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Authors: Andrew Williams
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arrangement.’
He didn’t reply and he didn’t look Wolff in the eye, but stood there with his head bent, hands thrust in the pockets of his coat.
‘Who does he visit here?’ Wolff asked, at last.
‘You’ve got to give me more.’
Wolff took a step closer. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that, Adler.’
‘You need to give me more,’ he repeated – belligerently this time. He took his hands from his pockets and stood a little straighter. ‘It’s dangerous here. It will cost you more.’
Wolff glanced over his shoulder. They had almost reached the top of the Siegesallee and the Reichstag was only a few minutes’ walk away.
‘Come with me,’ and he tugged roughly at Christensen’s sleeve.
‘Why?’
‘Come on, man, I’m not going to kill you,’ he said, impatiently. ‘We’ve been standing beneath this streetlamp for too long,’ and he turned and walked quickly into the trees. After a few seconds Christensen followed him.
‘Cigarette?’
Christensen shook his head. Wolff bent to light his own, then took a step away. They were only a few feet apart but it was too dark beneath the trees to see Christensen’s face. That he felt uncomfortable, even a little afraid, was apparent in his movements. The silhouette of his broad shifting shoulders made Wolff smile: an awkward troll of a man.
‘You going to threaten me?’ he asked defiantly in New York English.
‘Speak German. I’m not going to threaten you, Adler, but we must understand each other. You think you can play me, blackmail me – if I don’t pay enough, sell me to the security police . . .’
‘I only want to—’
‘Don’t interrupt,’ said Wolff fiercely. ‘You can try. They might pay you, but they might lock you up. I think they’ll lock you up, or shoot you . . .’
‘That’s not—’
‘I said, don’t interrupt. Now, let’s suppose they don’t shoot you. One of these days you’ll leave Germany. Go home to Norway or America. Visit mother. That’s when my friends will find you. They won’t let you get away with it. It’s bad for business. You can see that, can’t you? You’ll have to spend the rest of your life here. But they might get you here too.’ He paused to draw on his cigarette, dropped it and ground the end into the earth. ‘That’s just the way it is, Adler. It’s your choice. I’ll pay you a fair price for what you give me.’
‘That’s all I want,’ Christensen muttered. He sounded hurt. He’d probably convinced himself in the batting of an eyelid that it had never crossed his mind to betray Wolff, and he was incapable of such low behaviour.
God, they’re all the same, thought Wolff. Always victims. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Christensen followed him back to the pavement and they walked on towards the victory column in Königsplatz in silence.
‘He writes some of his letters in a code the Germans gave him,’ Christensen declared at last. Reaching into his jacket he pulled out a roll of papers. ‘I’ve copied it out and some of his letters too – here.’
Wolff took the tube and slipped it inside his coat pocket.
‘He visits the Foreign Ministry two or three times a week,’ he continued. ‘The War Office too.’
‘Do you accompany him?’
‘Sometimes, but only as far as the lobby.’
‘Who does he meet?’
‘He usually sees a Foreign Office official called Meyer. But sometimes more important people. He’s met the Chancellor.’
‘Bethmann-Hollweg?’
Christensen nodded. ‘Also an aristocrat called Nadolny – something to do with the military.’
‘Do you know what they’ve promised him?’
Christensen said there was talk of men and guns, lots of talk, but all he could say for sure was that Casement was exasperated by how long his plans were taking to finalise. He’d even considered returning to the United States.
‘Does he trust you?’
‘Oh yes,’ he replied; ‘we’re friends,’ and he turned his head to hide a coy smile. It was a tight-lipped,
He didn’t reply and he didn’t look Wolff in the eye, but stood there with his head bent, hands thrust in the pockets of his coat.
‘Who does he visit here?’ Wolff asked, at last.
‘You’ve got to give me more.’
Wolff took a step closer. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that, Adler.’
‘You need to give me more,’ he repeated – belligerently this time. He took his hands from his pockets and stood a little straighter. ‘It’s dangerous here. It will cost you more.’
Wolff glanced over his shoulder. They had almost reached the top of the Siegesallee and the Reichstag was only a few minutes’ walk away.
‘Come with me,’ and he tugged roughly at Christensen’s sleeve.
‘Why?’
‘Come on, man, I’m not going to kill you,’ he said, impatiently. ‘We’ve been standing beneath this streetlamp for too long,’ and he turned and walked quickly into the trees. After a few seconds Christensen followed him.
‘Cigarette?’
Christensen shook his head. Wolff bent to light his own, then took a step away. They were only a few feet apart but it was too dark beneath the trees to see Christensen’s face. That he felt uncomfortable, even a little afraid, was apparent in his movements. The silhouette of his broad shifting shoulders made Wolff smile: an awkward troll of a man.
‘You going to threaten me?’ he asked defiantly in New York English.
‘Speak German. I’m not going to threaten you, Adler, but we must understand each other. You think you can play me, blackmail me – if I don’t pay enough, sell me to the security police . . .’
‘I only want to—’
‘Don’t interrupt,’ said Wolff fiercely. ‘You can try. They might pay you, but they might lock you up. I think they’ll lock you up, or shoot you . . .’
‘That’s not—’
‘I said, don’t interrupt. Now, let’s suppose they don’t shoot you. One of these days you’ll leave Germany. Go home to Norway or America. Visit mother. That’s when my friends will find you. They won’t let you get away with it. It’s bad for business. You can see that, can’t you? You’ll have to spend the rest of your life here. But they might get you here too.’ He paused to draw on his cigarette, dropped it and ground the end into the earth. ‘That’s just the way it is, Adler. It’s your choice. I’ll pay you a fair price for what you give me.’
‘That’s all I want,’ Christensen muttered. He sounded hurt. He’d probably convinced himself in the batting of an eyelid that it had never crossed his mind to betray Wolff, and he was incapable of such low behaviour.
God, they’re all the same, thought Wolff. Always victims. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Christensen followed him back to the pavement and they walked on towards the victory column in Königsplatz in silence.
‘He writes some of his letters in a code the Germans gave him,’ Christensen declared at last. Reaching into his jacket he pulled out a roll of papers. ‘I’ve copied it out and some of his letters too – here.’
Wolff took the tube and slipped it inside his coat pocket.
‘He visits the Foreign Ministry two or three times a week,’ he continued. ‘The War Office too.’
‘Do you accompany him?’
‘Sometimes, but only as far as the lobby.’
‘Who does he meet?’
‘He usually sees a Foreign Office official called Meyer. But sometimes more important people. He’s met the Chancellor.’
‘Bethmann-Hollweg?’
Christensen nodded. ‘Also an aristocrat called Nadolny – something to do with the military.’
‘Do you know what they’ve promised him?’
Christensen said there was talk of men and guns, lots of talk, but all he could say for sure was that Casement was exasperated by how long his plans were taking to finalise. He’d even considered returning to the United States.
‘Does he trust you?’
‘Oh yes,’ he replied; ‘we’re friends,’ and he turned his head to hide a coy smile. It was a tight-lipped,
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