The Poison Tide

‘I’m de Witt.’

That Hilken knew the name, and was unhappy to hear it, was written plainly enough in his face. ‘If it’s business — make an appointment with my clerk.’

They were standing toe to toe like cowboys squaring up in a saloon, Wolff a few intimidating inches taller, broader and set with the confidence of a man who knows he can take a punch and return it with more than equal measure. ‘Sit down,’ he commanded. Hilken glared at him but his shoulders dropped, and a second later he turned to walk over to his desk, anxious to place four feet of mahogany between them.

‘It’s a business proposition,’ Wolff said, pushing further into the room; ‘if that helps a chap like you make sense of it. You see, my clients know all about your activities — you’re trying to poison our soldiers — and our horses. Killed at least one American, I hear, you and Hinsch, and Dilger.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Wolff’s features settled into a bored expression, his forefinger trailing lazily along the edge of the desk until it came to an ugly silver paperweight, a ship’s dog in a sou’wester. He picked it up, testing its heft in his hand. ‘Well, of course you know. You don’t do the dirty work — you pay people like McKevitt. You settle the bills. You helped Dilger set up his laboratory — goodness, what would your president say if he knew a German spy was culturing anthrax a few miles from the White House?’

Hilken lifted up his glass, inspected his drink, then placed it gently back on the desk. ‘He’d recognise it for British propaganda,’ he said, affecting indifference.

‘Well, of course I was expecting you to suggest something of the sort. I wouldn’t be here if my clients…’

‘Can we stop this pretence?’ Hilken sneered.

Wolff shrugged; ‘…my friends didn’t have proof. Your associate, Dr Albert — an excellent bookkeeper — he made a very careful record — you have accounts at two banks in New York, don’t you? I’m sure the Baltimore Sun — oh, and the Secret Service — would be interested to know why a German diplomat implicated in a sabotage campaign is paying you thousands of dollars. No, just a minute, let me finish,’ he said, holding up his hand. ‘You see, he was foolish enough to entrust his accounts to von Rintelen, who kept them in an oak filing cabinet, the middle one of three, if I recall.’

Hilken had turned a sickly white. ‘And Miss Dilger,’ Wolff continued, ‘we visited her — I’m sure you know by now. Do you think she’ll be strong enough to lie when the police and newspaper reporters are on the doorstep?’

Carefully replacing the paperweight, he stepped over to the hearth, holding his hands to the glowing embers. ‘Think of the disgrace, Hilken, a saboteur helping a foreign power. If they don’t execute you as a spy they’ll put you in prison. What will the other members of the Baltimore Germania Club say, and your business associates, your father, your wife — does she love you enough to wait for twenty years? You know, you won’t be able to afford to keep the girlfriend — Miss Johnston, isn’t it? Perhaps the newspapers will speak to her too.’ He stared disapprovingly at Hilken. ‘But it doesn’t have to be like that. We’re not interested in you — it’s Hinsch and his people we want — his contacts in the ports — the network — most of all the sailors at the warehouse last night — yes, I know all about that. I want their names and their ships. I know you kept a record. Was it for Albert?’

Hilken’s gaze was flitting blindly about the room as he tried to manage his fear. ‘Albert,’ he repeated with dismay.

‘I was sure it must be,’ Wolff continued. ‘It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you give me the ships and the men. Eight men.’

‘How the hell…’ Hilken was so astonished he forgot he was afraid, but only for the briefest of moments. ‘You want me to be your creature?’

‘A small enterprise. An exchange. I want those names.’

‘Even if I were inclined — I don’t have that sort of information here.’ He paused, then added with less conviction, ‘And I wouldn’t give it to you if I did.’

‘I know, you’re a German patriot.’ Wolff smiled patiently. ‘But for a few names — is it worth the sacrifice? — your life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness—’

He was interrupted by polite knocking at the door. For an unguarded second, hope flickered on Hilken’s face before his expression settled in a sullen frown.

‘Who is it?’ Wolff demanded.

‘My clerk. I expect he’s come to collect the papers I was working on.’

Another knock at the door. ‘Mr Hilken? Muller, sir.’

‘Let me see,’ said Wolff, waving Thwaites’ revolver at the documents on the desk.

They were invoices and orders, nothing of importance. Wolff handed them back, then gestured with the gun to the door.

‘Your driver’s waiting, sir.’ The clerk sounded bemused. Hilken handed him the papers and they spoke briefly about the next day’s business. He was clearly surprised to be going through the diary in the corridor. ‘Is everything all right?’

Perfectly, Hilken assured him, and was on the point of closing the door when he checked, his forefinger across his lip. ‘The victualling of the Breslau — I almost forgot — it needs a signature.’ He turned back to his desk for a pen. ‘Tell my driver I’ll be down in ten minutes.’ He bent over the document the clerk presented to him and wrote his name. Wolff realised it had been a mistake to let him even as the door was closing.

‘Your offer,’ Hilken said quickly. ‘I might be able to collect this information — it will take a little time, just a few hours. Of course, I’d want Dr Albert’s accounts in return.’

‘Has Dilger gone?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the anthrax — you still have some?’

Hilken examined his nails. ‘A little.’

‘Where?’

‘That’s Hinsch’s concern,’ he replied evasively.

‘And you’re going to culture more?’ Wolff asked, walking to one of the windows overlooking the street.

Another long pause. ‘We haven’t talked about it.’

Wolff knew he was lying. ‘And Dilger — are you expecting him back or is his brother going to culture it?’

A streetcar, perhaps the last of the night, pulled up to the stop outside the building and a drunken sailor stumbled up its steps, tripping and almost falling at the top.

‘No, Dr Dilger’s gone and won’t come back,’ Hilken said in a neutral monotone.

Hilken’s Packard was parked at the kerb, the driver’s back against the bonnet, a cigarette burning between his fingers. A noise seemed to startle him; he turned sharply to look down the street but at what, Wolff couldn’t tell.

‘You know, Hilken, I could knock you down.’ He stepped away from the window and closer to the desk. ‘I could shoot you. Or you could give me the names I want — the sailors and their ships. They’re here, aren’t they?’

‘No. I don’t…’ he hesitated, taking a step sideways behind the desk. ‘I’ll shout for help. My clerk, and there are thirty…’

‘You can try,’ Wolff levelled the gun at him. ‘It might be the last thing you do. You’re wondering if I’m bluffing…’ He was bluffing, but it was invested with fifteen years of quiet menace.

‘I haven’t got the names.’ Hilken’s voice shook. ‘I haven’t. Not here.’ He was lying.

Wolff was upon him before he had time to raise a word, striking him hard on the left cheekbone with the grip of the gun, then a punch to his right side. As he fell, Hilken struck his head on the edge of the desk. Dazed, whimpering, he sprawled on the floor beneath it, Wolff on one knee beside him, breathing hard, the revolver raised to strike again. ‘Tell me,’ Wolff gasped; ‘tell me.’ The words came to him like an echo from his Turkish prison cell, and in that instant he was gazing up at a sunburnt face with a full moustache, dark smiling eyes. Hilken tried to curl into a ball. ‘Please. I don’t… just, just… please don’t…’ he mumbled between fingers. And this time the echo was Wolff’s own voice. Christ.

‘The drawer,’ Hilken said. ‘The drawer.’

‘Which one?’