‘Why?’ Wolff wanted to know.
‘Safer,’ he said with a shrug.
Would it be here then, slipping and stumbling on frozen cobbles? Dock wall one side, four-storey warehouse on the other; can’t run, can’t hide. He tried not to limp because that might arouse suspicion. A hundred yards ahead, two men stood in the shadow of the wall. He watched as one of them lumbered over to the gate and into a circle of lamplight. Too fat to carry out an execution, he thought, and if that was Koenig, his companion would be McKee.
‘You’re late,’ they grumbled, but McKee shook his hand warmly. They were a little on edge but that was only to be expected at the dock gates. There was nothing else remarkable in their demeanour, no awkwardness, no hidden glances, no reluctance to look him in the eye.
Koenig’s contact opened the wicket at exactly midnight. The men from Green’s were as obliging as ever; McKee carried the explosives on to the ship and Wolff was permitted to place them in holds fore and aft. ‘Simplest so far,’ McKee observed, handing his gold badge back to their guide; ‘experts, so we are.’
Hans was waiting in the Ford. ‘I’m to take you to Frau Held’s,’ he said in an efficient monotone. Wolff didn’t argue. It seemed safe to assume that an invitation to sprawl on the great lady’s leather couch and sip champagne meant they were not intending to finish him off tonight. The little spy was still in his hiding place, hat wedged between stiff thighs, eyes wide open and resentful at the indignity of the death meted out to him. Wolff shook his head vigorously to clear the image from his thoughts and leant forward to stare out blankly at the passing streets.
At the club, Martha greeted him in person, squeezing his hands like an affectionate aunt. Their Swiss friend was waiting in her private drawing room, she informed him with the disingenuous smile of the demi-monde. ‘And there is someone else who is hoping to see you — a certain young lady. You haven’t visited Clara for a while, Mr de Witt.’ She contrived to sound hurt.
Rintelen was standing in front of the fire, gazing at a silver photograph frame. ‘Herr de Witt.’ He placed it carefully back on the mantelpiece between a pair of china swains. The room was chintzy, the paper a gaudy pink like a doll’s-house bedroom. ‘The evening was a success?’ Rintelen enquired. He might have been speaking of a musical soiree.
‘An effortless performance, yes.’
‘But you have hurt yourself…’ Rintelen gestured with a peculiar chopping motion of his open palm to a chair. ‘You must sit down — please.’
‘I caught my leg against something on the ship. It’s nothing,’ Wolff replied. It was damn careless of him; what was he thinking? ‘Look, why do you want to see me?’
‘Champagne?’ Rintelen lifted the bottle from an ice bucket and poured two glasses. ‘We must celebrate our victories, even the small ones.’ He wiped his hands carefully on a damp cloth, fastidious in everything always, dapper in his fashionable suit, his white waistcoat and Ascot tie. Damn the fellow. ‘I’d like you to visit Boston for me,’ he said, gazing down at Wolff from the hearthrug. ‘McKee has collected some more Irishmen, but they’ll need to be…’ he paused to slip into precise English, ‘…shown the ropes.’
Wolff nodded slowly. ‘All right.’
‘Good. On Friday then.’ Rintelen lifted his champagne, examined its colour, dancing in the firelight, then raised it to his thin lips.
‘Is that all?’ Wolff enquired impatiently.
‘More champagne?’
No. No thank you. Look, it’s late. Two o’clock.’
‘But you will stay here, of course.’
‘No.’
‘As you wish.’ He had settled in the chair next to Wolff. ‘Sir Roger’s servant, Christensen — when did you last see him?’
Wolff said he couldn’t be sure, but not for many weeks, perhaps September.
‘Do you trust him?’
‘No, but he’s Sir Roger’s,’ Wolff hesitated, ‘friend.’
Rintelen nodded deliberately. ‘Berlin says he has spoken to the British.’
‘Oh?’ The band round Wolff’s chest tightened a notch or two. Slowly, casually, he sipped his champagne, hiding for a few seconds behind the glass before lowering it slowly. ‘What has that got to do with me?’
Rintelen raised his eyebrows. ‘You are angry?’
‘Tired, that’s all.’
‘I see. Well, Christensen admits he has been in contact with a British diplomat called Findlay. In Christiania, I believe. Berlin has had its suspicions for a while and wants to know if you think he is…’
‘Clever enough to be a spy?’ Wolff interrupted. ‘I hardly know him — just the journey here; I didn’t care for him much. He does have…’ he sighed and reached into his jacket for his cigarette case; ‘…it isn’t important.’
‘It might be.’ Rintelen leant forward earnestly, his rodent eyes chasing about Wolff’s face again. ‘Please finish.’
‘Just, he has a great hold on Sir Roger’s affections.’
‘Yes,’ Rintelen said, examining his well-manicured hands. ‘He told his interrogators the English offered him money to spy on Sir Roger but he refused. What else can he say? Count Nadolny is concerned for our operations. He wants to know who Christensen has been in contact with — both here and in Berlin before he came.’
Wolff shook his head sharply. ‘No idea. As I say, I barely knew him.’
Rintelen was gazing at Wolff intently. Something sharp in his manner suggested he knew more than he was prepared to say. ‘I’ll ask Hinsch to make some enquiries,’ he said at last.
‘Good, yes.’ Wolff perched at the edge of the chair. ‘If there’s nothing else?’
‘I wonder if…’ Rintelen hesitated. ‘No, not now, Herr de Witt. Not tonight.’ He smiled weakly. ‘You must rest your leg.’
Hans drove him most of the way home. The last two blocks he limped, half expecting to find a shadowy figure stamping snow outside the library. But the street was empty, no one had broken into his apartment, no one had slipped a secret message beneath his door: thank the Lord.
The following morning, he was woken from troubled sleep by the telephone and a cautious voice inviting him to Mr Schmidt’s residence to discuss another offer of work.
Thwaites’ safe apartment was on the west side of Central Park at the top of a new block that was respectable but busy enough to be anonymous; home for the most part to aspiring young couples with money for only one domestic and old ladies put out to grass by their families.
‘My dear fellow,’ Wiseman came forward to greet him, ‘well done. Let me shake your hand. A marvellous haul. Come and sit down. You’re limping, are you hurt? White, a chair if you please.’
They were gathered at a table in its small sitting room — Gaunt, too — before them papers, pocketbook, the photographs he’d taken on the ship. To judge by the cigarette smoke, they must have been poring over the stuff for a couple of hours at least. It had been no great matter to decipher the ledger, Wiseman informed him, sliding a photograph and a handwritten transcript across the table. ‘Norman, why don’t you take us through it?’
‘Some you know already,’ Thwaites observed, grinding his cigarette into an ashtray. ‘Thousands of dollars to the Clan for its help with the strikes and with the sabotage campaign, payments to Larkin and some of the other agitators; to three detective agencies — Green’s here in New York, and this…’ he said, running a bony forefinger down the flimsy, ‘May the third this year to a chap called McCarthy for what friend Albert calls
‘There was an explosion at Anderson’s on that day — three men killed,’ Gaunt interjected. As usual, he looked out of sorts. ‘You see — I told you it was important we lay our hands on these files.’
‘And how right you were, Captain.’ Wiseman smiled at him patiently.
‘Five days later another payment,’ Thwaites continued; ‘this time
‘There’s a contract?’ Wolff nodded to the photographs. ‘You have an address and a company name.’
‘We’re checking. The thing is, a few days later the SS
