L'Agent Double

by Kit Sergeant

  “‘E’ve all been waiting quite some time,” the Englishman said quietly.

  “Yes, but you are the enemy and I am not,” the German replied. He took his gold cigarette case out of his pocket and flipped it open, only to find it empty.

  The Englishman reached out to tap the German’s well-kept boot, who looked down with a sneer. The German drew back his boot and Marthe thought for an awful second that he intended to kick the man.

  “’Ere,” the Englishman said, holding up his packet. “’Ave one of mine.”

  “You swine,” the German replied. He raised his leg higher.

  “Crikey,” the Englishman withdrew his packet. “Yer a real gentleman, aren’t you? Don’t suppose you mind if I have a smoke, do you?”

  The German’s beady eyes narrowed even further. Marthe was about to offer to wrap his hand, if just to get him out of the way, when there was a commotion near the stairs.

  A man stood at the entrance to the dugout shouting in pain. He appeared to be wearing a knee-length skirt, and Marthe first thought he’d lost his trousers, but then it occurred to her that it was her first sighting of a Highland soldier.

  “Jesus Chrrist,” he said with a long rolling R, as he took in the scene of the wounded men and the scurrying medical staff.

  “Hullo Scotty,” the Englishman called. “You ken take a seat over here. Ceiling’s leaking above so it’s made the ground nice and soft.”

  The Scotsman grunted and Marthe grabbed a swath of bandages before following him. Although she spoke some English, she could not understand a word of what the Scotsman had to say in his rough, Northern dialect. Whatever it was, his tale seemed to fill him with great indignation.

  The Englishman offered him one of his endless supplies of cigarettes. He listened to the Scotsman’s tirade, evidently understanding as he added an “Aye,” here and there when the Scotsman paused to draw a breath.

  Marthe had just finished wrapping his foot when the feldwebel called to her. “Time to go home, Fräulein Cnockaert. You can go with them to the hospital when the next ambulance arrives.”

  “Sir... mein herr,” the Englishman corrected himself. “This man needs to go too.” He nodded at the Scotsman, who had closed his eyes and was laying with his head against the dirt wall.

  “Germans first,” the feldwebel returned.

  Marthe found space for the Scotsman next to her and the ambulance driver, Alphonse, the same man who had driven her to the dugout. It had only been less than twelve hours, but it seemed like a lifetime.

  “We’ve got to get going,” Alphonse said. “The Allies are putting stuff over tonight.”

  Marthe looked up as she heard the telltale shrieking sound. The shell burst into flame a few hundred feet away, stirring up a mountain of dirt that soon dissipated into the twilight. She knew she should probably be scared, but she was too tired and hungry to register much more than that.

  Alphonse put the ambulance in gear and began to drive off, the Scotsman grunting at every bump in the road. Suddenly a flame arose immediately in front of the ambulance. Time slowed to a crawl as the windshield burst into tiny fragments that sparkled in the firelight. Marthe hair’s rose upward, defying gravity, and she had the peculiar thought that she was flying. And then she felt nothing.

  Chapter 19

  M’greet

  January 1915

  After she’d fled from Harry at the bar, M’greet made her way back to the Grand Hotel. The night was frigid and she shivered uncontrollably as she exited the cab, either from the cold or latent anger at Henry. Or possibly both.

  A tall man in an officer’s uniform stood at the front desk. He tipped his cap at M’greet as she entered the lobby. “Evening, madame.”

  M’greet nodded back. Although his face was round and his hair graying, the body under the uniform appeared to be well-formed. She reached under her own coat and rubbed her arms, which at this point were covered in gooseflesh. She thought first of the women and children standing in the breadline, imagining many of them would either starve or freeze to death by the end of winter if something didn’t change soon. Her mind then traveled to Harry and his accusations of her being a fortune hunter. Forget Harry. She saddled up to the officer. “Are you checking in?”

  “Indeed.” He waved a piece of paper in the air. “I’m filling out my foreign card, so they can make sure I’m not a spy.”

  M’greet laughed. “Of course not. Anyone can see you are an officer of the…” she squinted as if to analyze his uniform, but in truth she never could discern between the different kits of the many countries at war.

  He clicked his heels together. “Commandant of the Fourth Belgian Lancers, Division of the Cavalry of the Army of the Yser.”

  “That’s quite a mouthful.”

  He shot her a grin, and M’greet was pleased to see his face looked much finer when he smiled. “Also known as the Marquis Frederic de Beaufort. But you can call me Freddy.”

  She met his smile with her own, carefully maneuvered to make her thin lips seem fuller, before she turned to the clerk. “I do believe the room next to my suite is empty, is it not?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “Perhaps you can give him that one, then. The Marquis must be starving. If you would please send a tray of charcuterie to my room.”

  The reasoning behind her suggestion was not lost on Freddy, who chuckled and then winked at the clerk. “Seems like my stay in Paris is going to be more delightful than I thought.”

  The clerk kept his face neutral as he handed over the key.

  M’greet winked at Freddy, who was waiting for a porter, before she started up the staircase.

  When she had entertained strange men in Paris previously, she usually had her escort rent a room in what was known as a maison de rendezvous, particularly the one run by Mademoiselle Denart at 3 Rue Galilee. M’greet knew that, like at many high-class establishments, the Grand’s staff and fellow patrons would look down upon a strange man coming and going from a single woman’s room, but at the same time, the ruse of adjoining suites would at least be tolerated.

  She was not surprised to hear a knock on the inner door a few minutes later. She had lit an electric Tiffany lamp to bathe a soft glow over the small table on which she’d set the tray of cold meats and cheese.

  “I mightily appreciate your hospitality, Madame…” Freddy said as he arranged a cloth napkin on his lap.

  “Zelle-MacLeod. But you can call me Mata Hari.”

  Recognition flashed across his face. “I saw you dance once, here in Paris. With my,” he coughed. “Wife.”

  M’greet sat down across from him and helped herself to a piece of cheese. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I did.” Even in the dim light, M’greet could see his face redden. “Very much so.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes until Freddy set his napkin back on the table. “Do you mind if I ask… are you always so kind to officers on leave?”

  She shrugged. “It’s how I contribute to the war effort.”

  He tugged at his collar. “Again, I appreciate it, but…”

  “How would you like to have a private dance from the famed Mata Hari?” She stood with her back facing him. “Unzip.”

  Freddy began to pull down on the zipper. His fingers were unsteady at first, but became more certain as he finished the task. She let her dress fall to the floor and then turned around, knowing the shadows would hide her fuller belly and loose skin. She reached her arms above her head and began gyrating to a silent song only she could hear. Freddy’s eyes widened in appreciation and he watched her move, his mouth slightly open.

  Chapter 20

  Marthe

  January 1915

  Marthe awoke to something heavy on top of her, her nostrils stinging smoke, the words, “Jesus Chrrist,” being muttered over and over again in her ear. The Scotsman moved off of her, heaving in pain, before extending his heavy hand to Marthe and helping her out of the car. The exploding shell had caused the
ambulance to tumble into a ditch, and she had to grab onto plant roots to get back to the road.

  She examined herself with the help of the moonlight. Except for a few scrapes and bruises, she was surprisingly unscathed. She looked around, taking stock. The moon cast an eerie glow on the gaping holes in the dirt road. Alphonse was sprawled on the ground next to the largest one, and Marthe started toward him when he rose and dusted off his pants, his eyes wide. He gave her an all-clear sign before he limped in the direction of the ambulance.

  She returned to help the Scotsman out of the ditch and into a sitting position beside the road before she and Alphonse began evacuating the stretchers from the ambulance. They groped into the dark interior and followed the sounds of the men’s moans before trying to extricate them from the ambulance as carefully as they could. Some passing soldiers were able to help her and Alphonse hoist the stretcher-bound men back up to the road. Miraculously, only one man was unresponsive.

  Marthe was re-adjusting the bandages of a German whose fingers had been blown off in the trenches when Alphonse told her that she was bleeding. He picked up a clean rag and held it to her forearm. Both of the undersides of her arms were a maze of bright red scratches.

  “You must have used them to shield your face from the windshield’s glass,” Alphonse said.

  He was still picking glass out of her skin when another ambulance arrived. Marthe made sure that every patient had a spot before she climbed into the front seat. Alphonse waved them off, saying he’d walk back to the dugout and wait for another ambulance.

  “Are you sure you’re alright?” she asked from the open window.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  As the ambulance drove away, Marthe closed her eyes to the sight of shells streaking through the skies.

  When she arrived at the hospital, she went to the civilian clinic to have her wounds properly looked after by the orderly on duty. She was so tired from her labors and emotion that she nearly fell asleep in the examining chair.

  “You’re lucky to have walked away from that,” the orderly stated. “French shells are no joke.”

  She watched as the orderly extracted yet another piece of glass from her arm and heard it clink in the metal tray beside her. I could have died. The thought seemed too far away to grasp right then, like a cloud floating amongst the stars. Or a French shell.

  “Thank you, mein herr,” Marthe said, rising unsteadily to her feet.

  “Get some rest tonight, fräulein,” he replied.

  She was about to head for home when two stretcher-bearers rushed in with yet another wounded man. “Found him in a ditch, fräulein,” one of the helpers told her.

  The words were a splash of frigid cold water onto her exhausted frame. “Oh no, was he one of ours?” She thought that she and Alphonse had checked the area thoroughly, but it was dark and there was so much confusion.

  “I don’t think so. He was out on the street, and someone tried to cut his throat.”

  “Send for the night surgeon,” she commanded as she approached the stretcher. The man was a ghostly white from loss of blood, and his clothes and sheets were stained dark red. Marthe moved back the collar of his uniform, trying to ascertain where the blood was stemming from. Something flashed in the dim light. Marthe exposed the underside of his lapel. Two safety-pins. But they ran straight, not diagonally.

  She caught sight of a man standing in the corner. A military policeman, judging by his uniform. “Do you know who this man is?” she asked.

  “That’s Schneider. He’s been on special assignment for several weeks now.”

  She nodded, recalling the warning Herr Jacobs, the safety-pin man boarder, had given her about Vampires disguising as his kind. The night surgeon rushed in, accompanied by a few orderlies. Marthe left the hospital and walked out into the coolness of the night.

  When she reached the house, she found that Herr Jacobs was still up. Although Aunt Lucelle had said he was there to do “Secret Service,” Marthe wasn’t sure what his exact role was, besides befriending the Germans. Tonight he sat in the kitchen reading with his boots propped up next to the stove. If he was surprised to see Marthe in such a disheveled state, he made no comment.

  “A man with safety pins facing the wrong way was brought into the hospital just now,” she told him. “Someone tried to cut his throat.”

  He pulled off a muddied, blood-spattered boot before asking in an expressionless tone, “Did he die?”

  Chapter 21

  M’greet

  January 1915

  M’greet had no notion that Freddy would become one of her habitual affairs, like Harry, van der Capellen, or the German Alfred Kiepert, but he was here, in Paris, and, unlike Harry, hadn’t shunned her. Not to mention he was a marquis. He took her shopping on the rue de la Paix and they dined at fine restaurants, especially at the swank Pavillon d'Armenonville.

  She could have stayed in Paris indefinitely, but knew she had to return to the Hague to supervise her house renovations. She planned her return trip for the same day that Freddy had to leave for the Front.

  “Will you write to me?” he asked as they lay in bed the morning of their departure.

  “Of course.”

  He sat up. “Good. All soldiers need a distraction from the monotony of the trenches, but my wife refuses to be in contact with me. She accused me of cheating long before I actually committed the act of being unfaithful.”

  “I’m sorry.” M’greet lit a cigarette. “Wives should be more understanding when their husbands are away at war.” She took a puff. “Or just in general.”

  Freddy laughed. “If only all wives could be more like you.” His face fell. “Will you be all right in your travels? I would hate for the French police to treat you like the English did.”

  “And the Germans.” She flicked ash into the bedside tray. “But don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  She gave Freddy the goodbye he thought he deserved, even conjuring up some fake tears for good measure. When he finally left, she shut the door and leaned against it, thinking that faking affection for someone took more of a toll on her than actually feeling. The door vibrated under her back as someone knocked.

  “Did you forget something?” she asked, flinging the door open. But the man who stood on the other side wasn’t Freddy. It was Harry.

  “I heard you were leaving,” he said, stalking into the room.

  “Oh? And who gave you such information?”

  “The desk clerk. I asked him to let me know when you set a check-out date.”

  “Why?”

  He gazed down at the floor. “I wanted to say goodbye. And apologize.” He met her eyes. “Next time you return to Paris, be sure to contact me. No questions asked.”

  “You didn’t ask any questions this time. You just made accusations.”

  “No accusations then.” He sat down at the table, pushing Freddy’s breakfast plate away. “I get it that you don’t want to talk about the war. It’s kind of nice, taking a break from the ever-present troop discussions, the analysis of how the Allies are doing compared to the Germans.” He looked up, his eyes as sorrowful as his voice. “I’m sorry I ever tried to encourage you to be someone you’re not.”

  M’greet wasn’t expecting that response from Harry. She put a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Next time, I come to Paris, I promise I will call on you.”

  He eyed the myriad of trunks sprawled on the floor and the clothes and jewelry still covering almost every inch of the room. “Do you need help packing?”

  Harry drove her to the train station to see her off. He gave her a long hug and then whispered, “Be safe,” before he kissed her lips. As she mounted the steps, M’greet gave him one last wave, shedding a real tear this time.

  Her ship was scheduled to leave from Vigo, Spain. While in town, she purchased a postcard of herself in her dancing days at a shop and addressed it to Harry de Marguérie, writing on the back, “The famed daughter of a British lord and an Indian prin
cess wishes you well. Yours always, Marguérite.”

  Chapter 22

  Alouette

  February 1915

  San Sebastian, Spain was pleasantly balmy, especially after wintry Switzerland. If the Swiss were somewhat unknowledgeable of the war, the people of San Sebastian appeared downright oblivious to it.

  But appearances could be deceiving, and after spending a few days wandering shops and beaches and overhearing a myriad of different languages, Alouette discerned that a host of foreigners had found solace from Central Europe’s storm in the popular resort town.

  She had booked a room at the Hotel Continental, yet she was unable to fully engage the fashionable crowd that flowed through its lobby. She didn’t speak a word of Spanish, and her widow’s dress and veil did her no favors. She thought appearing as a bored young widow desiring nothing but a good time away from the war zone would be a brilliant disguise, but all that black among the bird-of-paradise frocks the other women wore just caused people to shy away from her.

  If only she had her airplane, or even her car! The nouveau riche were alike everywhere, she mused. They honed in on the gilt of the frame and paid no attention to the state of the picture beneath it.

  Unused to being ignored, especially by the male population, she tried to compensate by buying new dresses, but nothing worked. Before long, Alouette’s funds were running out and she was no closer to infiltrating any espionage rings. Ladoux had made it clear that his department was short on cash, and she would not be able to contact her lawyer to wire her money while on a secret mission in Spain.

  She had just about given up and was considering crawling back to Ladoux when she passed by the casino off the lobby of her hotel and an idea occurred to her. The casino seemed the perfect locale for luring her fellow hotel patrons into conversation while at the same time, possibly winning some much-needed cash.