad sort of rebel.

  ‘Do you think they mind us speaking English here?’ he asked when the waiter had gone.

  ‘Does it matter, Sir Roger?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose it does,’ he said, picking up his knife and fork. ‘Now, I believe you know Mr John MacBride. Perhaps you would do me the courtesy of telling me how you met.’

  While they waited for their next course, Wolff spoke of the African war, of MacBride and his brigade, of the brutality of the British camps, of women and children dying of disease and malnutrition. The story was the one he’d served his interrogators but he told it to Casement with a quiet fury that had the Irishman dabbing the corner of his eye with his napkin.

  ‘I should have done more. But I had no idea at the time,’ he explained. ‘I was in Africa . . .’

  ‘The Congo.’

  ‘You were fighting the British Empire and I was its servant.’

  ‘Your service was to humanity, Sir Roger.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ he asked, a little plaintively.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Wolff assured him. ‘You will always be remembered for your humanitarian work there.’

  They slipped into a pattern. Casement asked him about his childhood and his work with Westinghouse, and within minutes Wolff deflected the conversation to Ireland and the evils of imperialism. It wasn’t difficult because the Irishman wanted to talk. Something better must come out of this war, he declared, an end of empires and oppression. He spoke well and with passion, eyes blazing, preacher rather than politician, his plate cold, oblivious to the disapproving glances of their German neighbours.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But people don’t want to speak of liberty and social justice here. The Germans are only interested in Ireland if she helps them into the next trench. But I must be careful what I say.’

  Wolff smiled. ‘Of course, the British spy at the next table – or at this.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ he replied pensively, ‘or a German one.’

  When they had finished lunch Casement didn’t want to let him go.

  ‘Do you walk, Mr de Witt?’ he enquired.

  ‘I run.’

  ‘We can compromise on a brisk pace.’

  He had a long stride and was reluctant to break it even on a busy Berlin pavement. They walked in silence until they reached the river, when, seduced by the late-afternoon sun on the water, they fell into companionable step.

  ‘Will you be giving the Count a report of your afternoon?’ Wolff enquired.

  Casement coloured a little. ‘Do you mind?’

  Wolff turned slightly and pointed to the railway bridge they had just passed under. ‘If you look carefully, you’ll see one of them under the arch. He’s bending to tie his laces. And over there,’ he said, gesturing to the river, ‘the big fellow on the bank opposite, in front of the electricity works – turning his back. Do you think they’re watching me or both of us?’

  Casement closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead as if suffering from a migraine. ‘How did you know?’

  Wolff shrugged. ‘It isn’t the first time I’ve enjoyed this sort of attention.’

  ‘It’s shabby,’ he said, gazing down at the river.

  ‘Don’t be concerned on my account, or is it on your own?’

  He sighed heavily. ‘I’m tired, that’s all, tired of living with deceit, tired of this place and of the times. Did you read about the gas attack in this morning’s paper?’ he asked, turning to face Wolff. ‘The Germans broke the British line at Ypres by releasing a cloud of poison gas. Can you imagine anything more terrible?’

  Wolff said he’d not had an opportunity to read the newspaper.

  ‘Germany will win the war, of course. Will the world be a better place? What do you say?’

  ‘I say, “perhaps”.’

  ‘If Ireland is free, if Britain is brought to her knees – I pray to God it will be so,’ and he clasped his hands and shook them fervently.

  They strolled on to the Reichstag, then along the calm grey curving river to the Tiergarten. They didn’t speak of politics or war but of Casement’s childhood in Ulster, of his travels, the cruelty he had witnessed on the rubber plantations in Peru, of the dark heart of man. He said he regretted his knighthood and most of all the manner of his acceptance. ‘My letter to the King was too obsequious,’ he explained. ‘Silly, I know, but it haunts me.’

  By the time they reached the Brandenburg Gate again it was five o’clock. He refused Wolff’s offer of a taxicab. ‘I’ve talked far too much, Mr de Witt.’ He turned to look at their police escort. ‘What do you think the Count will say?’

  ‘What will you say to the Count?’ Wolff asked with a smile. ‘Tell him you didn’t pass on any secrets.’

  ‘I did enjoy our conversation. Adler is a dear friend but he hasn’t enjoyed the benefit of quite the same . . .’ he hesitated; ‘well, Ireland and politics in general bore him.’

  They parted without making a commitment to meet again, Casement climbing the steps of a crowded tram. As it pulled away he gave a shy little wave that Wolff answered by tipping his hat. Sir Roger was most obliging. Careful to say nothing of his plans, it was true, but he was too hungry for reassurance from a stranger, and the air of melancholy in his demeanour lingered like stale sweat, no matter how hard he tried to disguise it.

  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 m
orning 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 . . .’