The Poison Tide

Blackness…

‘Thought of that,’ said Wiseman, sitting back in his chair. ‘One of Gaunt’s Czech footpads — trouble is, the network would still be in place. And you — it might compromise you.’

‘I see.’ But I don’t care, Wolff thought, running his fingers through his hair wearily. Or am I being naive? He wanted to stay in America, the sun shone a little brighter even in winter, and if he left he would never make love to Laura.

‘Cigarette?’ Thwaites leant forward with his case. ‘The thing is, our friends at the World need names, payments, meetings; they want someone at the top — in the embassy perhaps — to stir it up on the eve of a presidential election.’

‘And Delmar,’ Wiseman chipped in. ‘London keeps pestering. They’re convinced there’s something.’

Wolff bent to Thwaites’ match then leant back, inhaling deeply. ‘I’ll do my best.’ What else could he say?

‘Well, this might help,’ said Wiseman, reaching into his waistcoat and removing a pocket watch.

Wolff raised his brow quizzically. ‘With what, precisely?’

‘It’s a Ticka, a hidden camera. Look,’ Wiseman held it upright between thumb and forefinger; ‘dummy face. Lens here in the winder, the shutter release this tiny catch at the bottom. Here,’ he presented it on his palm to Wolff. ‘The film is loaded on a reel. Twenty-five exposures. Save you taking too many notes.’

‘Needs a good deal of light, doesn’t it?’ He’d heard tell of the Ticka but had never needed to use one. ‘Look, I’ll do what I can.’

They sat for a while in uncomfortable silence, the shadows of the fire dying on the walls, a winter chill creeping into the room.

‘You must be shattered,’ Wiseman observed at last, his voice soapy with concern. ‘White will whistle up a taxicab.’

Wolff said it was better if he made his own arrangements. They wished him good luck, shook his hand and Thwaites urged him to put the Blackness from his mind.

‘But what an explosion,’ Wiseman exclaimed, stopping suddenly at the door. ‘Like a German push. Worse.’ He was plainly stirred by the thought, shamelessly so. ‘Not the ship,’ he added hastily, ‘the Black Tom yard — can you imagine, in a presidential election year?’

Walking on the cold street, Wolff turned this remark through his tired mind for a time. There had been the glint of an idea in Wiseman’s eye. Rattle the windows of the White House. Something to tip the balance and bring America into the war, he thought, blowing warm vapour into his hands. Crossing Bowery, he slipped on the frozen sidewalk and shortened his stride. He was cold and empty. How should I feel? In the twisted logic of the Bureau, the ship and her crew were just small pieces. Perhaps Black Tom, too, in time. Like those decoy attacks favoured by generals in France, frightfully clever chaps who could see ‘the big picture’. Had Gaunt made any effort to remove the bombs from the Blackness? Did they decide on the alternative in the interests of what they perceived as a greater good? To question everything was to know nothing and to make everyone your enemy.

On Chambers Street, he managed to hail a cab. It dropped him short of his apartment and he used the janitor’s key to creep back through the yard into the building. He needn’t have bothered; the man in the derby had left his post. Four o’clock and in another hour the city would begin to stir. The Russian in the flat above would slam his door, then clatter down the stairs on his way to work at the Fulton Street fish market; while in the kitchen the landlord’s eldest daughter would feed the range and boil hot water for the family; and if the old lady on the ground floor was awake she would open her window and place a saucer of milk on the ledge for the cats.

Wolff took off his coat and hat, he took off his shoes and jacket, then rolled himself in the bedcover. ‘I don’t laugh enough,’ he muttered, closing his eyes. Violet used to make him laugh.

23. The Moment

TIMING WAITS FOR opportunity, C liked to say, and a good spy is the one who recognises and seizes the perfect moment without hesitation.

‘What were you expecting to happen?’ Wolff exclaimed when von Rintelen greeted him with the Shipping News the following evening. In black and white on page two — the Blackness: hull, crew and cargo lost in an explosion at sea to a cause unknown. ‘But not to us,’ Rintelen observed with a yelp of laughter that set Wolff’s teeth on edge. ‘Good judgement — you see, Hinsch?’

‘Yes,’ Hinsch conceded, turning to acknowledge Wolff with a nod and a grudging smile, ‘you’ve done well.’ They were true comrades — who could doubt it? A toast! Rintelen insisted; and because he was a gentleman with a generous paymaster, his wine was good.

They were sitting in his office cabin, the newspaper open on the delicate lacquer table, anchored by their glasses and cigarette cases. ‘Wine is the only thing the Franzmann does better than us,’ he remarked, inspecting the bottle. ‘I will send some cases home. Quicker than waiting for our army to conquer France.’

‘Let’s talk about tomorrow,’ said Hinsch, opening his rough hands on the table. ‘The Linton, a small freighter, about four thousand tons. Grain and some artillery shells. There should be no difficulty.’

‘Our associates are responsible for the security,’ Rintelen explained.

‘Irish associates?’ Wolff enquired.

‘Friends of Sir Roger’s, yes.’

‘Those chaps from Green’s,’ Wolff persisted. ‘I met them, remember?’

‘McKee is there to get you aboard,’ said Hinsch sourly. ‘All right?’

Wolff reached for his glass. ‘All right.’ He didn’t want to lose his new advantage. ‘Once the grain catches, well…’ he paused to sip his wine, ‘…you can imagine.’

Rintelen could imagine: satisfaction was expressed plainly in every middle-aged line of his face. Wolff was reminded of his promise: I’ll buy what I can and blow up what I can’t. His preference was distinctly for the latter. They discussed the number of detonators and the rendezvous, and Rintelen boasted of his ‘other operations’. ‘The Dark Invader’s empire grows,’ he joked. ‘And what do you say to this, gentlemen?’ Rising quickly, he stepped over to his cabinets, took a key from his jacket and opened the middle one. A wafer tumbler lock, Wolff noted, and one of the simplest. The two other cabinets appeared to be sealed the same way. ‘Here.’ Rintelen lifted a file. ‘Clear the glasses, would you?’ Then he opened it on the table. ‘Recognise this?’

‘Black Tom.’

‘Yes, I drew it myself,’ he said with a smug smile. ‘I have given it some thought and the correct thing to do is land by sea, here…’ he prodded his map with a well-manicured forefinger; ‘…a boat to pier four to place them on barges… here and here. It is the best way to make it look like an accident. So,’ he said, straightening his back, ‘what do you think?’

Wolff was sure his opinion was of no importance and Hinsch may have thought the same because he shook his head but said nothing.

‘The time isn’t right, I know,’ Rintelen continued; ‘we must wait, but it’s important to have a plan.’

He closed the file and picked up the bottle to fill their glasses once more. This time Wolff refused. ‘I must go.’

‘You have a dinner engagement?’ Rintelen enquired, leaning forward as if inviting a confidence.

‘Something like that,’ he said casually. ‘Don’t trouble, I can make my own way.’

‘That won’t be necessary. I will have a guide take you to the gangway.’

‘Still a question of trust?’

‘Of manners,’ Rintelen lied; it was something he did smoothly too.

But for once there wasn’t a sailor on station in the passageway. Rintelen seemed to hesitate, his hand