the collarbone. Before the sergeant could throw another, he grabbed his throat, digging nails into his windpipe, jabbing at the soldier’s side with a kidney punch. Gasping with pain, he crumpled and Wolff struck him under the chin with his knee.
Someone was pulling at Wolff’s shoulder but for a few seconds he was trapped in a heaving scrum of fists and boots, his face wedged against a shoulder, rough wool against his cheek and the smell of stale sweat and cabbage. Then curses shouted in German, a rifle butt driven at a face as the camp guards forced the circle open. Wolff dropped to one knee but strong hands reached down to haul him back to his feet.
‘I’m fine, Roger, really,’ he said. ‘Just a little dazed.’
They didn’t say much in the car on the journey back to Berlin. Casement stared out of the window, his hands wrestling in his lap. As soon as they’d left the military zone, Wolff wedged his shoulders between the seat and the door and shut his eyes. His chest was sore and a prisoner must have kicked him in the melee because his right knee was aching. Mad, bonkers, round the bend, so mad he wanted to laugh. Hands off my traitor, he thought. Exchanging punches with British soldiers: perfect — or it would have been if he’d thought it through, if it had been cold policy. It had been an impulse of anger and of sympathy. He opened his eyes and looked at Roger, his shoulders bent, his face turned away with just the faint sad reflection of his frown in the window. He’d scratched the back of his left hand with his nails. Wolff shut his eyes again. Damn it, now he knew how it was with the prisoners, yes, he felt sorry for the man — just the man.
‘Will you take dinner with me later?’ Casement asked suddenly.
Wolff smiled warmly. ‘A pleasure, Roger.’ Then, catching his eye, ‘An honour.’
They dined in Casement’s rather down-at-heel rooms on a simple meal of boiled chicken, cabbage and potato: it was that sort of hotel. Conversation was a struggle. Only when the plates were cleared and they were sitting by the fire in easy chairs was Casement ready to speak of the camp.
‘Thank you,’ he said simply, and choked with emotion he rose to stand at the chimneypiece with his back to Wolff. ‘I haven’t been myself these last few weeks. I’ve been awfully low,’ he said when he’d collected himself. ‘You came to my defence. It was a truly Christian act…’
Wolff didn’t suppress a little smile.
‘It was a fine thing,’ Casement protested. ‘You’re a good man, Jan.’
‘Because I traded punches with a British soldier?’
‘Irish. At no small risk to yourself — you shake your head but you’re the sort of fellow who’s prepared to step forward to help others.’ He lifted a trembling glass to his lips to disguise his feelings. ‘I won’t forget it.’
They sat quietly for a minute. Was his emotion sickening or touching? Wolff wondered, gazing into the heart of the fire.
‘You can see how difficult it’s going to be to raise a brigade,’ Casement declared at last. ‘But there are other ways — I have plans, but I need help, someone I can trust.’
He waited a few seconds but Wolff didn’t reply.
‘There’s Adler, of course. I’ve given him the evening off. Yes, Adler, but there’s only so much I can ask him to do. And…’ he hesitated. ‘Well, you see, our German friends don’t trust him.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I don’t really know.’
Wolff could see the lie in his face.
Fifty prisoners had volunteered for the new brigade, he said. He’d designed a smart olive-green uniform with emerald facings. The Germans promised rifles and machine guns for the rising but it wasn’t enough: they needed money and more men, and the only place they could hope to find enough of both would be in America.
‘I’ve spoken to the authorities here. There are thousands of young Irish in America who’ll fight for the cause,’ he explained. ‘They can travel here. The Germans will train them well and when the time is right, land us all in Ireland. A brigade like MacBride’s.’
He rose from his chair and stood facing Wolff, the fire flickering about him like an apostle at Pentecost.
‘It will take a little time, of course,’ he continued. ‘We must prepare — we won’t be ready until next year. I’m sorry.’ He bent to pick up the wine from the hearth, leaning forward to fill Wolff’s glass. ‘What do you think?’
‘Think of what?’ he asked.
‘Will you do it?’
‘Roger, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Will you speak to them for me, the Irish leaders? You’re going back to America, aren’t you? You told Maguerre… I need someone I can trust, a friend. Adler’s going but…’ he hesitated. ‘Someone they’ll respect, I may as well say it, someone our friends in America, the Clan, will respect more than Adler.’
His grey eyes were shining with excitement. Wolff didn’t know what to say so he frowned, turning, turning the stem of his glass on the arm of the chair. Comic but also sad, a wild flight of fancy: the Germans had given Roger his new olive-green uniform but they knew it was a piece of nonsense. They were using him.
‘Well?’ prompted Casement.
‘I’m flattered, Roger,’ he replied cautiously. ‘It’s just…’
Mercifully, he was interrupted by a loud knock at the door. It was Christensen and he was soused.
‘Roger, it’s your Adler,’ he slurred, and with the drunk’s gift for the obvious, ‘I’m back.’ He looked as if he was going to fall on Casement like a sailor’s tart.
‘Mr de Witt’s here, Adler,’ said Casement sharply.
Christensen swayed, taking half a step to steady himself. His tie and waistcoat buttons were undone and there was a large stain at the top of his trousers.
‘You better sit down.’ Casement took him by the arm and steered him towards a chair. He collapsed into it like a sack of potatoes.
‘Him,’ he sneered, blinking lazily at Wolff. ‘Don’t worry about him. He knows, Roger, he knows…’
‘Be quiet, Adler,’ Casement demanded, a note of panic rising in his voice.
The damn fool was too pie-eyed to be sure what he was saying. Which of our secrets is he intent on betraying? thought Wolff. I’m not going to let the bastard give
‘No, Roger, I mean…’ Christensen frowned, trying to concentrate on what he wanted to say.
Casement was intent on shutting him up, too. ‘Come on, I’m putting you to bed,’ he said, dragging him roughly from the chair. Wolff jumped up to help: ‘Allow me.’ But Christensen was off balance. He lurched forward, clutching at the edge of a small occasional table to check his fall. Arm straight, it toppled under his weight, sending glasses and cups crashing to the floor.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ exclaimed Casement, prodding him with his foot. ‘Get up, why don’t you?’
But the man was out cold, sprawled like a fallen tree on a carpet of shards and splinters, and there was a little blood where his head had struck the hearthstone. For a few seconds Wolff wondered if his — or was it their? — problem was over. Casement began fussing guiltily, falling to his knees like a Magdalene, loosening Christensen’s collar, smoothing the hair from his brow. ‘He is all right, isn’t he?’ he asked plaintively.
Wolff bent to feel the pulse in his neck but before he could confirm life, Christensen stirred, then lifted his head a little and vomited on the rug.
‘Sorry, Roger,’ he coughed. ‘Sorry.’ He sounded like a little boy again.
Another reason to say goodbye to Berlin, Wolff reflected as he crossed the hotel lobby five minutes later. He’d been lucky. Christensen had served his purpose: it was time to go before he knew it. Casement was offering Wolff the excuse — America.
He expected another summons the following morning and the bellboy brought one to his rooms as he was taking breakfast. But the note wasn’t from Casement — it was from Count Nadolny, an instruction courteously disguised as an invitation to visit him at the General Staff Building at a little before ten; and, to be sure, the young lieutenant with the mad blue-grey eyes and two security policemen were waiting in the lobby to escort him there.
