Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘That’s why he made me visit him at the club, and…’ Wolff hesitated, his conscience pricking him hard, ‘…kept me there.’ Lie back, he thought; goodness, he’d fallen over.

‘I thought he trusted you.’ Wiseman was gazing at him intently over his fingertips.

‘No one trusts anyone in this sort of enterprise. He was making sure.’

‘Three to four days before they detonate, you say?’ enquired Gaunt. ‘There’s still time to get them off.’

‘He may have lied about that too,’ Wiseman noted, smoothing his moustache thoughtfully with the tip of his right index finger.

‘Yes.’ Wolff felt obliged to acknowledge the possibility. He loosened his tie a little, his collar slipping between damp fingers. Suddenly the room felt close.

‘Look, there’s time. My people are onto it,’ said Gaunt empathetically.

‘And they know…’

‘Yes, yes. Hold number two. Six along, six up.’ Gaunt sounded very Australian suddenly, a sure sign that he was losing his temper again. ‘Sit down, Wolff, for God’s sake.’

‘You did the right thing, old boy;’ this from Thwaites. ‘No choice but to plant the things. As they say here in America, you’re the ace in our hole. Can’t risk your cover.’

Wolff nodded gratefully. He walked round the couch to join the circle. Gaunt was holding court at its centre in the only comfortable armchair.

‘The real question is, how on earth is he doing it? Can you tell me…’ Wiseman glanced sideways at Gaunt, ‘… us how he’s smuggling these bombs aboard the ships?’

Of course Wolff could explain. Hadn’t he just planted two of the damn things on the Blackness ? The same unholy alliance: Irish and German. A spark from Roger Casement in Berlin, fanned to a flame by the presence of a prodigiously energetic man, the self-styled Dark Invader.

‘Dark Invader…’ Thwaites guffawed. ‘That’s a bit rich, isn’t it?’

‘He’s an actor certainly,’ replied Wolff, running his fingers through his hair reflectively. ‘There’s a little of that in all of us who do this work, isn’t there? He knows what he’s doing. Firstly, forcing up the price of ammunition to the Allies — that’s through a cover company…’

‘Gibbons. Cedar Street,’ interjected Gaunt. ‘My Czechs are watching the place…’

‘Dr Albert made me sign one of the company’s contracts,’ continued Wolff. ‘Albert’s the paymaster. Then there’s Clan na Gael — Rintelen is encouraging the Irish to organise strikes in all the East Coast ports we use. Thirdly, the sabotage network — taking the war to us here in America;’ and he told them about the envelope Koenig had passed over his greasy plate to the man from Green’s. ‘Koenig used to organise the security for Hamburg America, knows all the agencies I shouldn’t wonder. I turn up like Santa Claus with my sack and a Green’s detective gives me a badge. Result, two packages in the hold.’ He frowned pensively. ‘I expect Dr Albert is paying detective agencies at the other ports too.’

‘ Quis custodiet , what?’ observed Wiseman. ‘Who guards the guards?’

‘The thing is,’ Wolff leant forward to offer him his cigarette case, ‘someone with a badge and a lot of balls can do whatever he damn well pleases.’

‘And the cigar bombs, tell me about those, man,’ demanded Gaunt, the springs of his chair groaning as he crossed then uncrossed his long legs. He was unsettled, he wanted to ask the questions.

‘They’re ingenious.’ Wolff bent to light his own cigarette. ‘Simple, inexpensive, easy to hide. They leave no trace — ingenious. The inventor is elderly, Bismarck whiskers, Prussian I would say. Got him to say a few words in English — he speaks it well and with an American accent — New York, New Jersey — so he’s been here a while.’

‘Do you have a name?’ Gaunt was fumbling for a notebook.

‘Only a false one, Ziethen.’

‘You’re sure it’s false?’

‘Not one hundred per cent…’

‘Von Ziethen was one of Frederick the Great’s commanders,’ Thwaites explained.

‘“Correct”,’ as friend Rintelen would say. And the code word for the operation was one of Frederick’s battles: Leuthen .’ Wolff drew heavily on his cigarette. He was apprehensive about the ship and impatient for Gaunt to leave. ‘Is there any tea?’

Wiseman was watching him from behind his fingertips, as inscrutable as a plaster saint. ‘It’s not very warm;’ but rising from the couch, he stepped over to the table and poured Wolff some anyway. ‘Sugar?’

‘Two, thank you.’

‘Heard any word of this fellow, Delmar ?’ he drawled, handing Wolff the cup.

‘No.’

‘They’re worried in London. The Admiralty has a source…’

‘I know.’

‘You do?’ Wiseman raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘London thinks the fellow’s important, wants to know what he’s doing here.’ He sat down and took a pipe from his jacket. ‘Inspiration, anyone?’

‘Wolff needs to take a look in Rintelen’s office,’ replied Gaunt with quarterdeck confidence. ‘It’s all in there.’

Wolff would have liked to disagree; the ‘Wolff needs to’, he didn’t appreciate. Irritatingly, it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. Contracts, accounts, receipts, the business of war in America expressed as a balance sheet; that Dr Albert was a meticulous record keeper he’d witnessed with his own eyes. Was there a securer repository available to him in New York than the Friedrich der Grosse ? ‘Our piece of Germany,’ Rintelen called her.

‘Do you think you’ll be able to take a look?’ Wiseman enquired, pulling at strands of tobacco.

A number of thoughts flashed through Wolff’s mind as he considered his answer: that Rintelen would never trust him to be alone on the ship; that no one but the crew would hear the crack of a revolver in the cabin, and if they dropped him from the stern the tide might take him to Coney Island — he’d always meant to visit. He wondered how sorry Laura would be and resolved to ask her to dinner, and he remembered that the cabin door was secured with a basic mortise, the filing cabinets with something simpler, but there wouldn’t be time to do more than glance through the files and some would be in code. And if he was caught he would shoot, and he would make a particular effort to finish Hinsch because that would be a genuine pleasure. He thought also that for a Bureau new boy almost ten years his junior, Wiseman was asking rather a lot, but that he managed it so graciously he was probably accustomed to getting his way.

‘It’s a question of opportunity,’ he said flatly.

‘Believe me, I’m sensible of the risk,’ Wiseman observed with what at least sounded like humility; ‘and we can’t leave it all to Lieutenant Wolff.’

‘It’s his duty,’ replied Gaunt.

‘You know, I have some ideas…’ Wiseman held a match to his pipe. The tongue of flame rising from its bowl reminded Wolff of the detonator, and with a frisson of anxiety the smell of rotting vegetables, a crate six up and six along the stack, and fifty Empire sailors.

‘I have… some… some thoughts… I might share, Captain,’ Wiseman puffed. ‘Shall we leave these fellows and sort a few things out by ourselves?’

There wasn’t anything more to discuss — it was a Navy show, Gaunt grumbled. But Wiseman persisted, oiling his ruffled colonial feathers with a charm that demonstrated perfectly why C had put his faith in a Secret Service rookie.

‘Americans are dewy eyed about English aristocrats,’ Thwaites observed when they’d gone. ‘Sir William will be a great success here.’

Wolff got to his feet and wandered back to the window. ‘I think that’s what Gaunt is worried about,’ he muttered distractedly. A motor car had broken down in the middle of the street and a plump lady in a preposterously large hat was standing in front of it with a crank in her hand, waiting for a gentleman to do the decent thing. ‘He’s careless,’ Wolff remarked. ‘You saw the naval uniform’.