more terrible?’
Wolff said he’d not had an opportunity to read the newspaper.
‘Germany will win the war, of course. Will the world be a better place? What do you say?’
‘I say, “perhaps”.’
‘If Ireland is free, if Britain is brought to her knees – I pray to God it will be so,’ and he clasped his hands and shook them fervently.
They strolled on to the Reichstag, then along the calm grey curving river to the Tiergarten. They didn’t speak of politics or war but of Casement’s childhood in Ulster, of his travels, the cruelty he had witnessed on the rubber plantations in Peru, of the dark heart of man. He said he regretted his knighthood and most of all the manner of his acceptance. ‘My letter to the King was too obsequious,’ he explained. ‘Silly, I know, but it haunts me.’
By the time they reached the Brandenburg Gate again it was five o’clock. He refused Wolff’s offer of a taxicab. ‘I’ve talked far too much, Mr de Witt.’ He turned to look at their police escort. ‘What do you think the Count will say?’
‘What will you say to the Count?’ Wolff asked with a smile. ‘Tell him you didn’t pass on any secrets.’
‘I did enjoy our conversation. Adler is a dear friend but he hasn’t enjoyed the benefit of quite the same . . .’ he hesitated; ‘well, Ireland and politics in general bore him.’
They parted without making a commitment to meet again, Casement climbing the steps of a crowded tram. As it pulled away he gave a shy little wave that Wolff answered by tipping his hat. Sir Roger was most obliging. Careful to say nothing of his plans, it was true, but he was too hungry for reassurance from a stranger, and the air of melancholy in his demeanour lingered like stale sweat, no matter how hard he tried to disguise it.
Wolff couldn’t see the policemen among the crowd at the tram stop but he was sure they could see him. He was going to have to take his time, work through a routine; his mind was so blunted by fatigue that it would be easy to make a mistake. He strolled beneath the gate to the Adlon and drank a cup of coffee in its palm house. Then he walked up the Unter den Linden to the
Chicago Daily News
office and browsed through the papers in its public reading room. He left after forty-five minutes and took a horse cab to Spandauer Strasse. Outside the City Chambers, he hailed a motor cab and paid the driver two marks and twenty pfennigs to take him to the theatre on Schumannstrasse. After enquiring about tickets for a revue, he walked across the river and into the Tiergarten. It was half past eight by the time he reached the statue of Lessing and fine rain was falling again. From the tree stump at the edge of the gravel path, he counted one hundred paces due east. They’d chosen a distinctive-looking cherry with a fork high in the trunk, but it wasn’t easy to locate in the dark and he ripped the pocket of his coat pushing through the undergrowth. Reaching up through the branches, he felt inside for the flat head of a drawing pin. Having found it, he carefully released a strip of damp paper. He made his way back to the path and stopped beneath a streetlamp to glance at the note. The damn fool had written it in ink and it was barely legible.
Café Klose
Wolff knew the place – first floor, corner of Leipziger and Mauer – too smart, too central, but at least Christensen was still in business. Rolling the paper into a ball, he flicked it into the gutter.
It took a while to give the security police the slip the following morning and he was late for their rendezvous. Christensen was at a corner table with a coffee and was plainly in an evil temper. His mood didn’t improve when Wolff refused to discuss their business in the café. They left separately and caught trains to the old cemetery on Chausséestrasse where they wandered about the graves of the famous in the spring sunshine. Why had Wolff missed their rendezvous the other day? What did the Count say? It
Wolff said he’d not had an opportunity to read the newspaper.
‘Germany will win the war, of course. Will the world be a better place? What do you say?’
‘I say, “perhaps”.’
‘If Ireland is free, if Britain is brought to her knees – I pray to God it will be so,’ and he clasped his hands and shook them fervently.
They strolled on to the Reichstag, then along the calm grey curving river to the Tiergarten. They didn’t speak of politics or war but of Casement’s childhood in Ulster, of his travels, the cruelty he had witnessed on the rubber plantations in Peru, of the dark heart of man. He said he regretted his knighthood and most of all the manner of his acceptance. ‘My letter to the King was too obsequious,’ he explained. ‘Silly, I know, but it haunts me.’
By the time they reached the Brandenburg Gate again it was five o’clock. He refused Wolff’s offer of a taxicab. ‘I’ve talked far too much, Mr de Witt.’ He turned to look at their police escort. ‘What do you think the Count will say?’
‘What will you say to the Count?’ Wolff asked with a smile. ‘Tell him you didn’t pass on any secrets.’
‘I did enjoy our conversation. Adler is a dear friend but he hasn’t enjoyed the benefit of quite the same . . .’ he hesitated; ‘well, Ireland and politics in general bore him.’
They parted without making a commitment to meet again, Casement climbing the steps of a crowded tram. As it pulled away he gave a shy little wave that Wolff answered by tipping his hat. Sir Roger was most obliging. Careful to say nothing of his plans, it was true, but he was too hungry for reassurance from a stranger, and the air of melancholy in his demeanour lingered like stale sweat, no matter how hard he tried to disguise it.
Wolff couldn’t see the policemen among the crowd at the tram stop but he was sure they could see him. He was going to have to take his time, work through a routine; his mind was so blunted by fatigue that it would be easy to make a mistake. He strolled beneath the gate to the Adlon and drank a cup of coffee in its palm house. Then he walked up the Unter den Linden to the
Chicago Daily News
office and browsed through the papers in its public reading room. He left after forty-five minutes and took a horse cab to Spandauer Strasse. Outside the City Chambers, he hailed a motor cab and paid the driver two marks and twenty pfennigs to take him to the theatre on Schumannstrasse. After enquiring about tickets for a revue, he walked across the river and into the Tiergarten. It was half past eight by the time he reached the statue of Lessing and fine rain was falling again. From the tree stump at the edge of the gravel path, he counted one hundred paces due east. They’d chosen a distinctive-looking cherry with a fork high in the trunk, but it wasn’t easy to locate in the dark and he ripped the pocket of his coat pushing through the undergrowth. Reaching up through the branches, he felt inside for the flat head of a drawing pin. Having found it, he carefully released a strip of damp paper. He made his way back to the path and stopped beneath a streetlamp to glance at the note. The damn fool had written it in ink and it was barely legible.
Café Klose
Wolff knew the place – first floor, corner of Leipziger and Mauer – too smart, too central, but at least Christensen was still in business. Rolling the paper into a ball, he flicked it into the gutter.
It took a while to give the security police the slip the following morning and he was late for their rendezvous. Christensen was at a corner table with a coffee and was plainly in an evil temper. His mood didn’t improve when Wolff refused to discuss their business in the café. They left separately and caught trains to the old cemetery on Chausséestrasse where they wandered about the graves of the famous in the spring sunshine. Why had Wolff missed their rendezvous the other day? What did the Count say? It
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