“But that needle has a thread through it that extends beyond the haystack and leads to the center of the enemy espionage network. You must find a way to infiltrate the German Intelligence Department.”
Alouette thought of exposing this so-called enemy network once and for all, the dream of glory trumping the gloom she’d found herself in since being informed of Henri’s death. She forced herself back to reality. “Surely it cannot be that simple to secure employment as a German spy.”
“No.” He struck a match and the embers of a cigarette began to gleam. “But you have both beauty and brains, two traits that will entice our enemies. You will be engaged in an intelligence conflict, one for which I believe you are well suited. You wanted to play a part in the war so that must mean you do not value your life greatly. I would bet this role is even more dangerous than that which your fellow pilots have undertaken.”
Alouette drew in a deep breath, picturing all of the closed doors and rejection letters she had received from the men in charge. This man, this Ladoux, was intimidating—she still got the feeling that he did not trust her—but he was giving her a chance. “Danger and I are familiar comrades, monsieur. I am aware of the perils that lie ahead, but I accept the mission.”
He exhaled, the ring of smoke encircling his head. “We are not a wealthy department. Our funds are quite limited.”
Alouette was taken aback by this admission, considering his initial hefty offer. She glanced around the room with all of its luxurious décor. “Is that so?”
“Indeed.”
The smoke from the cigarette burned her eyes. “I have enough francs to assist me now, and my lawyer will allocate more money once my husband’s will is settled.”
“Good. However, I encourage you to demand money from the Germans after they employ you, in order to help deplete the enemy’s war funds sooner and expedite an Allied victory. Wars are won with weighty pocketbooks and lost by lack thereof.”
“Very well, monsieur.”
He rose and, as he approached her, Alouette had a vision of a snake slithering toward its prey. He dropped something in her lap. She used the last of the light from the setting sun to see that it was a passport with her maiden name on it. That was fast. But then again, she supposed that the Ministry of War had the ability to get passports quickly. Or else Ladoux knew she’d be coming back the first time he met her.
“It is best for you not to travel as a widow or a married woman.”
She nodded.
“If you need to contact me, write to Monsieur Delorme at this address.” He held out his hand. “And, Alouette, be careful.”
Alouette’s smooth hand met his rough one. As she shook it, she realized that was the first time he’d called her by her given name.
Chapter 10
Marthe
November 1914
The man Aunt Lucelle had mentioned arrived a few days later. He was dressed in the clothes of a laborer. He must have been at least fifteen years older than Marthe, and was tall, with thick glossy hair and a neat mustache.
“Good day, mademoiselle. is there any chance of finding lodging here? I’ve lost pretty much everything in the invasion, and I heard they still pay for work in this town.” He shot a quick glance around and, after seeing they were alone, lifted his lapel for an instant, showing Marthe the two metal safety-pins underneath.
“Step inside for a moment,” Marthe invited. “I will ask the owner of the house what she can do for you.”
The grocer’s wife had a reluctant look on her face when Marthe brought her to the door, as if she was going to refuse him. Upon catching sight of the handsome, friendly-appearing stranger, she must have changed her mind. “We only have a small attic room available. Is that acceptable?”
He gave her a grateful smile. “Perfectly so. Thank you.”
The man carried himself with dignity and spoke fluent French and German and fair Flemish. At dinner that night, he beguiled the entire household, including the two German soldiers, with tales of his travels. He’d traveled to the Argentine as a sailor, and became somewhat of an engineer for a year while he was there.
“Say, Herr...” one of the Germans said through a bite of dinner. He swallowed before continuing. “I realize I don’t know your last name.”
“Jacobs,” the man supplied.
“Herr Jacobs, I don’t suppose you would want to join us for an after-dinner cigar?” the soldier inquired.
“I wouldn’t mind it at all.” Marthe couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though Herr Jacobs winked at her.
A week passed and Herr Jacobs said nothing more to Marthe than good day and good night. She was beginning to wonder if he was indeed the man Lucelle had predicted would come until she returned home from the hospital one evening to find him standing alone in the kitchen.
“Good evening, mademoiselle,” he said, taking a cigar out of his mouth. “It’s a cold night outside, no?” He had the same furtive look on his face that Marthe saw the first day. He gave a searching glance about the kitchen before opening his cigar case and withdrawing a small cylinder. “I think, perhaps, you will know what to do with this,” he murmured, placing it squarely in Marthe’s palm.
She wrapped her hand around it. “It will go tonight.” She tried to meet his eyes, but Herr Jacobs was staring into the fire. “What are you doing here?” she ventured.
“Secret service.” He spoke so quietly it almost sounded like a sigh.
“Are there others like you?” She gestured toward his lapel.
“Yes, though as a rule, we safety-pin men prefer to work alone.” He glanced at her sharply. “If you are approached by one of those others, make sure you note how the pins are placed. If they run straight, not diagonal, pretend to be puzzled… that means he is a Vampire masquerading as anti-German.” He grimaced. “These so-called ‘false safety pin men’ are one of the reasons I am here.” His voice had become a growl. “When I find one of these imposters, trust me when I say he will not get off lightly.” His frown faded as quickly as it appeared as the German officers’ voices could be heard in the hall.
Marthe loosened the fingers clutching the cylinder as best as she could as she passed by them on her way to her room. Inside the cylinder was a small piece of paper written in an unfamiliar code. She tucked the paper under a hairpin the way Aunt Lucelle had taught her before donning her nurse’s cap.
No one was awake when Marthe left the house that night. The church bells rang the ten o’clock hour as she set out on her first mission. She was curious to find out whether Agent 63 was male or female, old or young like herself.
She carried the Oberarzt’s pass, but knew that it would offer no protection should a Vampire wish to search her and find the paper in her hair. The streets were dark and she passed a few soldiers returning to their billets. Thankfully they mostly ignored her. Near the corner of the alleyway on Grand Place, a German gefreiter was speaking to a Vampire. Marthe felt a bead of sweat trickle down her face and she pulled her nurse’s cap down further. Her heart thudded as she caught movement from the men, but when she glanced up again, they had moved on, revealing the black mouth of the alley. She walked quickly through it, counting to herself.
At the fifth window, she knocked in the way she’d been instructed. The window, like the others in the alleyway, was covered with brown paper. She startled when she saw it begin to rise. A white hand came out. After a quick glance up and down the alleyway, Marthe tore the paper from her hair and placed it in the extended palm. The hand retreated, the window closed, and she found herself staring once again at the opaque paper, wondering if she’d just dreamt what had happened. A stray tendril of loosened hair grazed her face, proving that she had indeed extracted the message.
She straightened her nurse’s cap and started back up the alleyway, pausing as she saw a soldier approaching. She threw herself against a house until he passed and then hurried into the wide street off the Grand Place, breathing a sigh of relief. Now if she was stopped, she could s
ay she was returning from the hospital. Still she kept to the shadows as much as possible. When she finally reached the grocer’s house, she congratulated herself. She’d successfully delivered Herr Jacobs’ message. She hoped that whatever it was would soon bring an end to the German occupation of Belgium… and the war.
Chapter 11
M’greet
November 1914
Van der Capellen was called away for a few weeks in the beginning of November, but he left M’greet several hundred dollars, “in case of emergency.” She decided to use the money to travel back to Paris.
She was unable to go through Belgium due to the German occupation, so she set off by ship for the British port of Folkstone.
When the ship arrived, she was sent to a small room without any of her things. “Where is my luggage?” she demanded as soon as someone entered.
The man, of slight height with a clean-shaven face, looked taken aback. “Your luggage?” he repeated.
“Yes. You better not take it away from me. I have very expensive items in there.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s in your suitcase that you are so concerned about?”
“My furs.” He didn’t seem impressed, so she continued, “The Germans confiscated my beautiful muskrat shawl at the beginning of the war.”
“The Germans? What were you doing in Germany?”
“I was dancing. Don’t you recognize me?”
“Should I?”
“I’m Mata Hari.”
Again, the officer seemed nonplussed. He opened a notebook and flipped to a clean page before sitting across from her. “Okay, Miss Hari… is Mata your first name?”
She heaved a sigh as she sat down. “My name, my proper name, is Margaretha Zelle-MacLeod.”
“Ah.” He glanced at her ring finger. “Are you married, then?”
“Wid—divorced,” she corrected herself.
“I see.” He scribbled something in the notebook. M’greet tried to see what, but his hand blocked it. “You are obviously well-traveled. What languages do you speak?”
“All of them.”
He looked up, his hand still covering his notes. “All?”
“Obviously English and Dutch, but also French and German.”
He noted this new information before asking, “What is your intention in Paris?”
M’greet bristled at his tone. “If you must know, I am traveling there to collect some items from my house in Neuilly, as well as sign some contracts for my dancing performances.”
“Your house in Neuilly… how long have you had it?”
M’greet was growing bored and no longer felt it necessary to explain to this low-class police officer the intimate details of her life. “Are we quite through now?”
“Mrs.—” he glanced down at his paper. “MacLeod. This interrogation is well within the provisions of the Aliens Act of 1914. Now if you would just tell me about the house in Neuilly.”
M’greet answered with her usual blend of half-truths, half-inventions until at last the man got up to leave.
“What about me?” M’greet demanded.
“Mrs. MacLeod, I’m going to need you to stay here.”
“What?” She rose out of her chair, but he had already walked out the door. She tried the handle to no avail. He had locked it.
They kept M’greet waiting for almost two hours. Her stomach was rumbling and she grew warm in her racoon-trimmed traveling clothes. Finally another man in uniform entered the room.
“Mrs. Zelle-Macleod, I am Captain Dillon of MI5.”
“The what?”
“Military Intelligence, Section 5.”
“My goodness, what do you want with me?” She pulled an old brochure out of her purse and began fanning herself with it. “It’s mighty hot in here, don’t you think?”
“Not overly.” He sat in the chair across from her. “This house in Neuilly...”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, that again. I am planning on selling that house. I’m moving in with my lover, Baron van der Capellen.”
Dillon paused, his pen in mid-air. “Your lover, you say?”
“Yes. He is a colonel in the Dutch army. I am relocating to The Hague to make it more convenient for his visits.”
The captain rubbed at his chin. “We’ve searched through your baggage—”
“Did you take anything?”
He dropped his hand. “Of course not. We’ve found nothing incriminating thus far.”
“And you won’t.” She rose. “Am I free to go?”
“Just one minute.” Now he scratched at his hair. “Why didn’t you tell Constable Bickers that you were selling the house in Neuilly?”
“I didn’t think he needed to know everything.”
“You are an educated woman traveling alone, not to mention this talk of…” he coughed, “an affair with a Dutch baron. Can’t you see how this looks suspicious?”
“No, I can’t. Women should be able to come and go as they please, educated or not.” She hoisted her purse onto her shoulder. “May I go now?”
He gave his chin a final rub before raising a hand, as if in defeat. “Yes, you may.”
After the unpleasantness in Folkstone, M’greet managed to make it to Paris without any further delays. Once there, she installed herself in Le Grand Hôtel Francais on the Boulevard Voltaire. She spent her days sauntering around the city, recalling when she was one of the most sought-after women in France.
The Paris of war-time was remarkably different from when she had been there last: darker, more depressing. The once-familiar monuments had been hidden by sandbags and the churches’ beautiful stained-glass windows had been bisected by wooden beams to protect them in the case of a German attack. But it was still a world away from her monotonous life in The Hague.
One morning she took a carriage to the Musée national des arts asiatiques, where she had made her debut as Mata Hari. After perusing the large collection of Asian art, she inquired after the museum owner, Émile Guimet, but was told he was away.
She decided she could use some air and sat on a bench outside. The November day was cool but sunny and there were a few people who had emerged from their cocoons to enjoy the weather. Across the Rue Boissière, two men in business suits stood talking. One of them looked familiar and M’greet squinted her eyes against the sun. She could have sworn that the taller man was Harry de Marguérie, an old lover of hers.
M’greet had known Harry since those early days in Paris, right after Rudy had left with Non, when she was dirt poor. A perpetual bachelor, he had been a rising diplomat. He called her Marguérite, a combination of his last name and her own given name, and paid for anything she needed.
Back then she’d been working as a riding instructor and barely paying off her enormous bills when her boss, Ernest Molier, had suggested she take up performing the can-can. M’greet knew that some of Paris’s dancing girls had been able to land rich men as either lovers or husbands. But she was too tall and thick, not to mention untrained, to perform at the ballet or even at the Folies Bergére.
If that were indeed Harry, the years had been kind to him. Even from across the street, M’greet could see traces of the man he’d been ten years ago, when he’d taken her out to dinner and introduced her to the retired singer, Madame Kireyevsky. M’greet had told the Parisian socialite that she’d been born in the Orient, the daughter of a Buddhist priest, skilled in the art of holy worship in the form of dance. Kireyevsky styled herself as a patron of the arts and invited M’greet to show off these sacred dances at her next party.
“Why did you concoct that crazy story about being Buddhist?” Harry had asked in the carriage back to his apartment.
M’greet shrugged. “Why not? Didn’t you see that she fell for it?” She giggled. The wine she had drunk at dinner had obviously hit her hard.
“But you know nothing of these so-called sacred dances.”
“I know enough.” She’d seen many performances when she’d been a bored housewife in Java. �
�And what I don’t know, I’ll improvise. You mustn’t forget all I have experienced, which is worlds more than you have.”
He touched the feather on her hat. “I am older than you.”
“Yes, but it has not been so hard for you. You have yet to realize that life is an illusion.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that what you believe is true one minute becomes a falsehood the next. Loving fathers desert you when times get tough, handsome young officers become heartless brutes the minute you marry them, and,” she forced the sob out of her voice, “perfectly healthy, wonderful sons die without any warning. Then…” she took a deep breath, “said brutes could steal your last living child away from you.”
They arrived at his building in silence. M’greet knew she had broken the cardinal rule for being a Parisian courtesan: remain flirtatious at all times. Although Harry was, as yet, unmarried, he still expected her to act a certain way. Mistresses were supposed to be entertaining, mysterious, and—unlike society wives—remain unburdened by tasks like raising children or running a household.
“So you see...” M’greet faked a light-hearted tone as she exited the carriage, her gloved hand in Harry’s, “life is but an illusion. Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Very good point.” He kept her hand as they walked up the steps. “But next time try this one: your father, now deceased, was a British lord, your mother Indian—”
“Why Indian?” she asked as he opened the door to his apartment.
“Because of your dark coloring. Your seductive coloring,” he added, his eyes traveling up her body. “Anyway, you were raised to be a sacred Hindu dancer in a temple on the Ganges.”
M’greet nodded thoughtfully as she sat on his couch. “That’s good. That’s really good.”
They’d consummated their relationship that night. Harry had been a gentle, thoughtful lover. When they had finished, he sat up and reached for a cigarette. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
The Women Spies Series 1-3 Page 71
