The Poison Tide Page 9

  ‘MacBride.’

  ‘Yeah, MacBride. That’s why he wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘That’s it?’ He stared at Christensen for a few seconds, then reached for the lapel of his coat, pinching its edge as if testing the weight of the cloth. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Sir Roger was excited.’

  ‘I know,’ he snapped.

  ‘No. You don’t understand. I mean, yes, he likes this man MacBride, but it’s the brigade. Like the one you served in . . .’ he frowned. ‘If you did. He’s trying to, well, form his own Irish Brigade.’

  Wolff let go of his lapel. ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes. Irishmen in the British Army, prisoners – the Germans have captured some – thousands.’

  Wolff looked at him sceptically.

  ‘Hundreds.’

  He didn’t know how many.

  ‘To fight in Ireland?’

  ‘I suppose.’ He shrugged his square shoulders. ‘Why else?’

  ‘You’re sure about this?’

  Christensen said he was certain. He had listened to Sir Roger explaining his plans to a man who’d arrived from Switzerland. An Irishman, someone important, he said. No, he didn’t catch his name nor did he hear mention of a date for a rising.

  ‘All right.’ Wolff patted his arm. ‘Good. See if you can find out.’

  Christensen smiled. ‘I told you. You can leave it to me. You will leave it to me, won’t you?’

  ‘What does it matter, if I pay you?’ he replied.

  It was impossible to avoid Casement even if he had wished to. They met for breakfast and walked through the Tiergarten again, then on the following day for dinner. He insisted on taking Wolff to the theatre and arranged for an invitation to a soirée in Count Blücher’s rooms at the Esplanade. Would you fight again? he asked. What might you risk to bring England low? He hated injustice, he hated the prejudice of his own class, he hated intemperate sacrifice, the machine grinding relentlessly on the Western Front. He hated all those things, and yet he spoke to Wolff of ‘England’ without reason, raging at her ‘perfidy’ and the ‘moral debauchery’ of her public servants, rejoicing in the thought that she would be made to ‘pay’ in time.

  Did Wolff like him? Ordinarily it was a question he didn’t ask himself. As they walked the same circuits, round and round, he listened and recognised a man twisted to distraction by doubts: charming, funny and fragile. ‘Spies follow me everywhere too,’ Casement observed at dinner. Was he imagining it? There was always a policeman trailing Wolff so it was impossible to say. ‘I’m worse than a refugee – an outcast,’ Casement continued. ‘My friends despise me, the Germans don’t trust me, and the rest of the world wants to hang me.’

  ‘You’re respected as a man of principle,’ Wolff assured him, but it wasn’t true.

  He noted it first at the Blüchers’ soirée. The Count and his wife were old friends from Casement’s London days. ‘People of our mind,’ he remarked breezily, but a few minutes later he was urging de Witt to accompany him into the ‘lion’s den’.

  The Esplanade was a new hotel in the French style, brash, opulent, a favourite of the Kaiser’s before the war and, since, a refuge for the rich returning from abroad.

  ‘Do you think I look well?’ Casement asked as they presented their hats and coats to a footman.

  ‘Of course.’

  He smiled appreciatively. ‘I’m sure it will be a pleasant evening,’ but he didn’t sound sure.

  The Count’s suite was one of the finest in the hotel, with French windows opening on to an elegant courtyard garden of trimmed box borders and pine. Some of his hardier guests were smoking on the terrace but most were sipping champagne in his drawing room: gentlemen of middle years and their ladies in expensive, sombre dresses, black and grey the new fashion, with only a little discreet jewellery. The Countess glided towards them like a ship in full sail.

  ‘Sir Roger says you’re American and Dutch.’ She offered Wolff a cold hand. Her English was as finely cut as the room’s Venetian chandelier. ‘Americans are always something else as well, aren’t they?’ She turned her head a little to gaze at Casement, a small frown on her brow. ‘But in this ghastly war all our loyalties are being tested.’

  ‘I pray something worthwhile will come from it,’ ventured Casement.

  ‘I can’t imagine what you think will be worth the sacrifice, Sir Roger,’ she replied stiffly. ‘Mr de Witt . . .’ she caught Wolff’s eye. Her dark looks and no-nonsense manner reminded him of his mother. ‘There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to, another of your countrymen.’

  Weber was a middle-aged Californian, a gruff soldier with a shaggy blond moustache like General Custer’s. He talked incessantly about the war in a deep and somnolent voice, pausing only to sip his champagne. Wolff let his plans for a ‘knockout’ blow in the West wash over him, his eyes on Casement as he drifted from circle to circle. Weber must have followed his gaze. ‘That’s Sir Roger Casement,’ he said, a hand to his face, as if sheltering a secret from the room. His breath smelt of alcohol and strong tobacco. ‘You’ve seen his name in the papers, I reckon?’ Wolff admitted that he had. ‘People say he’s raisin’ a brigade to fight against the British. You heard that? The thing is . . .’ and he edged closer still. ‘It leaves a bad taste, don’t it?’ Wolff raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘Course I want Germany to win this shootin’ match, but a fella who’s betrayed one country won’t fuss about betrayin’ another.’

  Drawing-room whispers, sideways glances, and Wolff saw the backs of one small circle turned like a wall. In his crude way, Weber spoke for them all. Sir Roger wasn’t Sir Roger any more. The Count had invited his old friend for what he’d been, not what he’d become. His wife put it more bluntly.

  ‘He says you’re his friend,’ she remarked to Wolff as she led him away from Weber into the chill air. ‘Persuade him to go back to America.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Wolff said, genuinely perplexed.

  ‘Sir Roger’s making a fool of himself; you do see that, don’t you?’

  ‘Why?’ he asked coolly.

  ‘He’s humiliating himself. My husband says no one here is sure they can trust him – traitors, spies, who can be certain of the difference? You’ve heard of his Irish Brigade?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Madness. He’s being used and I’m sorry.’ Her regret sounded genuine. ‘You know I am, well, I was very fond of him.’

  ‘Whether he’s being used or not, I can’t say,’ replied Wolff. ‘I confess, I barely know him, but I do believe him to be courageous and, yes, a good man. A good man fighting, as he always has – for liberty and justice, but this time for his own people – for Ireland.’

  ‘Then you are as foolish as Roger,’ she declared haughtily.

  They left the party a short time later, police spies in tow. Casement looked strained and said little. To their surprise, Christensen was slumped on a couch in the lobby of the Minerva, his face flushed with drink. He fussed over Casement, adjusting his silk scarf, summoning a waiter for a glass of water.

  ‘You see how Adler looks after me, de Witt.’ Casement’s voice shook a little.

  ‘You’re a lucky man.’

  Christensen scowled at Wolff indiscreetly.

  ‘Really? Do you think so?’ asked Casement sadly.

  As soon as they’d gone, Wolff went up to his room to rescue the note beneath his door. They had arranged to make their drops at the cemetery but he knew Christensen was angry and frustrated and was at the hotel to say so. The damn fool was going to give them away. Heart thumping, he checked the powder he’d lightly dusted on the door handle – no sign of a print. Christ, he could see a corner of the paper under the door. Thankfully Christensen had written no more than a time.

  Calmer, settled in shirtsleeves, Wolff stood at the window of his sitting room with a cigarette, gazing down on the empty boulevard, a gathering wind rattling flag ropes, shaking the spring limes, sickly in the lamplight. He’d been in Berlin almost s
ix weeks and the only thing he knew for sure was that Casement was recruiting a brigade – it seemed to be common knowledge in some circles – no numbers, no dates. C liked to be kept informed, if only to be sure his agents were alive and still on ‘our side’, but that was before the war when everything was simpler. Of course, C would know from his bank account at Deutsche in New York that he was alive. Wolff could imagine him poring over the statements and fuming to his secretary that he’d heard nothing for weeks and wasn’t getting his money’s worth. He was as hot as hell about money. ‘Serves him bloody well right,’ Wolff muttered, grinding his cigarette into an ashtray.

  The following morning he visited the bank and withdrew another hundred marks, then registered at the police station as foreigners were required to do. It took a little longer to lose his tail. At the cemetery a work party was polishing the tombs and raking the paths. Wolff nodded to the foreman, thankful that he’d taken the trouble to buy a small wreath at the station florist. He wandered for a while in the sunshine, stopping every now and again to read an inscription. Satisfied at last that the police weren’t hiding among the monuments, he made his way to the architect’s temple. Christensen arrived a few minutes later, short of breath, his face red and a little swollen.

  ‘Too used to the good life,’ Wolff teased. ‘You’re out of condition.’

  He was bent double over his knees, his wool jacket stretched so tightly across his broad back that its seams were easing apart.

  ‘Have you the forty marks you owe me?’ he gasped at last.

  ‘Not here – inside.’

  The little temple smelt worse. Wolff waited until his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, then hoisted himself on to a ledge.

  ‘Can’t we meet somewhere else?’ grumbled Christensen.

  ‘Next time. What do you have for me?’

  ‘Where’s my money?’

  Reaching into his jacket, Wolff took out his cigarette case and offered it to him: ‘All in good time.’

  Christensen waved it away irritably. ‘I don’t want to do this any more.’

  ‘Got a better offer?’

  ‘You don’t need me.’ He took a step away, reaching up to a marble bust of the architect’s wife, running his large forefinger down her nose. ‘I told you to leave it to me,’ he added resentfully.

  ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘If you can do it on your own, why don’t you?’ he said, turning to gaze at Wolff.

  ‘Belt and braces, Adler, I need you. Of course I do.’

  ‘Roger likes you. He’s spending too much time with you.’

  ‘You’ve spoken about me?’

  Christensen nodded.

  ‘Damn stupid. One small mistake and we’ll end up here.’ Wolff gestured angrily to the view of the cemetery beyond the temple columns. ‘But not before a lot of pain.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool.’ Wolff slipped off the ledge and took a step towards him. ‘This is a dirty business, you can’t imagine.’

  ‘Sir Roger wouldn’t let them.’

  He sounded very sure – cocksure. Wolff glared at him until he looked away.

  ‘He isn’t going to fall on his knees and beg them to spare you, Adler.’

  ‘No? Why not?’ His finger was trailing over the architect’s wife again, from her hair, to her forehead, to her nose, to her lips. ‘He’s fallen on his knees for me before, you know.’

  Wolff felt a frisson of disgust before he was entirely sure why. ‘I don’t know what you mean and I’m not sure I care to know.’

  ‘Yes you do, I can see you do,’ he said, smirking. ‘That’s why he’ll always want me, not you, you see – for what I let him do.’

  Wolff stared at him coldly: filth. A liability. He would have to go. In the Grünewald forest perhaps, the body in the Havel. For a few seconds Wolff wanted to do it. Of course that fool Findlay should have told him.

  ‘You see . . .’ prompted Christensen, watching Wolff closely. ‘Leave it to me. Keep away. I’ll get you what you want.’

  ‘Shut up, Adler. Shut up.’ Wolff grabbed him by the collar and shook him. It wasn’t easy; he was a big man. ‘Do what you and Casement do . . .’ he paused, ‘. . . if you must, but you’re a bloody fool if you think he’ll save you. They don’t give a damn about him. If they catch me, they’ll probably shoot him too.’

  ‘Get off me,’ Christensen said, brushing Wolff’s hand from his collar. His eyes had narrowed to slits beneath his heavy brow. ‘They care about him. He’s helping them, here and in America.’

  Wolff took a step back and leant against one of the columns. ‘How?’

  ‘Are you going to pay me?’

  ‘So you’re still in business?’ He stared at Christensen for a moment, then reached into his jacket for his wallet. ‘It better be good.’

  ‘I copied it from his diary. You’d be surprised what there is in there,’ he said with a little chuckle. ‘All sorts of little secrets.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘But nothing that would interest you,’ he added sheepishly.

  ‘It might.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. Look, here are my notes.’ He was suddenly keen to talk about something else.

  Wolff glanced at them, then at Christensen.

  ‘From his diary, you say?’

  ‘Yes. He copies important documents into his diary.’

  ‘Word for word?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was the text of a minute from the Chief of the General Staff of the Army.

  Erich von Falkenhayn, Chief of the General Staff to Rudolf Nadolny

  Secret

  General Headquarters, 12 February, 1915

  The American leaders of the Irish and Sir Roger Casement have agreed to the following proposals:

  To separate all Catholic Irish prisoners of war from the other prisoners as quickly as possible and to unite them in a place where Sir Roger Casement can encourage them to join an Irish Brigade to fight against England.

  In the event that he succeeds, an Irish Brigade shall be organised under the command of some English-speaking German officers. The Brigade will be equipped with uniforms and guns.

  A further 20,000 rifles and 10 machine guns with ammunition and explosives will be provided for a rebellion in Ireland.

  The German Empire will furnish transport for the Irish Brigade to Ireland for the rebellion. Sir Roger Casement is certain that such measures will lead to a total halt of British recruiting in Ireland and, possibly, to mutinies of Irish troops in France.

  In return, Irish American leaders undertake to provide men and assistance for a sabotage campaign against British interests in the United States and Canada, the sabotage to cover all kinds of factories for war materials, in particular ammunition, railroads, dams, bridges, banks and other buildings. The German Embassy in Washington is not to be compromised by direct contact with those involved in sabotage plans, which are to be handled by Captain von Rintelen.

  Following the decree of 5 November 1914 Nr. 8525 IIIb, I herewith order that Captain of the Reserve, Nadolny of Section P, will take over the handling of this matter.

  Falkenhayn

  ‘It’s word for word?’ Wolff asked again. His voice cracked a little. ‘Word for word?’

  ‘Yes, didn’t I say so? From Falkenhayn.’

  ‘Yes.’ Wolff folded it carefully into his pocket.

  ‘It’s good – isn’t it?’ prompted Christensen.

  Wolff smiled at him. A few minutes earlier he had wanted to finish their arrangement. Now he was hungry for approbation. Knowing how to please was his living.

  ‘It’s good, Adler, yes. It’s very good. First rate.’

  It was worth the forty. More. Much more. Even a tight bastard like C would say so.

  8

  Of Madness

  SHE’D TAKEN HABER’S army revolver from the desk, stepped into the garden and shot herself in the chest. The boy had found her by the light of an almost full moon. His face was still covered
in her blood three hours later, eyes wide, uncomprehending, ignored by everyone.

  They had carried his mother into the house but she’d died before the doctor could arrive. Nadolny was dining with the Foreign Minister and Count Blücher when the police rang to notify him. He made an excuse and left at once. He didn’t care a fig for Frau Haber. In so far as he’d formed an opinion of her, it was of a clever but hysterical woman whose outbursts were distracting the professor from his work. She had solved that problem.

  It was a little before midnight when he arrived at the house. No one had thought to clean her blood from the steps or the porch, and it trailed along the hall into the drawing room. Haber was in his study with a police inspector, ashen faced, chewing on his cigar, puzzled and a little shocked but in control of his emotions. One of the desk drawers was open and he was showing the inspector where he had kept the revolver.

  ‘My dear Professor, I’m so very sorry,’ Nadolny said, advancing across the carpet to greet him.

  ‘Count . . .’

  ‘No, please don’t get up.’

  He pulled a chair closer to the desk and listened as the inspector asked his questions. ‘She said she couldn’t bear it – I’d betrayed her, and I’d betrayed science.’ Haber gave a heavy sigh, pressing the ball of his thumb to his forehead. There were more angry words, it seemed; a nightly occurrence in the week since Haber’s return from Ypres.

  ‘Shouting in front of the servants. I was at my wits’ end. “Gas is a perversion and you’re a criminal,” she screamed at me when Baron Kiehlmann came to dinner. He must have thought she was mad.’

  ‘My dear fellow, she was unwell, that much is obvious,’ replied Nadolny carefully.

  ‘Then, tonight, she begged me to stop. Begged me. “Stop this madness,” she said. I was leaving for the Russian Front in the morning, you see, our first release in the east. But the tears, the threats . . .’

  There was nothing for the inspector to discover. Nadolny impressed upon him the need for total secrecy: nothing in writing, his men to speak to no one, the servants to receive the same instructions. Frau Haber was very ill, he said; the war was having a terrible effect on people; another casualty, a tragic business.