The Poison Tide

by Andrew Williams

  He left the cabin an hour into the First Watch. Softly along the carpeted passageway, clutching the barrel of his gun like a club, a few yards only to the first turn, a few more to the port side then back; on his right, suite six, five, the door of number four. He bent close: nothing, not a sound, and no telltale splinters in the lock. It took only seconds to open. Pitch black, and he remembered von Rintelen dropping the deadlight and drawing the curtain. No one spoke, no one was waiting, the cabin was still. He switched on the wall sconces just long enough to be sure of no surprises. Everything was in its correct place, neat pencils and paper on the tabletop, floor lamp close by, the oak cabinets just in the loop of its light. He stared at them for a few seconds, breathing deeply. All right, from the left to the right, see what there was first and keep the files in order. It took no time to pick the lock.

  ‘How on earth . . .?’ In the top drawer, there were dozens of copies of telegrams to the National City Bank of New York authorising munitions purchases and the harbour dues for Allied ships. Names, cargoes, sailing times, all the intelligence a saboteur or submarine needed to sink a ship, and most of them sent from the Consulate in Whitehall Street. Yellow slips in date order. He thumbed through to 6 November and found the SS Blackness. ‘Clever bastard.’ Rintelen had someone inside the bank that the Allies used for their business.

  In the next two drawers, intelligence on other targets: gun foundries, factories, railroad routes and bridges to blow before a munitions train, grain stores, ports east and west, and the Dark Invader’s plan of the Black Tom. But the gold was in the middle cabinet. ‘I knew you would have to,’ Wolff muttered under his breath. Every one of the Kaiser’s pfennigs, every mark, because meticulousness is a state of mind and accountants like Dr Albert are born to their figures. In one ledger, the million-dollar munitions purchases of Gaché’s cover company; in another, the handfuls of grubby greenbacks paid to men with Irish names. The paper trail of the network’s activities: so much stuff it frightened him. Follow the money and the payroll regulars, he told himself, settling at the table with the ledgers. Glancing through the accounts of the cover company he could see that Albert had authorised millions of dollars to force the price of war matériel up and prevent it falling into the hands of the Allies. All he’d done was feed the machine. He must have recognised it because the defrayments stopped in September. Of more use, three large account books of payments to the members of Clan na Gael, to Jim Larkin and the other strike leaders, and half a dozen detective agencies in as many ports.

  Thumbing through the files in the cabinet, he was able to cross-reference the lines in the ledgers with receipts signed by Paul Koenig and others. Some he photographed as evidence, the rest he carefully noted in his pocketbook. Then, at three o’clock, he began hunting for the identity of Rintelen’s contact at the National City Bank. No reference in the accounts, no contracts, no receipts. Turning to the last cabinet, he was fiddling with the lock when a sharp noise in the passageway made him start. What was he thinking? He’d almost forgotten he was in danger. Crossing to the table, he picked up his revolver and switched off the lamp. The shuffling of feet, a light knock at a door further down the passageway.

  ‘Franz,’ hissed someone with a young voice. ‘Are you there?’

  Wolff breathed a little more easily. Some other business? Personal. Casement’s sort of business.

  ‘Franz! It’s me.’ But no answer came.

  Wolff listened impatiently to his retreating steps. At twenty-five minutes past three he turned on the lamp again. Half an hour only, he couldn’t risk more. In the middle drawer of the third cabinet, a brass strongbox, the lock a simple pin tumbler. He reached inside with both hands: ‘What the hell!’ Lifting the box had triggered an alarm like a London bobby’s whistle.

  Damn you. His hands were trembling so much the pick rattled in the lock. Damn, damn, damn . . . Half a turn left, then right, then left, and the alarm cut out. Silence, but for the ringing in his ears and the thumping pulse in his temple. He snatched the revolver from the table and stood shaking in the dark. What now? The alarm had sounded for what felt like an eternity but was only seconds, so if no one was sleeping in the neighbouring cabins, perhaps . . . He switched the lamp back on and pulled the strongbox closer. I’m a fool, he thought; remember Turkey.

  Two feet by one, large enough for a ledger and a stack of papers, and a simple electrical alarm concealed in a false bottom. On the spine of the ledger: Secret Section. The pages were laid out like an ordinary account book but the recipients were denoted by a number and the disbursements coded in five-letter groups. But they’d been careless with the loose paper. On top of the bundle there was a contract with the New Jersey Agricultural Chemical Company for certain scientific services. It was signed by a Dr Walter Scheele of Hoboken. Wolff’s thoughts jumped to the doctor with the grey walrus moustache and Jersey drawl who’d demonstrated his cigar bomb in the field: he’d wager good money they were one and the same man.

  In the same papers he found the receipts he’d signed for Albert with a false name and one authorising a cash payment to Laura McDonnell. Of the rest, the most intriguing were large transfers to two accounts bearing the baroque signature of a Mr Paul Hilken of the Norddeutscher Lloyd Shipping Line. Wolff photographed them both and twenty pages of the coded ledger. By the time he’d locked the strongbox away it was after four o’clock. Cursing himself for a fool, he checked the cabin carefully to be sure everything was as he’d found it, then slipped into the passageway. But no one troubled to ask his business as he retraced his route. The ship’s watch had changed a few minutes before and was still wiping the sleep from its eyes. So much for Rintelen’s ‘good German crew’. Bloody hell, he thought, I might pull this off. At the head of the gangway a young Third greeted him with a cheery ‘Good morning’.

  Wolff took refuge in ill temper. ‘If you say so.’

  The lieutenant was a little taken aback. ‘Working late, sir?’ he ventured.

  ‘Don’t ask a friend of the captain’s what he’s doing,’ Wolff replied, brushing past and on to the gangway. Relief and something close to euphoria washed through him as he rattled down to the dock. Damn you, Rintelen, damn you, Gaunt, you too, Cumming, he thought. I’ve done it! He was in range of a shot from the ship but they weren’t going to kill him because they were stupid and complacent. That’s it, let me waltz away with your secrets.

  The quay glistened like a sheet of black ice. For the first time he noticed fine rain on his face and it was good. He walked at a steady pace, his hands deep in his pockets, the warm gun-steel a comfort still, careful to concentrate on the end of the pier, careful to avoid the splashes of light cast by the dockside lamps. As he approached the terminal his pulse quickened and he tightened his grip on the revolver. To reach the street he would have to pass under the arch in the embarkation gallery; twenty-five dark yards through a forest of steel girders. He was suddenly very conscious of the sound of his steps crunching the loose cinders. A second later his heart jumped at a shadow ahead and to the left – it was a straggle of rope dancing on the breeze. Then he was under the arch and his stride lengthened, one, two, three, casting about for movement, five, six, seven, almost halfway – but Christ, there was someone. Scuffing feet and at the corner of his eye a shadow. A second later another glimpse: the man from the street, his Bill Sikes, the little spy in the derby hat. Close, so close, a few yards; he must keep walking – but Rintelen will know by the morning. That can’t happen. No.

  A giant leap and swinging blindly: Wolff caught him on the left cheekbone with the grip of the revolver. A throaty groan and he staggered sideways, head dropping, defenceless as Wolff’s fist cut under, driving his chin up again. He toppled back, his shoulders thumping heavily to the ground, prostrate, gasping for breath. Too dark to see his eyes, his features contorted in pain, trying to raise himself on one elbow, clawing at the concrete. Wolff stamped on his hand, then dropped a knee to his chest, clubbing him with the grip again. His head fell, blood in
his eyes, blinking, unable to speak, a look of abject terror, trying to curl his body but locked by Wolff’s arm and knee. A small man, middle years, with a poisonous little moustache. A nothing man. But from somewhere he’d produced a knife and with his free right hand caught Wolff at the top of the thigh. Still prone, but with the strength of fear, he lunged a second time. They wrestled for control of the blade, Wolff’s weight forcing it down, down, down to the shoulder and in hard, into bone. The man screamed in pain: ‘Please.’ But without hesitation Wolff drew it and thrust it back, to the hilt, to the heart. With a jerk and a sad little gasp he died, Wolff straddling him like an exhausted lover, the derby rocking on its crown a few feet away. And what was there to read in the dead man’s face? Astonishment, outrage, fear, disappointment.

  Later Wolff could recall only images of his journey home – and the face. Wiping blood and prints from the handle of the knife, he remembered, and hiding the body in the tangle of steel. He dumped his own coat somewhere. There was a taxicab and this time he took it to the door of the building on East 5th. Inside his apartment he poured a whisky with a trembling hand, then another. His trousers were clinging to his legs: it was his own blood, from the gash in his thigh. What a fucking mess. He’d killed before but only once and in self-defence. For months after, he’d hated himself. Was this the same? Did it matter when thousands were dying every day? He was the enemy and he tried to stick you, he thought. But weren’t you going to finish him anyway – the little man in a derby hat?

  By the time he’d dressed his wound, the world was spinning. At its soft edge, he heard the bang of the Russian’s door upstairs and the hum of dawn on the city’s streets, and feeling sick he limped through to the bathroom and threw up in the lavatory. ‘What a state,’ he muttered, collapsing on the bed. I won’t sleep, he thought, but he did.

  24

  A Fever

  THERE WAS A deposit box at a bank on Broadway. Two keys: Thwaites’ man had the other. Make the drop before they find the body. But it was a struggle the following morning, moving in a fog of pain and memory, careless of his dress and customary toilet. He limped out at eleven and felt better for the winter air. Tomorrow it would be December. Flurries of snow were chasing down the street and the low sky promised more. On a balcony opposite, a woman was taking in some stiff-looking laundry, while the stallholders below hunched disconsolately in their coats, their horses stamping and steaming between the shafts. An old Chinaman hobbled into the library to search for a Dickens or just a warm corner, and the dead spy lingered in his doorway. I’ll move, Wolff thought; I was going to have to anyway.

  The taxicab dropped him at the bank because he was bone-weary and too sorry to be careful. He signed out the black deposit box as Mr Rogers, placed his notebook and the watch camera inside, then watched the clerk carry it away – just to be sure. Walking down Broadway he stopped at a public pay station to telephone Thwaites: Rogers from Western, sir. Yes, a parcel for Mr White. For collection, yes.

  Replacing the handpiece, he closed his eyes and leant his head against the booth. Perhaps it would save lives too, seamen like the crew of the Blackness and the next ship they were expecting him to sink. Would he be able to risk making the rendezvous? He should have told Thwaites about the Linton. What if they’ve found the body? His head was spinning; a little faint, he needed to sit somewhere warm, a coffee, a cigarette, something to eat.

  He chose an Italian place just off Broadway. He knew it was expensive because the waiter looked at him disrespectfully. No tie, a day’s growth, scuffed boots, he was dishevelled, a little dissolute. He ordered coffee, some eggs, and lit his cigarette, ready to play the usual game of joining pieces, words, something like Consequences. If the Germans found the body, they’d kill him. Who else could have finished the spy off? He had lived with Wolff for days, part of the bloody street furniture. The tobacco was making him giddy. Am I prepared to take the chance? He thought perhaps he owed it to the Blackness. Peculiar, even after Turkey, after Germany and a blade inching to his throat, it was difficult to draw the line. The feeling for life captured closest to death was a compulsion, prowling the edge of an impenetrable forest, like a twilight figure tested in a medieval romance.

  The waiter served the omelette and he picked at it for a while. His thigh ached and he resolved to see a doctor in case the wound was infected or needed stitches. Perhaps he was poisoning himself.

  In the event, he spent the afternoon in his apartment, his eyes closed but very much awake. Rising at seven, he limped into the hall and for a time stood gazing at the telephone. He hadn’t seen or spoken to her for a fortnight; he’d written to her once and thought of her often, but it was foolish to call her when, if things went badly, he would fail to make the appointment. Tomorrow, he’d telephone her then.

  The first rendezvous was with Rintelen’s driver, Hans, at the ferry terminal. Will he drop me at the entrance to a dock or throw me in it? Wolff wondered as he stepped inside the Ford. He felt ridiculously calm, too tired, too low, and that was dangerous because it was in just such a frame of mind that mistakes were made. ‘It’s important to be a little afraid,’ C liked to say. Wolff had brought the revolver, but its weight was an unpleasant reminder of the night before. In the event, Hans dropped him at the dark end of a dockyard street close to the Jersey Canal basin with the instruction: ‘Walk the rest of the way.’

  ‘Why?’ Wolff wanted to know.

  ‘Safer,’ he said with a shrug.

  Would it be here then, slipping and stumbling on frozen cobbles? Dock wall one side, four-storey warehouse on the other; can’t run, can’t hide. He tried not to limp because that might arouse suspicion. A hundred yards ahead, two men stood in the shadow of the wall. He watched as one of them lumbered over to the gate and into a circle of lamplight. Too fat to carry out an execution, he thought, and if that was Koenig, his companion would be McKee.

  ‘You’re late,’ they grumbled, but McKee shook his hand warmly. They were a little on edge but that was only to be expected at the dock gates. There was nothing else remarkable in their demeanour, no awkwardness, no hidden glances, no reluctance to look him in the eye.

  Koenig’s contact opened the wicket at exactly midnight. The men from Green’s were as obliging as ever; McKee carried the explosives on to the ship and Wolff was permitted to place them in holds fore and aft. ‘Simplest so far,’ McKee observed, handing his gold badge back to their guide; ‘experts, so we are.’

  Hans was waiting in the Ford. ‘I’m to take you to Frau Held’s,’ he said in an efficient monotone. Wolff didn’t argue. It seemed safe to assume that an invitation to sprawl on the great lady’s leather couch and sip champagne meant they were not intending to finish him off tonight. The little spy was still in his hiding place, hat wedged between stiff thighs, eyes wide open and resentful at the indignity of the death meted out to him. Wolff shook his head vigorously to clear the image from his thoughts and leant forward to stare out blankly at the passing streets.

  At the club, Martha greeted him in person, squeezing his hands like an affectionate aunt. Their Swiss friend was waiting in her private drawing room, she informed him with the disingenuous smile of the demi-monde. ‘And there is someone else who is hoping to see you – a certain young lady. You haven’t visited Clara for a while, Mr de Witt.’ She contrived to sound hurt.

  Rintelen was standing in front of the fire, gazing at a silver photograph frame. ‘Herr de Witt.’ He placed it carefully back on the mantelpiece between a pair of china swains. The room was chintzy, the paper a gaudy pink like a doll’s-house bedroom. ‘The evening was a success?’ Rintelen enquired. He might have been speaking of a musical soirée.

  ‘An effortless performance, yes.’

  ‘But you have hurt yourself . . .’ Rintelen gestured with a peculiar chopping motion of his open palm to a chair. ‘You must sit down – please.’

  ‘I caught my leg against something on the ship. It’s nothing,’ Wolff replied. It was damn careless of him; what was he
thinking? ‘Look, why do you want to see me?’

  ‘Champagne?’ Rintelen lifted the bottle from an ice bucket and poured two glasses. ‘We must celebrate our victories, even the small ones.’ He wiped his hands carefully on a damp cloth, fastidious in everything always, dapper in his fashionable suit, his white waistcoat and Ascot tie. Damn the fellow. ‘I’d like you to visit Boston for me,’ he said, gazing down at Wolff from the hearthrug. ‘McKee has collected some more Irishmen, but they’ll need to be . . .’ he paused to slip into precise English, ‘. . . shown the ropes.’

  Wolff nodded slowly. ‘All right.’

  ‘Good. On Friday then.’ Rintelen lifted his champagne, examined its colour, dancing in the firelight, then raised it to his thin lips.

  ‘Is that all?’ Wolff enquired impatiently.

  ‘More champagne?’

  No. No thank you. Look, it’s late. Two o’clock.’

  ‘But you will stay here, of course.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He had settled in the chair next to Wolff. ‘Sir Roger’s servant, Christensen – when did you last see him?’

  Wolff said he couldn’t be sure, but not for many weeks, perhaps September.