The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  January 1917

  Zozo returned to Madrid in mid-January, taking the room next to Alouette’s in the Palace Hotel. Von Krohn requested a meeting with him to find out how the campaign was going thus far and to introduce a new part of the plot.

  “It is now time to completely shatter the morale of the French troops at the front,” von Krohn stated. “I am going to give you a copy of a French newspaper. You are going to follow its format as closely as possible, for I want the French soldiers to believe they are reading actual news reporting the giant losses of Allied troops and the likelihood that Germany is going to win the war.”

  Zozo shot a warning look in Alouette’s direction, as if he expected her to gasp aloud or otherwise give herself away. But she remained as cool as ever. “I am confident in Zozo’s ability.”

  Instead of looking reassured, von Krohn’s face flashed with something else. Jealousy perhaps.

  Alouette decided to provoke him further and captured Zozo’s hand in hers. Their affair wasn’t the sort where they demonstrated affection in public, but Zozo squeezed her hand back.

  “You may set your mind at rest, Baron von Krohn,” she told him. “I will carry out your wishes to your satisfaction.”

  “Very well then.” The Baron’s face was steely. “I have changed pesetas into 300,000 francs. You are to return to France as soon as possible. As you cannot cross the frontier with such a large amount of money, we will bring you to the border in a car tomorrow evening. I will hand over the money at that point, and men in my charge will take you to France.”

  Zozo bowed gracefully as Alouette’s heart unexpectedly filled with indignation. He was going back to France while she was stuck here!

  Zozo claimed he had something to do the next day, so Alouette spent the afternoon alone. When she exited the hotel to meet von Krohn, Zozo was standing on the corner, his hands in his pockets.

  She joined him on the sidewalk, wishing she could join him on his journey. Not necessarily because she wanted to be with him, but because he was the last link to her real identity. Of course she couldn’t tell him any of that. “What will you do with the newspapers?” she asked instead.

  He cast his eyes up and down the boulevard, but no one was in sight. “Burn them, of course.”

  “And the money?”

  “Most of it will go to the Deuxiéme Bureau. Not all of it, of course,” he said with a wink. “I have to spend a little of it myself.”

  “Of course.”

  He took one hand out of his pocket to offer her a cigarette. “I’ll miss you.”

  Alouette accepted the cigarette as she thought of a reply, but just then the Baron’s car pulled up to the curb.

  “Do you have the money?” Zozo asked the Baron as he got out.

  Von Krohn gestured toward a leather bag on the floor of the front passenger side. “300,000 francs.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Alouette commented.

  “It’s not so much when you think about how this plan could save Germany months of fighting,” von Krohn replied as his chauffeur loaded Zozo’s bag. “That is, if your friend can see it through.”

  “Fiancé,” Alouette corrected him, noting with satisfaction the glower that appeared on the Baron’s face.

  “But, Herr Davrichachvili, I must warn you.” Von Krohn grabbed her from behind. “If you dare betray us, I shall hold Alouette hostage.”

  To her dismay, Zozo grinned. “The Russian General Martinoff told me the exact same thing at Tiflis. I had to leave my then-fiancé, a different woman,” he added, “as hostage, pledging my word to the general that I would not incite the peasants to rise up.”

  Von Krohn relaxed his grasp on her arms. “What happened?”

  “I incited the peasants to uprise, and we held the Russian army at bay.”

  “And your then-fiancé?” the Baron asked. Alouette was going to ask the same thing, but flicked her cigarette with feigned indifference instead.

  “She told me to do what I must do for the cause. Exactly as Alouette would do, isn’t that right Alouette?”

  She shrugged.

  “The Cossacks killed her,” Zozo continued. Alouette glanced up, giving him a helpless look, but he ignored her. “Two days afterward, General Martinoff was blown up in his carriage. So you see…” he blew out a ring of smoke, “her death was not in vain.”

  “Luckily we are traveling by motor-car today,” the Baron put in.

  “Horse-carriage or automobile, what does it matter?” the supposed Russian nihilist stated. “Every man—or woman—is responsible for their own destiny.”

  Von Krohn stood stiffly by the door of the car as Zozo crawled into the backseat and Alouette followed.

  “Heinrich,” von Krohn called to his chauffeur. “I’ll drive tonight. I know these roads well.”

  As von Krohn started the car, Zozo tried to make more anarchist conversation. Alouette sat with her hands folded across her chest, stewing. She hadn’t expected Zozo to part with declarations of undying affection, but she also didn’t expect him to admit to the Baron he’d sacrifice her life if it meant seeing his mission through. At least he admitted that he’d miss me. She glanced in the rearview mirrors to see that the Baron’s narrowed eyes had left the road and were focused on her.

  All of a sudden, bright lights blinded Alouette. Then there was the sound of metal striking metal, and the feeling of being shoved against the door. She passed out for what seemed like hours, but was probably only mere seconds. She awoke, coughing from the smoke in her lungs, and realized the car had stopped moving. They had struck a utility pole.

  Chapter 62

  M’greet

  January 1917

  As she waited for Ladoux to get back to her, M’greet resumed her usual rounds of shopping and visits to the manicurist and hair dresser. She knew she was once again being tailed, but paid no attention to her followers. Soon, Ladoux would see for himself that she had done a great service and would call off his lackeys for good.

  Vadim was due back in Paris on January 8th. When he did not arrive, M’greet grew worried, writing to him twice a day to affirm her undying love and demanding a response from him. After a week went by with no reply from Vadim, she decided to write to Anna, begging her to contact van de Capellen to send more money.

  When Anna sent a letter confirming that she would do her mistress’s bidding, M’greet noticed the envelope’s seal had been broken. Someone had been steaming open her letters.

  Daring to hope that her lover’s replies to her had been confiscated, she called the Grand Hotel, where she and Vadim had spent many pleasurable hours together, to see if they had any information on when he would arrive.

  “Vladimir Masloff?” the clerk repeated.

  “Yes,” M’greet stated impatiently, expecting him to demand her to spell it out, something she wasn’t entirely sure she could do correctly.

  “It appears that he checked in yesterday.”

  She almost dropped the phone. “Please let him know that a visitor will be arriving to see him shortly.

  “Can I also supply him a name?”

  “No,” she replied before hanging up the phone.

  Vadim greeted her with a sheepish smile on the good side of his face. He was still wearing the eyepatch and stood stiffly in the lobby.

  M’greet mirrored his stance. “Why haven’t you answered any of my letters?”

  The grin turned to a look of bewilderment. “I did. Did you not get my explanation?”

  “Explanation of what?”

  He glanced toward an empty couch. “Let’s sit.” He attempted to put his hand on her back, but she shrugged him off, wanting to make him suffer for the long months of silence, even if they weren’t completely his fault.

  He sat down across from her and took a deep breath. “I was under the impression that you already knew, and you were coming here to reprimand me.”

  “Knew what?” she snapped.

  “Why I can’t marry you.”

 
Her mouth closed involuntarily. She bit her tongue and widened her eyes, willing herself not to cry. “And why is that?”

  “My colonel received a letter from some French officer, who claimed you were a ‘dangerous adventuress’ and that you are only after money.”

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  The good side of his face softened. “I do know that. But my colonel is forbidding me to see you again. I can’t marry you,” he repeated.

  “Quit the army.”

  He reached out to pat her knee, but she moved her leg away just in time. “I can’t desert. In case you are unaware, Russia is in the middle of a revolution. I would be killed if I went home.”

  “We can go to the Netherlands. It’s neutral—they don’t care about accepting deserted soldiers into their borders.” She had no idea if that were true or not, but it sounded good.

  Apparently it wasn’t good enough for Vadim. He stood. “I’m sorry, Marina.”

  “Don’t call me that. You no longer get to refer to me with a nickname. If you must mention me, which I hope you never have to do again, use ‘Mata Hari.’ That’s apparently the woman you think I am, anyway.”

  With that, she walked out of the hotel and out of Vadim’s life forever.

  When M’greet caught sight of the same familiar men waiting for her outside, she decided she’d had enough. She hailed a taxi and gave the driver strict orders on where to turn so that they zig-zagged erratically through the Parisian streets.

  When they’d finally lost the detectives, M’greet directed the driver to the office of her lawyer, Edouard Clunet.

  She strolled in, not caring if he had a client at that time, which he did not. “I want you to send an official letter to Captain Georges Ladoux at 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain,” she declared.

  Clunet glanced up from his paperwork. “Is that so? That is the headquarters of the Deuxiéme Bureau. What business do you have there?”

  “Nothing more, apparently.” She nodded at the inkwell in the middle of his desk. Clunet sighed as he picked up the pen.

  She began dictating: “Captain Ladoux, I do not ask your secrets and I do not wish to know your agents. Do not discuss my methods, do not ruin my work with secret agents who can’t possibly begin to understand me. I desire to be paid as soon as possible for I wish to leave Paris.”

  Clunet set his pen down. “Don’t you think demanding payment sounds a bit mercenary?”

  “If I am not ashamed to accept money, then I must not be ashamed to say so.” She snatched the letter from him. “If you want, I will mail it myself.”

  He handed her a stamped envelope. “M’greet,” he started, but, envelope in hand, she was already out the door.

  M’greet had just settled down to eat breakfast a few days later when she was disturbed by someone banging on the door. As soon as she unlocked the latch, the door burst open and a well-dressed, middle-aged man with an upturned mustache barged in. The man paused in front of her while five gendarmes filed in and began ransacking her room.

  “What is this?” she demanded.

  “Margaretha Zelle-MacLeod?” the man inquired.

  “Yes?”

  “You are under arrest for the crimes of attempting espionage against France and passing on intelligence to enemy countries.”

  She was taken to the Palace of Justice and shown to a tiny office. The room was so small that it could only accommodate a table and three chairs. Both of the seated men got up as she entered. The shorter one introduced himself as Pierre Bouchardon, investigative magistrate of the Third Council of War.

  The other man nodded without saying anything before sitting down again. As he picked up a pen, M’greet realized he was just a clerk.

  Bouchardon struck a match and soon the room was filled with the stench of his cigar. “Have you been informed of the charges against you?”

  “I have.”

  “You have the right to call a lawyer.”

  M’greet waved smoke out of her face. “I do not think that is necessary at this point. These charges are clearly a result of a miscommunication between myself and Captain Ladoux of the Deuxiéme Bureau. I am innocent of all charges.” She assumed that there had been another mistake, such as that tiresome Clara Benedix incident. She rose. “If you would just contact Ladoux, he can explain everything.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that easy, Madame Zelle-MacLeod. Captain Ladoux was the one who started this investigation.”

  “But—” She racked her brain, but could not come up with a suitable way to finish her argument. That lying imbecile has betrayed me.

  Bouchardon’s next words were addressed to the clerk. “Please make arrangements to deliver Madame Zelle-MacLeod to Saint Lazare.”

  She gave a horrified cry before grabbing Bouchardon’s arm. “Please, monsieur, please don’t send me to prison. I am of a delicate constitution—”

  He shrugged her off. “Oh, we know all about your lodging preferences.” He opened the door. “We will continue our conversation in a few days.”

  That first night, M’greet was placed in a padded cell, in case the shock of the day had caused her to develop thoughts of suicide.

  The prison doctor paid her a visit, and, after examining her, asked if she was in need of anything.

  “Yes,” M’greet replied sullenly. “A bath and a telephone.”

  “Neither are available for prisoners at Saint-Lazare.” He gestured toward a stained bucket in the corner. “That is for you to relieve yourself, and you can wash up with this bowl of cold water.”

  M’greet went over to the bucket and lifted her dove-gray skirts. She hadn’t gone to the bathroom all day and told herself that doctors were used to seeing all types of bodily fluids.

  “You know, this prison was used to house 18th century prostitutes with venereal diseases.” He gave her a withering glance. “Fitting, wouldn’t you say?”

  Her eyes became slits as she rearranged her skirts. “How dare you.”

  He moved toward the door and she realized he was about to leave her alone in this horrid place. She changed her tone to a high-pitched plea. “Please sir, can you arrange a different room for me? Take pity.”

  But the heartless doctor left without further comment.

  Chapter 63

  Alouette

  February 1917

  The Baron, who had been driving the doomed car, suffered only cuts and scratches from broken glass. Alouette’s face was also cut, but her left ankle, which had been broken previously in an airplane accident, was fractured and her left knee was pulled out of its joint.

  After a night or two in a Madrid hospital, von Krohn had Alouette transferred to his house. He claimed he wanted to protect her from the prying eyes of journalists, but she knew his real reason was to maintain his semblance of control over her, especially since her supposed fiancé, whose arm had been broken, remained at the hospital.

  For weeks she lay helpless on a bed in the Baron’s office. After she was able to put weight on her leg, she’d trek back and forth between the guest room and a pull-out bed in the office, spending her days lamenting over the money Zozo would never receive. Von Krohn must have already hired someone else, who was most likely not a double agent and might actually earn it by writing German propaganda to further lower the morale of French troops.

  One day she was standing at the patio door of his office, propped up by a crutch, enjoying a little sunshine, when the Baron came in.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, the tenderness obvious in his voice.

  “Fine,” she snapped. All the tenderness in the world could never change the deep resentment she held toward him.

  A maid popped her head in. “Señorita Maria is here.”

  “Tell her to wait in the parlor and I’ll be there in a minute.” Von Krohn reached for Alouette’s hand. “We will continue this conversation later this afternoon.”

  She recalled that Maria was one of von Krohn’s other female agents, one she’d warned Ladoux abo
ut months ago, but had yet to be arrested.

  Alouette made her way toward the closed double doors that led to the parlor, balancing on her crutch with her ear to the door. Von Krohn’s tone was low, but she could still discern most of what he said. “Very good. I’ll send Antonio to look for two fountain pens. Call again tomorrow at the same hour and I’ll pass them on to you, along with full instructions.”

  Alouette hobbled over to the nearest chair and sat, deep in thought. She had to find a way to warn Paris and have an agent shadow Maria immediately. She frowned at her bandaged foot, thinking the normally straightforward task seemed nearly impossible.

  As soon as von Krohn returned, she remarked, in as casual a voice as she could manage, “I say, Hans, I can’t go on wearing your wife’s undies indefinitely. I should like to purchase some new ones.”

  He smiled an oily grin, probably picturing her in sexy lingerie. “I’ll take you out after my afternoon siesta.”

  “No. I’d like to go on my own.”

  The grin disappeared. “You cannot manage an outing such as that by yourself. Not yet.”

  “But the doctor has given me permission to walk a little bit at a time. And I’ve managed so far on this crutch just fine. Besides,” she racked her mind for a reason for him not to accompany her. “I must pay a visit to Zozo and see how he is getting on.”

  This produced the reaction she desired. “Fine. If you want to risk your healing leg just to see him, go ahead. I do not wish to be disturbed.”

  He left the room, the door banging behind him.

  The servants helped her into the motor-car, and Alouette instructed the chauffeur to first drive her to the Palace Hotel so that she could pick up her mail.

  The desk clerk deposited a pile of letters in front of her and gave her a satisfied smile before walking away.

  Alouette wondered what was behind his reaction as she flipped through her mail. One of the envelopes contained a newspaper clipping sent by one of the Deuxiéme Bureau’s clerks. She picked it up and read the headline: “The Spy in the Car,” before she tossed it aside with shaking hands. She could only imagine what the newspaper article had speculated about the reason why the prized airwoman of Nancy was in a car with the German naval attaché and a known anarchist.