Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘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 morning 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.’