Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘You better sit down.’ Casement took him by the arm and steered him towards a chair. He collapsed into it like a sack of potatoes.

‘Him,’ he sneered, blinking lazily at Wolff. ‘Don’t worry about him. He knows, Roger, he knows…’

‘Be quiet, Adler,’ Casement demanded, a note of panic rising in his voice.

The damn fool was too pie-eyed to be sure what he was saying. Which of our secrets is he intent on betraying? thought Wolff. I’m not going to let the bastard give me away, no — and he leant forward, ready to spring.

‘No, Roger, I mean…’ Christensen frowned, trying to concentrate on what he wanted to say.

Casement was intent on shutting him up, too. ‘Come on, I’m putting you to bed,’ he said, dragging him roughly from the chair. Wolff jumped up to help: ‘Allow me.’ But Christensen was off balance. He lurched forward, clutching at the edge of a small occasional table to check his fall. Arm straight, it toppled under his weight, sending glasses and cups crashing to the floor.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ exclaimed Casement, prodding him with his foot. ‘Get up, why don’t you?’

But the man was out cold, sprawled like a fallen tree on a carpet of shards and splinters, and there was a little blood where his head had struck the hearthstone. For a few seconds Wolff wondered if his — or was it their? — problem was over. Casement began fussing guiltily, falling to his knees like a Magdalene, loosening Christensen’s collar, smoothing the hair from his brow. ‘He is all right, isn’t he?’ he asked plaintively.

Wolff bent to feel the pulse in his neck but before he could confirm life, Christensen stirred, then lifted his head a little and vomited on the rug.

‘Sorry, Roger,’ he coughed. ‘Sorry.’ He sounded like a little boy again.

Another reason to say goodbye to Berlin, Wolff reflected as he crossed the hotel lobby five minutes later. He’d been lucky. Christensen had served his purpose: it was time to go before he knew it. Casement was offering Wolff the excuse — America.

He expected another summons the following morning and the bellboy brought one to his rooms as he was taking breakfast. But the note wasn’t from Casement — it was from Count Nadolny, an instruction courteously disguised as an invitation to visit him at the General Staff Building at a little before ten; and, to be sure, the young lieutenant with the mad blue-grey eyes and two security policemen were waiting in the lobby to escort him there.

THERE WAS NOTHING remarkable in his appearance. More smart New England academic than engineer, tall, straight military back, neatly cropped beard; the sort of fellow Dilger might pass on a New York street without a glance.

‘If you don’t trust him, Count, why are you sending him to America?’

‘With men of his sort, Doctor, one is obliged to take a risk,’ Nadolny observed. ‘I’m merely easing his passage with a little money.’

From their vantage point in the General Staff Building, they gazed down upon de Witt in the gloomy courtyard below, pacing a few yards of gravel, smoking, and exchanging occasional words with his escort. Could he sense there was someone watching him? Ordinarily, no one waited for a motor car at the building the locals called the ‘Red Hat’: Prussian timekeeping was famously precise.

‘Sir Roger Casement says he’s a man of principle. Maguerre says he is a businessman…’ Nadolny enunciated the word with disdain, ‘…a profiteer, a mercenary — but we use these people. Keep away from him. He’ll be travelling with two companions. There’s no reason why your paths should cross in America.’

A black Opel pulled up to the steps and de Witt climbed inside.

‘Shall we?’ the Count asked, gesturing to the door.

His office was on the other side of the building with a view of the Reichstag, dark even on a bright day and furnished with uninspiring mahogany pieces. The paintings of battles and officers and the Kaiser belonged to the room but there was also a small scene in a bar at night, painted with heavy brushstrokes in the modern French style. ‘Do you like it?’ he enquired.

Dilger nodded politely. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know anything about art.’

‘You’re interested in music?’ the Count remarked, indicating the armchair in front of his desk.

‘Not especially.’

‘But you’re a friend of Frau Hempel’s?’

‘I can’t see how that can be a concern of yours, Count.’

‘Your safety is my concern,’ he said coolly. ‘She’ll be in New York at the same time as you?’

Dilger nodded curtly.

‘She has many friends, not all of them are reliable.’

‘I don’t like your…’

‘Doctor,’ interrupted Nadolny, ‘I merely observe it would be wise not to be seen too often in public with her. You will draw attention to yourself.’ He bent over his desk, opened a drawer and took out a buff envelope. ‘Your contact is Mr Paul Hilken of the Norddeutscher Lloyd Line. Under no circumstances visit our embassy in Washington. We must assume the British follow its movements closely.’ He paused, elbow on the desk, his thumb stroking the band of his red signet ring. ‘Perhaps the Americans too,’ he added with an old-world smile. ‘Now, I have something for you.’ Rising from the desk, he presented the envelope to Dilger with a small bow.

‘Who…?’

‘Open it, why don’t you?’

It was a short handwritten note from the Chief of the General Staff.

Herr Doktor Dilger… the great service you do your Fatherland… sensible of the danger… most necessary work… following in the footsteps of your illustrious father… a great honour…

Signed simply, Falkenhayn .

‘You see.’ The Count was standing at his side. ‘Your work is important enough to command his personal attention.’

‘He knows of my father?’

‘He would have liked to have spoken to you in person, but official duties…’ The Count held out his hand. ‘May I?’

Dilger didn’t understand.

‘The General’s letter,’ the Count explained. ‘It has to be deniable — you understand.’

Do I? Dilger wondered as he was escorted from the building. The purposeful click of military boots filled the broad marble stairs as young men in field grey passed him without a glance, proud of their uniform, with nothing to deny. The following day he would make his last secret visit to the Military Veterinary Academy to take possession of the case. Until then, he wished to stroll in the May sunshine without fear of being jostled by a careless passer-by; sip coffee and eat cake at the Aschinger, meet friends, visit the cabaret, drink champagne — forget. But Frieda was in America already and he found it difficult to be merry without her. His friends wanted to know why he’d left the hospital. ‘We need you,’ they said, and in a drunken exchange one of them had accused him of desertion. The memory made him wince.

In the end he walked slowly home to his sister, rehearsing his goodbye. Since his nephew’s death, Elizabeth had relied on him so. The colonel never left the Front, the house was always empty, no visitors, no parties, just the servants, and she was losing the butler and the footman to the war.

She greeted him in the hall with a kiss. ‘I thought you were at the hospital.’

‘I have to talk to you,’ he said, leading her by the hand into the drawing room.

‘Should I ask for some coffee?’ Her voice trembled a little. ‘I’ve had a letter from the colonel. He writes that he’s well — is there ever anything else worth saying?’ She rang for the maid, then sat beside him with her small hands resting lightly in her lap. ‘What is it, Anton?’ Her anxious brown eyes fixed on his face. More mother than sister; was there anyone in the world who knew him better? He’d left Virginia to live with her when he was a teenager.