Authors: Andrew Williams
‘She loves him very dearly,’ she said apologetically, as he held the front gate open for her.
He offered to find a taxicab but she wanted to use the subway.
‘Sir Roger’s the most honest man I’ve met and courageous,’ she said with feeling as they walked to the station on Atlantic Avenue. ‘He’s given so much, followed his conscience no matter how difficult the journey – I think of him as Ireland’s conscience.’
Wolff nodded respectfully.
‘But the Clan is in touch with others,’ she said cautiously. ‘Men you don’t know, leaders in Ireland.’
‘I understand.’ He was careful not to push her.
‘Men like Patrick Pearse. Did Roger speak of him?’
‘A little,’ he lied.
‘Of course everyone respects Roger.’
They walked in silence until it was apparent to Wolff that she wasn’t going to say more about the men he didn’t know. Then he asked her how she had become involved with the Clan. Her parents were from Kildare like Devoy, she said, but she was brought up in Philadelphia, her father a builder, a pillar of the Church and a leading light among the Irish there. He was a traditional Fenian who knew the Church had betrayed Parnell but wouldn’t tolerate anyone saying so; a woman’s place was home, excepting his daughter who always got her own way.
‘I’m spoilt, Mr de Witt, an only child, you see.’ There were tears when she insisted on moving to New York to do law at Albany, she said. She had finished her degree and wanted to practise at the Bar, but for now her time was spent working for the Clan and for women’s suffrage. ‘My father tolerates the work I do with votes for women because I make myself useful to the Clan. What about you, Mr de Witt . . .’
‘Jan.’
‘Do you believe a woman has the right to vote?’
‘Certainly.’
She stopped suddenly and turned to him. ‘I’m not sure I believe you. Do you tell lies?’
‘Do you?’
‘I’m sorry, that was impertinent,’ she said, purring the word in her educated East Coast way.
‘You’ve no reason to doubt my sincerity,’ he said.
‘No. I’m sorry.’
‘Although I don’t think about it often – perhaps I should.’
She had a ticket but waited at the barrier while he bought one. There was a problem with a train and the station was crowded with pink-faced families returning from the park with their picnic baskets, Jew and Gentile, the voices of old Europe, Russian, German, Italian, Pole, and a language everyone called English.
‘Are you hoping to take a job in New York?’ she asked, as they stood facing each other on the platform.
It was his intention to let things settle, he said with a wry smile; there was no hurry, he could draw a modest income from savings. Then how would he occupy himself? she wanted to know: idleness was plainly unthinkable. Renew old acquaintances, he told her, and he would need to find rooms; there was so much of the city to explore, even a little sailing. She frowned and looked away. Close beside him in the crowd she seemed younger, smaller, trapped, her hands fluttering about her dress. He caught her eye and she coloured a little.
‘Do you know New York well, Laura?’
‘Quite well.’
‘Would you be my guide, perhaps one afternoon?’
‘Oh, there are better guides than me,’ she replied hastily. ‘I’m sorry –’ she pulled a face; ‘that was rude.’
He laughed. ‘I’m sure you’re too busy.’
‘Yes.’
Seconds later the train was upon them. He found Laura a seat and stood beside her, glancing down discreetly at her hair, her hands, the lines of her face, the fall of the dress about her thighs. Perhaps he would see her again at Mrs Newman’s home. Eight minutes only under the East River to Bowling Green. They changed trains and for the short journey to Grand Central they were able to sit together but made no effort at conversation.
‘Take this,’ she said suddenly, bent over her purse. The train began to squeal. ‘Oh, dear. Ah. Here,’ and she brandished a card at him. ‘If you don’t find someone better.’
He smiled. ‘I’m sure I won’t.’
She blushed. ‘Well, goodbye, Mr de Witt.’
The carriage doors opened and he touched the brim of his hat.
‘Goodbye, Miss McDonnell.’
He caught the man at the corner of his eye as he was turning to wave to Laura. It was only a glance. Eyes flicking to Wolff and away as he stepped from the next carriage. Twenty yards, no, thirty, a face among many that kept walking for the stairs, but Wolff’s heart beat a little faster. Five-ten, heavy, dark greasy hair, dark jacket, collarless shirt, swarthy. He didn’t look very Irish. Laura acknowledged his wave with a smile, the carriage jolted forward, then the train began to gather speed and she was gone. Wolff turned towards the stairway. Grand Central was big and busy, with more than one exit from the subway, so his tail would wait close by. I’ve been complacent, Wolff reflected; the roundabout never stops spinning. The man was at the top of the first flight of stairs, pretending to tie his bootlace, passengers flowing round him like an awkward rock. Up the second flight of stairs, through the barrier, out on to 42nd Street, and Wolff walked at a leisurely pace back to the hotel for a hot bath. Irish or German, no reason to hide, he’d given the name of the Algonquin to everybody. He was hoping for a little attention, just as long as it didn’t end with a knife in the back.
Wolff didn’t see the man or anyone else who looked like a runner when he left the hotel for dinner a few hours later. To be sure, he caught a taxicab to the restaurant and insisted on a corner with a view of the other tables. It was an Italian, lively, popular with the young, the food good but not expensive – the sort of place an engineer of modest means might choose to eat alone. He’d brought his copy of
The War of the Worlds
with him to America and he flicked through it between courses. The rustic red he ordered with his meal reminded him of a run ashore he’d enjoyed in La Spezia, a seedy marker in his passage from university engineer to officer and gentleman. He’d left a lot of nonconformist baggage on the quay at La Spezia: amusing after fifteen years. Whistles and crisp white uniforms, hearts of solid oak eager for action, and my goodness they’d found it. ‘Wolff . . . Wolff, the things we . . . we do for king . . . and cun . . . cunt-ry,’ Thompson had slurred, a bottle of the very same wine pressed to his bottom lip. ‘God bless ’im . . . ’is Maj . . . Majesty.’ Ah, yes, God bless him, thought Wolff, raising his glass to drink a silent toast.
It was half past ten when the cab dropped him back at the hotel. While the driver fumbled reluctantly for change, he glanced along the street for the subway man or one of his kind, but there were too many shadows, too many doorways to be sure. At the desk the clerk handed him his key and a small buff envelope.
J. de Witt Esquire
The clerk informed him it had been delivered by a messenger-service boy but not one of the regulars. Wolff opened it with the desk’s knife: two lines on plain paper, a terse invitation for drinks at a mid-town address the following evening, signed by a Mr Emile V. Gaché.
‘Has anyone asked for me?’ he enquired. ‘I’m expecting a friend.’
It had been a busy day, but no, the clerk couldn’t recall anyone. Wolff slipped him a dollar. A little grease and the machine was turning, for in the time it took to walk to the elevator word reached the porters that Mr de Witt was a proper gentleman who would make it worth their while. ‘Big man, about seven o’clock, sir,’ the bellboy recalled. ‘Face like a boxer, but in a white uniform. He wanted to know your room number.’
‘So you told him.’
‘No, sir,’ he lied. He got his dollar all the same.
Wolff was on the ninth floor. Too high to survive a tumble, he’d joked when the bellboy delivered his luggage. ‘This is New York, sir,’ he’d replied laconically. The elevator opened on to a broad landing, pot plants, theatre mirror, leather couch. His room was to the left, halfway along a bright, thickly carpeted corridor. An elderly American couple were bickering at their door, the man struggling to turn the key with arthritic fingers. A little further along, a lady was arranging her shoes for the shine. Everything in order, everything as it should be in a good seven-dollar-a-night hotel – and yet, and yet . . . there was something amiss – a spy’s sixth sense, a chill: he’d felt it before they arrested him in Berlin; in Turkey too.
Without hesitating, he walked past his room and round the corner to the door at the end of the corridor. He’d checked and knew that it opened on to a fire escape gantry. Removing his shoes first, he stepped out lightly and quickly, counting the windows, seven to the corner of the building, then five more to his room. The curtains were still open, a light inside but a small one, perhaps the desk lamp. Conscious that he was casting a dim shadow, he stooped low and shuffled under the sill, listened for a few seconds – nothing – then glanced inside. A man was sitting a few feet from him at the desk beneath the window. Wolff couldn’t see his face, only his legs, one crossed over the other, his forearm, a hand that disappeared as he drew on his cigarette – and through the smoke the silhouette of a revolver. He crept away from the window and back along the fire escape. Manhattan was still humming, steam rising from rooftops nearby, the night sky lost in the glow of the city firmament, like something in one of Wells’ dystopian stories. In the corridor once more, he didn’t trouble to step lightly and opened the door to his room with no particular care. The intruder was still at the desk, large right hand covering the revolver.
‘Lieutenant?’ he asked.
Wolff pushed the door to and switched on the chandelier. ‘Never call me that: plain
Mr
de Witt, if you please. You should have left a message.’
‘You should have left a message,
sir
,’ he replied angrily.
Wolff ignored him, shrugging off his coat and throwing it on a chair.
‘Gaunt,
Captain
Gaunt,’ he rose from his chair; ‘but you know.’ He gripped Wolff’s hand too tightly, squeezing it like a boarding-school bully. ‘Look, old fellow, calm down, no one saw me.’
‘I’ll stick with
Mr
Ponting
,’ Wolff replied.
‘No point. I’m the naval attaché, for God’s sake. Everyone knows me here – well, the people who matter do.’
‘I’m sure. That’s why it was damn stupid to come to the hotel.’
‘Who the blazes do you think you’re talking to?’ He took another step forward, big right hand balled in a fist. Just itching for a fight, always itching for a fight; it was in the hard lines of his face, lantern jaw, gazing down his beak at Wolff, thin, almost colourless lips, all prickly self-regard; captain cum old-fashioned boatswain cum spy, but a spy who wore a crisp white uniform, took rooms at the New York Yacht Club and never missed a diplomatic party. ‘He’s one of theirs,’ young Fitzgerald had said, quoting C directly, by which he meant Naval Intelligence. ‘He’ll tell you America’s his patch, senior service and all that . . .’ Gaunt enjoyed his role too much to let a lieutenant fifteen years his junior kick sand in his face.
‘Drink?’ Wolff asked. ‘Only whisky, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ve got everything sewn up here.’ Even after twenty years in the Navy there was the trace of a colonial accent. ‘I need to be kept informed – clear lines of sight – understand?’
‘Perfectly.’ Wolff offered him a tumbler. ‘I’m anxious not to bugger things up – I’m anxious to stay alive.’
‘Too anxious, I hear . . .’ he interjected maliciously; ‘at least, if that business in Turkey is anything to go by.’
Wolff settled in the only armchair, casually balancing his glass on his knee. ‘Trying to put me in my place?’
‘They say you gave them Chambers and some of the Turks.’
Wolff sipped his whisky and swallowed hard. Was that how they boiled it down? Bureau chap squealed: a poor show. ‘I think we should talk about why I’m here,’ he said.
‘I know why you’re here,’ Gaunt snapped at him. ‘Who do you think sorted out your cover, squared the people at Westinghouse, the leaks to the newspapers . . .’
‘It was an excellent story,’ Wolff raised his glass in salute, ‘worked a treat. It’s kept me alive – so far. Thank you.’
He gazed at Wolff, trying to decide if this small peace offering was enough to satisfy his injured pride. ‘All right, what do you need?’ he asked, pulling his chair closer.
Wolff took the letter from his jacket and offered it between thumb and forefinger. ‘Recognise the name?’
‘No. But West 15th, that’s Martha Held’s place – for Germans with the money to spend on parties and pretty girls. Their military attaché, von Papen, uses the place when he’s here. If you’re thinking of going, watch your step.’
Not everyone who could afford to pay for the good time Martha promised her guests was a gentleman, Gaunt said. Some of the regulars were merchant captains, their ships bottled up in East Coast ports by the British naval blockade. ‘Met Dr Albert?’
Wolff said he hadn’t had the pleasure.
‘He’s their purser. Once a week, a procession of these captains visits his office on Broadway. I wager they’ll have something to do with your sabotage campaign.’
Albert paid the bills; the orders came from someone else. Gaunt’s people were hearing whispers of a new ‘fellow on the block’. ‘Perhaps this Rintelen or Delmar,’ he observed; ‘anyway, the new man seems to have put old Papen’s nose out.’
‘The military attaché?’
‘Queer bird. Gave me a present when I arrived in Washington. Got to have some sympathy . . .’
Wolff looked at him quizzically.
‘Fellow from Berlin pushing him aside,’ Gaunt explained with a rueful smile. ‘The enemy and his friends in Congress are doing all they can to keep America out of the war, sucking up to anyone with an axe to grind against the Empire; every bloody tribesman between here and Timbuktu,’ he remarked with a disparaging grunt. An attempt had been made to stir up the ‘bloody’ Irish on the docks; there had been a few suspicious fires on ships carrying rifles and shells to the Allies, an explosion at an ordnance factory in New Jersey. Gaunt had recruited a network of runners to keep an eye on the docks: ‘The enemy have got our Irish; we’ve got their Czechs and Poles.’ Wolff could call on them for assistance, ‘but you come to me first, old boy. They’ll do the job for you, trained them myself – if you need someone followed or frightened, drop a fellow in a hole, and here . . .’ he got up and stepped over to the table ‘. . . your chaps asked me to find one . . .’ – lifting the trigger guard of the revolver with his forefinger and swinging it back and forth like a steel cradle. ‘American, I’m afraid. A little clumsy. Careful who you point it at, we don’t want to upset our hosts.’ He placed it back on the table. ‘You’ll have a job hiding that in a jacket.’