The Poison Tide

by Andrew Williams

  ‘He came to stay at our house in Ireland, you see,’ Fitzgerald continued. ‘I liked him, admired him.’

  ‘Has the Chief sent a car to the station?’

  Wolff hated Cumming’s club. It reminded him of a mausoleum, pompously ornate in the Venetian style, of the last century, a waiting room for old soldiers, some old sailors, a gallery for dusty weapons and portraits of Empire officers who had won their battle honours against spear-carrying tribesmen. Not a place where the ‘temporary gentlemen’ of the new armies were made to feel welcome: it suited C perfectly. The staff knew how to look after a fellow like C.

  The porter took their coats and hats and arranged for a footman to escort them up the stairs to a private room on the first floor.

  ‘My dear chap, come in, come in,’ C bellowed, struggling to rise from a low chair. ‘We’re the reception committee. You look exhausted. Are you hungry, some sandwiches? Beef all right? And something to drink . . . see to it, Fitzgerald, will you.’ He advanced on his sticks to offer his hand. ‘Congratulations. Jolly fine work,’ and his voice shook a little. A good lunch, thought Wolff.

  ‘Sit down,’ C said. ‘Let’s begin. We haven’t much time.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You know Admiral Hall.’

  Yes, Wolff knew Hall; he’d served under ‘Blinker’ in Naval Intelligence. Naval aristocracy: his father had been director too. Bloody old Blinker.

  ‘Well done, Wolff,’ Hall said, peremptory as ever. He reminded Wolff of a Jack Russell. Short, balding, mid forties, never still, eyes darting about the room suspiciously, always blinking.

  ‘The bank told me you were alive,’ C remarked, easing back into his chair. ‘Good hotel, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Prices in Berlin keep rising,’ Wolff replied with a wry smile. They’d directed him to the leather couch, face to face like a review board, just the Persian rug and the empty grate between them. ‘Did you say there was a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘The report you left with Agent T in Amsterdam – you mentioned a brigade . . .’

  ‘I don’t trust Tinsley.’

  ‘Too late to worry about him,’ interjected Hall impatiently. ‘This brigade?’

  ‘It won’t come to anything.’

  ‘And a rising?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. He hears everything second hand, you see. My guess, for what it’s worth, not this year.’

  ‘Second hand?’

  ‘All his news of Ireland comes through America. I’ll help myself, shall I?’ he asked, gesturing to a bottle on the mantelpiece.

  ‘You’re forgetting yourself, Wolff.’ Blinker was losing his temper; it happened quite often.

  ‘Forgetting myself is how I stay alive, sir.’

  They watched him pour a whisky. A few minutes later Fitzgerald returned with a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of the club claret. Then Wolff told them of Casement’s failure in the camps and of his fairy-tale hope that recruits for his brigade would be found in America. The Germans were using him for propaganda, he said. When the time came, they would let him have a few rifles for his rising, but they didn’t expect it to come to anything. ‘No, they don’t have much faith in the Irish.’ He paused to light a cigarette. ‘Actually, Casement says he isn’t sure they want a rising.’

  C grunted incredulously: ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘He says the Germans are like us – like him . . .’ Wolff gestured with his cigarette to the portrait of a cavalry colonel in foreign parts, hanging over the chimneypiece. ‘At first he believed they were enemies of the British Empire – God Save Ireland the same as God Save Germany. He’s very religious.’

  ‘Bloody fool,’ barked Hall. ‘Realises he’s made a mistake then.’

  ‘He’s been very low.’

  C leant forward to peer at Wolff through his monocle. ‘Do you like him?’

  Silence. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘No, it bloody well doesn’t.’ Hall shifted restlessly in his chair. ‘What matters is that we bring him down . . . anything, letters, bad habits, vices – women, does he drink? Anything useful . . .’

  Wolff thought of Christensen.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Only what I’ve told you,’ he replied coldly.

  ‘Sure?’ There was a glint of steel in C’s eyes.

  Wolff picked up his glass. ‘Yes.’ He sipped his whisky slowly, then bent low to place it on the hearth.

  ‘Then we must talk about America,’ said Hall. ‘This German fellow, von Rintelen, you mention in your report – is he going to contact you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I am to be one of Casement’s representatives, that’s all we agreed,’ Wolff explained. ‘The Count said there might be an opportunity to make some money – wanted me to contact a Dr Albert at the Hamburg America Line on Broadway.’

  ‘Good, very good.’ Hall was blinking furiously. ‘We know Dr Albert, don’t we, Cumming? Holds the purse strings in America. Haven’t been able to get near him . . .’ He exchanged a glance with C.

  ‘Our chap, Gaunt, has been keeping an eye on him,’ he continued. ‘Says Albert doesn’t get his hands dirty, no, that’s why they’ve sent this man von Rintelen . . . marvellous opportunity, Wolff, marvellous.’

  Wolff nodded. He wasn’t ready, not yet.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Hall got up to stand on the rug in front of the fire. ‘Known for a while that they’re building a network in New York. Sabotage – all in the report you sent from Amsterdam,’ he declared, rattling it in incisive bursts like a machine gun. ‘We’re going to have to fight this war with American shells . . . not making enough of our own – scandal really. Not just shells . . . rifles, lots of things – horses. That’s what this fellow Rintelen is about. Looks as if he’s going to be able to count on the bloody Irish, and New York’s full of ’em.’ He took his cigarette case from his jacket pocket and stared at it distractedly for a few seconds, then put it back without taking one. ‘The thing is, Wolff, Rintelen isn’t the only man they’ve sent to America, there’s another. There are two of them,’ he said at last.

  ‘Two of them?’

  ‘Two of them, sir,’ snapped Hall. ‘Delmar – at least that’s his code name. Heard of him?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Your Count, well, someone in his Section P has sent him – top secret, highest classification, separate arrangements, separate contacts – he’s going to a lot of trouble – why? Like to hazard a guess?’

  ‘No idea, sir.’

  ‘You can see how important this is,’ Cumming interpolated quickly. ‘We can’t rely on the Americans.’

  ‘Amateurs,’ said Hall, shaking his head contemptuously.

  ‘We’re not supposed to be operating there,’ Cumming continued, ‘but we have this opportunity . . . a marvellous opportunity . . . safer than Berlin, of course.’

  Wolff didn’t reply. He wasn’t going to make it easy. God, he was sick of their club-smoke intrigue, sitting there on the edge of their seats; sick of the Kipling talk they were preparing to give him on his duty.

  ‘You can have a little time, twenty-four hours all right?’ C took out his monocle and rubbed his eye with his forefinger. ‘Shore leave, if you like. Time to get a few things straight. The Rotterdam, isn’t it?’

  Wolff nodded and drew on his cigarette. For a time no one spoke.

  ‘You might like to see your friend, Mrs Curtis,’ C said at last, putting his monocle back. ‘I believe she’s had, well . . .’

  ‘How do you know about this Delmar?’ interrupted Wolff.

  For once C looked a little thrown. Hall was blinking furiously. ‘None of your damn business,’ he growled.

  ‘It is if you sent someone else out there – to Germany, I mean,’ Wolff replied hotly. ‘But you’d have told me. No, you’re into their codes? Then you don’t need me.’

  ‘Damned impertinent, Wolff.’ Blinker was bouncing with indignation on the balls of his feet. ‘You’re a naval officer.’

  ‘I wa
sn’t sure I’d be able to manage it, well, not after . . . anyway, I did. You said yourself it was good work . . .’

  ‘A job half done, Wolff, half done.’

  Wolff closed his eyes and shook his head slowly; he didn’t want that lecture on duty from a bugger in a club armchair. For a few seconds no one spoke. Someone in the corridor was chuntering in a parade-ground voice.

  ‘Is that the time?’ said Hall, glancing at his watch. ‘I have an appointment at five. Don’t get up, Cumming . . . talk some sense into him.’

  Abandoning the rug at last, he strutted to the door, right hand in his jacket pocket, then turned to glare menacingly at Wolff once more.

  ‘Isn’t over, not by a long chalk. Don’t care what you think of me, Wolff . . . can’t walk away from your duty. Don’t you know what’s happening out there?’

  And with that he was gone. Wolff drew heavily on the last of his cigarette, and half rising, flicked the end in the grate. He could sense C watching him closely, perhaps expecting instant acquiescence now that Hall had left them, something like, ‘You’ve had your say, vented your spleen. Game over.’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Wolff,’ C said at last, a sly suggestion of sympathy in his voice. ‘You’re thinking “I’ve been out there again, risked my life, I can forget Turkey, forget what happened there. I can walk with a clear conscience.”’ C paused to let Wolff speak but he couldn’t. ‘Go home. Sleep. You’ll feel different in the morning. My car’s outside, I’ll drive you.’

  ‘Like that?’ Wolff asked, nodding at C’s sticks.

  ‘Damn cheek. I’m not a cripple,’ he replied irritably, ‘I’ll thank you not to treat me like one.’

  They didn’t talk much in the car. C drove like a madman, careering along Park Lane, his hand hovering over the horn. Turning into Marylebone, they narrowly missed a cyclist, C wailing at him like a banshee, schoolboy glint in his eye again. Driving his Rolls always put him in a good humour. ‘Funniest thing, Wolff,’ he shouted as they swung left into Wimpole Street. ‘Got the fellows at University College to come up with the perfect invisible ink. Know what they say? Ha, ha, you won’t believe . . . semen.’ He was shaking with laughter. ‘Semen. They swear by it. Just think, no problem hiding it, fellow always has it on him . . . just so long . . . ha, ha . . . just so long as he’s careful not to overdo it.’ Tears were streaming down his cheeks and he took his hand off the wheel for a moment to reach for his handkerchief. It was a relief when a few minutes later they took another left into a mews lane and came to a halt a discreet distance from Wolff’s door.

  ‘I’ll say it again, fine work.’ He switched off the engine and shuffled about to face him. ‘Hard to go back, I know, but you can be proud of what you achieved for your country.’

  For your country. No higher praise. His voice was gruff with sincerity. It was almost touching. Goodness, yes, clapping and hurrahing at the rope. A fine innings. But the match isn’t over, Wolff, oh no. No, no.

  ‘Thank you for the lift, sir,’ he said, fumbling for the door.

  ‘Fitzgerald will call for you at ten tomorrow. Ramsgate train at eleven. He’ll brief you, he’s a good fellow . . .’

  Wolff nodded.

  ‘One more thing.’ He frowned and his gaze slipped to an indeterminate point somewhere over Wolff’s right shoulder. ‘Your friend, Curtis – you won’t have heard – killed a few weeks ago . . . gas attack. Heard his widow was trying to reach you . . . thought you should know.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Silence. Wolff couldn’t think of anything more to say. God, he hoped Reggie didn’t know.

  ‘Well, good luck,’ said C briskly. ‘And when you’re there, keep me informed, no reason why you can’t in America.’

  He was disappointed to find that his apartment was just as he’d left it. He felt the same after every operation. The maid had left a few letters on his desk, two of them from his mother. It was six o’clock in the evening; he was hungry, tired and generally low. He had a little under seventeen hours in London, and no appetite for any sort of social gathering, even dinner in a restaurant. ‘All right,’ he sighed, and he walked to his drawing-room sideboard and poured a whisky.

  After fifteen minutes, the operator put him through. His mother wasn’t surprised to hear his voice, although it was six months since they’d last spoken. She had never asked him where he was or what he was doing, even as a small boy home from the fen after dark, wet to the skin, late for supper. ‘Don’t you care?’ he’d shouted once. ‘God will guide your steps,’ she’d replied. No doubt she thought the same still, but in her quiet way she was pleased to hear from him, wanted to tell him of the farm – ‘your farm’ she called it, more in hope than expectation. She was worried there wouldn’t be young men for the harvest, she said, and everything was so dear; she was putting two of the fields to bulbs; one of the neighbouring farms had invested in a tractor, perhaps she should do the same. They didn’t speak for long because she struggled with the telephone, obliging him to repeat everything two, three times. ‘May the Lord keep you, Sebastian,’ she shouted in Dutch. ‘I pray for you always.’ She didn’t ask when he would visit. When she’d gone, he followed her in his imagination, from the dark farmhouse hall to the kitchen, the heavy ticking of the Black Forest clock, her spaniel in a basket in front of the range, a black shawl about her shoulders, a little bent now – she was almost seventy – busying herself with her embroidery or her supper, something without meat because it was Friday.

  Wolff poured another, stiffer drink, then cranked the telephone for a second time.

  ‘Kensington, double six-three-five, please, operator.’

  Yes, Mrs Curtis was at home; would he wait just a moment?

  ‘Violet, it’s me,’ he said, before she had a chance to ask. ‘I’m so sorry about Reggie. I’ve only just heard.’

  The line crackled menacingly, for four, five, six seconds – more.

  ‘How are you managing?’ he asked at last. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t . . .’

  ‘You bastard.’ Her voice shook with quiet fury.

  Silence again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Violet,’ he ventured again.

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘I wish I could . . .’

  ‘Bastard.’

  Another silence.

  ‘Perhaps I should . . .’

  ‘Bastard, bastard,’ louder this time.

  ‘All right . . .’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Nothing, I . . .’

  ‘Then leave me alone,’ she shouted, tears in her voice.

  ‘Yes, of course, I’m . . .’

  Clunk, the line went dead. Bloody stupid, he should have written to her. First-class bastard, she was right; left without a word of explanation or even a goodbye. He picked up one of the unopened letters on his desk, then tossed it back again. Poor old Reggie. God, he’d made a mess of things, but dammit, she was responsible too. After a long bath and another whisky he dressed in an old suit and walked round the corner to a restaurant. He ate a little, drank a lot and brooded for the best part of an hour. Then he ambled to the Langham and ordered another whisky. At eleven he reeled home, content at least that he didn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder. He hauled himself up the stairs by the banisters, then bounced along the corridor to his bedroom and was blearily considering removing his trousers when there was a sobering knock at the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ he shouted, in a distant voice.

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Violet?’

  Head to foot in black, her small round face covered by a veil, she was rocking backwards and forwards like a Jew at the Wailing Wall: drunk.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she whined. ‘Where? I’m so lonely.’

  ‘You better come inside,’ he said softly.

  ‘No,’ she snapped.

  Wolff shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

  For a few seconds an awkward silence, then she began to cry. ‘I loved him, you know,’ she sobbed, ‘in my
way. But he wrote to me, he wrote . . .’

  ‘Come on,’ he took her gently by the arm, ‘not here.’

  She unlaced her boots and curled her feet beneath her as she’d done many times before on his couch. She wanted another drink, the glass rattling against her teeth as she shook with tears, and when she’d emptied it she was able to tell him in a small voice that Reggie ‘knew’. Knew she was fucking his friend. He knew.

  ‘But he didn’t need to, did he?’ she asked, in a small voice.

  ‘Need to what?’

  ‘Die.’ Her face crumpled again.

  ‘No,’ he said, wiping a tear from her cheek with his forefinger, ‘didn’t need to die.’

  Fraught with emotion, too much wine, she asked him with bedroom eyes if they should, and he wanted to although he knew it was a mistake. Later, beneath a tangle of sheets, her warm body pressed to his, her little face framed by damp blonde hair, she smiled up at him and whispered, ‘I love you.’

  He bent to kiss her forehead so she couldn’t see his face.

  ‘I like your beard,’ she giggled; ‘it tickles. You look like a king.’

  He stroked a strand of hair from her cheek.

  ‘We can be together now, can’t we?’

  He kissed her again.

  ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No . . .’ she pushed his face away; ‘wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I have to leave in the morning,’ he told her, and no, he couldn’t say where or for how long. A job, that’s all, a job for the Navy. No, she couldn’t ring or write.

  ‘You don’t love me,’ she said, rolling away from him. She’d always wanted him to love her a little, but only a little, and now Reggie was dead she wanted more.

  He leant forward and kissed her shoulder. ‘I’ll always love you.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Why not say so? He knew she’d forget him after a few days, comfortable in her grief, content with five thousand a year, young and desirable – widow’s weeds suited her – a little lace handkerchief at the corner of her eye at the mention of ‘poor Reggie’; seconds later the smiles and laughter of a most resilient heart. But afterwards he regretted saying he loved her, even if she knew it wasn’t true. It was another lie, he reflected, watching her curled warm against him. Reggie had choked to death knowing his wife was fucking his friend; it might have been his last yellow image. Violet wasn’t to blame, she was wired in a different way; she knew no better, a happy creature of instinct who never lay awake worrying about purpose or her future. No, it was his betrayal, his lie. Violet, Reggie, Roger Casement, they all met him in a no-man’s-land where there was no right or wrong, only something his masters called ‘duty’.