The Poison Tide

by Andrew Williams

  ‘Whisky, isn’t it?’ Wiseman asked. He must have come from dinner, breezing into the Consulate in his white tie.

  Thwaites had a face like an undertaker’s mute.

  ‘You better tell me,’ Wolff said impatiently. Englishmen always made a mess of bad news. ‘Come on – spill it.’

  ‘Sit down.’ Wiseman waved the whisky tumbler at a large leather armchair in front of his desk.

  ‘Is it my mother?’

  ‘Your mother, old boy?’ Wiseman handed Wolff the whisky and eased himself carefully into the chair opposite, Thwaites sitting beside him. ‘No, not your mother. But I’m afraid it is bad news. The Blackness was lost – sunk. An explosion.’ He jerked his hands out theatrically. ‘Terrible luck.’

  ‘Bloody incompetence,’ chipped in Thwaites. ‘The Navy should have dealt with it and I told Gaunt so.’

  ‘Gone? Christ. Christ.’

  ‘Captain Gaunt . . .’ said Wiseman reprovingly, ‘informed us this afternoon. Lost three days ago.’

  ‘Were there survivors?’

  ‘None, I’m afraid.’

  ‘How many men?’

  ‘Forty-five.’

  ‘Christ.’ Wolff closed his eyes, pressing his fingers firmly to his temple. When he opened them he would wake and know it for a nightmare. Just as he used to in the boxroom at the farm: always the graveyard hours. But Thwaites was speaking again: ‘. . . Gaunt says they tricked you. The fuse was set for two days, not four.’

  ‘Christ. I told him I couldn’t be sure.’ He shivered and opened his eyes, his head still in his hands. ‘I’ve sunk one of our ships.’

  ‘No. They sank one of our ships, one more of our ships,’ Wiseman insisted quietly. ‘I know how you must feel but . . .’

  ‘What sort of madness . . .’ he interjected. My God, what had he done? To lose a ship and crew . . . no, they didn’t know how he felt. How could they? ‘I used to be a seaman.’

  ‘Nothing else you could do,’ Thwaites declared firmly.

  ‘. . . forty-five men.’ Wolff remembered the flat, pugnacious face of the ship’s mate he’d browbeaten into letting him place the explosives. ‘I could have stopped . . .’

  ‘Rintelen’s operation has sunk at least three this month,’ Thwaites continued. ‘There are Clan men in all the large ports – you said so yourself.’

  ‘But the Blackness was me.’ Rising quickly, Wolff stepped over to the fire, his mind clouded. ‘I should leave, seek another path,’ but he knew he didn’t have the courage. He had delivered them to the enemy just as he’d done in Turkey, and he would pay for both in time because, in some way he perceived only dimly, that was how it always was, and should be.

  ‘Our job is to stop him,’ he heard Wiseman say from what sounded like a great distance.

  ‘Yes,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Here.’ The baronet was suddenly beside him, pressing the whisky into his hand. ‘Come on, old fellow.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They sat in awkward silence, gazing into their glasses, at the patterns of the Persian rug, the embers in the grate; Thwaites turning his stick impatiently between thumb and forefinger, Wiseman with chin on bow tie, careful not to catch his eye. Fortitude, Wolff, their silence seemed to say; only a battle lost, the war to fight; you’ve blundered, but ‘Was there a man dismay’d?’ Somewhere a clock with a Westminster chime struck two.

  ‘Rintelen’s going to attack the Black Tom,’ he said at last.

  ‘Oh?’ Wiseman leant forward, his elbows on his knees.

  ‘I was on the point of arranging a meeting to warn you.’

  ‘Has he told you when?’ Wiseman asked, staring earnestly at him over his fingertips, arrogant in a good-natured sort of way.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is the fellow boasting?’ Thwaites threw in. ‘You said yourself he’s conceited, Dark Invader and all that – Black Tom is a bit of a fortress.’

  ‘It’s nothing of the sort,’ Wolff replied, and he told them of his visit; that the price of the ticket was a few dollars to a doorkeeper from the Clan, and that enough TNT was sitting on the dock to rock Liberty from her foundations with just toe rags from Green’s to keep her safe.

  ‘The Consulate would probably lose its windows,’ he remarked matter-of-factly.

  ‘Ouch.’ Wiseman pulled a face. ‘That would be unfortunate. Yes.’ He patted his pockets, then rose and drifted over to his desk. ‘Well, we have some ideas, don’t we?’ he said, addressing Thwaites. ‘Ah, here it is.’ He picked up a leather pouch from the desk and began tearing at tobacco, pressing the shreds into his pipe with a key. ‘You see, Norman has made contact with his friend in the Police Department Bomb Squad – you were right, he’s on to this fellow Koenig. Takes a dim view.’ Striking a match, he lowered it carefully to the bowl. ‘Have to find the right balance,’ he gasped between puffs. ‘He wants to have his cake and eat it. Doesn’t want us to interfere, but will take what he can from us – isn’t that so, Norman?’

  ‘He’s one hundred per cent,’ interjected Thwaites. ‘Thinks Rintelen’s men are behind a fire at a munitions factory in Pennsylvania too. Haven’t told him about you, of course. Police Department’s full of Irishmen.’

  ‘We’ll expose Rintelen in the newspapers, use Norman’s friends on The Times and the New York World,’ Wiseman said. ‘Only we need to offer some proof.’ He took the pipe from his mouth and began inspecting it carefully. ‘Yes, this cabin of Rintelen’s,’ he offered casually, ‘the one where he keeps his records – any chance?’

  The springs of Thwaites’ chair groaned as he shifted awkwardly. Wolff glanced over at him but his head was turned away.

  ‘I’ll try,’ replied Wolff deliberately.

  ‘Yeees,’ drawled Wiseman. ‘After today, the sooner the better.’

  ‘Of course,’ he retorted indignantly. ‘Of course.’ Was Wiseman trying to make him feel guiltier? ‘Look, can’t you just make Rintelen disappear?’ It wasn’t a solution C encouraged, but after the Blackness . . .

  ‘Thought of that,’ said Wiseman, sitting back in his chair. ‘One of Gaunt’s Czech footpads – trouble is, the network would still be in place. And you – it might compromise you.’

  ‘I see.’ But I don’t care, Wolff thought, running his fingers through his hair wearily. Or am I being naïve? He wanted to stay in America, the sun shone a little brighter even in winter, and if he left he would never make love to Laura.

  ‘Cigarette?’ Thwaites leant forward with his case. ‘The thing is, our friends at the World need names, payments, meetings; they want someone at the top – in the embassy perhaps – to stir it up on the eve of a presidential election.’

  ‘And Delmar,’ Wiseman chipped in. ‘London keeps pestering. They’re convinced there’s something.’

  Wolff bent to Thwaites’ match then leant back, inhaling deeply. ‘I’ll do my best.’ What else could he say?

  ‘Well, this might help,’ said Wiseman, reaching into his waistcoat and removing a pocket watch.

  Wolff raised his brow quizzically. ‘With what, precisely?’

  ‘It’s a Ticka, a hidden camera. Look,’ Wiseman held it upright between thumb and forefinger; ‘dummy face. Lens here in the winder, the shutter release this tiny catch at the bottom. Here,’ he presented it on his palm to Wolff. ‘The film is loaded on a reel. Twenty-five exposures. Save you taking too many notes.’

  ‘Needs a good deal of light, doesn’t it?’ He’d heard tell of the Ticka but had never needed to use one. ‘Look, I’ll do what I can.’

  They sat for a while in uncomfortable silence, the shadows of the fire dying on the walls, a winter chill creeping into the room.

  ‘You must be shattered,’ Wiseman observed at last, his voice soapy with concern. ‘White will whistle up a taxicab.’

  Wolff said it was better if he made his own arrangements. They wished him good luck, shook his hand and Thwaites urged him to put the Blackness from his mind.

  ‘But what an explosion,’ Wiseman exclaimed, s
topping suddenly at the door. ‘Like a German push. Worse.’ He was plainly stirred by the thought, shamelessly so. ‘Not the ship,’ he added hastily, ‘the Black Tom yard – can you imagine, in a presidential election year?’

  Walking on the cold street, Wolff turned this remark through his tired mind for a time. There had been the glint of an idea in Wiseman’s eye. Rattle the windows of the White House. Something to tip the balance and bring America into the war, he thought, blowing warm vapour into his hands. Crossing Bowery, he slipped on the frozen sidewalk and shortened his stride. He was cold and empty. How should I feel? In the twisted logic of the Bureau, the ship and her crew were just small pieces. Perhaps Black Tom, too, in time. Like those decoy attacks favoured by generals in France, frightfully clever chaps who could see ‘the big picture’. Had Gaunt made any effort to remove the bombs from the Blackness? Did they decide on the alternative in the interests of what they perceived as a greater good? To question everything was to know nothing and to make everyone your enemy.

  On Chambers Street, he managed to hail a cab. It dropped him short of his apartment and he used the janitor’s key to creep back through the yard into the building. He needn’t have bothered; the man in the derby had left his post. Four o’clock and in another hour the city would begin to stir. The Russian in the flat above would slam his door, then clatter down the stairs on his way to work at the Fulton Street fish market; while in the kitchen the landlord’s eldest daughter would feed the range and boil hot water for the family; and if the old lady on the ground floor was awake she would open her window and place a saucer of milk on the ledge for the cats.

  Wolff took off his coat and hat, he took off his shoes and jacket, then rolled himself in the bedcover. ‘I don’t laugh enough,’ he muttered, closing his eyes. Violet used to make him laugh.

  23

  The Moment

  TIMING WAITS FOR opportunity, C liked to say, and a good spy is the one who recognises and seizes the perfect moment without hesitation.

  ‘What were you expecting to happen?’ Wolff exclaimed when von Rintelen greeted him with the Shipping News the following evening. In black and white on page two – the Blackness: hull, crew and cargo lost in an explosion at sea to a cause unknown. ‘But not to us,’ Rintelen observed with a yelp of laughter that set Wolff’s teeth on edge. ‘Good judgement – you see, Hinsch?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hinsch conceded, turning to acknowledge Wolff with a nod and a grudging smile, ‘you’ve done well.’ They were true comrades – who could doubt it? A toast! Rintelen insisted; and because he was a gentleman with a generous paymaster, his wine was good.

  They were sitting in his office cabin, the newspaper open on the delicate lacquer table, anchored by their glasses and cigarette cases. ‘Wine is the only thing the Franzmann does better than us,’ he remarked, inspecting the bottle. ‘I will send some cases home. Quicker than waiting for our army to conquer France.’

  ‘Let’s talk about tomorrow,’ said Hinsch, opening his rough hands on the table. ‘The Linton, a small freighter, about four thousand tons. Grain and some artillery shells. There should be no difficulty.’

  ‘Our associates are responsible for the security,’ Rintelen explained.

  ‘Irish associates?’ Wolff enquired.

  ‘Friends of Sir Roger’s, yes.’

  ‘Those chaps from Green’s,’ Wolff persisted. ‘I met them, remember?’

  ‘McKee is there to get you aboard,’ said Hinsch sourly. ‘All right?’

  Wolff reached for his glass. ‘All right.’ He didn’t want to lose his new advantage. ‘Once the grain catches, well . . .’ he paused to sip his wine, ‘. . . you can imagine.’

  Rintelen could imagine: satisfaction was expressed plainly in every middle-aged line of his face. Wolff was reminded of his promise: I’ll buy what I can and blow up what I can’t. His preference was distinctly for the latter. They discussed the number of detonators and the rendezvous, and Rintelen boasted of his ‘other operations’. ‘The Dark Invader’s empire grows,’ he joked. ‘And what do you say to this, gentlemen?’ Rising quickly, he stepped over to his cabinets, took a key from his jacket and opened the middle one. A wafer tumbler lock, Wolff noted, and one of the simplest. The two other cabinets appeared to be sealed the same way. ‘Here.’ Rintelen lifted a file. ‘Clear the glasses, would you?’ Then he opened it on the table. ‘Recognise this?’

  ‘Black Tom.’

  ‘Yes, I drew it myself,’ he said with a smug smile. ‘I have given it some thought and the correct thing to do is land by sea, here . . .’ he prodded his map with a well-manicured forefinger; ‘. . . a boat to pier four to place them on barges . . . here and here. It is the best way to make it look like an accident. So,’ he said, straightening his back, ‘what do you think?’

  Wolff was sure his opinion was of no importance and Hinsch may have thought the same because he shook his head but said nothing.

  ‘The time isn’t right, I know,’ Rintelen continued; ‘we must wait, but it’s important to have a plan.’

  He closed the file and picked up the bottle to fill their glasses once more. This time Wolff refused. ‘I must go.’

  ‘You have a dinner engagement?’ Rintelen enquired, leaning forward as if inviting a confidence.

  ‘Something like that,’ he said casually. ‘Don’t trouble, I can make my own way.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I will have a guide take you to the gangway.’

  ‘Still a question of trust?’

  ‘Of manners,’ Rintelen lied; it was something he did smoothly too.

  But for once there wasn’t a sailor on station in the passageway. Rintelen seemed to hesitate, his hand lingering on the rail: ‘If you don’t mind.’

  Wolff had already taken a few steps down the companionway. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you.’

  Wolff turned to offer the flicker of a smile – ‘Until tomorrow, Captain’ – then continued down the companionway. A few seconds later he thought he heard a door swing to behind him but he didn’t risk a glance. Was this the moment? There might be no better. He wasn’t going to sink another ship. He’d tried to think it through a hundred times; he’d hidden in corners, picked locks, made excuses, fought his way off the ship and felt his heart freeze as he plunged from her side into the bay, but hours of imaginary effort had left him with no more than a great leap of faith. Should he stay and hide or leave and then try to bluff his way back aboard? He pushed through heavy stateroom doors to the top of the main companionway, acknowledging a passing steward with a smile. By the time I reach the bottom I’ll know, he thought. If Rintelen was watching the gangway to be sure he left the ship it would be over in minutes, but if he did leave and then tried to return with a story, the watch officer might insist on an escort. By now he was a companionway and a passage of fifteen paces from the shelter deck, another forty from the seamen at the top of the gangway. Wolff, you can never know, he told himself. You’re here now, you’re alone. He pressed his pocket and felt the heft of the revolver. Do it now. You must.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  A steward had stepped from a cabin in third, apron about his middle, duster in his hand. What the hell was he polishing at that hour on a ship without passengers? Like a lonely middle-aged hausfrau taking out her frustration on the silver.

  ‘I know my way,’ Wolff replied haughtily.

  The steward shuffled back to let him pass. At the end of the corridor he turned right and kept walking towards the last companionway. Fear was his driver; the cold controlled fear that sharpens perception and urges one to action. He had to lose himself and quickly, but higher. If the main companionway was amidships, there would be another towards the stern. From there he could climb back to ‘A’ deck and find a corner somewhere close to Rintelen’s office. Turning on his heels, he walked back through the cabins on the port side of the ship. At the foot of the main companionway a petty officer was issuing orders to two seamen. They turned to acknowle
dge him but he passed with only a supercilious glance, the first-class gentleman and friend of the captain. He touched his forehead; it was wet with perspiration, and he was conscious of his shirt clinging to his back. Come on, you fool.

  At the polished mahogany doors of the dining saloon, he was forced to turn on to the open deck where second class was accustomed to promenade at sea. Leaning on the rail, a young member of the watch was smoking a cigarette. As soon as he saw Wolff he tossed it guiltily over the side and straightened his back, a crooked forefinger to his cap. Twenty sharp paces then back inside, pantry on the right, head steward’s cabin on the left, ahead of him the foot of the stern companionway. He climbed it quickly but like a gentleman, battling the urge to take the steps two at a time. As he approached the top he heard the murmur of voices through the door of what was either a lounge or smoke room. A junior officer, to judge by the hoops on his sleeve, was holding the handle, his back turned to the passageway. Don’t hesitate, Wolff told himself, not now, not for a second; sharp suit and coat, saboteur or spy, he will know me for one of the Dark Invader’s men. And if the officer did glance over his shoulder he said nothing.

  I’m shaking, Wolff thought, how strange, and he tried to concentrate on breathing deeply. If Rintelen sees me, I’ll say I came back to speak to him.

  But nobody noticed him as he made his way for’ard again and a minute later he was in the starboard passageway, only the width of a first-class cabin from Rintelen on the port side, torsion wrench in one hand, pick in the other. Come on, come on, he muttered under his breath as he felt for the lock. Voices suddenly somewhere, a door swinging to, but he was in, panting quietly, his back to the cabin wall. He couldn’t risk the electric light but enough was spilling through the porthole for him to move freely. It was half past ten: settle, disturb nothing and pray. Two hours, perhaps three. If only I could smoke . . . He sat and listened for steps in the passageway, a steward, a search party, but minutes slipped by in plush silence. He took off his coat and checked his gun and the watch camera; he considered his route from the ship and concluded again that there was only one. Then he leant forward and placed his head on the table, wristwatch ticking in his ear, tick, tick, tick, carrying him to the future and to the past, twisting an uncertain contour through hopes and memories, but alive always to the present: a motor car on the quay, the rattle of cable on the boat deck, the striking of the bell.