The Poison Tide by Andrew Williams

There was a diffidence, something half apologetic in his manner, that hadn’t made it into the file. He looked older than the photographs too, still handsome, in good condition for fifty, his thin face tanned by his years in Africa and South America, his black curly hair and beard tinged with silver. Everyone commented on his eyes. He noticed Wolff watching him and smiled. They were a dreamy grey. He wasn’t as Wolff had imagined him to be – sadder. A sad sort of rebel.
    ‘Do you think they mind us speaking English here?’ he asked when the waiter had gone.
    ‘Does it matter, Sir Roger?’
    ‘No, I don’t suppose it does,’ he said, picking up his knife and fork. ‘Now, I believe you know Mr John MacBride. Perhaps you would do me the courtesy of telling me how you met.’
    While they waited for their next course, Wolff spoke of the African war, of MacBride and his brigade, of the brutality of the British camps, of women and children dying of disease and malnutrition. The story was the one he’d served his interrogators but he told it to Casement with a quiet fury that had the Irishman dabbing the corner of his eye with his napkin.
    ‘I should have done more. But I had no idea at the time,’ he explained. ‘I was in Africa . . .’
    ‘The Congo.’
    ‘You were fighting the British Empire and I was its servant.’
    ‘Your service was to humanity, Sir Roger.’
    ‘Do you think so?’ he asked, a little plaintively.
    ‘Yes, of course,’ Wolff assured him. ‘You will always be remembered for your humanitarian work there.’
    They slipped into a pattern. Casement asked him about his childhood and his work with Westinghouse, and within minutes Wolff deflected the conversation to Ireland and the evils of imperialism. It wasn’t difficult because the Irishman wanted to talk. Something better must come out of this war, he declared, an end of empires and oppression. He spoke well and with passion, eyes blazing, preacher rather than politician, his plate cold, oblivious to the disapproving glances of their German neighbours.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But people don’t want to speak of liberty and social justice here. The Germans are only interested in Ireland if she helps them into the next trench. But I must be careful what I say.’
    Wolff smiled. ‘Of course, the British spy at the next table – or at this.’
    ‘Yes . . .’ he replied pensively, ‘or a German one.’
    When they had finished lunch Casement didn’t want to let him go.
    ‘Do you walk, Mr de Witt?’ he enquired.
    ‘I run.’
    ‘We can compromise on a brisk pace.’
    He had a long stride and was reluctant to break it even on a busy Berlin pavement. They walked in silence until they reached the river, when, seduced by the late-afternoon sun on the water, they fell into companionable step.
    ‘Will you be giving the Count a report of your afternoon?’ Wolff enquired.
    Casement coloured a little. ‘Do you mind?’
    Wolff turned slightly and pointed to the railway bridge they had just passed under. ‘If you look carefully, you’ll see one of them under the arch. He’s bending to tie his laces. And over there,’ he said, gesturing to the river, ‘the big fellow on the bank opposite, in front of the electricity works – turning his back. Do you think they’re watching me or both of us?’
    Casement closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead as if suffering from a migraine. ‘How did you know?’
    Wolff shrugged. ‘It isn’t the first time I’ve enjoyed this sort of attention.’
    ‘It’s shabby,’ he said, gazing down at the river.
    ‘Don’t be concerned on my account, or is it on your own?’
    He sighed heavily. ‘I’m tired, that’s all, tired of living with deceit, tired of this place and of the times. Did you read about the gas attack in this morning’s paper?’ he asked, turning to face Wolff. ‘The Germans broke the British line at Ypres by releasing a cloud of poison gas. Can you imagine anything