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later. They’re visiting Paulsen tomorrow, then they’ll come for you. My guess is the local Germans will have wind of it by the end of the day. They’ll know you’re on your way to Berlin.’
    Wolff took a last draw on his cigarette and ground the butt into the gravel beneath his shoe. ‘Tell me about the informer, Adler Christensen.’
    Findlay’s face wrinkled as if he was recalling an unpleasant smell: ‘Came to us at the end of October. He’d struck up a friendship with Casement in New York and was acting as his valet. They were staying at the Grand Hotel and had already made contact with the German delegation in the city.’
    Wolff nodded. ‘How much did it cost you?’
    ‘A hundred and twenty-five krone. He gave me a contact address in Berlin – here,’ and he reached into his coat pocket and took out a small envelope. ‘It’s a boarding house run by a Norwegian woman. His mother writes to him there. There’s a copy of Christensen’s last letter too. Damn fellow wants more money. Do you know how you’re going to get your information out?’
    Wolff took the envelope from him without comment.
    ‘Well, I expect you’ve met his sort before.’ He shook his huge head in disgust.
    ‘What sort? What was he like?’
    ‘Dishonest. Typical Norwegian sailor. Perhaps more dishonest than most. Speaks English like an American. It’s all in the file we sent you. Wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him,’ he snorted disparagingly.
    ‘Does Christensen like Casement?’
    ‘They’re close. He says Casement calls him a “treasure”. And I sensed he . . .’ His heavy brow gathered in a frown. ‘Well, I just didn’t like the fellow,’ he added, lifting his umbrella to his shoulder.
    ‘Is there something else?’
    ‘I think we should be going, don’t you?’ Findlay looked uneasy.
    ‘There’s something you aren’t telling me,’ Wolff insisted.
    ‘Goodness, no. No, no. Damn mercenary, that’s all. A loathsome creature,’ he replied, getting quickly to his feet. ‘I don’t want to give him another thought,’ and he turned deliberately to gaze at the view. It was the hour before sunset, the sky burnt orange and gold like a peach. ‘They do their best for us, you know. The Norwegians, I mean.’
    Wolff stood up slowly. ‘All right. If you’re sure you’ve told me everything.’
    ‘I was only with him for an hour. Glad to get away. A dangerous rascal. Casement too.’
    They walked back along the esplanade in silence. When they reached the tower house, Findlay said, ‘I’d offer you a lift but . . .’
    ‘No. Thank you.’
    Another long silence. The diplomat seemed reluctant to leave.
    ‘We’ll get him in the end, you know,’ he said at last. ‘I just hope the Liberals have the balls to hang him.
Pour encourager
. Can’t let Ireland go.’
    Wolff couldn’t think of anything to say. He wasn’t sure he cared.
    ‘Look, good luck.’ Findlay offered his hand. ‘Be careful, for God’s sake. Rest assured your friends here will do all they can.’
    He began to walk towards his car but stopped after only a few yards and turned to Wolff again. ‘You’re a brave fellow,’ he said stiffly.
    He’s written me off already, thought Wolff.

3
A German Scientist
    H ERR P ROFESSOR D R Fritz Haber brushed the chalk from his uniform jacket and turned to face them with an indulgent smile.
    ‘You know a little chemistry.’ He didn’t wait for Anton Dilger to reply. ‘For the benefit of the Count,’ he said, pointing to the equation he’d written on the blackboard in a bold hand.

    ‘Chlorine is a diatomic element. It combines with most elements but not with oxygen and nitrogen. At certain concentrations, corrosive when it comes into contact with epithelium, forming hydrochloric acid in moist tissue – eyes, nose, throat, lungs and . . .’ He picked up the chalk again and wrote the symbol HOCl: ‘Hypochlorous acid,’ then took a step away and frowned at the board as if the