‘Not too close.’
Masek gave Wolff a reproving look.
The last of the sun was blinking in the windscreen as they drove west towards the Hudson. The taxicab turned left on 12th Avenue to run along the river, stopping briefly for lights at the Recreation Pier. They tried to keep their distance but Masek was afraid they would lose the cab in the evening traffic.
‘You think it’s a trap?’ he asked, braking for another set of lights. ‘Why this woman? I think it’s because of you.’
‘I think so too,’ Wolff said. ‘I’m not sure why. Perhaps they suspect me, perhaps they’re testing her.’
The traffic was flowing left on to 14th Street and Wolff was expecting the cab to do same, but at the junction it pressed on along the waterfront towards the abandoned piers running into the river opposite Castle Point. They bumped over granite setts in pursuit, passed empty and boarded warehouses, navigation buoys rusting on their sides, the carcase of an old tug on stocks, cranes, cables and carts, the dockyard detritus of decades that might have been heaved from the river by a great harbour wave.
‘Drop back,’ Wolff commanded. It was dusk now and if the cab driver had a mirror he would notice their lamps.
A few hundred yards more and the cab turned to the right and was lost behind a warehouse.
‘Pull up, they’re stopping.’
Masek guided the Cadillac into the shadow of the same building.
Reaching under his seat, Wolff lifted out a waxed canvas package.
‘Honey and plenty of money.’ It was Thwaites’ service revolver.
Masek frowned. ‘Don’t understand.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Wolff. ‘Wait here.’
It was just a few yards to the corner of the warehouse. The taxicab had come to a halt at the entrance. Parked beyond it were three more motor cars, the largest Hilken’s burgundy-and-orange convertible. Dilger had climbed down from the cab with his bag and was offering to help Laura but she was in no hurry to rise. Two men came out of the warehouse, the elder of the two, Devoy, his Old Testament beard sickly yellow in the light spilling through the open door. He shook Dilger’s hand, then leant inside the cab to say a few words to Laura. She had sheltered and delivered the doctor and her task was complete. Wolff was relieved when, a moment later, the taxi pulled away. He waited with his back pressed to the wall as the cab turned in a large circle to return the way it had come. Devoy had escorted Dilger into the warehouse and shut in the light. But by the dim glow of the city Wolff could see the silhouette of a driver lounging against the hood of a motor car. He was going to have to take a chance. Cocking the revolver, he put it back in his pocket, took a deep breath, then stepped forward like a man with an urgent appointment to make.
The chauffeur heard his footfall. Stamping guiltily on his cigarette, he turned and was plainly relieved to find a stranger. Heart pounding, Wolff opened the door of the warehouse and glanced inside. ‘They’re in here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He felt a moment’s relief: the corridor was empty, gloomy, double doors at the end, to the left an iron staircase. Stepping lightly, quickly, damp fingers round the grip of the gun, he paused at the door to listen to voices and judged them only feet away. Christ, I should burst in and shoot the bastard, he thought. Instead he settled for the stair, moving carefully in the darkness, a steadying hand to the wall as he felt his way up the last few steps. The door at the top was stiff and he needed to ease it open with his shoulder. He misjudged the pressure; it grated and he froze, holding his breath, expecting a shouted challenge or the ring of boots on the stair. A cold night but he was perspiring, his shirt clinging to the small of his back. Through the open door a confused echo, movement, voices, someone speaking English, issuing instructions perhaps. After three or four minutes he was calm enough to try again. This time he was able to prise it free without a sound and in the blue light from a gallery of broken windows he could see a broad iron gantry, thick with dust and glass and pigeon shit. In a pool of light on the empty warehouse floor beneath it, a dozen men stood about a table, most of them dressed in pea coats and woolly bonnets, and in their midst the distinctive shaggy grey head of John Devoy.
Dropping to his knees, Wolff emptied his pockets, placing the revolver carefully by the door, then crawled forward until he was almost directly above the lamp and in the middle of the circle. He could see Dilger in the shadow at its edge, whispering to a heavily built man with a moustache who looked like Carl, the driver of the Winton in the station lot at Laurel. The medical bag was sitting on the table.
‘Doctor, you can speak to them now,’ he announced in his thick English.
Dilger muttered something Wolff couldn’t catch in reply and stepped up to the table.
‘I’ll be going, then. Until tomorrow.’ Devoy was shuffling from the circle. ‘Good luck to youse all,’ he declared, addressing his remarks in particular to the men — his men. ‘Beidh an la linn. Remember — our day is coming.’
Dilger had removed from his bag, gloves, a mask and a box of phials like the one Wolff had taken from McKevitt.
‘My brother’s shown you what you must do?’ he asked, turning to his companion with the horseshoe moustache. Someone replied very sullenly in the affirmative.
‘Be sure to wear these when you handle both the phials and the sugar cubes.’ Dilger held up the mask and gloves. ‘If you don’t, you’ll… well…’ He paused to let them ponder the consequences. ‘If you’re careful you should have no difficulty; it’s a simple procedure.’
‘Do not let the enemy catch you,’ Hinsch barked. ‘Throw the empty phials over the side.’
‘…and if you can’t use the syringe,’ Dilger was telling them, ‘use the sugar cubes.’ He’d taken a small package from the box. ‘Wait as long as you can — a day or two days from port would be best — no sooner. That is most important — vital. Any questions?’
‘And these gloves will be enough to keep us safe?’ one of the men asked, with just the suggestion of Irish in his voice.
‘And a mask, yes,’ Dilger replied. ‘Anything else?’
No one else spoke. They’d clearly been well schooled by Dilger’s brother.
‘Good,’ said Hinsch, nodding to Carl.
Wolff watched Carl disappear from the ring of light, returning a minute later with two packages wrapped in brown paper and string. He lumbered into the darkness like a fat German Santa, repeating his delivery until there were eight parcels on the table. The dust-dry spirit of Dr Albert floated about the warehouse as the sailors stepped forward to sign for a parcel and pay. They left at once, cradling their packages in the crook of an arm or against their chests, relieved to be away, their pockets jingling with money earned for Ireland’s cause. Did they know they were poisoning not just the animals but soldiers too? A lot of thoughts flitted through Wolff’s mind as he lay on his side in the filth. That Casement couldn’t know. That it was a bargain without principle, shaped by someone subtler — a man like Nadolny. No, Roger couldn’t know, not Roger, not Laura. They were being used by ruthless men, servants of their own empire, Devoy too perhaps, and Ireland. And what the hell to do about it?
With the sailors gone and no one to address, Dilger and his companions were speaking in no more than a conspiratorial whisper. It made the warehouse feel a colder, a more dangerous place. From the little Wolff could gather they were housekeeping, with mention of Devoy, travel arrangements, security checks: it was impossible to be sure. The doctor picked up his medical case and they began to drift from the light, pausing only at its edge for a few more words and long handshakes. Hilken said something funny and there was a little nervous laughter. They were on edge and wanted to be away. A moment later the door beneath the gantry banged again, the circle of light disappeared and Wolff was alone. His shoulder and hip were numb and he’d strained his neck peering out over the
