Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘Do not let the enemy catch you,’ Hinsch barked. ‘Throw the empty phials over the side.’

Over the side. Christ. Shifting his shoulders, Wolff craned further out from the edge of the gantry to examine the men more closely. Their clothes, their gestures, one man lifting his cap to scratch a bristly scalp, another slouching against an old packing case, the bored silence, the careless ease with which their minutes slipped by, as if whiling away the early hours of a watch at the rail of a ship: Wolff knew these men. He’d seen them beaten by the sea, wrestling with warps on a heaving foredeck; he’d seen them paralytic and gazing at the stars, heard them grouse, terrified then elated; he’d seen them in all moods, all weathers.

‘…and if you can’t use the syringe,’ Dilger was telling them, ‘use the sugar cubes.’ He’d taken a small package from the box. ‘Wait as long as you can — a day or two days from port would be best — no sooner. That is most important — vital. Any questions?’

‘And these gloves will be enough to keep us safe?’ one of the men asked, with just the suggestion of Irish in his voice.

‘And a mask, yes,’ Dilger replied. ‘Anything else?’

No one else spoke. They’d clearly been well schooled by Dilger’s brother.

‘Good,’ said Hinsch, nodding to Carl.

Wolff watched Carl disappear from the ring of light, returning a minute later with two packages wrapped in brown paper and string. He lumbered into the darkness like a fat German Santa, repeating his delivery until there were eight parcels on the table. The dust-dry spirit of Dr Albert floated about the warehouse as the sailors stepped forward to sign for a parcel and pay. They left at once, cradling their packages in the crook of an arm or against their chests, relieved to be away, their pockets jingling with money earned for Ireland’s cause. Did they know they were poisoning not just the animals but soldiers too? A lot of thoughts flitted through Wolff’s mind as he lay on his side in the filth. That Casement couldn’t know. That it was a bargain without principle, shaped by someone subtler — a man like Nadolny. No, Roger couldn’t know, not Roger, not Laura. They were being used by ruthless men, servants of their own empire, Devoy too perhaps, and Ireland. And what the hell to do about it?

With the sailors gone and no one to address, Dilger and his companions were speaking in no more than a conspiratorial whisper. It made the warehouse feel a colder, a more dangerous place. From the little Wolff could gather they were housekeeping, with mention of Devoy, travel arrangements, security checks: it was impossible to be sure. The doctor picked up his medical case and they began to drift from the light, pausing only at its edge for a few more words and long handshakes. Hilken said something funny and there was a little nervous laughter. They were on edge and wanted to be away. A moment later the door beneath the gantry banged again, the circle of light disappeared and Wolff was alone. His shoulder and hip were numb and he’d strained his neck peering out over the iron lip, but he lay still a few seconds longer, breathing deeply. Somewhere above him the beat of pigeons’ wings. I’ve spoilt my coat, he thought, with a wry smile. He was too relieved to care.

From his vantage point in a derelict shed, Masek had watched Dilger and the others leave the warehouse. Minutes later he saw Wolff do the same.

‘The doctor travelled with Hinsch,’ he observed as they walked to the motor car. ‘Maybe go back to your friend Miss McDonnell.’

But Wolff didn’t think so. ‘Drive me to a telephone, would you?’

The duty clerk at the embassy in Washington was wet behind the ears. Sir William was dining with the Ambassador and shouldn’t be disturbed, he declared, and certainly not for a man who refused to give his name and wasn’t prepared to share his business. It took ten minutes and the sort of language more commonly heard in a sailors’ whorehouse before Wolff bullied him into delivering a note.

‘Find Dilger?’ Wiseman asked as soon as he picked up the mouthpiece.

Wolff told him what he’d seen. Eight seamen, eight ships perhaps, he couldn’t say for sure. ‘They were instructed to wait until the end of the voyage before they infected the animals — horses and mules, I suppose — I don’t know.’

For a time the line crackled emptily.

‘Our soldiers.’ Wiseman sounded shocked even on a bad line. ‘They’re attacking our people, too.’ More crackle. ‘My God. I can’t quite… their own countrymen. It’s come to this?’

‘Yes.’

Another long pause.

‘The best men in my battalion were Irish.’ Wiseman’s sigh was long and audible from two hundred miles. ‘Sugar cubes, you say. Harder to find.’

‘Yes. If we want to catch Dilger we’ll have to…’

‘An American citizen, what can we do?’ Wiseman interrupted. ‘No, we have to stop those sailors, and stop the enemy sending more.’

Another silence filled only by the fizzing of the phone, as if a thought was taking shape on the wire.

Wolff spoke first: ‘I won’t recognise all of them but if the War Office and the Admiralty can hold British merchant ships here in port — the least we can do is check for Irish names.’

‘Actually, there’s another way,’ said Wiseman, a little too casually. ‘A better way.’ This time the line seemed to spit portentously. ‘That’s if you’re willing, Wolff?’

FOR ONCE MR Paul Hilken informed his wife by telephone that he would be working late at his office in downtown Baltimore. It wasn’t necessary or customary, but in the last few days he’d surprised her, and himself, by being attentive — even affectionate. It’s the uncertainty, he reflected, as he sat waiting for the call. He was frightened he would lose the things that made being married to a man like him tolerable. Hinsch had organised everything, taking it in his ungainly stride. No evidence, he said, no laboratory and no one who would dare speak to the authorities. To be sure, he’d sent the longshoreman caught with the poison to the West Coast: at least, that was what he said.

‘And the doctor?’ Hilken protested. ‘If they find him…’

‘They won’t. Now, in God’s name behave like a man,’ Hinsch had upbraided him.

Hinsch was a brute, but a clever one, Hilken mused. Their relationship had changed: he’d always tried to bully, now he expected to be obeyed, and when he’d asked Hilken to wait at the Hansa Haus for a telephone call, it was issued as an order.

In the hall below his office, seamen from ships washed up by the war were gathering round the piano, as they did most evenings. A few cheap beers, a distribution of letters from home, and by nine o’clock they were ready to sing. Floating up the stairs a Plattdütsch shanty he’d heard countless times since the beginning of the war. At one time he used to hum the tune. There was a sudden swell as the door opened and his clerk brought in more papers: victualling orders, ships’ repairs, the day-to-day business of the Line. He tried to settle to them but found it impossible to anchor his thoughts.

‘Is it true?’ Miss Dilger had demanded on the telephone. ‘Was my brother doing what they said — those diseases?’ She’d been quite hysterical. All lies, he’d assured her; spies trying to discredit Germany. It wasn’t the first time the enemy had tried this sort of propaganda. ‘Believe me, Miss Dilger, they made up the story because they hate us and hope America will as well,’ he’d said, and she was desperate to believe him. She had scrubbed their basement and repeated her brother’s lies to neighbours and spies without question or complaint. When Hilken had spoken of patriotic duty she had cut him — ‘I love my brothers,’ she’d said, and that was enough. When the time was ripe, Carl Dilger would resume the work and she would cook, clean and look the other way as before.