The Poison Tide by Andrew Williams Page B

was too dangerous, he said, they must stop. Wolff knew he didn’t mean to. He was greedy and for all his blustering he enjoyed the cast-iron confidence of a youthful chancer.
    ‘You shouldn’t speak to Sir Roger,’ he protested. ‘He likes me, trusts me. You can leave it to me.’
    They stopped at a philosopher’s grave and Wolff crouched forward as if to read the inscription. ‘You’re offering me scraps,’ he said. ‘I need to know what he wants from the Germans and what they want from him.’
    Christensen waited until Wolff rose to stand at his side again. ‘I do have something.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘It’s worth a lot.’
    ‘I’ll be the judge of that. Well?’
    But he wouldn’t be drawn for less than forty marks and a promise of forty more. ‘You understand the risk . . .’ he said. ‘It’s a fair price. Roger told me why he thinks you’re useful . . .’
    ‘Not here,’ interrupted Wolff. ‘We’ve been here too long.’ They ambled along the path into an unfashionable corner of the cemetery some distance from the gate.
    ‘This will do,’ Wolff nodded to an ugly granite temple dedicated to an architect and his family. It was gloomy and damp inside and someone had used it as a lavatory. ‘Is this necessary?’ Christensen gave a little shudder.
    ‘Are you afraid of ghosts?’
    ‘No, but . . .’
    ‘Here,’ Wolff offered him the marks. ‘Tell me what you know and we can leave.’
    ‘It was the Count,’ the Norwegian muttered, slipping the money into his pocketbook. ‘What I mean is, the Count told him you were in South Africa. That you’d served with an Irishman . . .’
    ‘MacBride.’
    ‘Yeah, MacBride. That’s why he wanted to speak to you.’
    ‘That’s it?’ He stared at Christensen for a few seconds, then reached for the lapel of his coat, pinching its edge as if testing the weight of the cloth. ‘Is that all?’
    ‘Sir Roger was excited.’
    ‘I know,’ he snapped.
    ‘No. You don’t understand. I mean, yes, he likes this man MacBride, but it’s the brigade. Like the one you served in . . .’ he frowned. ‘If you did. He’s trying to, well, form his own Irish Brigade.’
    Wolff let go of his lapel. ‘Here?’
    ‘Yes. Irishmen in the British Army, prisoners – the Germans have captured some – thousands.’
    Wolff looked at him sceptically.
    ‘Hundreds.’
    He didn’t know how many.
    ‘To fight in Ireland?’
    ‘I suppose.’ He shrugged his square shoulders. ‘Why else?’
    ‘You’re sure about this?’
    Christensen said he was certain. He had listened to Sir Roger explaining his plans to a man who’d arrived from Switzerland. An Irishman, someone important, he said. No, he didn’t catch his name nor did he hear mention of a date for a rising.
    ‘All right.’ Wolff patted his arm. ‘Good. See if you can find out.’
    Christensen smiled. ‘I told you. You can leave it to me. You will leave it to me, won’t you?’
    ‘What does it matter, if I pay you?’ he replied.
    It was impossible to avoid Casement even if he had wished to. They met for breakfast and walked through the Tiergarten again, then on the following day for dinner. He insisted on taking Wolff to the theatre and arranged for an invitation to a soirée in Count Blücher’s rooms at the Esplanade. Would you fight again? he asked. What might you risk to bring England low? He hated injustice, he hated the prejudice of his own class, he hated intemperate sacrifice, the machine grinding relentlessly on the Western Front. He hated all those things, and yet he spoke to Wolff of ‘England’ without reason, raging at her ‘perfidy’ and the ‘moral debauchery’ of her public servants, rejoicing in the thought that she would be made to ‘pay’ in time.
    Did Wolff like him? Ordinarily it was a question he didn’t ask himself. As they walked the same circuits, round and round, he listened and recognised a man twisted to distraction by doubts: charming, funny and