The Poison Tide

When they had finished lunch Casement didn’t want to let him go.

‘Do you walk, Mr de Witt?’ he enquired.

‘I run.’

‘We can compromise on a brisk pace.’

He had a long stride and was reluctant to break it even on a busy Berlin pavement. They walked in silence until they reached the river, when, seduced by the late-afternoon sun on the water, they fell into companionable step.

‘Will you be giving the Count a report of your afternoon?’ Wolff enquired.

Casement coloured a little. ‘Do you mind?’

Wolff turned slightly and pointed to the railway bridge they had just passed under. ‘If you look carefully, you’ll see one of them under the arch. He’s bending to tie his laces. And over there,’ he said, gesturing to the river, ‘the big fellow on the bank opposite, in front of the electricity works — turning his back. Do you think they’re watching me or both of us?’

Casement closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead as if suffering from a migraine. ‘How did you know?’

Wolff shrugged. ‘It isn’t the first time I’ve enjoyed this sort of attention.’

‘It’s shabby,’ he said, gazing down at the river.

‘Don’t be concerned on my account, or is it on your own?’

He sighed heavily. ‘I’m tired, that’s all, tired of living with deceit, tired of this place and of the times. Did you read about the gas attack in this morning’s paper?’ he asked, turning to face Wolff. ‘The Germans broke the British line at Ypres by releasing a cloud of poison gas. Can you imagine anything more terrible?’

Wolff said he’d not had an opportunity to read the newspaper.

‘Germany will win the war, of course. Will the world be a better place? What do you say?’

‘I say, “perhaps”.’

‘If Ireland is free, if Britain is brought to her knees — I pray to God it will be so,’ and he clasped his hands and shook them fervently.

They strolled on to the Reichstag, then along the calm grey curving river to the Tiergarten. They didn’t speak of politics or war but of Casement’s childhood in Ulster, of his travels, the cruelty he had witnessed on the rubber plantations in Peru, of the dark heart of man. He said he regretted his knighthood and most of all the manner of his acceptance. ‘My letter to the King was too obsequious,’ he explained. ‘Silly, I know, but it haunts me.’

By the time they reached the Brandenburg Gate again it was five o’clock. He refused Wolff’s offer of a taxicab. ‘I’ve talked far too much, Mr de Witt.’ He turned to look at their police escort. ‘What do you think the Count will say?’

‘What will you say to the Count?’ Wolff asked with a smile. ‘Tell him you didn’t pass on any secrets.’

‘I did enjoy our conversation. Adler is a dear friend but he hasn’t enjoyed the benefit of quite the same…’ he hesitated; ‘well, Ireland and politics in general bore him.’

They parted without making a commitment to meet again, Casement climbing the steps of a crowded tram. As it pulled away he gave a shy little wave that Wolff answered by tipping his hat. Sir Roger was most obliging. Careful to say nothing of his plans, it was true, but he was too hungry for reassurance from a stranger, and the air of melancholy in his demeanour lingered like stale sweat, no matter how hard he tried to disguise it.

Wolff couldn’t see the policemen among the crowd at the tram stop but he was sure they could see him. He was going to have to take his time, work through a routine; his mind was so blunted by fatigue that it would be easy to make a mistake. He strolled beneath the gate to the Adlon and drank a cup of coffee in its palm house. Then he walked up the Unter den Linden to the Chicago Daily News office and browsed through the papers in its public reading room. He left after forty-five minutes and took a horse cab to Spandauer Strasse. Outside the City Chambers, he hailed a motor cab and paid the driver two marks and twenty pfennigs to take him to the theatre on Schumannstrasse. After enquiring about tickets for a revue, he walked across the river and into the Tiergarten. It was half past eight by the time he reached the statue of Lessing and fine rain was falling again. From the tree stump at the edge of the gravel path, he counted one hundred paces due east. They’d chosen a distinctive-looking cherry with a fork high in the trunk, but it wasn’t easy to locate in the dark and he ripped the pocket of his coat pushing through the undergrowth. Reaching up through the branches, he felt inside for the flat head of a drawing pin. Having found it, he carefully released a strip of damp paper. He made his way back to the path and stopped beneath a streetlamp to glance at the note. The damn fool had written it in ink and it was barely legible.

Cafe Klose

Wolff knew the place — first floor, corner of Leipziger and Mauer — too smart, too central, but at least Christensen was still in business. Rolling the paper into a ball, he flicked it into the gutter.

It took a while to give the security police the slip the following morning and he was late for their rendezvous. Christensen was at a corner table with a coffee and was plainly in an evil temper. His mood didn’t improve when Wolff refused to discuss their business in the cafe. They left separately and caught trains to the old cemetery on Chausseestrasse where they wandered about the graves of the famous in the spring sunshine. Why had Wolff missed their rendezvous the other day? What did the Count say? It was too dangerous, he said, they must stop. Wolff knew he didn’t mean to. He was greedy and for all his blustering he enjoyed the cast-iron confidence of a youthful chancer.

‘You shouldn’t speak to Sir Roger,’ he protested. ‘He likes me, trusts me. You can leave it to me.’

They stopped at a philosopher’s grave and Wolff crouched forward as if to read the inscription. ‘You’re offering me scraps,’ he said. ‘I need to know what he wants from the Germans and what they want from him.’

Christensen waited until Wolff rose to stand at his side again. ‘I do have something.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘It’s worth a lot.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that. Well?’

But he wouldn’t be drawn for less than forty marks and a promise of forty more. ‘You understand the risk…’ he said. ‘It’s a fair price. Roger told me why he thinks you’re useful…’

‘Not here,’ interrupted Wolff. ‘We’ve been here too long.’ They ambled along the path into an unfashionable corner of the cemetery some distance from the gate.

‘This will do,’ Wolff nodded to an ugly granite temple dedicated to an architect and his family. It was gloomy and damp inside and someone had used it as a lavatory. ‘Is this necessary?’ Christensen gave a little shudder.

‘Are you afraid of ghosts?’

‘No, but…’

‘Here,’ Wolff offered him the marks. ‘Tell me what you know and we can leave.’

‘It was the Count,’ the Norwegian muttered, slipping the money into his pocketbook. ‘What I mean is, the Count told him you were in South Africa. That you’d served with an Irishman…’

‘MacBride.’

‘Yeah, MacBride. That’s why he wanted to speak to you.’

‘That’s it?’ He stared at Christensen for a few seconds, then reached for the lapel of his coat, pinching its edge as if testing the weight of the cloth. ‘Is that all?’

‘Sir Roger was excited.’

‘I know,’ he snapped.

‘No. You don’t understand. I mean, yes, he likes this man MacBride, but it’s the brigade. Like the one you served in…’ he frowned. ‘If you did. He’s trying to, well, form his own Irish Brigade.’

Wolff let go of his lapel. ‘Here?’

‘Yes. Irishmen in the British Army, prisoners — the Germans have captured some — thousands.’

Wolff looked at him sceptically.

‘Hundreds.’

He didn’t know how many.

‘To fight in Ireland?’