“I ask of you again, Herr Kroemer, what exactly would you have me do?”
“Just listen. Make some contacts in your usual way. I hear you have a knack for captivating officers. Get them to talk and then report what they say back to us.”
Flattered, M’greet decided to play along. “How will I contact you?”
“You will send a letter to the Hôtel de l’Europe in Amsterdam. I have a suite there. You may address it to Kroemer—my surname is quite common so it should not arouse suspicion. You will sign it H-21.”
“H-21?”
“Your code name.”
M’greet’s jaw dropped. Up till now she hadn’t been taking Kroemer’s offer very seriously, though she had to admit the money would have been nice.
Kroemer produced three small vials from his pocket, two of which were filled with a chalky-white liquid, and set them on the table. “You will write a letter full of meaningless gossip, but write your real messages regarding troop movements and the like in between the lines with this one.” He moved a vial labeled with the number 2 on it forward. The liquid, in contrast to the others, was an emerald green, the color of absinthe. “You will use number one to dampen the paper, and the third to cause the messages to disappear.”
She held up her hands. “I don’t know. Invisible inks—disguises in general—are not my style.”
Kroemer gave a cruel laugh. “Disguises not your style? Are you not in fact Margaretha Zelle-MacLeod, a Dutch citizen, giving the people,” his voice dropped, “the false impression that you are Mata Hari, a Javanese princess?”
“But that—”
“Is exactly why we wish to hire you.” He swept the vials toward her edge of the table. “Take them. Use them. Once again, we can increase your payment once you prove your worth as a spy.” He stood and replaced his hat, dropping a pile of francs on the table. “That’s ten thousand to start. You will get the other half when you get back from Antwerp.”
“Antwerp? I intended to go to Paris.”
“In time,” Kroemer responded. “You will report to Antwerp for training.” He gave her further instructions, including how to get to the Belgian city. “You will enjoy meeting Fräulein Doktor,” he added. “Like you, she is a strong, worldly woman.”
M’greet showed him to the door. He left with the impression that she would do as he asked, and she didn’t want to contradict him.
After she’d shut the door behind him, she resumed her spot on the couch. Could she really be a spy? She’d never proclaimed loyalty to either side. Like Holland, she considered herself neutral. But of course, she’d always loved Paris. And there was the fact that the Germans had stolen her goods at the outbreak of this infernal war. She sat up and counted the money. While it was in no way a full reimbursement for all that Germany had taken from her, at least it was a good start.
Chapter 28
Alouette
March 1915
The startled expression on Captain Ladoux’s face as she knocked on his open door amused Alouette.
“Back again so soon?” he asked.
She sauntered into the room and took a seat in front of his desk. “Yes, Captain, I’ve returned because, as the Yankees say, I’ve made good.” She put the pen and the vial of the German’s secret ink on his desk and then draped her arm across the chair.
Ladoux held the bottle under his electric lamp. “What is this?”
“They call it ‘collargolium.’”
“Interesting. We will have to send some to our chemists to see if we can find a reagent. And if so, we might just be able to decipher intercepted German correspondence.” He set the vial down. “Who was the man who gave you this ink?”
Alouette straightened. “I never caught his name.”
The twinge of regret must have been obvious in her voice, for Ladoux reached into his desk and retrieved an envelope, which he dumped in front of her. “These are photographs of known German agents in Madrid.”
She fanned out the photos. “This is him.” She picked one of them up and handed it to Ladoux. The photograph must have been an older one for both of his eyes were intact, but the narrow shoulders and gaunt face were the same.
“Ah, you’ve met the Baron von Krohn, the German naval attaché, nephew of General Ludendorff.” He slid the rest of the pictures back into the envelope. “Excellent.”
Alouette glowed at his praise. Her failures at becoming an airwoman and the fiasco in Switzerland forgotten, she relayed how her flirtations with the big German, Walter, had led her to Kraut and then finally to von Krohn. “I must state, Captain, that the Baron’s manners were very poor. I had to make it quite plain that his advances would not be accepted.”
Ladoux frowned and Alouette was once again pleased at his reaction. “I never want to see that brute again,” she added.
He got to his feet and walked the length of the room, mindlessly puffing on a cigarette. Brushing ashes off his waistcoat, he paused in front of her. “You entered into our service voluntarily. It is too late for you to withdraw.”
Alouette opened her mouth, but Ladoux held up his hand and continued. “You are a woman and must be guided by your instincts on how to deal with people who have amorous intentions toward you.” He stood motionless for a moment, his hand still in the air. “This wasn’t something I wanted to mention, but I heard stories about you, in Paris, before you met your husband.”
The exhilaration Alouette had experienced since she returned from Spain quickly vanished; in its place was a sense of debilitating helplessness. Although she hadn’t experienced it for many years, the feeling was all too familiar. “That’s all they were, Captain, just stories.” She dropped her arm from the back of the chair and quashed the feeling back down to the depths of her consciousness. “As you know, I am anxious to serve my country, to even give my life, if necessary, for France. But no patriote francais would expect me to pander to such an unpleasant, one-eyed creature.”
Ladoux, who had restarted his pacing during Alouette’s protest, paused again, his hands gripping the back of an armchair. “Don’t you dare walk in here and tell me you never again wish to see the very man I want you to exploit for all you are worth.”
Alouette bit back her rage and tried to keep her voice as calm as possible. “There are certain things, Captain Ladoux, to which no woman of honor can submit to under any circumstances.”
Ladoux’s expression softened and she thought she might have gotten through to him. He stepped forward and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Alouette,” he said in a soothing, fatherly tone. “Think of the sacrifices of our poor poilus in the trenches. Or the plight of our fair Paris, which may be overrun by the enemy at any time. You have the priceless opportunity to serve our dear country more than any other Frenchwoman. Or,” he added quickly, “many other Frenchmen.”
He put a hand on her shoulder and Alouette resisted the urge to shrug him off. “For the sake of the Cause, don’t say you will never see the Baron again. He’s probably just an old philanderer, with an archaic German sense of civility. Humor him as such. Laugh and flirt with him, keeping him at arm’s length while at the same time manipulating him into giving you information.” He finally released her shoulder. “There are many lives to be saved by doing so.”
“It is a sacrifice more bitter than death to have to submit to the dalliances of an old brute like von Krohn.” she stated bitterly.
Judging by his triumphant smile, Ladoux knew that he had won. “A mere flirtation is harmless,” he countered as he retreated behind the desk. “You are a woman with sufficient prowess to protect yourself if I am not wrong, which I don’t believe for a second that I am. Von Krohn is the mastermind for the naval movements of all German submarines on the Atlantic coast. If you can succeed in discovering his plans, just think of all the French mothers and young brides you will be assisting by helping their boys to come home safely.”
Alouette heaved a deep sigh. “Very well, Captain Ladoux.”
Ladoux pulled out the desk chair to dig i
nto a drawer. “I have some other business matters to attend to, but you can respond to the Baron’s queries with this information. It is accurate although out-of-date, the same we supply to all double agents.”
He left the room as Alouette dipped a pen into the inkwell. She followed von Krohn’s instructions and wrote a letter full of nonsensical gossip to Madeline Stepino in Madrid. Between the lines, she used the collargolium-filled pen to answer the Baron’s inquiries on French maneuvers as supplied by Ladoux. She held the paper up and blew on it, watching as the secret ink disappeared without a trace.
Alouette spent the remainder of the week taking a course in Spanish through the Berlitz School. Captain Ladoux was relentless in his encouragement for her to return to Spain. “You must hit the iron whilst it is hot,” he repeated.
A postcard arrived from Spain with a coded demand for intelligence in regard to von Krohn’s questionnaire. Alouette dropped it in front of Ladoux.
“Your letter has apparently been delayed by the postal services,” he said, clearly unconcerned. “I’ve booked you on a train to leave in the morning.”
“How will I further communicate with you from Spain?”
“You will write an ordinary note just as you do for the Germans, but use antipyrine in between the lines. It’s the best we have right now, until we analyze the ink that von Krohn gave you.”
“Antipyrine? For headaches?”
“Yes,” Ladoux said with a touch of impatience. “If you are caught with it, you simply swallow it. Otherwise, dissolve a packet in two tablespoonfuls of water.” He passed her the collargolium inkwell. “And now to place your advertisement according to the Baron’s instructions.”
As Alouette began her letter, someone knocked on Ladoux’s office door.
“Ah, Monsieur Davrichachvili, come on in,” Ladoux called.
“Zozo?” Alouette set her pen down to gaze at the tall man in the kit of the Armée de l'Air. “What are you doing here?”
He pulled a chair right next to her. “You look shocked, Alouette. Don’t you like me in uniform?”
Alouette had met the fellow pilot a few times through Henri. Zozo had played some part in the Russian uprising in 1905 and self-exiled to France, giving up politics to become an aviator. He claimed to be an anarchist and his self-righteous declarations had always gotten on Alouette’s nerves.
Ladoux did not seem surprised that they knew each other. “Monsieur Davrichachvili was the one who first alerted me to you, Alouette.”
She turned to the younger man. “You told him I knew German spies?”
Zozo crossed his leg over the other, his knee nearly touching Alouette’s. “What does it matter? Besides,” he shot her a grin, “it’s true now, isn’t it?”
Ladoux cleared his throat. “Monsieur Davrichachvili will be the one feeding you false information to pass on to Baron von Krohn.”
She returned her gaze to Zozo. He had a dark complexion, his mustache and beard purposefully trimmed to appear unruly. He seemed uncomfortable under Alouette’s gaze and ran a hand through his wavy hair.
“You do realize he is an anarchist?” she asked Ladoux.
He shrugged. “A true revolutionary is rarely a traitor.”
“I am putting my own life in your hands, then,” Alouette stated. This made her more nervous than she dared to let on. Zozo was the type of young aviator who assumed that death waited for him each time he took flight and consequently lived a life—both on the ground and in the air—of excess.
Zozo threw up his hands. “You can trust me.”
Ladoux lit a cigarette. “Monsieur Davrichachvili was on the trail of the woman you knew as Gerda Nerbutt.”
“The Germans call her Fräulein Doktor,” Zozo added. “But I lost track of her when I left Switzerland.”
The hair on Alouette’s arms prickled as she thought about Gerda. She found herself inexplicably hoping that Zozo wasn’t aware of her colossal failure on that mission. “I’m sure she’ll turn up.”
“I don’t quite share your enthusiasm,” Zozo replied. “The German secret service has a mass of funds and they are able to conceal their spies just as quickly as we find their trail.”
Ladoux flicked ash from his cigarette. “Monsieur Davrichachvili will dispatch the letters using the password, ‘Skylark,’ and, should we need to contact any of our Spanish operatives, they will address you with the same code name.”
Zozo moved his hand through his hair once again. “Be careful, Alouette. You are now embarking on the most dangerous career of them all, that of l’agent double.”
Chapter 29
Marthe
April 1915
When spring came, with its floods and bone-chilling rain, the long war seemed to just become a long wait. Men stood for months in the trenches, which, from Marthe’s patients’ descriptions, were little more than open graves. As her new patient with the burned arm put it, “Forget trying to shoot Tommies. All the boys had to see was a mud wall and had to focus most of their effort on just keeping their feet dry.”
“Tommies?” Marthe asked.
“The British,” the man replied.
“Oh,” Marthe replied, a bit inadequately, but she wasn’t sure what else to say.
The German peered at her and then his eyes grew wide as if he suddenly realized something. “You are German, fräulein?”
“No. Belgian.”
He raised his charred hand. “Doesn’t it bother you to be bandaging a Hun such as me?”
Marthe snipped at the gauze with a pair of silver scissors. “I’m a nurse. It’s my job to help you, no matter what side of the war you are on.” She nodded at the door of the ward. “Not to mention this town, and therefore this hospital, belongs to Germany now.”
“As will all of France soon,” he said with an oily smile. “Nach Paris! Nach Calais!”
Marthe collected the stray bits of gauze without saying anything. The man reached out with his good hand and grabbed her arm. “You will see, fräulein, we will win this mighty war… and soon.”
She usually didn’t pay much attention when her patients started in with their German swagger, but the way this man spoke hinted that he had intimate military knowledge. She pulled her arm away, ostensibly to pour him a cup of water. “Are you a soldier?” He was dressed in dark gray pants and a collared shirt, not necessarily a uniform, but there were so many different regimentals in the Hun army that she couldn’t possibly recognize all of them.
“No. A scientist.” He looked for some type of reaction from Marthe, but she kept her face neutral. He continued, “The type of man for whom generals of old wouldn’t hold more esteem than a cobblestone under their feet.” He raised his chin. “With this new type of warfare, men like me are going to play their part in winning the most colossal war the world has ever known, even more so than the generals.”
She set the water glass down and asked as casually as she could, “Is that so?”
“You will see, fräulein.”
Having made her rounds, Marthe went outside to get some air and think over what the man had told her. He could have just been talking cocksure military nonsense, like a lot of her other soldier patients. But there was something else behind his comments, something sinister. What on earth would a scientist know about military victories? Despite the warm April sun, Marthe shivered.
The scientist was sleeping when Marthe went to check on him before leaving. He must have fallen asleep working, Marthe decided, picking up the papers that were scattered all over the bed. Of course she glanced through them before putting them back into the folder by his bedside. They appeared to be weather logs, and some sort of wind graph.
She again mulled over the conversation with the scientist as she walked home. It was still light out, and, as she passed the Grand Place, she could see Canteen Ma surrounded by laughing soldiers as she spoke her nearly unintelligible German. She had a pint glass in her hand and, upon sighting Marthe, drank the rest of the beer. “Fräulein,” she slurred, wavi
ng her glass. “Fräulein, please get me some more of your fine beer!”
Playing along, Marthe shook her head and put her hand up to her ear, which succeeded in drawing Canteen Ma closer. She stumbled along the sidewalk, but her voice was clear as she whispered, “Marthe, there is something in the air. The Boches talk of sweeping victories coming, but none of them are clear on the specifics.”
Marthe curled her lip, as if disgusted by the old woman, as she replied quietly, “I heard something similar this afternoon. What do you think they are planning?”
“I don’t know.” One of Canteen Ma’s hangers-on whistled at her. She held up one finger before shoving the beer glass into Marthe’s hands. “But we need to find out… and soon.”
Marthe set out that night to inform Agent 63 of the bizarre weather graphs just in case British Intelligence had a better idea of what was afoot than her or Canteen Ma. It was, after all, her job to report anything out of the ordinary, and this indeed seemed to fit that description.
Canteen Ma delivered the British Intelligence’s return message a few days later: “Do not worry about weather reports. Troop movements, trains, etc. are of more value.” Marthe crumpled the message and threw it into the fire, feeling a bit foolish, like a girl making ghosts out of laundry drying on a clothesline.
The next morning, Marthe reported to the hospital to find it in an uproar. Orderlies were everywhere, escorting those civilian patients that could walk outside or ripping sheets off beds.
“Are we expecting a rush of patients?” Marthe asked the Oberarzt as he hurried by.
“Yes,” he shouted in an unusually curt manner.
She joined the orderlies in preparing the now vacant civilian ward, surmising the evacuation of the non-combatants must mean that the Germans were making an advance on Ypres.
Not more than an hour later, the ambulances began to arrive. The workers unloaded dozens of men in light blue uniforms choking for breath, their features twisted in the most awful of ways. Some of them were grabbing at their throats and eyes, leaving long, bloody scratches down their cheeks and chest. The men’s faces, hands, and even the brass buttons on their uniform had turned an unearthly green and the sickly smell of bleach clung to their clothes and skin. “What horror is this?” Marthe asked when she had time to speak.
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