by Kit Sergeant
“This morning, Herr Feldwebel. But they can’t possibly get far without civilian clothes or money,” she replied, knowing that, if things went as planned, they would have both.
He stomped away, shouting for orderlies to search the grounds as he did so.
As Marthe left that night, she passed by the civilian cabin. Alphonse was standing in the doorway. “Good evening, Marthe,” he said, stepping toward her. His green eyes twinkled with merriment in the light from the torch in his hand. “A friend of yours wanted me to tell you he should be in Holland by midnight.”
She smiled and nodded, her insides filling with gratitude. Perhaps Arthur would indeed become a minister someday, and as for Jimmy, well, she wouldn’t mind him keeping the promise of delivering the Kaiser’s head on a platter.
“Thank you, Alphonse.” His thin figure seemed fuller underneath his heavy coat, and his once severely cropped hair had been allowed to grow. His gaze cut through the darkness of the night and Marthe hoped that he wouldn’t be able to discern that her cheeks—judging by how hot they felt—must have grown crimson under his gaze.
Chapter 27
M’Greet
March 1915
M’greet was bored. The Hague was no Paris, and van der Capellen, though generous, was not proving to be a very exciting beau. And she’d had enough of Dekker and the endless construction on her house. But Dekker refused to hurry and it was only after a letter from her attorney that he finally finished.
M’greet persuaded van der Capellen to pay for the immense bill from the Paulez hotel, where she had stayed during most of the heavy construction, as well as Anna’s salary. She figured she’d wait a few more months before begging him for travel money so she could go back to Paris and get away from the dullness of The Hague.
She had not been in her new house for a month when Anna handed her a calling card. It was from Karl Kroemer, the German consul in Amsterdam.
“I wonder what he wants?” M’greet asked. “Perhaps the Germans have decided to return my funds and furs after all.”
“I don’t know, madame. He is coming tomorrow, so I’m sure you will find out.”
The time of Kroemer’s announced visit came and went, with no sign of the German consul.
Anna had gone to bed, and M’greet was writing a note to Harry de Marguérie when someone knocked at the front door. Deigning to answer it herself, she found a man of medium height standing on her doorstep. His dark hair was parted straight down the middle and he was wearing an impeccably neat suit.
“Herr Kroemer?” she ventured.
“Indeed, fräulein. You are as astute as they say. May I come in?”
M’greet moved aside. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, fräulein. What I have to say won’t take long.”
He sat in a pink armchair and she draped herself on the white velvet couch across from him.
Kroemer took his hat off and set it on a marble-topped end table “I have heard you have recently been to Paris.”
“I have.”
He leaned forward. “Tell me, what was the atmosphere like there?”
“Oh, the French are quite sick of the British. They are afraid the British will never leave and will decide to settle in. After all, both the weather and the fashion are much better on the Continent.”
Kroemer coughed politely. “That is not exactly what I meant.”
“No?” M’greet put a hand on her chest and let out a giggle.
“No.” He sat back in the chair and steepled his hands together. “How would you like to return to Paris in order to gather some information?”
“What do you mean, ‘gather some information?’”
“For our intelligence services. I’ve been authorized to offer you twenty thousand francs.”
M’greet folded her hands across her chest. “That is not very much money.”
He rubbed one of the sides of his mustache until the gap above his lip was no longer perfectly aligned with the part in his hair. “Well, there could be more, but you would have to prove your worth.”
“I ask of you again, Herr Kroemer, what exactly would you have me do?”
“Just listen. Make some contacts in your usual way. I hear you have a knack for captivating officers. Get them to talk and then report what they say back to us.”
Flattered, M’greet decided to play along. “How will I contact you?”
“You will send a letter to the Hôtel de l’Europe in Amsterdam. I have a suite there. You may address it to Kroemer—my surname is quite common so it should not arouse suspicion. You will sign it H-21.”
“H-21?”
“Your code name.”
M’greet’s jaw dropped. Up till now she hadn’t been taking Kroemer’s offer very seriously, though she had to admit the money would have been nice.
Kroemer produced three small vials from his pocket, two of which were filled with a chalky-white liquid, and set them on the table. “You will write a letter full of meaningless gossip, but write your real messages regarding troop movements and the like in between the lines with this one.” He moved a vial labeled with the number 2 on it forward. The liquid, in contrast to the others, was an emerald green, the color of absinthe. “You will use number one to dampen the paper, and the third to cause the messages to disappear.”
She held up her hands. “I don’t know. Invisible inks—disguises in general—are not my style.”
Kroemer gave a cruel laugh. “Disguises not your style? Are you not in fact Margaretha Zelle-MacLeod, a Dutch citizen, giving the people,” his voice dropped, “the false impression that you are Mata Hari, a Javanese princess?”
“But that—”
“Is exactly why we wish to hire you.” He swept the vials toward her edge of the table. “Take them. Use them. Once again, we can increase your payment once you prove your worth as a spy.” He stood and replaced his hat, dropping a pile of francs on the table. “That’s ten thousand to start. You will get the other half when you get back from Antwerp.”
“Antwerp? I intended to go to Paris.”
“In time,” Kroemer responded. “You will report to Antwerp for training.” He gave her further instructions, including how to get to the Belgian city. “You will enjoy meeting Fräulein Doktor,” he added. “Like you, she is a strong, worldly woman.”
M’greet showed him to the door. He left with the impression that she would do as he asked, and she didn’t want to contradict him.
After she’d shut the door behind him, she resumed her spot on the couch. Could she really be a spy? She’d never proclaimed loyalty to either side. Like Holland, she considered herself neutral. But of course, she’d always loved Paris. And there was the fact that the Germans had stolen her goods at the outbreak of this infernal war. She sat up and counted the money. While it was in no way a full reimbursement for all that Germany had taken from her, at least it was a good start.
Chapter 28
Alouette
March 1915
The startled expression on Captain Ladoux’s face as she knocked on his open door amused Alouette.
“Back again so soon?” he asked.
She sauntered into the room and took a seat in front of his desk. “Yes, Captain, I’ve returned because, as the Yankees say, I’ve made good.” She put the pen and the vial of the German’s secret ink on his desk and then draped her arm across the chair.
Ladoux held the bottle under his electric lamp. “What is this?”
“They call it ‘collargolium.’”
“Interesting. We will have to send some to our chemists to see if we can find a reagent. And if so, we might just be able to decipher intercepted German correspondence.” He set the vial down. “Who was the man who gave you this ink?”
Alouette straightened. “I never caught his name.”
The twinge of regret must have been obvious in her voice, for Ladoux reached into his desk and retrieved an envelope, which he dumped in front of her. “These are photographs of known G
erman agents in Madrid.”
She fanned out the photos. “This is him.” She picked one of them up and handed it to Ladoux. The photograph must have been an older one for both of his eyes were intact, but the narrow shoulders and gaunt face were the same.
“Ah, you’ve met the Baron von Krohn, the German naval attaché, nephew of General Ludendorff.” He slid the rest of the pictures back into the envelope. “Excellent.”
Alouette glowed at his praise. Her failures at becoming an airwoman and the fiasco in Switzerland forgotten, she relayed how her flirtations with the big German, Walter, had led her to Kraut and then finally to von Krohn. “I must state, Captain, that the Baron’s manners were very poor. I had to make it quite plain that his advances would not be accepted.”
Ladoux frowned and Alouette was once again pleased at his reaction. “I never want to see that brute again,” she added.
He got to his feet and walked the length of the room, mindlessly puffing on a cigarette. Brushing ashes off his waistcoat, he paused in front of her. “You entered into our service voluntarily. It is too late for you to withdraw.”
Alouette opened her mouth, but Ladoux held up his hand and continued. “You are a woman and must be guided by your instincts on how to deal with people who have amorous intentions toward you.” He stood motionless for a moment, his hand still in the air. “This wasn’t something I wanted to mention, but I heard stories about you, in Paris, before you met your husband.”
The exhilaration Alouette had experienced since she returned from Spain quickly vanished; in its place was a sense of debilitating helplessness. Although she hadn’t experienced it for many years, the feeling was all too familiar. “That’s all they were, Captain, just stories.” She dropped her arm from the back of the chair and quashed the feeling back down to the depths of her consciousness. “As you know, I am anxious to serve my country, to even give my life, if necessary, for France. But no patriote francais would expect me to pander to such an unpleasant, one-eyed creature.”
Ladoux, who had restarted his pacing during Alouette’s protest, paused again, his hands gripping the back of an armchair. “Don’t you dare walk in here and tell me you never again wish to see the very man I want you to exploit for all you are worth.”
Alouette bit back her rage and tried to keep her voice as calm as possible. “There are certain things, Captain Ladoux, to which no woman of honor can submit to under any circumstances.”
Ladoux’s expression softened and she thought she might have gotten through to him. He stepped forward and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Alouette,” he said in a soothing, fatherly tone. “Think of the sacrifices of our poor poilus in the trenches. Or the plight of our fair Paris, which may be overrun by the enemy at any time. You have the priceless opportunity to serve our dear country more than any other Frenchwoman. Or,” he added quickly, “many other Frenchmen.”
He put a hand on her shoulder and Alouette resisted the urge to shrug him off. “For the sake of the Cause, don’t say you will never see the Baron again. He’s probably just an old philanderer, with an archaic German sense of civility. Humor him as such. Laugh and flirt with him, keeping him at arm’s length while at the same time manipulating him into giving you information.” He finally released her shoulder. “There are many lives to be saved by doing so.”
“It is a sacrifice more bitter than death to have to submit to the dalliances of an old brute like von Krohn.” she stated bitterly.
Judging by his triumphant smile, Ladoux knew that he had won. “A mere flirtation is harmless,” he countered as he retreated behind the desk. “You are a woman with sufficient prowess to protect yourself if I am not wrong, which I don’t believe for a second that I am. Von Krohn is the mastermind for the naval movements of all German submarines on the Atlantic coast. If you can succeed in discovering his plans, just think of all the French mothers and young brides you will be assisting by helping their boys to come home safely.”
Alouette heaved a deep sigh. “Very well, Captain Ladoux.”
Ladoux pulled out the desk chair to dig into a drawer. “I have some other business matters to attend to, but you can respond to the Baron’s queries with this information. It is accurate although out-of-date, the same we supply to all double agents.”
He left the room as Alouette dipped a pen into the inkwell. She followed von Krohn’s instructions and wrote a letter full of nonsensical gossip to Madeline Stepino in Madrid. Between the lines, she used the collargolium-filled pen to answer the Baron’s inquiries on French maneuvers as supplied by Ladoux. She held the paper up and blew on it, watching as the secret ink disappeared without a trace.
Alouette spent the remainder of the week taking a course in Spanish through the Berlitz School. Captain Ladoux was relentless in his encouragement for her to return to Spain. “You must hit the iron whilst it is hot,” he repeated.
A postcard arrived from Spain with a coded demand for intelligence in regard to von Krohn’s questionnaire. Alouette dropped it in front of Ladoux.
“Your letter has apparently been delayed by the postal services,” he said, clearly unconcerned. “I’ve booked you on a train to leave in the morning.”
“How will I further communicate with you from Spain?”
“You will write an ordinary note just as you do for the Germans, but use antipyrine in between the lines. It’s the best we have right now, until we analyze the ink that von Krohn gave you.”
“Antipyrine? For headaches?”
“Yes,” Ladoux said with a touch of impatience. “If you are caught with it, you simply swallow it. Otherwise, dissolve a packet in two tablespoonfuls of water.” He passed her the collargolium inkwell. “And now to place your advertisement according to the Baron’s instructions.”
As Alouette began her letter, someone knocked on Ladoux’s office door.
“Ah, Monsieur Davrichachvili, come on in,” Ladoux called.
“Zozo?” Alouette set her pen down to gaze at the tall man in the kit of the Armée de l'Air. “What are you doing here?”
He pulled a chair right next to her. “You look shocked, Alouette. Don’t you like me in uniform?”
Alouette had met the fellow pilot a few times through Henri. Zozo had played some part in the Russian uprising in 1905 and self-exiled to France, giving up politics to become an aviator. He claimed to be an anarchist and his self-righteous declarations had always gotten on Alouette’s nerves.
Ladoux did not seem surprised that they knew each other. “Monsieur Davrichachvili was the one who first alerted me to you, Alouette.”
She turned to the younger man. “You told him I knew German spies?”
Zozo crossed his leg over the other, his knee nearly touching Alouette’s. “What does it matter? Besides,” he shot her a grin, “it’s true now, isn’t it?”
Ladoux cleared his throat. “Monsieur Davrichachvili will be the one feeding you false information to pass on to Baron von Krohn.”
She returned her gaze to Zozo. He had a dark complexion, his mustache and beard purposefully trimmed to appear unruly. He seemed uncomfortable under Alouette’s gaze and ran a hand through his wavy hair.
“You do realize he is an anarchist?” she asked Ladoux.
He shrugged. “A true revolutionary is rarely a traitor.”
“I am putting my own life in your hands, then,” Alouette stated. This made her more nervous than she dared to let on. Zozo was the type of young aviator who assumed that death waited for him each time he took flight and consequently lived a life—both on the ground and in the air—of excess.
Zozo threw up his hands. “You can trust me.”
Ladoux lit a cigarette. “Monsieur Davrichachvili was on the trail of the woman you knew as Gerda Nerbutt.”
“The Germans call her Fräulein Doktor,” Zozo added. “But I lost track of her when I left Switzerland.”
The hair on Alouette’s arms prickled as she thought about Gerda. She found herself inexplicably hoping that Zozo wasn�
�t aware of her colossal failure on that mission. “I’m sure she’ll turn up.”
“I don’t quite share your enthusiasm,” Zozo replied. “The German secret service has a mass of funds and they are able to conceal their spies just as quickly as we find their trail.”
Ladoux flicked ash from his cigarette. “Monsieur Davrichachvili will dispatch the letters using the password, ‘Skylark,’ and, should we need to contact any of our Spanish operatives, they will address you with the same code name.”
Zozo moved his hand through his hair once again. “Be careful, Alouette. You are now embarking on the most dangerous career of them all, that of l’agent double.”
Chapter 29
Marthe
April 1915
When spring came, with its floods and bone-chilling rain, the long war seemed to just become a long wait. Men stood for months in the trenches, which, from Marthe’s patients’ descriptions, were little more than open graves. As her new patient with the burned arm put it, “Forget trying to shoot Tommies. All the boys had to see was a mud wall and had to focus most of their effort on just keeping their feet dry.”
“Tommies?” Marthe asked.
“The British,” the man replied.
“Oh,” Marthe replied, a bit inadequately, but she wasn’t sure what else to say.
The German peered at her and then his eyes grew wide as if he suddenly realized something. “You are German, fräulein?”
“No. Belgian.”
He raised his charred hand. “Doesn’t it bother you to be bandaging a Hun such as me?”
Marthe snipped at the gauze with a pair of silver scissors. “I’m a nurse. It’s my job to help you, no matter what side of the war you are on.” She nodded at the door of the ward. “Not to mention this town, and therefore this hospital, belongs to Germany now.”
