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Authors: Andrew Williams
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manipulative smile, the smile of someone who takes pleasure in winning, then betraying, a confidence. It didn’t matter, of course. Wolff knew he couldn’t afford to actively dislike Christensen. Who was he to judge anyway?
‘All right, Adler, that’s enough for tonight.’
‘And what about our agreement?’ he asked, a little sheepishly.
‘Findlay gave you a hundred and twenty-five krone, didn’t he?’
‘But . . .’
Wolff grasped his forearm, pinching it tightly. ‘Let’s not talk about it again. There’s nothing more now. Here,’ and he handed Christensen a piece of paper. ‘It’s the address of a café in Wedding. Will you be able to make ten o’clock on Wednesday?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘If you can’t, I’ll be there at the same time on Friday. By then I’ll have read this,’ and he patted the front of his coat. ‘Don’t visit my hotel. Don’t send messages.’
‘I understand,’ he replied gloomily.
They said goodbye and Wolff walked quickly away. Glancing up at Victory holding out her Prussian laurels to the city, he smiled at his own small triumph. But a man like Christensen he would have to fight again and again. He was as slippery as an eel. What use would he be if he wasn’t? But what did Casement see in the fellow? Wolff pondered this a little as he strolled back to his hotel but came to no firm view. It was impossible to say until he met Casement.
After dinner he settled at the desk in his room and worked his way through the notes Christensen had given him. But for one short memorandum there was nothing he couldn’t glean from the newspapers. It was wrapped tightly in the centre of the roll and had been copied in such haste that it was barely legible.
14 February, 1915
The Chief of the General Staff requests Sir Roger Casement’s assistance in contacting reliable and discreet Irish in America for special work of importance in the defeat of our common enemy. The General Staff has sent Captain von Rintelen to New York to make the necessary contacts.
One of the names on the distribution list was a Count Rudolf Nadolny, Section P of the General Staff.
It was of some importance, but how much Wolff couldn’t say; nor was he confident that Christensen would be able to help. He made a note of the German cipher, the names, and other important details, in his own code and buried them in the text of a report he’d begun writing on his business meetings in Berlin. Then he destroyed Christensen’s papers. When an opportunity presented itself he would send his coded report to Westinghouse by their office in Amsterdam. An agent would pick it up and forward it to the Bureau.
Christensen arrived at the café before him on the Wednesday. He said he knew nothing of ‘special work’ in America or a ‘von Rintelen’. Wolff bought him
Bratkartoffeln
and bacon and he gobbled it down as if he was fighting for his share in the stokers’ mess.
‘Is that it?’ he asked, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his wool suit. ‘My payment?’
‘Not necessarily. It depends what else you have for me,’ Wolff declared. ‘Let’s walk.’
That became the pattern: first a plate of food for Christensen, then a stroll through a park. Thoughts came quicker to Wolff on the move. When he tried to explain this, Christensen just shrugged his square shoulders: ‘Wherever you like, Mr de Witt – so long as you pay.’ But after only a short time he was bored with questions. ‘Why do you need to know that?’ he complained. ‘It doesn’t matter why,’ Wolff told him curtly. He wanted everything, not just Casement’s contacts and his correspondence, but his routine, what he liked to eat and drink, the newspapers he bought, when he went to bed and who he went to bed with – ‘No one,’ said Christensen with another sly smile, ‘only cares about his cause.’ Of Sir Roger’s personal habits he spoke with authority but he knew little of his mind and nothing of his plans for a rising in Ireland.
‘All right, Adler, that’s enough for tonight.’
‘And what about our agreement?’ he asked, a little sheepishly.
‘Findlay gave you a hundred and twenty-five krone, didn’t he?’
‘But . . .’
Wolff grasped his forearm, pinching it tightly. ‘Let’s not talk about it again. There’s nothing more now. Here,’ and he handed Christensen a piece of paper. ‘It’s the address of a café in Wedding. Will you be able to make ten o’clock on Wednesday?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘If you can’t, I’ll be there at the same time on Friday. By then I’ll have read this,’ and he patted the front of his coat. ‘Don’t visit my hotel. Don’t send messages.’
‘I understand,’ he replied gloomily.
They said goodbye and Wolff walked quickly away. Glancing up at Victory holding out her Prussian laurels to the city, he smiled at his own small triumph. But a man like Christensen he would have to fight again and again. He was as slippery as an eel. What use would he be if he wasn’t? But what did Casement see in the fellow? Wolff pondered this a little as he strolled back to his hotel but came to no firm view. It was impossible to say until he met Casement.
After dinner he settled at the desk in his room and worked his way through the notes Christensen had given him. But for one short memorandum there was nothing he couldn’t glean from the newspapers. It was wrapped tightly in the centre of the roll and had been copied in such haste that it was barely legible.
14 February, 1915
The Chief of the General Staff requests Sir Roger Casement’s assistance in contacting reliable and discreet Irish in America for special work of importance in the defeat of our common enemy. The General Staff has sent Captain von Rintelen to New York to make the necessary contacts.
One of the names on the distribution list was a Count Rudolf Nadolny, Section P of the General Staff.
It was of some importance, but how much Wolff couldn’t say; nor was he confident that Christensen would be able to help. He made a note of the German cipher, the names, and other important details, in his own code and buried them in the text of a report he’d begun writing on his business meetings in Berlin. Then he destroyed Christensen’s papers. When an opportunity presented itself he would send his coded report to Westinghouse by their office in Amsterdam. An agent would pick it up and forward it to the Bureau.
Christensen arrived at the café before him on the Wednesday. He said he knew nothing of ‘special work’ in America or a ‘von Rintelen’. Wolff bought him
Bratkartoffeln
and bacon and he gobbled it down as if he was fighting for his share in the stokers’ mess.
‘Is that it?’ he asked, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his wool suit. ‘My payment?’
‘Not necessarily. It depends what else you have for me,’ Wolff declared. ‘Let’s walk.’
That became the pattern: first a plate of food for Christensen, then a stroll through a park. Thoughts came quicker to Wolff on the move. When he tried to explain this, Christensen just shrugged his square shoulders: ‘Wherever you like, Mr de Witt – so long as you pay.’ But after only a short time he was bored with questions. ‘Why do you need to know that?’ he complained. ‘It doesn’t matter why,’ Wolff told him curtly. He wanted everything, not just Casement’s contacts and his correspondence, but his routine, what he liked to eat and drink, the newspapers he bought, when he went to bed and who he went to bed with – ‘No one,’ said Christensen with another sly smile, ‘only cares about his cause.’ Of Sir Roger’s personal habits he spoke with authority but he knew little of his mind and nothing of his plans for a rising in Ireland.
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