"What happened to my letter?" she demanded.
Ladoux put his hands in the air. "Alouette, I assure you I sent it." He lowered his arms and folded them across his chest. "Now, tell me, why have you returned?"
She filled him in on everything, from the dinner party where her claim to not understand a word of German was put to the test, to the secret path through the Pyrenees, to von Krohn's statement that a man named Kalle was following her all over Madrid.
"Ah yes, Arnold Kalle, the German Embassy attaché. We believe he is a fairly high-ranking officer with German Intelligence. I would suggest trying to meet him if the opportunity arises."
"Meet him? Should I demand an introduction from the lackeys he has following me?"
Ladoux was about to retort, but someone burst into the office. "Pardon me, Captain, but these just came in." Zozo set a manila folder on Ladoux's desk before catching sight of Alouette. "So you've returned once again."
She frowned, hiding the fact that she was unexpectedly pleased to see his tall frame. "What are those?" she asked, nodding her head toward the papers Ladoux took out of the folder.
"Radiograms from Spain to Germany,” Zozo answered in his deep voice. "They have been intercepted by the Eiffel Tower."
Alouette leaned forward to get a peek at them.
"Don't get too excited," Ladoux slid them back into the folder. "We are unable to decipher their code. We have our best men working on it, but so far we haven't gotten anywhere. But hopefully we will soon and then we can stay abreast of their underhanded plans."
"Oh," Alouette put her hand to her mouth. "I almost forgot." She relayed the information about the incendiary device and von Krohn's request to have Zozo blow up the Havre factory.
"Do you have this pen?" Zozo asked eagerly.
She reluctantly shook her head, cursing herself for her impetuousness at getting rid of it. Ladoux could have given it to one of his so-called expert engineers to see if they could make heads or tails of it.
Sensing her disappointment, Zozo set a hand on her arm. "Don't worry, Alouette."
His fingers felt like hot coals. She pulled her arm away and then cursed herself again for letting Zozo get the best of her. She put a hand to her mouth and coughed delicately in it, as if that were the reason for her rash movements. "What will be my mission when I return to Spain?"
Zozo stretched his long legs in front of him. "We believe Germany is trying to stir up trouble in the French protectorate of Morocco."
Alouette nodded. "So that France will have to divert troops from the Western front to put down the rebellion in Morocco."
Zozo grinned at her. "Exactly."
Ladoux added, "See if your Baron has anything to do with supplying Moroccan insurgents with supplies: rifles, munitions, that sort of thing."
"I will do my best." Alouette rose from her chair.
"Come back in a few days," Ladoux instructed. "We will get your papers and passport in order for you to get back to Spain."
When Alouette returned to 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain, Ladoux handed her a newspaper clipping. She read it silently, her hands shaking:
Unknown assassins, probably of German descent, instituted an incendiary device on a factory in Renault, inflicting very serious damage.
Alouette sank into a chair. "Were there many killed?"
Ladoux tilted his head back and let go a great belly laugh. "There has only been one copy of that newspaper made." Upon noting Alouette's blank expression, he continued, "It was printed for your von Krohn, so he can pay you the money he promised."
Chapter 38
M’greet
September 1915
M’greet was able to obtain a visa to travel to France with very little problem, but when she applied to the British Consulate to sail via England, she was refused. She then employed the Dutch Foreign Office to inquire as to what the holdup was. It never occurred to her to inform them of her interrogation session in Folkestone a year prior. She visited the Foreign Office every morning for a week before a clerk finally showed her the English ambassador’s reply to her inquiry.
“What does this mean, they consider me ‘undesirable?’” she demanded.
“It means,” the clerk replied, snatching the telegram back from her, “that you are going to need to find an alternative route to France.”
“Fine.” M’greet turned in a huff and then marched straight to the Spanish Consulate.
She was finally given permission to board the SS Zeelandia in September, which sailed from Amsterdam to Vigo in Spain. From there she would travel by train to Madrid and then finally to Paris.
The ship stopped en route in Falmouth for inspection. M’greet waited in line as patiently as she could, noting that one of the ship’s passengers, a stocky man with a bushy mustache that did nothing to lessen the bulk of his large, crooked nose, stood behind the British inspectors and occasionally whispered in their ears. After that, some of the passengers in the queue would be led away for further questioning.
M’greet nervously presented her passport when it was her turn, avoiding the eyes of both the police and the passenger.
The following evening, her dining companions included a merchant from Zaandam, Cleyndert, a short man with broken teeth and smallpox scars.
“Madame Zelle-MacLeod,” he said, leaning forward, close enough that M’greet could see pieces of food caught in those broken teeth. “Do you know that man over there?” He nodded toward the same man with the large nose that had been behind the British inspectors.
“No.”
“Well, he’s telling everyone that he was in your cabin last night.”
“What?” M’greet dropped her fork. “What do you mean, ‘in my cabin last night’? There was no man in there. Are you saying he was in there without my knowledge?”
Cleyndert shrugged.
“What is his name?” M’greet demanded.
“Hoedemaker,” Cleyndert stated. “A Jew,” he added under his breath.
Lady Atline, another passenger, told M’greet a similar story the next afternoon as some of the passengers waited in the sun to take tea with the captain.
“Excuse me,” M’greet stood and walked directly over to Hoedemaker. She tugged at his sleeve.
“Yes?” Hoedemaker replied, squinting at M’greet as though she was a fly he was about to swat.
“Are you telling people you were in my cabin two nights prior?”
“Me?” He cast a sly look around the small crowd that had gathered to listen. “I have said no such thing.”
“That’s not true,” Cleyndert insisted, pushing his way forward. “You said something to me about it.”
“And me,” Lady Atline added.
Hoedemaker cast a helpless glance about the unfriendly crowd. Realizing he was caught, he replied, “I said I was in your room, but I didn’t imply that you were also there.”
“You’re exactly right,” M’greet said, her rage mounting. “I wouldn’t dare be any closer to you than I am now.” Her right hand reached out and connected with the side of Hoedemaker’s face. One of her rings must have scratched him, as his face began bleeding. He pulled out a handkerchief and placed it over the red mark. Without a word, he sauntered down the deck.
“Bravo!” Lady Atline said, coming up beside M’greet. “But aren’t you worried he might make trouble for you when we land in Spain? I hear he works for the British government.”
“If he so desires, I will have to slap his other cheek,” M’greet replied.
Indeed, when the ship disembarked at Vigo, Hoedemaker was right behind her. She could hear his cloddish boots stomping down the gangway. He sat behind her on the train to Madrid and tailed her all the way to the Palace Hotel. He never spoke a word to her, but M’greet felt threatened by his presence anyway.
As soon as the bellhop raised the blinds in her room, M’greet spotted Hoedemaker across the street, staring in her direction.
After a few days in Spain, M’greet tried to cross the bord
er into France, but was refused. She immediately returned to Madrid and headed straight to the Dutch Consul to complain about her treatment. An assistant there revealed that she had been listed by Britain as being “suspect.”
“Suspect? First I am undesirable and now I am suspect? If that is the case, why did they let me leave the Netherlands at all? What am I to do now? Stay in Spain until the end of the war?”
“I’m sorry, madame.” The clerk did indeed sound sympathetic. “Not even the intervention of the Ministry could help you now.”
“I shall reiterate that my sympathies are pro-Allies,” M’greet replied loudly. “Surely that will make a difference.”
“Good luck, madame,” the clerk called after her as she left the consulate.
She did as intended the next day, but was once again refused entry into France.
“Do you know who pays your salary?” she asked a rather stupid-looking border guard.
“The French government.”
“Yes, but a man named Jules Cambon signs your paycheck. Do you know him?”
The guard shook his head.
“He is a personal friend of mine, and has recently been promoted to secretary-general.” Cambon was another of M’greet’s former lovers. The name-drop had the desired effect, and, after casting a confused look at his companion, the guard moved aside to let M’greet pass into France.
It had taken her a weary six weeks to return to Paris, but, as M’greet checked into the Grand Hotel on the Boulevard des Capucines, she figured it was all worth it. There had been no sign of Hoedemaker since she’d left Spain. The Parisian weather was beautiful, and there were handsome men in uniform swarming the streets. The hotel clerk had mentioned something about a big battle looming somewhere nearby, but M’greet, as usual, did not pay much attention.
She decided to take advantage of the weather and ordered a taxi to drive her down to the Seine. As they passed the Arc de Triomphe, M’greet felt that she had arrived home.
She took a walk along the banks of the river, reflecting on how she had been an alien her whole life, first, as a child, abandoned by her father in the austere Netherlands, then in exotic Java, frequently deserted by her brute of a husband. Paris was the only place in the world that had ever seemed truly home to her. There, she had been able to make her own fate, and never needed to put her faith in anyone else.
And for that reason, she realized, she would never betray the beautiful city, no matter what the Germans would pay her. Consider the 20,000 francs repayment for the goods you took from me, she told an invisible Kaiser. I will never provide you information with which you could destroy gay Paris. With that, she pulled the despised vials of invisible ink out of her purse and dumped them into the river.
As she strolled back along the Champs-Élysées, intent on visiting all of her favorite shopping haunts, she caught sight of two plain-clothes men following her a bit too closely. These same men were waiting on a bench when she finished her manicure, and tailed her all the way back to her hotel. Although she was used to men following her, there was something about the way they tried to remain elusive that puzzled M’greet. Why didn’t they ever venture to introduce themselves?
Chapter 39
Alouette
October 1915
When Alouette returned to Madrid, the Baron greeted her with an uncharacteristic coolness, stating, “I’ve purchased you an apartment.”
“Pardon?” Alouette’s hands felt clammy. Had von Krohn found her out, or was this his subtle way of disposing of her as a spy?
He patted his almost non-existent hair. “Arnold Kalle is still suspicious of our relationship. I needed an excuse to keep up the guise of our meetings, so I thought an apartment would be a good cover.”
Alouette’s heartbeat returned to normal.
“Come,” he started toward the door. “Let me show you your new living space.”
Alouette narrowed her eyes at his turned back, but followed him to a nondescript building steps away from the Calle del Alcalá, the most fashionable street in Madrid.
The apartment consisted of a suite of five rooms on the second floor above a beauty parlor. The décor was sparse, the scant furniture done in a modest style.
Von Krohn led her into a small room beside the back staircase. “This will be my office.”
“Your office? I thought this was my apartment.”
“It is, but Kalle has taken to having my house watched. Here I can meet with my contacts without worrying about him knowing my business.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry, Alouette. I won’t be sleeping here. I’m not sure my marriage could survive that.”
As he retreated down the stairs, a slow smile developed across her face. She could now see the opportunity this apartment presented for widening her schemes.
The next afternoon, Alouette lay stretched across the settee in the living room, wearing a simple dress of pale yellow, tied at the waist by a sea-green silk sash.
The Baron entered the room, and, upon catching sight of her, declared, “Your contrasting belt and gown remind me of the waves on the Atlantic shore.”
Her stomach churned at the compliment. She gave no reply. The Baron was smoking one of his heavy, cloying cigars, and she lit a cigarette, purely for the purpose of neutralizing his cigar smoke. The surrounding air grew thick as storm clouds formed in Alouette’s mind. “My dear Baron, I do declare how bored I get when you make such a nuisance of yourself.”
He moved closer to her on the couch. “I wasn’t completely honest with you earlier. It is not only Kalle who is suspicious of your new role in my life. It’s also my wife.”
Alouette blew out a ring of smoke. “Why do you suppose that is?”
“You don’t think it’s obvious to everyone that I’m secretly in love with you?” He said it so casually that she wasn’t sure if he was serious.
She faced him, choking down the repulsion she felt. Her instincts told her to fling the lit cigarette into his face. She squashed it into an ashtray instead, racking her brain for a way to shut him down without completely alienating him. “Hans, perhaps if things had been different, we could have had a relationship.” Luckily the lie exited her mouth with ease. “But you are my handler, and we must keep our contact chaste. For your wife’s sake. Not to mention Zozo’s.”
To her immense relief, his face softened. “You’re right, of course. Had you been German, and fifteen years older, or better yet, if I’d been younger, we would have made a great couple.” He heaved a sigh as he got up from the couch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am expecting a visitor shortly.” He glanced at her. “If it’s not too much trouble, I ask that we be left alone for the next few hours.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me, Hans, I have plenty of unpacking to do.”
Alouette installed herself in the kitchen, at the window that looked out into the back courtyard, keeping watch for von Krohn’s mysterious visitor. As she waited, she reflected on their earlier conversation. Ladoux would probably have been thrilled if she told him she took advantage of von Krohn’s affection to get more information. But she knew all too well the murky line between manipulation and seduction. She’d been down that road before, years ago, after Karl Mather, the lover she’d followed to Paris, spurned her. Too proud to return to Nancy, she had to find some way to support herself. She’d then met a madam who had trained her in the art of being a courtesan—a companion to rich and powerful men, who delighted in having beautiful, intelligent women on their arm. Especially one that wasn’t their wife. While Alouette had never actually slept with any of the men she entertained, she’d come close enough to decide never to do it again. Thankfully Henri had come along and proposed marriage before she became really desperate.
The sound of the Baron’s heavy footsteps pacing in his office brought her back to reality. She looked up to see a stocky brunette in her mid-forties entering the back door.
Alouette crept into the dining room, which was next to the Baron’s
office. She did her best to eavesdrop on the conversation between von Krohn and the woman, but, as they were both speaking Spanish, could only understand snippets. She noted that von Krohn called the woman ‘Maria’ and instructed her to visit his office for a handbag and a train ticket to Cerbére.
When she overheard the woman’s voice say, “Muy bien, señor,” Alouette hurried to the living room. She heard a series of doors close and then heavy footsteps in the hall.
Alouette sat in an armchair with her head between her hands. Presently she could sense von Krohn standing in front of her. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“I’ve got an awful headache,” she replied in a low tone. “Maybe all of this unpacking finally got to me.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
She looked up. “Do you mind buying me some antipyrine?” She felt a guilty pleasure in making him purchase the supplies she needed to communicate his secret plans to her boss.
He returned in half an hour to drop off the medicine and then left again, saying he had to attend a dinner at the Embassy. Alouette took advantage of his absence to write a detailed letter in secret ink to Ladoux, informing him of the spy named Maria and her instructions to go to Cerbére.
She was still involved in her task when she heard von Krohn return. Although her heart was hammering away in her chest, she set her pen down and swallowed the rest of the antipyrine as casually as she could when he entered the room. Luckily the secret ink had already dried on the paper.
“How do you feel about traveling to Morocco?” von Krohn asked in a pseudo-casual voice.
Alouette matched his tone. “What for?”
“I need you to send a coded message to the tribal insurgents.”
“But Morocco is a French protectorate. Won’t I have trouble getting there?”
Von Krohn dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. “Like everything else French, the French Secret Service is so negligent they will never know. I will accompany you as far as Algeciras on the coast of Gibraltar. I can make arrangements for our accommodations immediately.”
The Women Spies Series 1-3 Page 86
