‘All right, Adler.’ Wolff stopped abruptly. ‘Let’s be clear. I need names — who he meets and why, and what they’re talking about. I need to know who he writes to and what he says. Do you have access to his correspondence?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Christensen sulkily.
‘Who, what, why, when and where, my friend. Understand? Everything. That will be a profitable arrangement.’
He didn’t reply and he didn’t look Wolff in the eye, but stood there with his head bent, hands thrust in the pockets of his coat.
‘Who does he visit here?’ Wolff asked, at last.
‘You’ve got to give me more.’
Wolff took a step closer. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that, Adler.’
‘You need to give me more,’ he repeated — belligerently this time. He took his hands from his pockets and stood a little straighter. ‘It’s dangerous here. It will cost you more.’
Wolff glanced over his shoulder. They had almost reached the top of the Siegesallee and the Reichstag was only a few minutes’ walk away.
‘Come with me,’ and he tugged roughly at Christensen’s sleeve.
‘Why?’
‘Come on, man, I’m not going to kill you,’ he said, impatiently. ‘We’ve been standing beneath this streetlamp for too long,’ and he turned and walked quickly into the trees. After a few seconds Christensen followed him.
‘Cigarette?’
Christensen shook his head. Wolff bent to light his own, then took a step away. They were only a few feet apart but it was too dark beneath the trees to see Christensen’s face. That he felt uncomfortable, even a little afraid, was apparent in his movements. The silhouette of his broad shifting shoulders made Wolff smile: an awkward troll of a man.
‘You going to threaten me?’ he asked defiantly in New York English.
‘Speak German. I’m not going to threaten you, Adler, but we must understand each other. You think you can play me, blackmail me — if I don’t pay enough, sell me to the security police…’
‘I only want to—’
‘Don’t interrupt,’ said Wolff fiercely. ‘You can try. They might pay you, but they might lock you up. I think they’ll lock you up, or shoot you…’
‘That’s not—’
‘I said, don’t interrupt. Now, let’s suppose they don’t shoot you. One of these days you’ll leave Germany. Go home to Norway or America. Visit mother. That’s when my friends will find you. They won’t let you get away with it. It’s bad for business. You can see that, can’t you? You’ll have to spend the rest of your life here. But they might get you here too.’ He paused to draw on his cigarette, dropped it and ground the end into the earth. ‘That’s just the way it is, Adler. It’s your choice. I’ll pay you a fair price for what you give me.’
‘That’s all I want,’ Christensen muttered. He sounded hurt. He’d probably convinced himself in the batting of an eyelid that it had never crossed his mind to betray Wolff, and he was incapable of such low behaviour.
God, they’re all the same, thought Wolff. Always victims. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Christensen followed him back to the pavement and they walked on towards the victory column in Konigsplatz in silence.
‘He writes some of his letters in a code the Germans gave him,’ Christensen declared at last. Reaching into his jacket he pulled out a roll of papers. ‘I’ve copied it out and some of his letters too — here.’
Wolff took the tube and slipped it inside his coat pocket.
‘He visits the Foreign Ministry two or three times a week,’ he continued. ‘The War Office too.’
‘Do you accompany him?’
‘Sometimes, but only as far as the lobby.’
‘Who does he meet?’
‘He usually sees a Foreign Office official called Meyer. But sometimes more important people. He’s met the Chancellor.’
‘Bethmann-Hollweg?’
Christensen nodded. ‘Also an aristocrat called Nadolny — something to do with the military.’
‘Do you know what they’ve promised him?’
Christensen said there was talk of men and guns, lots of talk, but all he could say for sure was that Casement was exasperated by how long his plans were taking to finalise. He’d even considered returning to the United States.
‘Does he trust you?’
‘Oh yes,’ he replied; ‘we’re friends,’ and he turned his head to hide a coy smile. It was a tight-lipped, manipulative smile, the smile of someone who takes pleasure in winning, then betraying, a confidence. It didn’t matter, of course. Wolff knew he couldn’t afford to actively dislike Christensen. Who was he to judge anyway?
‘All right, Adler, that’s enough for tonight.’
‘And what about our agreement?’ he asked, a little sheepishly.
‘Findlay gave you a hundred and twenty-five krone, didn’t he?’
‘But…’
Wolff grasped his forearm, pinching it tightly. ‘Let’s not talk about it again. There’s nothing more now. Here,’ and he handed Christensen a piece of paper. ‘It’s the address of a cafe in Wedding. Will you be able to make ten o’clock on Wednesday?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘If you can’t, I’ll be there at the same time on Friday. By then I’ll have read this,’ and he patted the front of his coat. ‘Don’t visit my hotel. Don’t send messages.’
‘I understand,’ he replied gloomily.
They said goodbye and Wolff walked quickly away. Glancing up at Victory holding out her Prussian laurels to the city, he smiled at his own small triumph. But a man like Christensen he would have to fight again and again. He was as slippery as an eel. What use would he be if he wasn’t? But what did Casement see in the fellow? Wolff pondered this a little as he strolled back to his hotel but came to no firm view. It was impossible to say until he met Casement.
After dinner he settled at the desk in his room and worked his way through the notes Christensen had given him. But for one short memorandum there was nothing he couldn’t glean from the newspapers. It was wrapped tightly in the centre of the roll and had been copied in such haste that it was barely legible.
14 February, 1915
The Chief of the General Staff requests Sir Roger Casement’s assistance in contacting reliable and discreet Irish in America for special work of importance in the defeat of our common enemy. The General Staff has sent Captain von Rintelen to New York to make the necessary contacts.
One of the names on the distribution list was a Count Rudolf Nadolny, Section P of the General Staff.
It was of some importance, but how much Wolff couldn’t say; nor was he confident that Christensen would be able to help. He made a note of the German cipher, the names, and other important details, in his own code and buried them in the text of a report he’d begun writing on his business meetings in Berlin. Then he destroyed Christensen’s papers. When an opportunity presented itself he would send his coded report to Westinghouse by their office in Amsterdam. An agent would pick it up and forward it to the Bureau.
Christensen arrived at the cafe before him on the Wednesday. He said he knew nothing of ‘special work’ in America or a ‘von Rintelen’. Wolff bought him
‘Is that it?’ he asked, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his wool suit. ‘My payment?’
‘Not necessarily. It depends what else you have for me,’ Wolff declared. ‘Let’s walk.’
That became the pattern: first a plate of food for Christensen, then a stroll through a park. Thoughts came quicker to Wolff on the move. When he tried to explain this, Christensen just shrugged his square shoulders:
