Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘Is that Mr Hilken?’ he heard someone say. After so long, the tinkling of the telephone bell had startled him and he’d dropped the receiver. ‘Mr Hilken?’ The line crackled and hissed like an old phonograph. ‘Mr Paul Hilken?’

‘I’m Hilken,’ he replied.

‘John Devoy.’

‘Yes, Mr Devoy, I’ve been waiting for your call.’

‘Your friend’s gone.’

‘You’re certain?’

‘Of course I am — I saw him go aboard myself.’

Hilken closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Thank God.

‘Are you there, Hilken?’

‘Yes, I’m here,’ he said, ‘thank you, Mr Devoy. Thank you. A weight off my mind, I can tell you.’

Perhaps he’d said more than was wise because the Irishman growled something inaudible and hung up the telephone.

Hilken was too relieved to care. He’d said harsh things about the Irish after the von Rintelen affair, but honestly, thank God for them! He took another deep breath: they’d almost tied up all the loose ends. What a state he’d worked himself into. Rising from the desk, he stepped into the corridor to instruct the clerk to arrange for his motor car. Then he poured a drink. He was carrying it to one of the armchairs at the hearth when there was a sharp rap at the door.

‘Yes.’

There was no response. ‘Come in,’ he shouted impatiently in German. This time the visitor knocked more forcefully. Exasperated after a tense evening, he walked back to the door, ready to give him the sharp edge of his tongue. The stranger was dressed as a petty officer in a pea jacket and bosun’s cap, his face thin, his eyes dark and hostile.

‘Hello, Hilken,’ he said, barging into the room.

They’d talked about breaking in and rummaging the safe but the Hansa Haus was never at rest. From a doorway across the street, Wolff had listened to the pianist thumping out the old tunes and the singing of a rowdy chorus. Some of the songs he’d learnt in a Wilhelmshaven beer cellar when spying felt like an adventure and a respectable profession for a gentleman. ‘Every night sing — wait until they sing,’ Masek had counselled. ‘Then they will be too drunk and sad to notice a stranger.’ Somewhere in the shadows of the street he was waiting to be sure Wolff was safe. He must have noticed Hilken at the first-floor window, and watched Wolff turn up the collar of his coat and cross the street to follow a group of seamen inside.

‘Who are you?’ Hilken stammered at last.

Wolff placed a hand in the middle of his chest and gave him a shove. ‘This won’t take long. I see you have a drink — why don’t you sit and finish it?’

‘How dare you touch me,’ he protested, angrily brushing Wolff’s arm aside. ‘Who the hell do you think…’

‘I’m de Witt.’

That Hilken knew the name, and was unhappy to hear it, was written plainly enough in his face. ‘If it’s business — make an appointment with my clerk.’

They were standing toe to toe like cowboys squaring up in a saloon, Wolff a few intimidating inches taller, broader and set with the confidence of a man who knows he can take a punch and return it with more than equal measure. ‘Sit down,’ he commanded. Hilken glared at him but his shoulders dropped, and a second later he turned to walk over to his desk, anxious to place four feet of mahogany between them.

‘It’s a business proposition,’ Wolff said, pushing further into the room; ‘if that helps a chap like you make sense of it. You see, my clients know all about your activities — you’re trying to poison our soldiers — and our horses. Killed at least one American, I hear, you and Hinsch, and Dilger.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Wolff’s features settled into a bored expression, his forefinger trailing lazily along the edge of the desk until it came to an ugly silver paperweight, a ship’s dog in a sou’wester. He picked it up, testing its heft in his hand. ‘Well, of course you know. You don’t do the dirty work — you pay people like McKevitt. You settle the bills. You helped Dilger set up his laboratory — goodness, what would your president say if he knew a German spy was culturing anthrax a few miles from the White House?’

Hilken lifted up his glass, inspected his drink, then placed it gently back on the desk. ‘He’d recognise it for British propaganda,’ he said, affecting indifference.

‘Well, of course I was expecting you to suggest something of the sort. I wouldn’t be here if my clients…’

‘Can we stop this pretence?’ Hilken sneered.

Wolff shrugged; ‘…my friends didn’t have proof. Your associate, Dr Albert — an excellent bookkeeper — he made a very careful record — you have accounts at two banks in New York, don’t you? I’m sure the Baltimore Sun — oh, and the Secret Service — would be interested to know why a German diplomat implicated in a sabotage campaign is paying you thousands of dollars. No, just a minute, let me finish,’ he said, holding up his hand. ‘You see, he was foolish enough to entrust his accounts to von Rintelen, who kept them in an oak filing cabinet, the middle one of three, if I recall.’

Hilken had turned a sickly white. ‘And Miss Dilger,’ Wolff continued, ‘we visited her — I’m sure you know by now. Do you think she’ll be strong enough to lie when the police and newspaper reporters are on the doorstep?’

Carefully replacing the paperweight, he stepped over to the hearth, holding his hands to the glowing embers. ‘Think of the disgrace, Hilken, a saboteur helping a foreign power. If they don’t execute you as a spy they’ll put you in prison. What will the other members of the Baltimore Germania Club say, and your business associates, your father, your wife — does she love you enough to wait for twenty years? You know, you won’t be able to afford to keep the girlfriend — Miss Johnston, isn’t it? Perhaps the newspapers will speak to her too.’ He stared disapprovingly at Hilken. ‘But it doesn’t have to be like that. We’re not interested in you — it’s Hinsch and his people we want — his contacts in the ports — the network — most of all the sailors at the warehouse last night — yes, I know all about that. I want their names and their ships. I know you kept a record. Was it for Albert?’

Hilken’s gaze was flitting blindly about the room as he tried to manage his fear. ‘Albert,’ he repeated with dismay.

‘I was sure it must be,’ Wolff continued. ‘It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you give me the ships and the men. Eight men.’

‘How the hell…’ Hilken was so astonished he forgot he was afraid, but only for the briefest of moments. ‘You want me to be your creature?’

‘A small enterprise. An exchange. I want those names.’

‘Even if I were inclined — I don’t have that sort of information here.’ He paused, then added with less conviction, ‘And I wouldn’t give it to you if I did.’

‘I know, you’re a German patriot.’ Wolff smiled patiently. ‘But for a few names — is it worth the sacrifice? — your life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness—’

He was interrupted by polite knocking at the door. For an unguarded second, hope flickered on Hilken’s face before his expression settled in a sullen frown.

‘Who is it?’ Wolff demanded.

‘My clerk. I expect he’s come to collect the papers I was working on.’

Another knock at the door. ‘Mr Hilken? Müller, sir.’

‘Let me see,’ said Wolff, waving Thwaites’ revolver at the documents on the desk.

They were invoices and orders, nothing of importance. Wolff handed them back, then gestured with the gun to the door.

‘Your driver’s waiting, sir.’ The clerk sounded bemused. Hilken handed him the papers and they spoke briefly about the next day’s business. He was clearly surprised to be going through the diary in the corridor. ‘Is everything all right?’