The Poison Tide

everything on four legs we buy — horses, mules, cattle.’

‘Evil bastards,’ Gaunt murmured.

‘There have been fatalities.’ Wiseman leant forward, elbows on his knees; ‘London says five British sailors on horse transports — and a newspaper here reported another — a stevedore in a hospital just before Christmas.’ His gaze rested pointedly upon Wolff: ‘You’ve seen Dr Reid?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, with more confidence than he felt.

‘He’s sure?’

‘Yes.’

Wiseman relaxed back in the chair. ‘This whole thing has been an almighty cock-up. The damn fools in the War Office who organise the supply of horses kept it to themselves. C says they admit to more than a dozen outbreaks of anthrax in the last three months — that’s thousands of animals destroyed at depots or tipped into the sea — no one is entirely sure of the precise number. Infections have been reported at five ports on the East Coast and on goodness knows how many ships — the last the Brownlee, two weeks ago. The Admiralty dismissed it as poor animal husbandry. Well, biological warfare — who would have thought it?’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Gaunt, stooping to stir the fire. ‘Why are they killing animals?’

‘Only a sailor would need to ask.’ Wiseman observed with an indulgent smile. ‘An army can’t feed or fight without horses and mules, Captain; it can’t move. The Americans have sold us hundreds of thousands already. We’re getting through horses pretty quickly, aren’t we, Norman? Thank God we don’t publish those casualty figures.’

Thwaites coughed. ‘Depressing thought.’

For a few silent seconds it hovered in the room.

‘And Agent Delmar?’ Wolff prompted. ‘Did London come up with a name?’

‘You were right. He’s an American doctor,’ said Wiseman, rising to his feet. ‘Doctor Dilger — Anton Casimir Dilger;’ and leaning on the back of his chair he trotted through the facts he’d gathered as if intent on making up the lost time. A bacteriologist he had consulted knew of a Dr Dilger and was able to find papers on tissue cultures he’d written before the war. The family were Germans from Virginia, his father a hero of the Civil War. ‘The rum thing is that old man Dilger stayed in America to breed horses. Ironic, don’t you think? Berlin must have run our Dr Dilger as a separate sabotage operation, with Hilken to handle financial affairs and Hinsch to recruit and run the necessary…’

‘Scum,’ Gaunt chipped in with venom.

‘…network. German and Irish, no doubt,’ Wiseman continued with a twinkle in his voice. ‘They’ve kept things tight. If you hadn’t followed Hinsch, who knows how long it would have been before we picked up the scent.’

Wolff raised his eyebrows: ‘Are you confident we still have it?’

‘Sent a fella to the Dilger farm yesterday — he spoke to some people. Dilger’s living with a sister just a few miles from here. The cheek of the man — he’s listed in the directory as a “physician”.’

Thwaites sighed heavily. ‘Isn’t it time to give this to the Americans?’

‘Your leader has thought of that.’ Wiseman paused, putting his palms together as if in prayer. ‘London says, “Ask our Ambassador.” The Ambassador says, “Proof.” He can’t — won’t — take it to the White House without proof. President Wilson wants to keep the temperature with the Germans low. He’s campaigning for re-election on the slogan “I — kept –”’ and Wiseman drew it in the air, ‘“us — out — of — the — war”.’

‘The phials, the syringe — aren’t they satisfactory?’

‘British propaganda.’ Wiseman had taken his seat again and was contemplating Wolff over his fingertips. ‘What do we have that can’t be dismissed as bad husbandry or propaganda? Goodness, it isn’t easy to believe.’

‘Poisoning animals, food, water supplies — I suppose we’ve been doing something of the sort for centuries,’ Thwaites remarked gloomily, ‘and now it’s the turn of the scientists. Is that progress?’

‘I dipped into the Bible last night,’ Wiseman said, ‘half remembered something from Revelation;’ and screwing his eyes tightly shut in concentration he intoned in a fire-and-brimstone voice: ‘When he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. There,’ he exclaimed, opening his eyes again, ‘the seal’s broken and behold death on a pale horse.’

For a few seconds there was silence.

‘“The Black Bane”,’ muttered Wolff at last.

Wiseman lifted his chin quizzically.

‘Anthrax. The last pandemic in Europe killed thousands.’ Wolff paused, turning the thought. ‘There haven’t been cases at the Front?’

Wiseman shook his head in disgust. ‘Honestly, I don’t think the War Office has a clue how its animals die. Has enough of a job accounting for…’

Wolff cut him short. ‘No — soldiers. How can we be sure the Germans aren’t poisoning our soldiers?’ He leant forward distractedly, his gaze fixed on the carpet, as if the answer was waiting to be teased from its fibres and motifs. ‘Reid gave me some medical papers — the enemy has chosen wisely. For one thing, anthrax is deniable. A disease found in horses and cattle — it’s a silent killer. Look, we’re struggling to convince our own Ambassador it’s a weapon, aren’t we? Secondly,’ he said, counting it coldly on his fingers, ‘delivery. The enemy has targeted American horses and mules as a reservoir of infection. It’s easier to operate here. The British pay through the nose for diseased animals, then obligingly ship them to the boys at the Front. A gunner harnesses his battery team, the Army Service Corps bring the supplies up to a field kitchen on the backs of mules, a soldier in a reserve trench pats the neck of a cavalryman’s horse as it passes — spreading the contagion is that simple.’

They were staring at him uncomfortably. Gaunt opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again with a frown. The light in the room was fading, the rain rattling against the windows.

‘Influenza, the plague, even cholera would jump no-man’s-land in time, like gas shifting with the wind,’ Wolff observed quietly. ‘The enemy is taking less of a risk of infecting his own men with anthrax.’ He paused to breathe deeply. ‘And it seems to me fear of the disease would be the most potent weapon. Dead horses, dead cattle — diseased carcases on the battlefield — anthrax spores grow quickly and survive for decades. Are they infecting our cattle too? What about the supplies we’re importing from America? If soldiers believe they can catch the disease from their animals or food, well, they’ll panic.’

‘Steady on,’ Wiseman interjected. ‘We have no proof, Wolff. There’s nothing…’

‘We haven’t, Sir William,’ Wolff snapped back, ‘but if we don’t look, we won’t find.’

Thwaites shifted uncomfortably beside him. ‘You really think they would go that far?’

Wolff shrugged. ‘I don’t know…’ he hesitated, then said forcefully, ‘Yes. Yes. They’ve used gas — we’ve used it too. They’ve bombed civilians — the Allies have too. So why not this? There are no limits, Norman.’

There was another oppressive silence. The rain still lashing the building, the heavy Empire clock still ticking, and distant English voices drifting up the stairs.

‘I don’t believe they’ve gone that far, or intend to,’ Wiseman declared at last. ‘For one thing, animals infected here would die before they reached the Front. We don’t have any evidence they’re—’

‘We’re guessing,’ Gaunt interrupted gruffly. He was still clutching the poker, flexing his fingers as if he was itching to beat someone over the head with it. ‘Catch this bugger Dilger and we can be sure.’

‘Quite right. We must pay him a visit.’ Wiseman’s gaze floated between Wolff and Thwaites. ‘After the time we’ve wasted, the sooner the better.’

But they should eat first, he said, and he ordered beer and sandwiches, fussing around them like a baronet’s butler. Perhaps he was feeling guilty about his magisterial use of the collective pronoun, or just that he was sending them into the pouring rain on what he suspected to be a wild goose chase. No violence on the President’s doorstep — the Ambassador was insistent, he informed them with an ironic smile. ‘But if he’s there…’ he paused, stroking the end of his moustache thoughtfully with his forefinger, ‘…well, we can’t let him go.’

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