The Poison Tide

All right, give him a few more yards. Moving with the precision of a Patek timepiece, two, three, four, and Wolff was away, stalking across the street, into his path.

‘Dr Albert.’

‘I am sorry, I don’t know you…’ But then his expression changed from puzzlement to alarm, like a cat’s paw ruffling the surface of a calm sea. ‘De Witt!’

‘Mr de Witt, if you please,’ Wolff replied in German. ‘I would like a brief word…’ and he took Albert’s arm. ‘There’s a car across the street, Doctor.’

‘What are you doing here?’ He shook himself free. ‘Our business is over. I’ve nothing to say.’

‘Let’s not draw attention to ourselves. I suppose you know your office is watched?’

‘I’ve nothing to say,’ he repeated icily and he tried to push past, lifting his stick in a half-hearted threat.

‘I wouldn’t, Doctor. Please stay calm. Goodness, a contract is a contract — you of all people should understand that!’ Wolff grasped his arm tightly this time. ‘Just here, Doctor.’

‘I’ve nothing to say to you,’ he protested again, but he permitted Wolff to guide him to the car. They sat side by side in the front, Albert’s thin face in shadow, his eyes sickly in the light of a streetlamp.

‘Your contract was terminated when our associate was obliged to return to Germany,’ he declared flatly.

‘Oh? Has Germany surrendered?’ Wolff asked sarcastically.

‘What do you want, Herr de Witt?’

‘I wish to continue serving His Imperial Majesty on the same terms.’

‘I told you, your contract is terminated. Captain von Rintelen has gone. Detained at sea by the British…’ he paused to consider his words carefully; ‘…his former associates are of the view he was betrayed.’

‘Not by me. My record speaks for itself.’

‘That’s as may be. I have no part to play in those kinds of—’

Wolff interrupted: ‘Save it for the police, Albert. We both know the war here in America isn’t going to end with this small setback — only to be expected, in my view. Your Rintelen was a man of vision, no doubt, but careless. Who’s in charge of things now — Hinsch?’

Albert’s features were stiff and cold, like a bureaucratic corpse.

‘Make the contact for me.’ Wolff reached into his coat for a slip of folded paper. ‘Hinsch can leave a message at this address.’

After a moment’s thought, Albert dipped his index and forefinger as if plucking the paper from a muddy pool. ‘Don’t come to my home again.’

‘That depends on you. Do your duty, Dr Albert.’

‘I always do my duty, Mr de Witt,’ he said in English, releasing the door. ‘It is not necessary for a Dutchman to remind me of my duty.’

He climbed carefully from the car, then crossed the street without a backward glance. Wolff observed him in the light above the portico, standing below an entablature carved with a laurel garland, in his bowler hat, a hero for the new age.

Days, a week went by, a fortnight, and every morning a note from Thwaites, a telephone call or a summons to a meeting: London’s impatient, old boy, terribly concerned. Does Albert suspect you? Visit him again. Go to Baltimore and see Hinsch, why don’t you? Wolff said that London could go to hell.

With Laura’s assistance he was going up in the world — by elevator to the fifth floor of a new brownstone block on the Upper West Side, a well-appointed bachelor apartment with a fine view east over the Hudson. They’d seen a good deal of each other at Christmas, dining first with her father — florid and opinionated and a voice to whip the froth from a pint of stout at fifty paces — then at her sparrow aunt’s home. Wolff was a student of friendship. Priests, politicians and publicans, soldiers and scientists, matrons and maids, he’d inveigled his way into the confidences of them all. Mr McDonnell had presented no great challenge. ‘I like yer,’ he had declared while his daughter was away from their table. ‘You’re a practical man like me. That’s what Laura needs.’ And as a favour to her he had used his friends in the archdiocese to find Wolff somewhere ‘respectable’ to live.

Thwaites dismissed his new arrangements as ‘foolhardy’. Good cover, Wolff argued, and it sounded quite plausible.

‘And who, pray, is paying the rent on this new apartment?’ Thwaites asked.

‘Me, Norman, as you ask — from the fruit of my labours on behalf of the Kaiser.’

‘Damn cheek!’ Thwaites complained.

But some sober nights Wolff paid in dreams, too, as he had done in the past — confused images of ten years’ service, waking in the dark, sheets damp, his conscience rocking like an upturned derby hat.

One evening Laura dragged him to the opera to hear the soprano, Frieda Hempel; he took her to the Clef Club where the pianist Jelly Roll was playing ragtime. There were meetings in draughty halls, more talk of votes for women, of Ireland and Empire, lively debates in which she played a full and passionate part, always impatient for change, determined, but also funny. For all her strong convictions, she took no offence at his teasing and was quick and merciless in her turn. She wasn’t an elegant woman, and she didn’t have a figure like Violet’s to turn heads; she was shorter, with generous curves, her gestures and speech often hurried as she wrestled with an idea or an opinion; pretty but not in a conventional way, sharp intelligence always apparent in her face. Wolff had decided on reflection that her eyes were robin’s-egg blue, the finest he’d been privileged to gaze into.

Thwaites liked to remind him that the growing warmth of their friendship was supposed to serve a purpose. But Laura was careful not speak of Clan na Gael’s activities and Wolff made no effort to coax them from her — until one Sunday afternoon, the last in January.

A briny wind was chasing blue-grey clouds westerly across the river, rattling the flag ropes at the Blessed Sacrament School and shaking dead twigs from the trees in front of the church. They had arranged to meet at four o’clock, but it was only a few blocks from his new apartment, so with time to waste he arrived early and was waiting on the sidewalk when members of the Clan began leaving the parochial house. Shrugging on their overcoats, hands planted on hats, bent double into the wind as they hurried along the street to the omnibus stop. Only John Devoy spoke to him.

‘Waiting for Laura?’ He shook his grey head disapprovingly. ‘She knows what I think of ye.’

‘I’m sure everyone knows what you think, Mr Devoy.’

Right hand gripping the iron railing, left in a fist at his side, Devoy glared at him like an old bar-room brawler living on his reputation. Wolff returned his stare defiantly.

‘Tough one, aren’t ye?’ Devoy muttered. ‘More of a man than that fella Christensen, I’ll give you that.’

Wolff acknowledged this small olive branch with a smile.

‘I hear you did good work for the Germans.’ Devoy frowned, his eyes lost beneath his shaggy Old Testament brow. ‘Just mind you’re careful with our Laura, now.’ He wagged a biblical forefinger; ‘I know she’ll be careful with you.’ He scrutinised Wolff’s face for a few more seconds, then nodded and walked away, turning the collar of his well-worn coat up against the wind.

‘It’s just Mr Devoy’s way,’ Laura said, when he related the substance of their conversation. She was cross and upbraided him for arriving early.

‘Ashamed of me?’ he asked provocatively, the wind sweeping them along the sidewalk in the direction of Central Park.

‘How can you suggest such a thing?’ she chided.

‘You spoke to Devoy about—’

‘Mr Devoy asked me,’ she interjected defensively.

‘You told him you’d be careful not to tell me anything.’

‘Oh! For goodness’ sake!’ she exclaimed, and she pulled her arm free and turned to face him, exasperated and at the same time beguiling. ‘What did you expect me to say to him? It doesn’t mean I don’t trust you. How can you say so?’ Her eyes were blazing with indignation, and Wolff loved her for showing no respect for the difference in their ages. But was she protesting too vehemently? ‘We have to be so careful, especially at this time,’ she declared.