hotel foyer. Taking a paperknife from the desk, Wolff opened the envelope, then stepped over to the window with the letter. It was in English.
My Dear Sir,
It appears we have at least one acquaintance in common and in an alien country in time of war that is quite enough to permit the possibility of friendship. I hope you will be free to join me for luncheon here at your hotel in half an hour.
‘Please tell Herr Henderson I would be delighted to join him for lunch,’ Wolff said, folding the letter back into the envelope. ‘In, say, twenty minutes.’
There was only time for a shave, a stand-up wash and change of clothes. He took Mr Henderson’s invitation to be a good sign but there were other possibilities; thankfully he didn’t have the time to explore them. The family lawyer, he thought, gazing at himself in the mirror. A well-cut but sober suit and tie, hair combed off the forehead with only a little oil, expensive but understated and trustworthy.
Mr Henderson was sitting in the foyer with his legs crossed, snoozing with his chin on his chest. He was taller than Wolff imagined and thinner. Christensen was standing at his side, an adolescent scowl on his face. As Wolff approached, he bent to whisper in Henderson’s ear. He rose at once and came towards Wolff with a smile.
‘Mr de Witt,’ he said, shaking his hand warmly. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’
‘And I you, Sir Roger.’
He smiled a little shyly. ‘Please excuse my small deception. I know it’s ridiculous but my friends tell me I must be careful with my name — even here.’ He paused, his grey eyes catching Wolff’s gaze for a moment. They were deep set and a little sad, as if the thought that someone might wish him harm was still a surprise and a source of pain. ‘The English have their spies, I’m sure you know,’ he continued. ‘My friend, the Count, says you may be one. Are you a spy, Mr de Witt?’
‘Would you believe me if I said “No”?’ Wolff asked. ‘Make up your own mind over lunch — if you’re prepared to take the chance?’
He gave a little laugh. ‘I’m prepared to take the chance.’
7. A Hard Street
HE DIDN’T EAT much and chose the least expensive dish on the menu. Christensen said he was short of money. Or was it habit? Someone had noted in the Bureau’s file that he recorded even the cost of his newspaper in an account book. He was fiddling with his knife and his cigarette case, and Wolff recalled that the same report described him as ‘restless’, ‘impetuous’, ‘unstable’. But that was the view from Whitehall
‘Have you visited Ireland, Mr de Witt?’ he asked, as the waiter drew the cork from their wine.
‘No, Sir Roger, I’m afraid I haven’t,’ Wolff lied.
‘Then your mission is bound to fail.’
‘My mission?’
‘To report to Whitehall on my state of mind.’
‘That mission.’
‘
‘Ah.’
The file had mentioned that Casement wrote a little poetry but not that he spoke it like an English gentleman, with only the trace of an Irish accent.
‘You do understand, don’t you?’ he prompted.
‘Ireland isn’t the only country fighting for its freedom, Sir Roger,’ Wolff replied reprovingly.
‘Are you fighting for the freedom of your country, Mr de Witt?’
Wolff shook his head a little. ‘I’m fighting for myself now. If I have a country it’s the land of the free.’
‘But you fought in Africa. Isn’t that what you told our friend the Count?’
‘For a short time.’
‘And you’re here because you’ve upset the British again.’
‘I thought I was a British spy. Or have you made up your mind about me already?’
Casement smiled apologetically. ‘My friends tell me I’m too trusting, Mr de Witt. I find it difficult to be any other way. Here in Berlin, especially. One is always grateful for companions on this hard street.’ He paused, still turning the cigarette case in his right hand. ‘I like the Germans but…’ his candid frown suggested he’d thought better of sharing a confidence; ‘well, you know the expression “Your enemy’s enemy is your friend”, I’m sure; it’s on everyone’s lips today. But we’re still foreigners, and foreigners are only tolerated in a war for as long as they’re useful.’
Wolff nodded.
‘I’m fortunate in Adler, of course,’ he continued. ‘He speaks German, you see.’
‘Adler?’
‘My man, Adler Christensen. I hope I haven’t hurt his feelings — I should have introduced you.’
The waiter returned to their table and they sat in silence as he served the hors d’oeuvre of smoked goose. Casement gazed abstractedly at his plate, then into the body of the room. There was a diffidence, something half apologetic in his manner, that hadn’t made it into the file. He looked older than the photographs too, still handsome, in good condition for fifty, his thin face tanned by his years in Africa and South America, his black curly hair and beard tinged with silver. Everyone commented on his eyes. He noticed Wolff watching him and smiled. They were a dreamy grey. He wasn’t as Wolff had imagined him to be — sadder. A sad sort of rebel.
‘Do you think they mind us speaking English here?’ he asked when the waiter had gone.
‘Does it matter, Sir Roger?’
‘No, I don’t suppose it does,’ he said, picking up his knife and fork. ‘Now, I believe you know Mr John MacBride. Perhaps you would do me the courtesy of telling me how you met.’
While they waited for their next course, Wolff spoke of the African war, of MacBride and his brigade, of the brutality of the British camps, of women and children dying of disease and malnutrition. The story was the one he’d served his interrogators but he told it to Casement with a quiet fury that had the Irishman dabbing the corner of his eye with his napkin.
‘I should have done more. But I had no idea at the time,’ he explained. ‘I was in Africa…’
‘The Congo.’
‘You were fighting the British Empire and I was its servant.’
‘Your service was to humanity, Sir Roger.’
‘Do you think so?’ he asked, a little plaintively.
‘Yes, of course,’ Wolff assured him. ‘You will always be remembered for your humanitarian work there.’
They slipped into a pattern. Casement asked him about his childhood and his work with Westinghouse, and within minutes Wolff deflected the conversation to Ireland and the evils of imperialism. It wasn’t difficult because the Irishman wanted to talk. Something better must come out of this war, he declared, an end of empires and oppression. He spoke well and with passion, eyes blazing, preacher rather than politician, his plate cold, oblivious to the disapproving glances of their German neighbours.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But people don’t want to speak of liberty and social justice here. The Germans are only interested in Ireland if she helps them into the next trench. But I must be careful what I say.’
Wolff smiled. ‘Of course, the British spy at the next table — or at this.’
‘Yes…’ he replied pensively, ‘or a German one.’
