The Poison Tide

A short time later, Thwaites announced that he was driving back to New York. A meeting with a newspaper reporter, he said. It was the sort of smooth polite lie they told each other all the time. Wolff said he was sorry, and Wiseman pretended to be surprised but joked that there wasn’t enough food left for him anyway.

And when he’d gone they retreated from the advancing tide to the veranda to gaze at the rippling gold and grey of the evening.

‘You heard about the New York police?’ Wiseman enquired eventually. He leant close to fill Wolff’s glass. ‘The President’s people are going to hold them off. Don’t want a scandal.’ He lifted his champagne to the dying light. ‘This isn’t bad. Actually, it’s bloody good — 1911. What do you think?’

‘Yes, it’s good. Thank you.’

‘Yes, it is.’ He lifted the glass to his lips then lowered it again without drinking. ‘Unfortunately there is a price for fending off our friends in the police. Thing is, President Wilson has promised the people he won’t allow foreign spies to flout the law, and it’s an election year, so it’s a promise he wants to keep.’ He offered an ironic smile. ‘What’s more, we’re supposed to be the good boys. The President’s on our side, well, his advisers are…’

Wolff interrupted: ‘So you want me out of the way?’

‘They do, old boy, they do. Persona non grata, I’m afraid.’

For a while they didn’t speak, their silence filled with the sea’s sad cadence.

‘Perhaps it’s for the best — it isn’t safe for you here,’ Wiseman said at last. ‘When America comes into the war this nonsense will be…’

‘You think she will enter the war?’

‘I do. One last heave, I say.’

‘But it isn’t nonsense, is it? The death of the informer.’ Wolff swept his hand across his eyes. ‘I did kill him.’

‘Yes, you had to.’ Wiseman shifted his chair a little to look Wolff in the eye. ‘And you were extraordinarily brave. HMG owes you a great debt of gratitude. It owes me the price of the best champagne I could buy to thank you properly on its behalf,’ and he raised his glass in salute.

‘I thought we were toasting the victory at Jutland?’

‘Course not. Another costly stalemate. It would be a waste of good champagne.’

Wolff smiled weakly. ‘You know, I’ve done nothing of real worth.’

‘Now you’re fishing for compliments, old boy.’

‘They’ll culture more poison. Probably send another von Rintelen.’

‘Of course they will,’ he huffed, ‘it’s a war — goodness, a bloody brutal one. A war of attrition. We’ve enjoyed a few victories, that’s all, we haven’t won it. But when they come back it will be harder. The President has told his advisers America must start protecting its interests more vigorously — happily, those interests correspond with our own.’

He paused to sip his champagne, his lips smacking a little. ‘It’s one of those little ironies thrown up by war that the more trouble the enemy causes us here in America, the better we like it, because our hosts are losing patience.’

The tide had crept up the beach and would soon be at the full, the sea quite calm, a feathery trail of mist lifting from its face but a shining firmament above.

‘When do I leave?’ Wolff asked, offering his cigarette case.

‘No, thank you. My pipe,’ Wiseman said, tapping his blazer pocket. ‘Soon, I think — a fortnight? Is that all right? White will accompany you.’

‘That isn’t necessary.’

‘We think it is. Don’t want you dumped over the side like a sick horse.’

Wolff bent to the flame he was cupping in his hands and inhaled deeply. ‘I’ve a favour to ask.’

‘Ask away.’

‘Something I must do. Actually someone I must see. I’d like a driver for a day, perhaps two.’

Wiseman frowned thoughtfully. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

‘No.’ Wolff drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘No, it isn’t wise. It is something I must do.’

‘I see.’ Wiseman took out his pipe and spent a few minutes preparing and lighting it. Teeth clamped on the bit, he muttered, ‘Just this pipe, then bed.’ The tide was high now and breaking gently thirty yards from the house. Soon it would turn and draw away from the fringes of the earth.

‘This business with the poison — the anthrax,’ he said, inspecting the bowl of his pipe. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Wolff, it’s shaken my faith in the march of man, or for want of a better… civilisation. Is that an inevitable consequence of war, I wonder — any war?’

Wolff examined the back of his hands. ‘I have a friend who says only a great moral cause is worthy of such sacrifice. Is ours a great moral cause?’

Wiseman sighed. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it is too late to ask.’

The Consulate Cadillac collected Wolff from the beach house two days later. It was midday when they parked outside Laura’s apartment on the Upper West Side. He didn’t expect her to be in at that hour. Campaigning for a new world, he thought, instantly ashamed of his cynicism. He sent the driver to eat and sat gazing at her front door. An old lady hobbled out to a waiting carriage and a short time later a concierge helped a nurse and her young charges to another. There was a chance that he would be there for hours. He was torn between impatience to see her and relief that he couldn’t. In the many idle hours of his recovery he’d often pondered what he might say. He couldn’t explain, and why would she believe him if he said he loved her? He was sorry and he hated what he’d done; that much he should say, he had to say.

When the driver returned from lunch Wolff instructed him to leave his hat and jacket in the motor car and join New York in the park. Was Laura there too? It was an overpoweringly hot afternoon; he guessed the thermometer was pushing ninety-five. An expensively dressed young couple came out of the adjoining block and floated arm-in-arm along the street. At three o’clock, Laura’s aunt took a cab west towards the river. Oppressively stuffy in the Cadillac, by half past three he’d smoked his last cigarette. For God’s sake, he thought, what’s the point of hiding? He felt a little better in the sunshine, leaning against the scorching bonnet and meandering short distances, the heat shimmering over the sidewalk. I’m glad to be alive in spite of this, of everything, he reflected, and if he felt a little weak and tired of waiting he was sure it was the right thing to do. It was possible he would be there all evening.

But it didn’t happen like that in the end. At a little after five o’clock he saw her walking briskly from the direction of the Columbus Circle subway. She was wearing a cream dress and floppy sunhat to protect her fair skin, wisps of hair escaping as always, lifting her left hand to tidy them away, and again after only a few steps; leather portfolio in her right hand; bending into her stride, unmistakably a woman of purpose. He felt sick with confusion but at the same time full of joy and sudden, crazy, crazy hope. He began to walk towards her — when will she see me? — but she was occupied with her thoughts. He could imagine the little frown of concentration hovering at her brow. Taking a shaky breath, he stepped lightly into the street, his gaze fixed on her advancing figure.

He was a few yards from her when she lifted her head and caught him there. She stopped abruptly, eyes screwed tight shut, an anguished expression, and biting her lip. Then, dropping her chin so her face was hidden by the brim of her hat, she set off again, her pace quickening with every step.

‘Laura,’ he called. His voice sounded distant, uncertain. ‘Can we talk?’ He tried to step closer, but she raised her hand as if to push him away.

‘Laura, I want to say…’ but he wasn’t able to — not yet. ‘Please stop. Please speak to me.’

‘Leave me alone,’ she said in barely more than a whisper. He was at her side, step for step.

‘Did you know about Dilger? Doctor Dilger?’

She ignored him.

‘Dilger — you were sheltering…’ He was trying to engage her, but her stride didn’t falter. ‘Look, I know what you must think of me. I’m sorry — believe me — I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t think I would…’ Words stuck in his throat again. Without thinking, he reached a hand out to her.

‘If you were a gentleman, you’d leave me alone,’ she said quietly, her voice shaking with anger.

She’s right, he thought with sudden cold clarity, like a drunk in a fleeting moment of sobriety. ‘Of course, if