Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘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 six 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:

1. 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.

2. 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.

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

4. 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.