Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘No, but he’s Sir Roger’s,’ Wolff hesitated, ‘friend.’

Rintelen nodded deliberately. ‘Berlin says he has spoken to the British.’

‘Oh?’ The band round Wolff’s chest tightened a notch or two. Slowly, casually, he sipped his champagne, hiding for a few seconds behind the glass before lowering it slowly. ‘What has that got to do with me?’

Rintelen raised his eyebrows. ‘You are angry?’

‘Tired, that’s all.’

‘I see. Well, Christensen admits he has been in contact with a British diplomat called Findlay. In Christiania, I believe. Berlin has had its suspicions for a while and wants to know if you think he is…’

‘Clever enough to be a spy?’ Wolff interrupted. ‘I hardly know him — just the journey here; I didn’t care for him much. He does have…’ he sighed and reached into his jacket for his cigarette case; ‘…it isn’t important.’

‘It might be.’ Rintelen leant forward earnestly, his rodent eyes chasing about Wolff’s face again. ‘Please finish.’

‘Just, he has a great hold on Sir Roger’s affections.’

‘Yes,’ Rintelen said, examining his well-manicured hands. ‘He told his interrogators the English offered him money to spy on Sir Roger but he refused. What else can he say? Count Nadolny is concerned for our operations. He wants to know who Christensen has been in contact with — both here and in Berlin before he came.’

Wolff shook his head sharply. ‘No idea. As I say, I barely knew him.’

Rintelen was gazing at Wolff intently. Something sharp in his manner suggested he knew more than he was prepared to say. ‘I’ll ask Hinsch to make some enquiries,’ he said at last.

‘Good, yes.’ Wolff perched at the edge of the chair. ‘If there’s nothing else?’

‘I wonder if…’ Rintelen hesitated. ‘No, not now, Herr de Witt. Not tonight.’ He smiled weakly. ‘You must rest your leg.’

Hans drove him most of the way home. The last two blocks he limped, half expecting to find a shadowy figure stamping snow outside the library. But the street was empty, no one had broken into his apartment, no one had slipped a secret message beneath his door: thank the Lord.

The following morning, he was woken from troubled sleep by the telephone and a cautious voice inviting him to Mr Schmidt’s residence to discuss another offer of work. Would it be possible at two?

Thwaites’ safe apartment was on the west side of Central Park at the top of a new block that was respectable but busy enough to be anonymous; home for the most part to aspiring young couples with money for only one domestic and old ladies put out to grass by their families.

‘My dear fellow,’ Wiseman came forward to greet him, ‘well done. Let me shake your hand. A marvellous haul. Come and sit down. You’re limping, are you hurt? White, a chair if you please.’

They were gathered at a table in its small sitting room — Gaunt, too — before them papers, pocketbook, the photographs he’d taken on the ship. To judge by the cigarette smoke, they must have been poring over the stuff for a couple of hours at least. It had been no great matter to decipher the ledger, Wiseman informed him, sliding a photograph and a handwritten transcript across the table. ‘Norman, why don’t you take us through it?’

‘Some you know already,’ Thwaites observed, grinding his cigarette into an ashtray. ‘Thousands of dollars to the Clan for its help with the strikes and with the sabotage campaign, payments to Larkin and some of the other agitators; to three detective agencies — Green’s here in New York, and this…’ he said, running a bony forefinger down the flimsy, ‘May the third this year to a chap called McCarthy for what friend Albert calls a service to His Majesty at the Anderson Chemical Company in Wallington — that’s in New Jersey.’

‘There was an explosion at Anderson’s on that day — three men killed,’ Gaunt interjected. As usual, he looked out of sorts. ‘You see — I told you it was important we lay our hands on these files.’

‘And how right you were, Captain.’ Wiseman smiled at him patiently.

‘Five days later another payment,’ Thwaites continued; ‘this time to Dr Scheele for scientific services … your Dr Ziethen?’

‘There’s a contract?’ Wolff nodded to the photographs. ‘You have an address and a company name.’

‘We’re checking. The thing is, a few days later the SS Langdale was damaged by fire. The doctor’s special scientific service perhaps? Almost all these entries in the ledger…’ he lifted the sheets, ‘…can be matched to some misfortune aboard one of our ships or in a munitions factory. May the tenth: explosion at Dupont in Carneys Point ; May the thirteenth: SS Samland catches fire at sea ; May the twenty-fifth: another explosion at Dupont , and so on and so on…’

‘Yes,’ Wiseman frowned. ‘Rintelen’s been busier than we thought, and for longer.’

Gaunt dumped his hands on the table, leant forward to speak but changed his mind, content instead to glare at them defensively.

‘And the source at the bank?’ Wolff enquired.

Wiseman said, ‘Working on that, aren’t we, Norman? Friend of a friend on the board of the National City, you know — he’s making discreet enquiries. One of the clerks churning out munitions purchases — Irish or German, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Agent B-1 in Albert’s ledger,’ Thwaites chipped in. ‘He should be easy to spot because he’ll be wearing the best suit in the bank.’

The audit trail was pretty straightforward. It wandered up and down the East Coast, to Canada and even to someone with an Irish name in San Francisco. ‘No limit to the fellow’s ambition, really,’ Wiseman remarked with admiration. ‘And this chap Hilken in Baltimore — know anything about him?’

Wolff said he didn’t.

‘Norddeutscher representative in America,’ Wiseman declared. ‘Father before him too. Rich it seems, and Norman’s newspaper pals say he’s thick with the German smart set. So why is he picking our friend Albert’s pockets, eh? Tea, anyone?’ Half turning to the door, he shouted: ‘Do the honours, would you, White?’

‘He’ll be paying for German sailors caught by the blockade,’ rumbled Gaunt. ‘Look, what are we going to do—’

‘That’s what I thought at first,’ interrupted Wiseman, lifting his hand apologetically, ‘but it seems not. My banking friend tells me those payments come from an account in the company name. Is it possible…’ he paused, his moustache playing above a clever smile, ‘…well, that he’s our Delmar — if not — the contact to Delmar? We’ve talked about another show, two networks with the same old woman holding the purse strings. Albert counts everyone else’s coppers, why not Delmar’s too?’

‘Delmar, Delmar, Delmar.’ Gaunt pushed his chair back impatiently. ‘Could be nobody! Just a code word — let’s talk about Rintelen. I think it’s time we told the Ambassador. He can take it to the President.’

The kitchen door opened and White reversed through it with the tray.

‘Over here, yes, on the table,’ said Wiseman with a sigh of what may have been exasperation. ‘Clear those photographs, old boy. Sugar?’ he asked, chin raised enquiringly to Gaunt.

‘Two.’

Gaunt sat forward again and the table instantly felt smaller.

‘I’m sure you’re right, Captain,’ Wiseman cooed, ‘only, our masters do have a bee in their bonnet about old Delmar. Won’t let me rest. I think we should take a little look at Mr Hilken. Keep ’em happy, what? No lemon, I’m afraid. Here we are,’ he presented Gaunt with a china cup; ‘damn it, no cake either — what were you thinking, man?’