Authors: Andrew Williams
‘And the doctor?’ Hilken protested. ‘If they find him . . .’
‘They won’t. Now, in God’s name behave like a man,’ Hinsch had upbraided him.
Hinsch was a brute, but a clever one, Hilken mused. Their relationship had changed: he’d always tried to bully, now he expected to be obeyed, and when he’d asked Hilken to wait at the Hansa Haus for a telephone call, it was issued as an order.
In the hall below his office, seamen from ships washed up by the war were gathering round the piano, as they did most evenings. A few cheap beers, a distribution of letters from home, and by nine o’clock they were ready to sing. Floating up the stairs a Plattdütsch shanty he’d heard countless times since the beginning of the war. At one time he used to hum the tune. There was a sudden swell as the door opened and his clerk brought in more papers: victualling orders, ships’ repairs, the day-to-day business of the Line. He tried to settle to them but found it impossible to anchor his thoughts.
‘Is it true?’ Miss Dilger had demanded on the telephone. ‘Was my brother doing what they said – those diseases?’ She’d been quite hysterical. All lies, he’d assured her; spies trying to discredit Germany. It wasn’t the first time the enemy had tried this sort of propaganda. ‘Believe me, Miss Dilger, they made up the story because they hate us and hope America will as well,’ he’d said, and she was desperate to believe him. She had scrubbed their basement and repeated her brother’s lies to neighbours and spies without question or complaint. When Hilken had spoken of patriotic duty she had cut him – ‘I love my brothers,’ she’d said, and that was enough. When the time was ripe, Carl Dilger would resume the work and she would cook, clean and look the other way as before.
‘Is that Mr Hilken?’ he heard someone say. After so long, the tinkling of the telephone bell had startled him and he’d dropped the receiver. ‘Mr Hilken?’ The line crackled and hissed like an old phonograph. ‘Mr Paul Hilken?’
‘I’m Hilken,’ he replied.
‘John Devoy.’
‘Yes, Mr Devoy, I’ve been waiting for your call.’
‘Your friend’s gone.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘Of course I am – I saw him go aboard myself.’
Hilken closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Thank God.
‘Are you there, Hilken?’
‘Yes, I’m here,’ he said, ‘thank you, Mr Devoy. Thank you. A weight off my mind, I can tell you.’
Perhaps he’d said more than was wise because the Irishman growled something inaudible and hung up the telephone.
Hilken was too relieved to care. He’d said harsh things about the Irish after the von Rintelen affair, but honestly, thank God for them! He took another deep breath: they’d almost tied up all the loose ends. What a state he’d worked himself into. Rising from the desk, he stepped into the corridor to instruct the clerk to arrange for his motor car. Then he poured a drink. He was carrying it to one of the armchairs at the hearth when there was a sharp rap at the door.
‘Yes.’
There was no response. ‘Come in,’ he shouted impatiently in German. This time the visitor knocked more forcefully. Exasperated after a tense evening, he walked back to the door, ready to give him the sharp edge of his tongue. The stranger was dressed as a petty officer in a pea jacket and bosun’s cap, his face thin, his eyes dark and hostile.
‘Hello, Hilken,’ he said, barging into the room.
They’d talked about breaking in and rummaging the safe but the Hansa Haus was never at rest. From a doorway across the street, Wolff had listened to the pianist thumping out the old tunes and the singing of a rowdy chorus. Some of the songs he’d learnt in a Wilhelmshaven beer cellar when spying felt like an adventure and a respectable profession for a gentleman. ‘Every night sing – wait until they sing,’ Masek had counselled. ‘Then they will be too drunk and sad to notice a stranger.’ Somewhere in the shadows of the street he was waiting to be sure Wolff was safe. He must have noticed Hilken at the first-floor window, and watched Wolff turn up the collar of his coat and cross the street to follow a group of seamen inside.
‘Who are you?’ Hilken stammered at last.
Wolff placed a hand in the middle of his chest and gave him a shove. ‘This won’t take long. I see you have a drink – why don’t you sit and finish it?’
‘How dare you touch me,’ he protested, angrily brushing Wolff’s arm aside. ‘Who the hell do you think . . .’
‘I’m de Witt.’
That Hilken knew the name, and was unhappy to hear it, was written plainly enough in his face. ‘If it’s business – make an appointment with my clerk.’
They were standing toe to toe like cowboys squaring up in a saloon, Wolff a few intimidating inches taller, broader and set with the confidence of a man who knows he can take a punch and return it with more than equal measure. ‘Sit down,’ he commanded. Hilken glared at him but his shoulders dropped, and a second later he turned to walk over to his desk, anxious to place four feet of mahogany between them.
‘It’s a business proposition,’ Wolff said, pushing further into the room; ‘if that helps a chap like you make sense of it. You see, my clients know all about your activities – you’re trying to poison our soldiers – and our horses. Killed at least one American, I hear, you and Hinsch, and Dilger.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Wolff’s features settled into a bored expression, his forefinger trailing lazily along the edge of the desk until it came to an ugly silver paperweight, a ship’s dog in a sou’wester. He picked it up, testing its heft in his hand. ‘Well, of course you know. You don’t do the dirty work – you pay people like McKevitt. You settle the bills. You helped Dilger set up his laboratory – goodness, what would your president say if he knew a German spy was culturing anthrax a few miles from the White House?’
Hilken lifted up his glass, inspected his drink, then placed it gently back on the desk. ‘He’d recognise it for British propaganda,’ he said, affecting indifference.
‘Well, of course I was expecting you to suggest something of the sort. I wouldn’t be here if my clients . . .’
‘Can we stop this pretence?’ Hilken sneered.
Wolff shrugged; ‘. . . my friends didn’t have proof. Your associate, Dr Albert – an excellent bookkeeper – he made a very careful record – you have accounts at two banks in New York, don’t you? I’m sure the
Baltimore Sun
– oh, and the Secret Service – would be interested to know why a German diplomat implicated in a sabotage campaign is paying you thousands of dollars. No, just a minute, let me finish,’ he said, holding up his hand. ‘You see, he was foolish enough to entrust his accounts to von Rintelen, who kept them in an oak filing cabinet, the middle one of three, if I recall.’
Hilken had turned a sickly white. ‘And Miss Dilger,’ Wolff continued, ‘we visited her – I’m sure you know by now. Do you think she’ll be strong enough to lie when the police and newspaper reporters are on the doorstep?’
Carefully replacing the paperweight, he stepped over to the hearth, holding his hands to the glowing embers. ‘Think of the disgrace, Hilken, a saboteur helping a foreign power. If they don’t execute you as a spy they’ll put you in prison. What will the other members of the Baltimore Germania Club say, and your business associates, your father, your wife – does she love you enough to wait for twenty years? You know, you won’t be able to afford to keep the girlfriend – Miss Johnston, isn’t it? Perhaps the newspapers will speak to her too.’ He stared disapprovingly at Hilken. ‘But it doesn’t have to be like that. We’re not interested in you – it’s Hinsch and his people we want – his contacts in the ports – the network – most of all the sailors at the warehouse last night – yes, I know all about that. I want their names and their ships. I know you kept a record. Was it for Albert?’
Hilken’s gaze was flitting blindly about the room as he tried to manage his fear. ‘Albert,’ he repeated with dismay.
‘I was sure it must be,’ Wolff continued. ‘It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you give me the ships and the men. Eight men.’
‘How the hell . . .’ Hilken was so astonished he forgot he was afraid, but only for the briefest of moments. ‘You want me to be your creature?’
‘A small enterprise. An exchange. I want those names.’
‘Even if I were inclined – I don’t have that sort of information here.’ He paused, then added with less conviction, ‘And I wouldn’t give it to you if I did.’
‘I know, you’re a German patriot.’ Wolff smiled patiently. ‘But for a few names – is it worth the sacrifice? – your life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness—’
He was interrupted by polite knocking at the door. For an unguarded second, hope flickered on Hilken’s face before his expression settled in a sullen frown.
‘Who is it?’ Wolff demanded.
‘My clerk. I expect he’s come to collect the papers I was working on.’
Another knock at the door. ‘Mr Hilken? Müller, sir.’
‘Let me see,’ said Wolff, waving Thwaites’ revolver at the documents on the desk.
They were invoices and orders, nothing of importance. Wolff handed them back, then gestured with the gun to the door.
‘Your driver’s waiting, sir.’ The clerk sounded bemused. Hilken handed him the papers and they spoke briefly about the next day’s business. He was clearly surprised to be going through the diary in the corridor. ‘Is everything all right?’
Perfectly, Hilken assured him, and was on the point of closing the door when he checked, his forefinger across his lip. ‘The victualling of the
Breslau
– I almost forgot – it needs a signature.’ He turned back to his desk for a pen. ‘Tell my driver I’ll be down in ten minutes.’ He bent over the document the clerk presented to him and wrote his name. Wolff realised it had been a mistake to let him even as the door was closing.
‘Your offer,’ Hilken said quickly. ‘I might be able to collect this information – it will take a little time, just a few hours. Of course, I’d want Dr Albert’s accounts in return.’
‘Has Dilger gone?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the anthrax – you still have some?’
Hilken examined his nails. ‘A little.’
‘Where?’
‘That’s Hinsch’s concern,’ he replied evasively.
‘And you’re going to culture more?’ Wolff asked, walking to one of the windows overlooking the street.
Another long pause. ‘We haven’t talked about it.’
Wolff knew he was lying. ‘And Dilger – are you expecting him back or is his brother going to culture it?’
A streetcar, perhaps the last of the night, pulled up to the stop outside the building and a drunken sailor stumbled up its steps, tripping and almost falling at the top.
‘No, Dr Dilger’s gone and won’t come back,’ Hilken said in a neutral monotone.
Hilken’s Packard was parked at the kerb, the driver’s back against the bonnet, a cigarette burning between his fingers. A noise seemed to startle him; he turned sharply to look down the street but at what, Wolff couldn’t tell.
‘You know, Hilken, I could knock you down.’ He stepped away from the window and closer to the desk. ‘I could shoot you. Or you could give me the names I want – the sailors and their ships. They’re here, aren’t they?’
‘No. I don’t . . .’ he hesitated, taking a step sideways behind the desk. ‘I’ll shout for help. My clerk, and there are thirty . . .’
‘You can try,’ Wolff levelled the gun at him. ‘It might be the last thing you do. You’re wondering if I’m bluffing . . .’ He
was
bluffing, but it was invested with fifteen years of quiet menace.
‘I haven’t got the names.’ Hilken’s voice shook. ‘I haven’t. Not here.’ He was lying.
Wolff was upon him before he had time to raise a word, striking him hard on the left cheekbone with the grip of the gun, then a punch to his right side. As he fell, Hilken struck his head on the edge of the desk. Dazed, whimpering, he sprawled on the floor beneath it, Wolff on one knee beside him, breathing hard, the revolver raised to strike again. ‘Tell me,’ Wolff gasped; ‘tell me.’ The words came to him like an echo from his Turkish prison cell, and in that instant he was gazing up at a sunburnt face with a full moustache, dark smiling eyes. Hilken tried to curl into a ball. ‘Please. I don’t . . . just, just . . . please don’t . . .’ he mumbled between fingers. And this time the echo was Wolff’s own voice.
Christ
.
‘The drawer,’ Hilken said. ‘The drawer.’
‘Which one?’
‘Right – top right.’
‘Stay there,’ Wolff commanded.
A black file, papers in date order, and glancing through, a sheet with a list of eight ships.
‘The
Richmond
,
the
Lagan
,
Oberon . . .
?’ He pushed Hilken with his shoe.
‘Yes.’
‘And the sailors’ names?’
‘Devoy has those. Only Devoy – that’s the deal.’
It made sense and it sounded true. He had the ships at least, that was a start. ‘All right. I’ll contact you tomorrow. Time for you to collect the names of the people you are using in the port, and an opportunity to think about how much you enjoy being a pillar of society. What a hard thing it would be to give up.’
‘But what if I . . .’ Hilken was struggling too obviously for something to say, his thoughts at the end of the corridor or in the hall or in the shadows of the street.
‘Just give me the key to your room.’
The clerk had gone, his desktop empty but for a rectangle of writing paper and four sharp pencils in perfect parallel lines. Wolff locked Hilken in his office with a fleeting prayer:
Please God, the oily bastard’s in there a long time
. It was galling to acknowledge but he knew his clumsy attempt at blackmail was going to fail. I’ve shot Wiseman’s bolt and hit very little, he thought, as he walked quickly along the corridor to the stairs. Large payments from a foreign diplomat to a businessman’s private accounts were proof of nothing but profiteering, and wasn’t that just the sort of enterprise to make America richer still? Perhaps he should have tried harder. It was the recollection of Turkey, his own torturer – well, he couldn’t – just the thought made him sick. The ships, he had the names of the ships.
The singing had stopped and someone was trying to stroke the old piano through the Moonlight Sonata. The party in the club below was over and a commanding voice and the clatter of furniture suggested the stewards were clearing the tables. If Hilken’s clerk was organising a reception committee, it wouldn’t be here, he thought
.
At the bottom of the stairs the doors of the club swung open and a sober-looking merchant officer stalked out with his hat under his arm. Wolff followed him from the building but waited in its shadow and watched him climb into a horse cab. Parked a few feet from the entrance was Hilken’s Packard – the driver had retreated behind the wheel – and striding along the sidewalk opposite, two smartly dressed men, heads bent in conversation. Midnight on a chilly downtown street in March, well lit, almost empty, nothing out of the ordinary or so it seemed, but his heart was pounding. Where the hell was Masek?
He could feel the danger creeping over his skin.