L'Agent Double
Page 17
“M’greet,” he replied with a sigh, “Dekker is the best in the Netherlands. He knows what he is doing.”
“He is slow and stupid.”
He shot her a mocking smile. “We all cannot be as smart as you. Have patience, he will get it done.” He squeezed her hand before glancing toward the courtyard, a wistful expression on his face. “I have to return to the front tomorrow. If only it weren’t for this infernal war, we could run off and get married.”
A sharp breeze blew, causing M’greet’s eyes to water. In the dim electric lights, the normally wide, friendly face of van der Capellen thinned, his mustache drooped, and his eyes appeared steely, making him look just like her ex-husband.
M’greet covered her gasp by dabbing at her wet eyes with a napkin. She could never marry van der Capellen; although the affable general with the ready laugh normally held no resemblance to Rudy, all she could think of was the brutality she suffered while married. And all of the philandering: on both of their parts. Although M’greet had affairs out of retaliation for Rudy’s unfaithfulness, she wasn’t sure she could ever remain faithful to one man again. She’d been on her own for more than a decade and relished her freedom too much to jump back into the role of dutiful partner. “But of course we can’t. What of your wife?”
He shook himself out of the revelry. “You’re right. We’ll have to keep things just as they are.” He took a bite of food and chewed thoughtfully before swallowing. “What does a beautiful woman like you want with an old soldier like me, anyway?”
M’greet giggled. “Oh, come now, you know you’re not that old. You’re just fishing for compliments.”
He threw his head back and laughed that deep belly laugh. “You’re right. Now, did you get everything that you needed in Paris?”
She gave a dainty shrug. “I got a few outfits and trinkets, but I couldn’t bring too much over the border for fear it might get confiscated.”
“You need to go shopping then.” He slapped his heavy hand on the tablecloth, startling a passing waiter, causing him to spill water on the floor. “Of course you do.” He dug out his wallet and gave her several hundred guilders. “Buy yourself some nice things tomorrow. I wish I could go with you, but my train leaves in the morning.”
“Oh,” she puckered her lips in disappointment. “That early?”
He took a long sip of whiskey. “If only the English troops could get it together. They missed their opportunity after that surprise attack in Artois.”
M’greet suppressed a groan. How she hated to hear talk of war!
After one last night with van der Capellen, M’greet wandered some of her favorite stores in the morning and then made her way back to the house in Nieuwe Uitleg. She walked down the quiet street next to the canal, stopping to admire the new green shutters on the brick facade of her home before letting herself in, only to find the hallway strewn with scraps of wallpaper and fabric samples. Her immense trunks from Paris were stacked next to the stairwell, still unpacked. She kicked at a box before noting the two men in grungy overalls standing on the second-floor landing, staring with uncertainty at her beautiful new dresser of carved wood and copper pulls. One of them scratched at his greasy hair before he threw up his hands in defeat.
“What’s going on?” she demanded.
The movers looked dumbly down at her as Dekker called, “Madame Mata Hari, you’ve returned.”
“I have.” She mounted the stairs. “What is all of this?”
He glanced at the movers, his frown deepening. “It seems we mismeasured—”
“You mismeasured.”
He cleared his throat. “At any rate, it doesn’t appear that this dresser will fit through the doorway of your bedroom.”
“That’s impossible.” M’greet stomped over to the dresser. She approximated the width of the dresser and then pushed past the movers, walking to the doorway with her arms held tight. “It looks as if it will fit fine.”
Dekker pulled the measuring tape out of his pocket and walked over, holding out the tape to demonstrate. “It’s six centimeters too large.”
“Well.” For a moment, M’greet was at a loss for words. “Well,” she said again. “I suppose all that money I paid for it is wasted, wouldn’t you say?” She marched over to the landing to angle her body behind the dresser, pushing on it with all of her weight.
“Madame!” one of the movers called. But it was too late. M’greet heaved the dresser off the landing, watching with a sick satisfaction as it tumbled down the steps and then crashed into the newly plastered wall.
The movers exchanged looks of horror before simultaneously starting downstairs. They climbed over the splintered wood as best they could before wordlessly letting themselves out.
M’greet turned to Dekker, her arms crossed over her chest. “What do you think about that?”
He cleared his throat before replying in a quiet tone, “Madame, you do realize there is a war going on, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I do. Why would you ask such a stupid question?”
“Well, most people in Holland are cutting back on expenses, preparing for the slim possibility of a German invasion. But here you are, spending money like it is nothing.” He picked up one of the photographs from the Nouvelle Mode shoot off a nearby table. “You chose to wear an outfit like that,” he said, his finger stabbing at her likeness.
“That dress is a Paquin, from Paris,” she replied, not understanding his point. “And that hat is made from endangered osprey.”
“Yes, but look at these women.” He pulled a newspaper out of his pocket and pointed to a picture of women feeding wounded soldiers. They were dressed in black dresses buttoned up to their necks. “This is what a woman your age and class should be wearing.”
M’greet wrinkled her nose. “Never.”
“And this.” He flipped to a list of the latest casualties and waved it under her nose. “A war, madame. People are dying, and you are building an indoor bathroom.”
“I know there is a war going on,” Her voice rose in volume as she continued, “It’s all anyone ever talks about. There are no parties, only fund-raisers for the army. There are no more glamorous ladies of the haut monde on the streets, only grieving widows and amputees. Is it such a crime that I want to be surrounded by color and style in my own house when the rest of the world is dreary and gray?” She narrowed her eyes at Dekker. “Not to mention that my decorating budget is keeping a roof over your head.”
He walked down the stairs, muttering to himself how the Hague was not Paris as he investigated the hole in the wall.
Chapter 25
Alouette
February 1915
A few days later, Kraut left a message for Alouette to join him that evening at the restaurant atop Monte Igueldo.
He was already seated when she arrived, and mournfully watched her walk across the restaurant. He glanced toward the ocean as she sat. “If it weren’t for the war…” his voice trailed off.
“What would you do differently?”
“I would abduct you.” He pointed beyond the bay, to the open sea. “We’d head off to somewhere exotic.”
Alouette fiddled with her napkin, thinking if it weren’t for the war, she wouldn’t be a widow. “I did not come here tonight to flirt.”
Kraut clasped his hands together, once again all business, the sentimentality of the previous moment forgotten. “My chief has agreed to meet with you.”
A band started playing somewhere below them, haunting strains of a foreign song drifting in the breeze. Alouette felt a pang of misgivings as she recalled the mess with Gerda Nerbutt. “Your chief isn’t a dreadful man, is he?”
A faint shadow covered Kraut’s face. “He is a decent chap.” He stood, throwing his spotless napkin on his plate. “Be at the foot of the funicular railway tomorrow morning at six. A man will pass close to you and say, ‘Follow me.’ Don’t dress too smartly as to not attract attention.” He met her eyes. “Good luck, fräulein.”
Although it was nearly daylight when she left the hotel, Alouette did not see anyone up besides the desk clerk. The beach was equally deserted. She walked quickly to the train depot, her spirits rising in time with the sun emerging from the rose-tinted clouds in the east. Her favorite time to fly had always been in the morning, and she recalled the exhilarating feeling of being in the air, the wind in her hair, the view from above. She was ready for another adventure and this time she would get the information Ladoux wanted.
She arrived at the rendezvous point well before six. Two priests standing at the foot of the funicular railway looked at her, no doubt surprised to see an unaccompanied woman wandering the streets so early in the morning.
As Kraut had foretold, exactly at six a man appeared wearing a blue military suit and a yachtsman’s cap. He passed so close to Alouette that she thought he might run into her. “Follow me.”
Alouette noticed with a slight irritation that the priests were staring at her as the man strolled away. She impatiently glanced at her watch and then at the incline suspensions before shrugging to herself, as though she’d made the sudden decision to walk.
She walked down the platform of the funicular, noting that the man waited by a Mercedes. The man opened the door and climbed in the backseat and then reached a long arm across to open Alouette’s door. She could feel his gaze on her as she entered, but kept her own eyes straight ahead as the chauffeur started the car.
The car sped up and Alouette began to feel uneasy as the rocky landscape passed by in a blur.
The German wore clunky black spectacles which partially hid his face but did not conceal the fact that he was scrutinizing Alouette in between crossing and uncrossing his long legs. His edginess got on her nerves. Where was this man taking her at such breakneck speed, and why hadn’t he spoken to her yet?
Alouette’s ears popped as the Mercedes ascended a hill. She was so preoccupied with staring at the winding road ahead that she almost didn’t hear when the man finally spoke.
“Has Herr Kraut told you what we want you do to?” Although he addressed her in French, his low voice held the guttural resonance of a native German speaker.
“Not exactly.”
He moved so close that his thin leg nearly touched Alouette’s. “I’m told you are an airwoman.”
“Yes.” She gripped her hand on the door of the car and shrank away from the man. Although his actions—the long moments of silence and his overcrowding—would be considered quite rude, his next words were said in a surprisingly deferential tone. “Do you speak German?”
Once again, she thought it would be best to not admit she spoke the language fluently. “No, I do not. Is that a problem?”
“No.” He removed his spectacles to clean them and she used the opportunity to do her own scrutinizing. His face was as gaunt as the rest of his body. The eye on Alouette’s side stared forward instead of looking down at the task and she realized it was made of glass. “What do you want to know about France?” she asked, partially just to end the silence.
The man took his time replacing his glasses before digging into a valise at his feet. He retrieved an envelope and dumped it on her lap. “Open it.”
She showed no surprise as she retracted 3000 pesetas and a sheet of paper. The paper contained typed questions followed by blank spaces, asking such things about the new anti-aircraft defenses around Paris, the places that had been bombed, and the morale of the army at the front.
Alouette refolded the questionnaire and was about to put it back in the envelope when the man took it from her.
“Leave nothing to chance,” he said with a patronizing tone. He struck a match and held it up to the paper. The light from the burning questionnaire gave his features an ominous air, the fire reflecting off that strange glass eye. She refrained from shivering outwardly as he rolled down the window and threw the burning paper out.
He reached into his coat pocket and extracted a strange-looking pen. He touched the tip of it. “This bulb is to prevent the pen from scratching the paper when using invisible ink.” He then produced a vial full of silvery powder and shook it. “Dilute this in two or three spoonsful of water. You need to use thick white paper on which you will write a gossipy letter to an imaginary friend. Between the lines you will trace the information which I want from you when you return to Paris. You will sign with the pseudonym S-32.”
Alouette took the vial from him. “What is this powder? If I run out, I will have to secure more.”
“Collargolium.” He handed her another slip of paper. This one read Madeline Stepino, Calle Algorta, Madrid. “Always write to me at this address. Never call on me, no matter how important you think the information is.”
“You make it sound dangerous.”
“It is.”
She closed her eyes, reminding herself what it felt like to be the only one in the cockpit, in complete control of her airplane. She must not lose the upper hand to this man. “Well, if that’s the case, then I have to tell you I value my life more than 3000 pesetas.”
“We want to see what your capability as a spy is. We can match your payments to your skill.” He gazed at her searchingly before edging closer. She scooted as far away as she could until she was flattened against the door.
“And one more point, S-32. Now that you have pledged yourself to serving Germany, if you do not fulfill your undertakings, your life will be forfeit. If you play us foul, those 3000 pesetas will be the last payment you receive before your death in front of a firing squad.”
Alouette refused to dwell on the consequences of becoming a double agent and flexed her hands, pretending she was easing up on an airplane lever. She shifted her eyes to meet his. “I have no desire to serve Germany. I only wish to serve myself.”
His thin lips spread into a sinister smile. “When you are ready to return to Spain, you will place an advertisement in the Echo de Paris for a chambermaid. You will give your address and invite your imaginary applicants to call on you the day and hour that your train will be leaving.”
The car pulled to a sudden stop. Alouette had been so distracted by the man’s commands—and his movements—that she hadn’t noticed the car had turned around. They were once again at the funicular station. “Thank you, mein herr,” she said before she opened the door behind her and practically spilled out of the car. It wasn’t until after they pulled away that Alouette realized she never caught her new spymaster’s name.
Chapter 26
Marthe
March 1915
A few days after finding out that Alphonse and Stephan were safety-pin men, Marthe entered the hospital grounds as the old groundskeeper Pierre was trimming a bush. Once again he tipped his hat to her. “Morning, mademoiselle.”
She nodded a greeting and then hurried along.
“Mademoiselle?” He followed her into courtyard.
“Monsieur?” She met his eyes. One of them only half-opened, but the other one was fixed on her with a penetrating stare.
“Our acquaintance Alphonse wanted me to pass this on to you.” He handed her a fat envelope.
She tucked the envelope into her coat pocket but hesitated before she went inside. She was expecting him to show her safety-pins, but he turned back to his work, whistling Frère Jacques.
No one was in the staff room when Marthe arrived, so she peeked into the envelope. A small slip of paper sat between several hundred francs. She pulled the paper out and hid the money in her skirt underneath her nurse’s apron. The note contained instructions from Alphonse regarding helping the Allied patients escape. She memorized the contents before she ripped it into tiny pieces, swallowing them along with several swigs of chicory coffee.
She hurried into the room where Jimmy and Arthur were having a friendly argument. “You’re a bleedin’ liar!” Jimmy remarked.
Another patient was on the other side of Jimmy, so Marthe went to the Scotsman’s bed. “Good morning, Arthur,” she said in a bright voice.
“Mornin’ miss,” he returned.
On the pretext of tucking in his sheets, Marthe leaned in close and whispered, “There is an envelope full of francs under your mattress. This evening on your walk, you and Jimmy will look for a short man with a squinty eye near the civilian workers’ cabin. He will be your guide to get you over the border.”
Arthur’s eyes widened as Marthe straightened. “Ye know, lassie, what I’m gonna do once this war is ohva?”
She shook her head.
“I’m gonna become a meenister.”
It took her a second to translate his words in her head. I’m going to become a minister. She grinned at him, picturing the large Highlander who peppered his speech with Jesus Chrrist standing in front of a congregation. “You might get the chance sooner than you think.”
She lingered as long as the busy morning would allot for, hoping that the men would be safe on their journey. For all she knew Pierre might be an agent of the Germans and had claimed knowing Alphonse to set her up. When an orderly barreled into the room, Marthe froze, thinking that she had indeed been double-crossed.
“Fräulein, there are two ambulances on their way from the front. We will need you to prepare for the arrival of more wounded soldiers.”
“Yes, mein herr,” Marthe replied. She gave the men a little wave before rushing off to change the empty beds in the German ward.
It was around seven o’clock that evening when there was a sudden ringing of bells outside the hospital. Marthe raced into Jimmy and Arthur’s room to find both of their beds empty. A feldwebel entered, his eyes jumping from one vacant bed to the other.
“What do you know of this, nurse?” he demanded. “Two patients from your ward walked off right under your nose! When did you last see them?”