by Teri Brown
The motorcar pulls up to King’s Cross Station and the driver hops out to open Miss Tickford’s door. I scoot out after her while he gets the bags. He pulls out our cases and follows us into the train station.
Most of the people milling about are soldiers, and I marvel at how awake everyone is. Of course, they probably slept last night, which I most assuredly did not.
The train trip to Dover is uneventful. Miss Tickford takes out a small pillow and dozes in the cramped compartment. In spite of my lack of sleep, I’m oddly awake. What sort of assignments am I uniquely suited to? Yes, I’m good with puzzles, codes, and languages, but surely MI6 has other employees who are also good at such things.
Fog obscures the early morning light as we reach our destination. The damp chill seeps through my coat and I shiver. My legs inch forward like blocks of concrete and a giant yawn almost splits my head in two. A porter takes care of our luggage while Miss Tickford guides me through security.
Crossing the Channel by ferry isn’t as common as it used to be. Though our submarines and military vessels are regularly patrolling the waters, we know that the Germans have U-boats out as well. Travel between countries, except by military personnel, is rare now. I hold my breath as I hand the officers my fake papers, but they don’t question them at all.
Once we’re in the comparative warmth of the salon, Miss Tickford buries her nose in her book. I walk over to the window and look out. The mist is rolling over the water in eerie waves and I pull my collar up around my neck. Shivers dance up and down my spine as the ferry slides noiselessly through the water. There could be U-boats stalking us at this very moment. The sun is beginning to burn through the fog, causing glittering streams of light. The beauty doesn’t ease my anxiety, so I take a seat and shut my eyes.
Miss Tickford seemed surprised when I brought up my father. I hope that’s the truth. I desperately want to trust her.
When the ferry arrives in France, we’re instructed to wait to take our leave until the servicemen and nurses have disembarked. Again, my papers are not questioned. I wonder if Miss Tickford is also pretending to be someone else or if it’s just me. Why don’t they want anyone to know I’ve left the country?
So if I don’t return, I can’t be traced?
I shiver. Part of me wants nothing more than to bolt back home as quick as I can, but I shove the thought from my head. I must concentrate on completing my training and assignment, so Captain Parker will investigate my father’s abduction.
After the train departs from the station for Verdun, Miss Tickford orders tea from a passing porter. I wolf down the biscuits, longing for something more substantial, but beggars can’t be choosers.
When we’re finished, Miss Tickford leans toward me, her eyes serious. “You must listen carefully and remember everything, all right?”
I nod and she continues. “The Germans have a far more advanced espionage network than the British or the French do. The Abwehr—their intelligence organization—has been key to the Germans’ military success. I’m afraid that we’re playing catch-up.”
Her head is close to mine and the urgency in her voice is clear. “The women of La Dame Blanche are largely responsible for what intelligence success we’ve had. As one of us, the work you’ll be doing is crucial.”
A little kick of elation erupts in my chest and I lower my eyes to avoid showing her the excitement that seems so inappropriate. Men are dying and here I am, thrilled to be chosen to spy.
She seems to know how I’m feeling, though, because she reaches out and tweaks a loose curl. When I look up, startled, she smiles, her green eyes glittering.
“You may have found playing errand girl for the men of MI5 dull, but trust me, little one, being a spy for La Dame Blanche is far, far from boring.”
FIVE
ILYH
Ears Only: Material and information too sensitive to be put in writing.
By the time we reach Verdun, I’m stiff from sitting, and my muscles protest as I follow Miss Tickford off the train. I glance around, struck by the tension in the station.
“Everyone is getting ready for the spring offensive,” Miss Tickford murmurs as we gather our cases. “Come along, we’re going to walk.”
The Germans had invaded France last summer with their sights set on Paris, but were stopped just outside of Verdun. The civilians and the military personnel of this small city look equally grim.
I follow close behind Miss Tickford. I’m glad for a chance to stretch my legs. The fishy scent of the river Meuse wafts through the air of this tiny city of church spires and quaint gables. The trees on the hills surrounding the city are still bare of leaves. It’s hard to believe that the front is just a few miles away.
I shudder as if the proverbial ghost has crossed my grave. “Where are we staying?” I ask.
Miss Tickford slows a bit. “A little farm just outside of town. We have training houses all over France and we alternate our use of them so we don’t arouse suspicion. It’s a short walk, and I wanted to go over some of our expectations during this part of the training.”
I nod.
“You won’t be allowed to roam about on your own. It’s important that we keep our presence here as low-key as possible. There are informants everywhere.”
“In France?” I ask, surprised.
“Everywhere,” she says firmly, and then continues. “While here, you’ll talk to no one except myself and your cryptography instructor. And, of course, the housekeeper. Beyond codes, we’ll be teaching you how to use a gun, how to defend yourself physically, how to make dead drops, brush drops, and live drops, among many other necessary skills. After that, you’ll be smuggled into Luxembourg, where we’ll prepare you for your first assignment.”
I nod. Luxembourg’s been occupied for almost eight months and is completely overrun by the German military.
We turn into the wide, circular drive of a large white farmhouse surrounded by stone outbuildings. The shutters on the multipaned windows are blue; the door is a sedate green. I spot a pond behind the house, and in the yard, chickens peck at the ground in search of bugs.
Standing outside the front door, as if he’d been expecting us, is a tall middle-aged man in a plaid cap. He frowns at me and I look to Miss Tickford for guidance.
“Monsieur Elliot, how nice to see you again. This is Rosemary James. She’ll be our guest for the next several weeks.”
Rosemary? Of course, the name on the papers. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Elliot.”
The man tips his hat, revealing a round, bald head fringed with dark red hair. Then he turns to Miss Tickford and speaks in rapid French. “This is what you’re bringing us these days? She’s not only wet behind the ears, I bet she’s in nappies as well. What am I supposed to do with this? What could such a baby know of codes and ciphers?”
My face burns and I realize that this man who looks like a French farmhand is my cryptography teacher. I answer in French before Miss Tickford can reply. “I assure you, monsieur, that while I may be wet behind the ears, I am not wearing nappies. I can also assure you that I have a working knowledge of almost every common code in existence, including the Vigenère cipher. I look forward to our studies.”
Monsieur Elliot raises an eyebrow and bends over my hand. “Touché, Mademoiselle James. My apologies. We’ll meet in the library right after supper to see just how much you know.”
He takes Miss Tickford’s bags and goes inside.
The rooms inside the house are small and cramped, but the walls look as if they have been freshly whitewashed and the red tiles on the floor are immaculately clean.
Madame Ducat, the stern-looking housekeeper, shows me to a small, tidy room. The bed is narrow and pristinely white, with two soft down pillows. I place my satchel on a trunk next to the door and, barely pausing to kick off my shoes, stumble across the room to the bed.
By the time a knock on the door wakes me for dinner, the sun has disappeared. I run a brush through my hai
r and twist it into a low knot at the back of my head, doing my best to calm the unruly curls. Slipping on my shoes, I try to press the wrinkles out of my dress with my hands, and I hurry to join the others for dinner.
In a house full of tiny rooms, the dining room is an exception. A cheerful fire crackles in a large fireplace on one wall, while a large, dark cabinet holding glasses and pottery fills the other. The gleaming table could seat a dozen or more people, though at the moment, only two are sitting together at one end.
“Did you sleep well?” Miss Tickford asks.
I nod, taking a seat. “I did, thank you.”
The housekeeper serves a beef consommé with thin shavings of carrots and leeks floating in it. I concentrate on not wolfing it down and let the conversation wash over me. I almost miss it when someone says my new name. I look up, startled. “Excuse me?”
They exchange looks and I wonder if I just failed some sort of test. What if Miss Tickford is already regretting her choice? I straighten. “My apologies. What did you say?”
Monsieur Elliot clears his throat. “I was wondering why you agreed to join La Dame Blanche, mademoiselle.”
“Please, call me Rosemary.” I’m proud of myself for not even hesitating over the name.
He inclines his head. I dart a glance at Miss Tickford, but she continues to eat. I chew on my lip, feeling as if my answer will be weighed and scrutinized. My father, ever the diplomat, told me that in any new situation it’s best to get people to root for you, whether they agree with you or not. In a case like this, where I’m dependent on other people to teach me what I need to know to survive, it’s even more important. “As I’m sure you are aware, I was part of the Girl Guides. We’d all heard about a female espionage group, though we couldn’t confirm it, of course. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to become a member and help my country in a more concrete way.”
From the expression on his face, Monsieur Elliot isn’t overwhelmed by my patriotism. “So you’re ready to die for your country, mademoiselle? Be tortured for your country?” His voice echoes harshly in the sedate and proper French dining room and my heart slams against my ribs.
Miss Tickford’s spoon clatters on the table.
“That’s enough,” she says. “There’s no need to terrify her.”
“There’s not?” His features are stark in the gaslight and I can’t believe I ever thought he looked like a genial farmhand. “Shouldn’t she know why we’re recruiting children? Because so many of our more mature, experienced agents are missing. The more she knows, the more seriously she’ll take her lessons.”
He leans across the table toward me and I force myself not to back away.
“You’ll be pretending to be someone you’re not, and for the most part, you’ll be doing it alone. If you’re caught, you’ll be thrown into prison, tortured for information you probably won’t have, and quite possibly killed. Does this sound like a school vacation, mademoiselle?”
My eyes sweep to Miss Tickford, whose calm gaze is trained on me.
It’s time to bluff.
I lift my chin. “Of course not, Monsieur Elliot. I’m well aware of the gravity of the situation, don’t worry on that account. And I have always taken my lessons seriously, as you’re about to discover.”
I pause to butter my dinner roll. Only a slight trembling of my fingers shows my agitation. “It’s true I have a lot to learn, but I think you’ll find there are reasons why my superiors thought I’d be an excellent candidate. And please, call me Rosemary.”
I take a bite of the roll, which tastes like sawdust, and give Monsieur Elliot a stiff smile.
Miss Tickford calmly resumes eating. The man across the table stares at me before bursting into surprised laughter.
“We shall see, Rosemary, we shall see.”
SIX
VLA
Plain Text: The original message or word before it is encrypted.
After dinner, I met with Monsieur Elliot for two hours of decoding history and practice with a cipher disc. I actually enjoyed the lesson, in spite of Monsieur’s disdain, and once even earned a grunt of approval that made me beam with pride.
Then I studied invisible inks and chemistry with Miss Tickford, whose specialty, it turns out, is poisons. Her other talent, not surprisingly, is disguises, but she said she would be teaching me more about that subject once we’re in Luxembourg.
This morning, Monsieur Elliot is to teach me basic self-defense, which is why I’m standing in loose cotton trousers and an even looser artist’s smock in a freezing outbuilding behind the house.
His face is serious as I join him. “You know what jujitsu is, don’t you?”
I nod. “Isn’t it from Japan, originally?”
“Yes. I took lessons several years ago from the Garruds, who studied the art in Japan and then opened their own jujitsu gymnasium in London. It’s actually quite involved, so I’m only going to teach you a few basic moves in case you’re attacked.”
They expect me to be attacked? I shove the thought away and nod.
“Unfortunately, if you’re attacked, you’ll no doubt be wearing skirts, but I want to start off teaching you in trousers so I can see how you move. We’ll have you practice in a dress before you go to Luxembourg. I’m teaching you four basic moves: the body drop, the escape wrist grab, an escape front strangle, and an escape back strangle.
“Let’s begin with the escape wrist grab.”
“Why not the body drop?” I ask. It sounds like the most fun.
“Because you’d be too sore for the rest of the lesson.” Monsieur Elliot reaches out and catches one of my wrists. “What would you do if I grabbed you like this?”
Instinctively, I try to yank my wrist away, but his grip increases. I move to hit him with my other hand, but he catches it easily.
“Now I have both your wrists. What are you going to do?”
I bring my knee up swiftly, but he jumps back and twists one of my wrists. Within seconds I’m on my knees.
I glare up at him. “Uncle.”
He immediately releases my wrists. “You’d be immobilized in seconds, and they won’t let go just because you scream or sob. Stand up.”
I stand, rubbing my wrists.
“Now grab mine.”
I do so as best I can even though his wrists are too large for my hands to encircle completely.
“The men who attack you are going to be bigger than you and stronger than you. You are only going to have two things on your side.”
“What’s that?” I ask sullenly.
“Surprise. They won’t expect you to fight back.”
“What’s the second thing?”
He leans forward and his blue eyes bore into mine. “More surprise. They won’t expect you to know how to fight back. Now tighten your grip.”
I do as he commands and then he suddenly claps his hands. While they’re together, he steps closer and jabs his hands into my stomach, causing me to lean back. In that moment he yanks his arms backward and I lose my grip.
I shake my head, frustrated. “I’ll never be that fast.”
“Yes, you will. Now let’s do it in slow motion so you can observe the mechanics. Then you can try.”
After I learn that technique to his satisfaction, he teaches me how to respond if grabbed from the front or from behind. By the time we finish, I’ve been on the floor six times and am not only sore but annoyed. Why don’t I get to knock him to the floor?
“I think that’s enough for now,” he says. “I don’t want you to overdo it.”
Resentful, I lean in close. “There’s something you haven’t showed me.”
Puzzled, he looks at me. “I told you, I’ll teach the body drop later.”
“Not that.” Grabbing his shoulder, I pull him close to me, then sweep my leg under his, causing him to fall straight back onto his backside. I grin down at him. “That.”
To my surprise, instead of getting angry or annoyed, he laughs. “Apparently, you don’t need any instru
ction in that.”
I snatch up my clothes and walk out of the barn with my nose in the air. The sound of his laughter follows me into the house.
I spend the next several weeks learning basic surveillance techniques with Miss Tickford, followed by more jujitsu. Most of the time, I feel completely inept, but when Miss Tickford and Monsieur Elliot take me out to teach me to shoot, I know the time has come to show them a thing or two.
“You’ll be issued a small muff pistol and it’s important that you know how to use it,” Miss Tickford tells me. Monsieur Elliot stands behind us with his arms crossed, a sour look on his face. “Don’t mind him,” Miss Tickford says. “He doesn’t think a lady should know how to shoot.”
Monsieur Elliot snorts.
In response, she shoots off several rounds, getting respectably close to the center of the target.
“Women should stick to their poisons,” Monsieur Elliot tells us. “They’re better with them than they are with guns.”
Irritation ripples through me. “Is that so?” I ask, quickly reloading the weapon. Bringing it up, I shoot it six times in quick succession, hitting the bull’s-eye with every shot. Smirking at his stunned expression, I turn and hand him the gun. “I’m not a woman, I’m a girl, and my father taught me to shoot when I was nine.”
This time it’s Miss Tickford who’s laughing as I walk back to the house.
My confidence grows daily with each new skill I master and each new challenge I overcome. I learn which kind of invisible ink works best with which paper, how to do a brush pass, and how to pick basic locks. Even though I worry about my mother, I have to admit the truth.
I’m having the time of my life.
But it is exhausting. I’m up before the sun each morning and I work far into the night.
I’m glad for the respite that studying codes with Monsieur Elliot affords me every evening. We’re working in the library, which, with its comfortable chairs, giant stone fireplace, and low beams, is my favorite room in the house. With a pang, I’m reminded of all the hours I spent studying with my father. I swallow against the sudden pain and focus on my work, which has become increasingly challenging. We’re now working more on theoretical codes and mathematics than on practical coding. I look up.
