The Poison Tide

by Andrew Williams

  ‘Were there German soldiers?’

  ‘None, and the Navy intercepted the guns they’d sent – oh, and that damn fool Casement was captured by a local bobby almost as soon as he stepped ashore.’

  A nurse brought Wiseman coffee and he joked and flirted with her as she rustled about the bed in her well-starched uniform, refolding corners, plumping pillows. When she had gone he reached into his briefcase and lifted a stained sheet of paper. ‘Remember this? You should – you spilt your blood for it.’ It was the list of ships Wolff had taken from Hilken’s office. ‘We found it in your jacket,’ Wiseman explained. ‘Bloody fools didn’t look, or didn’t have time to. Anyway, we identified the sailors. Their captains detained them as soon as they left American waters, and we had a reception committee waiting for them in France. They didn’t have much idea what they were doing – thought it was just an attack on our animals.’ He paused, patting the mattress in a show of applause, then said with feeling, ‘Well done, really, old chap. Well done. Only sorry it ended for you in hospital.’

  Wolff smiled weakly. The whole damn business made him feel low.

  ‘You’re tired,’ he said, rising, brushing the creases from his trousers; ‘thoughtless of me.’

  ‘No, no, I’m sorry.’

  Wiseman gazed intently at him and for a second their eyes met. ‘Is something troubling you?’

  ‘Yes. Roger Casement – you said they’d taken him?’

  Wiseman couldn’t quite conceal his surprise. ‘Yes, we have,’ he said with careful emphasis. ‘He’s being held in the Tower of London of all places – makes more of him than he deserves, if you ask me.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘He’ll go on trial for treason. Does that concern you?’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well, you should know, the other Irish leaders were shot.’

  A few days later Wiseman arranged for a guard in the corridor outside Wolff’s room. ‘You’re not that popular,’ Thwaites explained. ‘The Germans will probably leave you alone but Sir William’s concerned about the Irish.’

  The doctors tried to refuse Wolff newspapers but he insisted that boredom would set back his recovery. They all carried Casement’s appearance in a London court and the prosecution’s case that he was a traitor. ‘Not to the Irish people,’ his sister, Mrs Agnes Newman, told the New York Times. ‘He is an Irishman captured in a fair attempt to achieve his country’s freedom.’

  Only at the end of May was Wolff permitted to leave the hospital. Wiseman rented a handsome weatherboard beach house on Long Island. An attentive young lieutenant from the embassy called Keane travelled with him in the motor car.

  ‘Can’t we go to New York?’ Wolff asked, a little pathetically.

  But he loved the house. Perched alone at the top of a dune, with picture windows and a veranda looking out to the Atlantic, he was content sitting for hours watching the tide roll in up the beach and out again. Sometimes he could see only the dark shadows on the sea’s surface, but they passed, and at night its shushing helped him sleep. Most days were bright with a stiff onshore breeze whipping fine salt spray in his face. It was on just such a day in June that Wiseman and Thwaites came bumping up the track.

  ‘We’re celebrating,’ Thwaites shouted, lifting a hamper from the motor car. ‘The Royal Navy has engaged the enemy at Jutland – a complete victory – at least that’s what our people are saying. Apparently the Germans are saying the same.’

  ‘Another stalemate then,’ Wolff remarked.

  ‘Make up your own mind, old boy.’ Wiseman thrust a bundle of newspapers at him. ‘On such a lovely day even a draw is worth celebrating.’

  They spread a blanket on the beach in front of the house. The food was from the Waldorf, ‘because even if we’re pretending, we should do it properly,’ Wiseman said. Cold fried chicken, salmon and mayonnaise, veal, tongue, cheeses, pickles, jellies, cakes: a great deal more than they could manage. ‘Emergency rations in case we stay the night.’

  As they ate and drank, Thwaites entertained them with the story of the visit he’d made to the home of a millionaire socialite. ‘Showed me an album of photographs – honestly, I almost fell off my chair. There was old Bernstorff, the German Ambassador, cavorting with a couple of young things, neither of them his wife – who isn’t that young. I said to myself, “Norman, that picture is priceless” – so I stole it. That’s the sort of education you get working for newspapers. And, well, stop the presses – there will be red faces in the German Embassy tomorrow.’

  After lunch Wiseman lay snoozing in the afternoon sunshine, his moustache twitching beneath his boater like a fat mouse.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what’s happening to Hinsch and the others?’ Thwaites asked as they ambled along the shore. ‘Don’t you care? They almost killed you.’

  ‘I honestly don’t. Glad to be given another chance, that’s all.’

  ‘Hinsch is in hiding somewhere. Hilken’s still at his desk. We’ve thrown a lot of mud but not enough of it has stuck.’

  ‘So there’s nothing to stop them trying again?’

  Thwaites stopped to gaze at the sea. ‘It’s beautiful here.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘There’s something you should know.’ His gaze was fixed on the horizon. ‘The New York police, actually Captain Tunney of the Bomb Squad, is taking an interest in de Witt.’

  ‘Because of the man in the derby hat?’

  Thwaites looked blank. ‘I don’t . . .’

  ‘The police informer I . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ he said quickly, ‘the police informer.’ He glanced at Wolff, then down, drawing the point of his stick over the wet sand. ‘I’ve tried to convince Tunney it’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘But he doesn’t believe you.’

  ‘No.’ The pattern he was drawing with his stick resembled the criss-cross grille over the window of a prison cell. ‘But you don’t need to worry,’ he said. ‘Sir William is sorting it out.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I think I’ll let him say.’

  Wolff smiled weakly. ‘As you wish.’

  A short time later, Thwaites announced that he was driving back to New York. A meeting with a newspaper reporter, he said. It was the sort of smooth polite lie they told each other all the time. Wolff said he was sorry, and Wiseman pretended to be surprised but joked that there wasn’t enough food left for him anyway.

  And when he’d gone they retreated from the advancing tide to the veranda to gaze at the rippling gold and grey of the evening.

  ‘You heard about the New York police?’ Wiseman enquired eventually. He leant close to fill Wolff’s glass. ‘The President’s people are going to hold them off. Don’t want a scandal.’ He lifted his champagne to the dying light. ‘This isn’t bad. Actually, it’s bloody good – 1911. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes, it’s good. Thank you.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ He lifted the glass to his lips then lowered it again without drinking. ‘Unfortunately there is a price for fending off our friends in the police. Thing is, President Wilson has promised the people he won’t allow foreign spies to flout the law, and it’s an election year, so it’s a promise he wants to keep.’ He offered an ironic smile. ‘What’s more, we’re supposed to be the good boys. The President’s on our side, well, his advisers are . . .’

  Wolff interrupted: ‘So you want me out of the way?’

  ‘They do, old boy, they do. Persona non grata, I’m afraid.’

  For a while they didn’t speak, their silence filled with the sea’s sad cadence.

  ‘Perhaps it’s for the best – it isn’t safe for you here,’ Wiseman said at last. ‘When America comes into the war this nonsense will be . . .’

  ‘You think she will enter the war?’

  ‘I do. One last heave, I say.’

  ‘But it isn’t nonsense, is it? The death of the informer.’ Wolff swept his hand across his eyes. ‘I did kill him.’

&n
bsp; ‘Yes, you had to.’ Wiseman shifted his chair a little to look Wolff in the eye. ‘And you were extraordinarily brave. HMG owes you a great debt of gratitude. It owes me the price of the best champagne I could buy to thank you properly on its behalf,’ and he raised his glass in salute.

  ‘I thought we were toasting the victory at Jutland?’

  ‘Course not. Another costly stalemate. It would be a waste of good champagne.’

  Wolff smiled weakly. ‘You know, I’ve done nothing of real worth.’

  ‘Now you’re fishing for compliments, old boy.’

  ‘They’ll culture more poison. Probably send another von Rintelen.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ he huffed, ‘it’s a war – goodness, a bloody brutal one. A war of attrition. We’ve enjoyed a few victories, that’s all, we haven’t won it. But when they come back it will be harder. The President has told his advisers America must start protecting its interests more vigorously – happily, those interests correspond with our own.’

  He paused to sip his champagne, his lips smacking a little. ‘It’s one of those little ironies thrown up by war that the more trouble the enemy causes us here in America, the better we like it, because our hosts are losing patience.’

  The tide had crept up the beach and would soon be at the full, the sea quite calm, a feathery trail of mist lifting from its face but a shining firmament above.

  ‘When do I leave?’ Wolff asked, offering his cigarette case.

  ‘No, thank you. My pipe,’ Wiseman said, tapping his blazer pocket. ‘Soon, I think – a fortnight? Is that all right? White will accompany you.’

  ‘That isn’t necessary.’

  ‘We think it is. Don’t want you dumped over the side like a sick horse.’

  Wolff bent to the flame he was cupping in his hands and inhaled deeply. ‘I’ve a favour to ask.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘Something I must do. Actually someone I must see. I’d like a driver for a day, perhaps two.’

  Wiseman frowned thoughtfully. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  ‘No.’ Wolff drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘No, it isn’t wise. It is something I must do.’

  ‘I see.’ Wiseman took out his pipe and spent a few minutes preparing and lighting it. Teeth clamped on the bit, he muttered, ‘Just this pipe, then bed.’ The tide was high now and breaking gently thirty yards from the house. Soon it would turn and draw away from the fringes of the earth.

  ‘This business with the poison – the anthrax,’ he said, inspecting the bowl of his pipe. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Wolff, it’s shaken my faith in the march of man, or for want of a better . . . civilisation. Is that an inevitable consequence of war, I wonder – any war?’

  Wolff examined the back of his hands. ‘I have a friend who says only a great moral cause is worthy of such sacrifice. Is ours a great moral cause?’

  Wiseman sighed. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it is too late to ask.’

  The Consulate Cadillac collected Wolff from the beach house two days later. It was midday when they parked outside Laura’s apartment on the Upper West Side. He didn’t expect her to be in at that hour. Campaigning for a new world, he thought, instantly ashamed of his cynicism. He sent the driver to eat and sat gazing at her front door. An old lady hobbled out to a waiting carriage and a short time later a concierge helped a nurse and her young charges to another. There was a chance that he would be there for hours. He was torn between impatience to see her and relief that he couldn’t. In the many idle hours of his recovery he’d often pondered what he might say. He couldn’t explain, and why would she believe him if he said he loved her? He was sorry and he hated what he’d done; that much he should say, he had to say.

  When the driver returned from lunch Wolff instructed him to leave his hat and jacket in the motor car and join New York in the park. Was Laura there too? It was an overpoweringly hot afternoon; he guessed the thermometer was pushing ninety-five. An expensively dressed young couple came out of the adjoining block and floated arm-in-arm along the street. At three o’clock, Laura’s aunt took a cab west towards the river. Oppressively stuffy in the Cadillac, by half past three he’d smoked his last cigarette. For God’s sake, he thought, what’s the point of hiding? He felt a little better in the sunshine, leaning against the scorching bonnet and meandering short distances, the heat shimmering over the sidewalk. I’m glad to be alive in spite of this, of everything, he reflected, and if he felt a little weak and tired of waiting he was sure it was the right thing to do. It was possible he would be there all evening.

  But it didn’t happen like that in the end. At a little after five o’clock he saw her walking briskly from the direction of the Columbus Circle subway. She was wearing a cream dress and floppy sunhat to protect her fair skin, wisps of hair escaping as always, lifting her left hand to tidy them away, and again after only a few steps; leather portfolio in her right hand; bending into her stride, unmistakably a woman of purpose. He felt sick with confusion but at the same time full of joy and sudden, crazy, crazy hope. He began to walk towards her – when will she see me? – but she was occupied with her thoughts. He could imagine the little frown of concentration hovering at her brow. Taking a shaky breath, he stepped lightly into the street, his gaze fixed on her advancing figure.

  He was a few yards from her when she lifted her head and caught him there. She stopped abruptly, eyes screwed tight shut, an anguished expression, and biting her lip. Then, dropping her chin so her face was hidden by the brim of her hat, she set off again, her pace quickening with every step.

  ‘Laura,’ he called. His voice sounded distant, uncertain. ‘Can we talk?’ He tried to step closer, but she raised her hand as if to push him away.

  ‘Laura, I want to say . . .’ but he wasn’t able to – not yet. ‘Please stop. Please speak to me.’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ she said in barely more than a whisper. He was at her side, step for step.

  ‘Did you know about Dilger? Doctor Dilger?’

  She ignored him.

  ‘Dilger – you were sheltering . . .’ He was trying to engage her, but her stride didn’t falter. ‘Look, I know what you must think of me. I’m sorry – believe me – I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t think I would . . .’ Words stuck in his throat again. Without thinking, he reached a hand out to her.

  ‘If you were a gentleman, you’d leave me alone,’ she said quietly, her voice shaking with anger.

  She’s right, he thought with sudden cold clarity, like a drunk in a fleeting moment of sobriety. ‘Of course, if you wish . . .’

  ‘How can you doubt it?’ and she glanced up at him, her blue-green eyes sparkling with a fury that cut deeper than the German sailor’s knife.

  ‘Yes, I’ll leave,’ he said softly. ‘I wanted to say how sorry I feel – and that I did – I do – love you.’

  She ignored him, lifting the hem of her dress to lengthen her stride, almost scuttling, frantic to cover the last few yards to her door. That was almost the end of the affair, but in her hurry to escape she tripped and, pitching forward, dropped her portfolio. It burst, spilling papers on the sidewalk. ‘Oh God, no,’ she cried in frustration.

  He bent down to help her, anchoring as many as he could, their hands close as she scrabbled for the papers with her nails, one hand still to her hat. He couldn’t see her face but he saw her shoulders rise and fall heavily as she struggled to control her feelings, and a few seconds later he heard her strangle a sob.

  ‘Oh Laura, I’m so sorry.’

  And then she looked up, her lower lip trembling, her fine eyes wet with tears. ‘How could you? How could you?’ she asked, and the dam burst, her words flowing in an agonising torrent: ‘Who are you, who – how could you when I loved you? – but I don’t know you – you betrayed Roger – and Nina – everyone – you let me love you, and you lied – liar! You liar! Liar!’

  He tried to touch her but she brushed his hand away. ‘Liar! What do you care – liar – you care for nothing, no
one – I don’t even know your name – liar,’ and with a heart-wrenching groan she rose from the sidewalk, papers clenched in her tiny fist, and turning to the door – somehow she managed to find the key – closed it quietly behind her. He could hear her sobbing in the entrance hall and a moment later saw her silhouette at the pane of blue glass to the left of the door. She was bent almost double in tears.

  ‘Laura.’ He rapped on the door once. ‘Laura, let me in – please.’

  There was only a thickness of glass between them but she didn’t turn to look at him or reply.

  ‘Laura, I love you. Please,’ he pleaded, longing to cherish her. But she wasn’t going to open the door. She couldn’t forgive him and perhaps she wanted to punish them both, because she stood crying at the window for at least ten minutes. Wolff waited in silence beside her.

  Then, standing straight and without a backward glance to the shadow in the glass, she walked away. He followed her footsteps across the mosaic floor and heard the elevator doors open and close and knew she’d gone. Her leather portfolio was still lying on the sidewalk, papers fluttering in the gusts from passing cars. Moving slowly and in a mist, he painstakingly collected them all and posted the portfolio through the letterbox.

  A few days later, he took a passage to England.

  36

  The English Sickness

  BERLIN WAS NOT the city it used to be. Everything was changing and for the worse, Anton Dilger reflected as he shuffled from the platform on to the station concourse. He could read it in the creased face of the factory worker beside him in the queue, and in the rheumy eyes of the old lady with her eggs to sell at market, and he could hear it in the frazzled voice of a mother scolding the children at her skirt. Greyer, grubbier, thinner, the city was shrinking from the fine-figured lady she used to be into a street urchin. Every day of the three months he’d been home had brought new sadness. He shut his eyes for a second, trying to force from his mind the scenes he’d witnessed in Karlsruhe just a few days before, but he could hear an endless echo of them in the huff and rumble of the station.