L'Agent Double

by Kit Sergeant

  “As will all of France soon,” he said with an oily smile. “Nach Paris! Nach Calais!”

  Marthe collected the stray bits of gauze without saying anything. The man reached out with his good hand and grabbed her arm. “You will see, fräulein, we will win this mighty war… and soon.”

  She usually didn’t pay much attention when her patients started in with their German swagger, but the way this man spoke hinted that he had intimate military knowledge. She pulled her arm away, ostensibly to pour him a cup of water. “Are you a soldier?” He was dressed in dark gray pants and a collared shirt, not necessarily a uniform, but there were so many different regimentals in the Hun army that she couldn’t possibly recognize all of them.

  “No. A scientist.” He looked for some type of reaction from Marthe, but she kept her face neutral. He continued, “The type of man for whom generals of old wouldn’t hold more esteem than a cobblestone under their feet.” He raised his chin. “With this new type of warfare, men like me are going to play their part in winning the most colossal war the world has ever known, even more so than the generals.”

  She set the water glass down and asked as casually as she could, “Is that so?”

  “You will see, fräulein.”

  Having made her rounds, Marthe went outside to get some air and think over what the man had told her. He could have just been talking cocksure military nonsense, like a lot of her other soldier patients. But there was something else behind his comments, something sinister. What on earth would a scientist know about military victories? Despite the warm April sun, Marthe shivered.

  The scientist was sleeping when Marthe went to check on him before leaving. He must have fallen asleep working, Marthe decided, picking up the papers that were scattered all over the bed. Of course she glanced through them before putting them back into the folder by his bedside. They appeared to be weather logs, and some sort of wind graph.

  She again mulled over the conversation with the scientist as she walked home. It was still light out, and, as she passed the Grand Place, she could see Canteen Ma surrounded by laughing soldiers as she spoke her nearly unintelligible German. She had a pint glass in her hand and, upon sighting Marthe, drank the rest of the beer. “Fräulein,” she slurred, waving her glass. “Fräulein, please get me some more of your fine beer!”

  Playing along, Marthe shook her head and put her hand up to her ear, which succeeded in drawing Canteen Ma closer. She stumbled along the sidewalk, but her voice was clear as she whispered, “Marthe, there is something in the air. The Boches talk of sweeping victories coming, but none of them are clear on the specifics.”

  Marthe curled her lip, as if disgusted by the old woman, as she replied quietly, “I heard something similar this afternoon. What do you think they are planning?”

  “I don’t know.” One of Canteen Ma’s hangers-on whistled at her. She held up one finger before shoving the beer glass into Marthe’s hands. “But we need to find out… and soon.”

  Marthe set out that night to inform Agent 63 of the bizarre weather graphs just in case British Intelligence had a better idea of what was afoot than her or Canteen Ma. It was, after all, her job to report anything out of the ordinary, and this indeed seemed to fit that description.

  Canteen Ma delivered the British Intelligence’s return message a few days later: “Do not worry about weather reports. Troop movements, trains, etc. are of more value.” Marthe crumpled the message and threw it into the fire, feeling a bit foolish, like a girl making ghosts out of laundry drying on a clothesline.

  The next morning, Marthe reported to the hospital to find it in an uproar. Orderlies were everywhere, escorting those civilian patients that could walk outside or ripping sheets off beds.

  “Are we expecting a rush of patients?” Marthe asked the Oberarzt as he hurried by.

  “Yes,” he shouted in an unusually curt manner.

  She joined the orderlies in preparing the now vacant civilian ward, surmising the evacuation of the non-combatants must mean that the Germans were making an advance on Ypres.

  Not more than an hour later, the ambulances began to arrive. The workers unloaded dozens of men in light blue uniforms choking for breath, their features twisted in the most awful of ways. Some of them were grabbing at their throats and eyes, leaving long, bloody scratches down their cheeks and chest. The men’s faces, hands, and even the brass buttons on their uniform had turned an unearthly green and the sickly smell of bleach clung to their clothes and skin. “What horror is this?” Marthe asked when she had time to speak.

  The Oberarzt seemed as perplexed as her. “I’m not sure.”

  “How shall we treat them?”

  He scratched at his beard. “Once again, I have no idea. Never in my career have such cases presented themselves.” His voice choked over and Marthe’s grudging respect toward the head doctor grew deeper. The suffering men were all Allies, clad in the uniforms of the French, English, even some Canadian. But, just as for Marthe, the Oberarzt’s number one obligation was to cure people, not to choose allegiances. He knelt over a man who’d clearly lost his struggle to survive and, almost as a reflex, placed his stethoscope over the lifeless chest.

  More and more men arrived, and the hospital quickly ran out of room for them. They lined the dying men in the corridors, and when those were full, put them outside in the garden.

  “What has happened?” Marthe inquired of a man in a khaki uniform, British she assumed. He looked at her with eyes so swollen they appeared ready to pop out of their sockets, struggling as he tried to form words in his useless throat. Instead of speaking, he coughed into a nearby bush, covering the green leaves with bright red blood.

  Marthe felt her knees grow weak. She would have given anything to run away from the horrifying sight of these decrepit men, but she also knew that they needed her. Besides, they were Allies. She steeled herself and continued working until a deep voice commanded, “Marthe, you have to take a few minutes to sit down and eat.”

  She glanced up to see Alphonse holding an unappetizing-looking black cake. “Rouler’s war-time best,” he said with a wry smile. He gazed around the packed courtyard before leading her to the back of the hospital near the civilian cabin.

  “What do you make of all this?” Marthe asked Alphonse after she’d swallowed a few bites of cake, which was more palatable than it appeared. Or else she was just too hungry to care what it tasted like.

  “The men at the front were talking about the Germans releasing metal cylinders, and a greenish gas floating in the wind toward the Allied trenches. And then everyone just started gasping for breath.”

  Marthe’s hand shook, dropping black crumbs on the ground. “That scientist. The wind graphs and weather reports. This is what they were planning. No wonder he talked about a sweeping victory.”

  Alphonse’s face was grave as he stood, holding a hand out for her. “This isn’t good, Marthe.”

  “No,” she agreed as he helped her up. “But I don’t have time right now to think about the implications—I have to get back to work.”

  When they arrived back at the courtyard, they found that a congregation of people had formed just beyond the line of bushes. The people of Roulers had come to see the Allied soldiers’ plight for themselves. As Marthe carefully stepped between wounded men, she heard a voice shout, “Vive La France! Vive les Allies!” Someone else took up the cry and soon every Belgian man and woman in the crowd was screaming at the tops of their lungs. Even those soldiers that could talk sat up and chanted “Vive L’ Angleterre!” Marthe’s heart swelled and she could see by the strange expression on Alphonse’s face that he was experiencing something similar. She couldn’t exactly join the chorus, as the Oberarzt and some orderlies stood nearby, their arms folded across their chests, but she repeated the chants in her head as she poured water for a patient.

  The clatter of hooves sounded and then several mounted gendarmes appeared, shouting “Raus hier! Go!” Their horses neighed, startling the crowd. On
e of the gendarmes reared his steed, once again commanding the villagers to disperse. Which they did, but not before showering the wounded soldiers with cigarettes and chocolate.

  The walk home that night was especially long for the exhausted Marthe. Otto and his two companions had recently returned from their mysterious trip to Paris and she passed the young lieutenant on the stairs as she went up to her room.

  “Care to join me for a drink, fräulein?” he asked.

  “Not tonight, Herr Otto,” she replied.

  He shot her a grin. Where once she had thought the uneven smile charming, now that she knew he was a spy-hunter, it seemed to mock her. It was part of his job to lure unsuspecting Belgian girls into confiding in him, but she would never trust a German.

  “Is something the matter, Marthe?”

  “No, nothing.” She gave him a tiny curtsy before brushing past him. “I’m just tired from a long day at the hospital.”

  Chapter 30

  Alouette

  May 1915

  Von Krohn met Alouette at the Spanish frontier station of Irun. This time he wore a monocle over his glass eye. He took his hat off when he saw her; his skin was so thin on his nearly bald head she could clearly see the outline of his skull. As he bowed stiffly, she was nearly overcome with trepidation for the role she had accepted.

  “I have rented a flat for you,” he stated as he helped her into his car.

  Her first thought was to run as far as she could, back to France if possible, but instead she folded her arms across her chest. “Was that necessary?”

  Von Krohn seemed taken aback by the vehemence in Alouette’s tone. He shifted his legs as best he could in the narrow backseat of the Mercedes. “At present it would be impossible for me to see you elsewhere.”

  His voice was matter-of-fact and Alouette did her best to echo his manner. “San Sebastian is too close to the French border. If I were to go to Madrid, I shall be less likely to attract attention.”

  It was obvious from his wry smile that he had no desire for her to accompany him to Madrid. After a moment of tense silence, he complimented her on the outfit she was wearing.

  As Alouette was dressed in a plain traveling dress, she dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand. He countered with a joke about her hat. “Those feathers complement your skin tone much more than they could have on the bird they were taken from.”

  Alouette did not reply, and the silence resumed.

  Finally he sighed. “You would like to go to Madrid, then? Well, we can take it under consideration later on. I have to stay in San Sebastian for at least another few weeks. Don’t you fancy the beach there?”

  “Have you received the letter I sent with replies to your inquiries?” she asked, determined to keep the conversation on business matters.

  “No.” His eyes widened. “When did you post it?”

  Alouette was as aghast as von Krohn. “The day after I arrived in Paris.” She turned to face him. “Do you think it was seized by the authorities?”

  “Don’t be afraid,” he replied. “Even if it was confiscated, your countrymen will never be able to reveal the collargolium. We have some crack chemists in Germany who had to spend a long time before they succeeded in the perfect formula.”

  His attitude exasperated Alouette. “We have crack chemists in France, too.”

  He sniffed. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  Alouette looked out the window. The Mercedes was speeding along the coast and it was almost impossible to tell where the cloudless sky ended and the sea began. Her mind raced with questions. Was it possible that Ladoux never sent the letter? What would be his reason not to?

  The car stopped in a small suburb outside of San Sebastian, next to an ordinary-looking house. A sturdy woman with brown hair streaked with gray greeted Alouette while the chauffeur carried her trunk into the apartment.

  The Baron followed Alouette inside. The sitting room was decorated with Victorian bric-à-brac and rich curtains with an intricate floral pattern.

  “Does it suit you?” von Krohn demanded.

  Not in the least. It was too similar to the décor of Henri’s house in Paris—the type of heavy fabrics and moldings that seemed to close Alouette in. She feigned indifference with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I shall spend most of my waking hours on the beach or in the casino.”

  Satisfied with her answer, he asked her to excuse him. “I have an appointment now. You can get settled in and I will return later, Alouette.”

  His use of her first name irritated her even further. “No. I’m going to change my dress and then go for a stroll.”

  His face fell, and she sighed, remembering Ladoux’s instructions to captivate and manipulate him. She couldn’t do that if she pushed the Baron away completely. “But if you like, I will meet you tomorrow morning at nine on the beach.” She gave a wan attempt at a smile. “We can have a swim together.”

  He nodded and tipped his hat before he left.

  Alouette excused the housekeeper, wanting nothing more than to be alone. She was exhausted from her journey and perhaps something else. She flopped down on the ornate satin couch with a sigh, causing dust particles to dance in the air.

  The apartment smelled of old lavender and mustiness. She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, but instead she saw Henri’s face. What would he think if he could see her now, serving a man such as von Krohn? Henri had always been so supportive of her adventures. It’s for France, she emphasized, maybe for her husband’s ghost, or maybe for herself. She could feel a tear coursing its way down her cheek. She wiped it away and got up to wander over to the window. As she pulled back the curtains, she was surprised to find the heavy drapes hid a gorgeous view of the ocean, but even that couldn’t shake her feelings of melancholy.

  The promise she had made to Ladoux haunted her as much as Henri’s ghost. There were not many people she could trust—she wasn’t even entirely confident in the people who proclaimed to be on her side. She was starting to realize that being a double agent was a terribly lonely occupation and supposed the secret service door would always remain shut against friendship and love alike.

  Needless to say, that night was a sleepless one. Alouette rose at dawn, collected her luggage, and returned to the Hotel Continental.

  The Baron was waiting for her at the beach the next morning.

  “My stay in San Sebastian has begun under unpleasant auspices,” Alouette told him, biting back the wave of nausea that accompanied her at seeing von Krohn in his short-sleeved, form-fitting swim outfit. “I had to clear out this morning from that flat.”

  “Oh, why is that?”

  She thought of an explanation that might just get him to keep his hands to himself. “I realized my fiancé wouldn’t like me staying in a house arranged by another man.”

  “A fiancé?” Von Krohn’s face darkened and Alouette knew his mind raced with questions. Luckily he was too polite to demand why she hadn’t mentioned this before now. “What is his name?” he asked instead.

  The first man that came to mind was the quarrelsome, dark-eyed Slav she’d last seen in her boss’s office. “Joseph Davrichachvili. But I call him Zozo. He is also an aviator.”

  “Is he aware of the role you have taken on regarding German intelligence?”

  Alouette shook her head. “But given his status as an anarchist, I don’t think he’d mind.”

  “I see,” von Krohn said, in a tone that meant the opposite. “Where will you stay now?”

  “The Hotel Continental.”

  His eyes grew even colder. “What a pity that you did not consult me first. The Hotel Continental is run by French people.”

  Alouette did her best to conceal the thrill of delight at knowing that he could not call on her there. She tore off her cover-up to reveal her striped swimming costume and ran toward the waves.

  Chapter 31

  M’greet

  June 1915

  M’greet arrived by train to Antwerp. She had been to t
he city before in her travels, and always thought it charming—although one of the biggest cities in Belgium, it stubbornly clung to its small-town atmosphere. Her favorite part had always been Old Town, which, with its maze of narrow cobblestone alleys, made her feel she was walking back through time. Europe once thought Antwerp, with its ringed outer fortresses, impregnable, but the Germans had proved them wrong in the fall of 1914 and now they occupied the city.

  Grand Central station was newly built, and even M’greet marveled at the domed steel roof. The heavy, Gothic-style interior and dark tile floor might have seemed gloomy, save for all the light that gleamed through the hundreds of ornate glass windows.

  She walked outside into the sunlight and hailed a cab. As they drove through the suburbs, M’greet was shocked by what she saw. The little houses and pubs ringing the city had been razed to the ground and the only thing remaining of the once beautiful trees were blackened stumps.

  “What happened here?” she asked the driver, gazing out at the barb-wire scarred, desolate landscape. “Was it the zeppelins?”

  “No, mevrouw. The Belgians did it themselves. They wanted to give their guns and cannons a better shot at the invading Boches. Fat lot it did them.” He stopped to let a group of soldiers in spiked helmets cross the street. M’greet couldn’t help but notice how similar the soldiers looked to each other: their uniforms impeccable, they were all about the same height and wore the same grim frown.

  Half an hour later, the driver pulled up in front of a rundown castle. “What is your business here?” he asked, staring out at the ancient stone wall that snaked around the building.

  “Just…” M’greet was at a loss for words. What was her business here? Kroemer had mentioned something about spy training. “It’s a hospital,” she replied finally.