She sat down at her little table and wrote a series of letters and numbers on a slip of paper, bigger than what she would normally have delivered to Agent 63.
Before Marthe left work the next day, she took the slip of paper and rubbed it across a piece of raw meat in the kitchen until the paper was good and bloody. She then delivered it to Otto. “I obtained this from a Belgian man who wishes to remain anonymous,” she told him. “He found it on a pigeon lying dead on the road to Ypres. Neither he nor I could decode it, but I’m sure your men would have that ability.”
He snatched the paper from her hands and Marthe watched as he scanned it. “Without a doubt,” he finally replied, meeting her eyes. “You’ve done well, Marthe. This will go straight to the cipher department—they can crack any code within 24 hours.”
Marthe sighed with relief as Otto left, the message tucked into his pocket, dried blood and all. She’d just earned at least a day’s break from his pestering, but, like a patient leaving a grueling hour at the dentist’s knowing they’d have to finish the procedure soon, she knew her respite wouldn’t last forever. Once Otto realized he’d been duped and the message was nonsense, he’d be back.
A few days later, as Marthe passed by the Grand Place on her way to work, she saw Otto talking to a man she knew to be a German detective. Otto waved to her and she paused. He nodded at the detective before approaching her.
“I just can’t figure it out, Marthe. That paper you gave me—the coding department can’t make heads or tails of it.” He took off his cap and scratched his head. “Do you think that the paper could have been a trick?”
Although she’d been expecting this, Marthe’s breath still caught in her throat. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, we’ve had the best code breakers in Germany examining this, and even they can’t solve it. No Tommy could be good enough at coding to outsmart our experts.”
Marthe shook her head. “I’m not sure.”
He replaced his cap. “At any rate, keep your eye out. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Both of them looked up as a robin landed nearby and picked at something on the ground. Otto tipped his cap to her, his smile holding no warmth as he bid her goodbye and returned to the detective, who had been observing them from a few meters away.
Marthe continued on to the hospital, her heart heavy. Even the sight of Alphonse exiting the courtyard did nothing to lift her spirits.
He held the courtyard gate open for her. “Is something wrong, Marthe?”
A denial of anything amiss was on her lips, but then she hesitated. Alphonse was clearly loyal to the Cause, and she desperately needed to confide in someone. She tilted her head toward a corner of the courtyard and he followed her. Once they were sure no one was in earshot, she told him about Otto’s proposal for her to become a double agent. “If something doesn’t happen soon to help me out of this dilemma, I think I might go mad,” she added.
Alphonse tightened his hands into fists. “How dare that Boche put you in this predicament.” He took a deep breath and relaxed his body. “Let me think on a solution, and I will get back to you.”
She placed her hand on his arm, which immediately stiffened again. “Thank you, Alphonse.”
“No, thank you, Marthe, for your service. And please don’t worry, I will figure out a way to get you out of this.”
She watched him stroll away, feeling much better about the Otto situation.
Two days later, as Marthe made her way down stairs to the kitchen, she heard a heavy thump on the landing. Red Carl stood in the threshold of Otto’s door, a canvas kit bag at his feet.
“Is Otto going away?” Marthe asked.
“He’s gone, fräulein.”
“Gone? What do you mean?”
“He’s dead,” was his only response.
Marthe first assumed that Alphonse had something to do with Otto’s death, but he had been at the front the night Otto was murdered by two bullets passing through his brain.
“It wasn’t me,” Alphonse insisted when they had found a moment alone, again in the courtyard. “I passed by Canteen Ma in the Grand Place the afternoon you told me about Otto. I informed her of the situation you’d been put in, and she replied, “‘There are several safety-pin men that would be interested to hear of this.’”
“Thank you, Alphonse.” Marthe reached her hand out, but he stepped backward.
“Have I ever told you what I’m going to do once the war is over?” he asked.
Numbed by his unexpected brush-off, she shook her head.
“I’m going to become a priest.” With that, he left the courtyard.
Marthe watched his tall frame walk away, wondering if he told her that to convince her that it couldn’t have been he who killed Otto. Or if it was for some other reason altogether.
Chapter 33
Alouette
June 1915
The days at San Sebastian passed relatively peacefully: the Baron was often away on business and Alouette spent a lot of time relaxing at the beach, trying to avoid the nagging feeling that she was not making much headway at spying.
Finally von Krohn stated that he was to return to Madrid and this time he had no objection to her joining him.
He installed her in Madrid’s Palace Hotel, reserving the best room for her. The hotel was only a few years old, and, as her porter informed her, the only one in Spain to have both a bathroom and a telephone installed in each of its 800 rooms.
She arrived in her new lodgings to find a large bouquet of roses waiting for her on the table. When she saw the card was signed by von Krohn, she tossed it into the garbage pail without reading the message.
“Something wrong, señorita?” the porter asked.
Alouette shook her head and went to the window, which looked out onto the tree-lined Paseo del Prado boulevard.
The porter bowed. “Good evening, señorita.”
Alouette decided to ease her irritation at von Krohn by going for a walk to explore Madrid and changed into a walking dress.
As she passed through the hotel’s ornate double doors, she noticed a policeman walking a beat directly outside of the hotel. She crossed the Paseo del Prado into the park and paused by a fountain with a statue of Apollo. Giving a quick glance over her shoulder, she was surprised to see that the policeman had followed her.
Alouette decided to keep walking, and when she reached the intersection of the Calle de Acalá and the Paseo de Recolotos, she turned her head right and left, feigning that she was lost. The policeman was a few feet behind, watching.
She summoned up the little Spanish she knew and called, “Perdóneme, señor.”
He gazed around before realizing she must be addressing him. “Qué?”
She asked him to point her to the Plaza Hotel. “I’m supposed to be meeting the Baron von Krohn, the German military attaché, there soon.”
He blinked twice at the name before pointing to the large building right behind her.
“Gracias,” Alouette replied before walking off.
Alouette found herself completely alone in this new city. As her Spanish was not very good, she did not have anyone to speak to except von Krohn.
When she complained about her loneliness to him, he decided that he would introduce Alouette to his wife. “She is quite anxious to meet you and I know that you two will get along splendidly.”
Alouette was not so sure, but the Baron persuaded her to join them for lunch. “She wishes for you to procure some toiletries for her the next time you are in Paris.”
Von Krohn’s wife, Ilse, was much younger than Alouette had expected; she looked to be only a few years older than herself, a brunette who held herself in a dignified manner. Ilse was an heiress and the von Krohns could afford a lifestyle unique to most of the other Germans in the area. They were the only ones in the diplomatic service with a chauffeur and motor car. Alouette wondered why on earth she had married the odious Baron, unless it was just that she desired to be styled as a Baron
ess.
“Do you speak German?” Ilse asked in French.
“No, madame,” Alouette answered.
“It is no matter,” Ilse said. “I am glad of the opportunity to practice my French.” To her husband, she spoke in German, which Alouette easily translated. “Hans, are you quite certain she does not know German?”
“Nein,” von Krohn returned.
“Well, if you want to know for sure, I know a way.” She held out her hand to Alouette. “My husband and I are hosting a little dinner party tomorrow night. We would love it if you could come.”
Dressed in a beaded navy-blue gown, Alouette arrived at von Krohn’s house at the allotted time, but the guests were already seated. It seemed to her that their expressions were spiteful as they exchanged furtive glances with one another. Neither the Baron nor his wife introduced Alouette to anyone, and she took her seat at the end of the table with a sense of foreboding that they had been gossiping about her before she arrived.
There were thirteen guests at the table, Alouette noted, a mixture of German officers and some affluent-looking Spanish couples. As the soup was served, she tried to converse with the man on her right, a fat German with equally chubby hands sprinkled with dark hair.
“French people have a sort of holy terror of the number thirteen,” she said in her native language.
“Oh, is that so?” His French accent was atrocious.
“Yes. If my mother were here, she would either make someone get up from the table or else invite the butler to dine with us.”
“Are you afraid of death?”
Alouette, taken back by his abruptness, replied, “If that were so, I never would have been an airwoman.”
The eyes of her companions focused on her. She expected to hear praise, or at least a few questions about her feats, but there was only silence which Alouette was desperate to fill. “This soup is quite tasty.”
One of the officers turned to von Krohn and said in German, “God will punish England for entering this war.” He spoke with the guttural accent typical of his countrymen. “When we have won, we shall make England a colony.”
“Those French are utterly incomprehensible to me,” the German with the hairy hands added. He glanced at Alouette, but she focused on her soup, once again pretending not to comprehend a word these brutes said. “They continue fighting for the English, knowing full well that they have not the faintest chance at success.”
“What’s more,” added the original speaker, “the latest bulletins state that the French are surrendering, preferring to be prisoners of war than to fight. But we have no room for them in our camps, and headquarters have ordered that they all be killed.”
A man with a bulbous nose seated next to the Baroness spoke up. “The French are cowards. Their degenerate race is worn out by loathsome diseases, carried by their women, who are all harlots.”
Alouette fought back the impulse to spit in their faces. Despite having no appetite, she forced herself to eat. Toward the second course, the German with the bulbous nose roared in German, “How long will it be before she shows the first symptoms?”
“Half an hour or so,” von Krohn replied.
“She appears calm,” the fat German said. “She would not be so calm if she was aware of the horrible death awaiting her.”
Alouette willed her expression to not reveal her bewilderment. It’s only a loathsome trick they are playing to get me to admit I speak German. She took a sip of water.
As the dessert and coffee were served, the young man on Alouette’s other side seemed to take pity on her. “I too am an airman. What sort of plane did you fly?” he asked in French.
“A Caudron. I knew the inventor.”
“Pity he died in that accident.”
“Yes,” Alouette agreed sadly. “A pity indeed.”
She could feel the Baron’s eyes on her and glanced up. His expression was stony as he said, “Madame Richer, you look quite tired.”
“I am.” She delicately wiped at her mouth before setting the napkin down.
“She can’t be that tired. I’m sure there’s some man waiting in her hotel bed,” the bulbous-nosed German stated.
Von Krohn stood. “Gentlemen, should we retire into my office for a cigar?” He nodded at Alouette, giving his permission for her to leave the disastrous dinner party.
She had passed their hateful test.
The Baron met her the next day. “You are being followed by one of the German Embassy’s military attachés. A man by the name of Major Arnold Kalle.”
“What? Aren’t you employed by the German secret service?”
“Yes,” von Krohn stated with barely concealed impatience. “But Kalle is upset because I never give him information about my department.”
“I had no idea that the Germans exercised such pettiness when it comes to espionage.” The full meaning of his statement finally settled in. “What should I do? Can’t you get this man recalled back to Germany?”
He sighed. “I don’t have any solid proof. One day, one of my agents, a Frenchman, drowned under mysterious circumstances outside of San Sebastian. But I have nothing but my suspicions.”
Alouette was silent as she contemplated this. She had no one to protect her, and it seemed that even von Krohn was unwilling to advise her. They walked to the Puerta del Sol Square, where the Baron took his leave of her, stating that he had errands to run. He looked deliberately at a motor car with a Spanish license plate as he did so.
Alouette headed back to the hotel, noting that the car followed slowly behind her, pulling off the street while she waited on a corner. Glancing behind her, she could see the shadowy figures of two men, but the bright sunlight prevented her from discerning much else.
It was tea time when Alouette returned. She sat in the corner of the hotel bistro by herself and flipped through a magazine to hide her agitation. Presently, a trio was seated at the table next to her. Alouette noticed the Legion d’ Honneur, a medal recognizing the highest military honor, pinned to the suit of one man.
“You are French?” Alouette asked after the men were seated.
“Oui¸” replied the man wearing the Legion d’ Honneur. “I am General Denvignes, military attaché to the French Embassy.”
Alouette introduced herself.
“Will you be staying in Madrid long?” Denvignes asked.
She longed to confide in her fellow countryman about her true purpose in Spain, but Alouette steeled herself not to say anything compromising. “I’m not sure. Possibly till the end of the war.” She smiled politely, but her grin faded as she caught sight of two men entering the room. She narrowed her eyes, surmising that they were the same men from the car that had followed her earlier. Were they French, German, Spanish, or another nationality all together?
She rose, bidding adieu to General Denvignes and his companions, before leaving the tea room. She headed back out onto the Paseo del Prado. As she predicted, the two men exited the hotel behind her. One of them, a tall young man dressed in an expensive suit, approached her. “Madame, will you be so good as to read this letter and give me an answer as soon as possible?” His accent was that of a posh Briton.
“Is there a return address on it?”
“Yes, madame.”
Alouette felt uneasy as she accepted the letter. As soon as the men entered their car, she went back into the hotel.
The letter carried the address of the English Intelligence Department.
Alouette put it down on the desk with a sigh, thinking that a double agent must always be on the alert. A kindly invitation could be the first step toward a firing squad. She decided to pay a call on von Krohn.
The servant who answered the door delivered her straight into the Baron’s office. The Baroness was also in there and had a look of feigned concern as Alouette displayed the letter to von Krohn. It seemed to Alouette that the Baroness’s interest was not so false after all, and she wondered if she had indeed been set up.
Von Krohn sighed. “
You must return to Paris straightaway,” he told Alouette.
The baroness clapped her hands delightedly. “I will make you a list of things I would like you to bring back for me,” she called before rushing out of the room.
Alouette sat in her seat. “Paris? Why?”
“I think it’s best if you are away from here for a while.”
“Am I in danger?”
“No, nothing of the sort. At least I don’t think so. I just think you should leave Madrid for a few days, maybe a fortnight.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Of course not.” Von Krohn gave a hollow laugh. “I’m just trying to protect you.”
Alouette rose.
“I’ll see you in a fortnight,” von Krohn stated.
Chapter 34
Marthe
July 1915
Something unusual was happening in Roulers. There was a curious air of activity among the Germans, although not like that which preceded the poisonous gas attacks of the spring. It seemed as though all of the Germans had gone mad with cleanliness. The regular army’s uniforms were new, their brass buttons catching the sunlight, their boots polished to perfection, and even their equipment lost its battered appearance. Non-combatant personnel were ordered to the hospital and spent their days polishing the floors until they shined like glass and using rags tied to long poles to expunge cobwebs and dust from the ceilings.
As Marthe passed the civilian cabin, she saw a familiar figure on the porch.
“Alphonse,” she called, momentarily forgetting about the awkwardness of their last encounter.
He lifted a rag and waved at her.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning.”
The Women Spies Series 1-3 Page 83
