by Kit Sergeant
She faced him, choking down the repulsion she felt. Her instincts told her to fling the lit cigarette into his face. She squashed it into an ashtray instead, racking her brain for a way to shut him down without completely alienating him. “Hans, perhaps if things had been different, we could have had a relationship.” Luckily the lie exited her mouth with ease. “But you are my handler, and we must keep our contact chaste. For your wife’s sake. Not to mention Zozo’s.”
To her immense relief, his face softened. “You’re right, of course. Had you been German, and fifteen years older, or better yet, if I’d been younger, we would have made a great couple.” He heaved a sigh as he got up from the couch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am expecting a visitor shortly.” He glanced at her. “If it’s not too much trouble, I ask that we be left alone for the next few hours.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me, Hans, I have plenty of unpacking to do.”
Alouette installed herself in the kitchen, at the window that looked out into the back courtyard, keeping watch for von Krohn’s mysterious visitor. As she waited, she reflected on their earlier conversation. Ladoux would probably have been thrilled if she told him she took advantage of von Krohn’s affection to get more information. But she knew all too well the murky line between manipulation and seduction. She’d been down that road before, years ago, after Karl Mather, the lover she’d followed to Paris, spurned her. Too proud to return to Nancy, she had to find some way to support herself. She’d then met a madam who had trained her in the art of being a courtesan—a companion to rich and powerful men, who delighted in having beautiful, intelligent women on their arm. Especially one that wasn’t their wife. While Alouette had never actually slept with any of the men she entertained, she’d come close enough to decide never to do it again. Thankfully Henri had come along and proposed marriage before she became really desperate.
The sound of the Baron’s heavy footsteps pacing in his office brought her back to reality. She looked up to see a stocky brunette in her mid-forties entering the back door.
Alouette crept into the dining room, which was next to the Baron’s office. She did her best to eavesdrop on the conversation between von Krohn and the woman, but, as they were both speaking Spanish, could only understand snippets. She noted that von Krohn called the woman ‘Maria’ and instructed her to visit his office for a handbag and a train ticket to Cerbére.
When she overheard the woman’s voice say, “Muy bien, señor,” Alouette hurried to the living room. She heard a series of doors close and then heavy footsteps in the hall.
Alouette sat in an armchair with her head between her hands. Presently she could sense von Krohn standing in front of her. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“I’ve got an awful headache,” she replied in a low tone. “Maybe all of this unpacking finally got to me.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
She looked up. “Do you mind buying me some antipyrine?” She felt a guilty pleasure in making him purchase the supplies she needed to communicate his secret plans to her boss.
He returned in half an hour to drop off the medicine and then left again, saying he had to attend a dinner at the Embassy. Alouette took advantage of his absence to write a detailed letter in secret ink to Ladoux, informing him of the spy named Maria and her instructions to go to Cerbére.
She was still involved in her task when she heard von Krohn return. Although her heart was hammering away in her chest, she set her pen down and swallowed the rest of the antipyrine as casually as she could when he entered the room. Luckily the secret ink had already dried on the paper.
“How do you feel about traveling to Morocco?” von Krohn asked in a pseudo-casual voice.
Alouette matched his tone. “What for?”
“I need you to send a coded message to the tribal insurgents.”
“But Morocco is a French protectorate. Won’t I have trouble getting there?”
Von Krohn dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. “Like everything else French, the French Secret Service is so negligent they will never know. I will accompany you as far as Algeciras on the coast of Gibraltar. I can make arrangements for our accommodations immediately.”
“Separate rooms, of course,” she replied.
“Of course.”
As soon as von Krohn left, Alouette began another letter to Ladoux, asking permission to go to Morocco. She paused midway through the first sentence. Sending a coded letter through the post would take a minimum of four days to arrive, and then she’d have to wait another four days, at least, for his reply to reach her. By then she could have gone and returned. The pen fell from her hand as she realized von Krohn might have been on to something: the French Secret Service did seem somewhat haphazard, especially in contrast to the efficiency of the Germans. But if Ladoux did not have prior knowledge of her plans, and an uprising in Morocco took place while she was there, she might get blamed for it. She ripped the paper into shreds, recalling Ladoux’s warning that if she got into trouble, she’d have to find a way out of it, alone.
They were put up in the Hotel Cristina, an ornate building overlooking the sea. The Baron honored her request with separate rooms, but ones that adjoined through an inner door. Alouette didn’t complain as this way she could still be aware of what von Krohn was up to.
He left early the first morning to retrieve his messages from the German Consulate. When he returned, he stood in the doorway of the two rooms, a red leather-bound book in one hand and a wooden ruler in the other. “I have a difficult job to tackle just now,” he stated loftily. “I would be very thankful if you wouldn’t disturb me for the next hour or so.” He put his hand on the doorknob.
“Oh, there’s no need to shut the door, Hans. I plan on reading a bit.” Alouette was desperate to know what he was going to do with the ruler. “I’d like to know you are nearby,” she added.
He frowned, but left the door open. She chose a chair that gave her a vantage point into the other room, watching over the top of her book as he took a paper out of his coat pocket. He stood stooped over a table, moving the ruler across the paper and mumbling as he wrote in the notebook.
When he’d finished, he put the ruler away in a desk drawer before tearing up the paper. It must have been a telegram he decoded, Alouette mused, remembering what Ladoux said about the Eiffel Tower intercepting German messages. She watched as he threw the remnants of the telegram in the waste basket before stalking into her room.
He stood at her window and Alouette joined him. They could see the Strait of Gibraltar and beyond, the coast of Morocco.
“Here is where Spanish and British waters meet,” von Krohn stated, half to himself. He pointed to a distant white speck. “That’s Tangier. One of these days the war will be there, too.”
“How do you know?” Alouette asked.
“Are you in the pay of the French?” he demanded.
She willed her mouth not to drop open. “Why do you ask such a question?”
“Major Kalle seems to think that you are, and that one day you will betray me.”
She took von Krohn’s clammy hand into hers. “I would never do such a thing.” Curse that Kalle, whoever he is! She rubbed his arm, prepared to go further if necessary, but he seemed reassured by the touch of her hand.
He shot her an apologetic smile. “I know, but a man in a position such as mine has the right to be suspicious.”
She squeezed his arm before letting go. “I’ve heard the French have no money to pay me, so I could never be a double agent.”
His smile widened, his good eye crinkling at the corners while the glass one stared straight ahead. “I have to return to the Consulate for a few minutes and then we can have lunch.”
After he left, Alouette crept to his room, her eyes focused on the waste basket containing information of vital importance to her country. She started toward it, but then paused, realizing that the simple task of retrieving the shredded paper could result in her standing be
fore the execution post at Vicennes. She went back to the window and fixed her gaze on Morocco instead.
Less than a minute later, the door to her room burst open. The Baron’s first glance was not at her, but at the basket in his own room. Alouette covered her grin with a gloved hand. “Did you forget something?”
He looked relieved. “No.”
“I may be a spy, Hans, but I loathe being spied upon.”
“I’m not sure what you are talking about.” He dug again in his coat pocket and handed her a packet of papers. “Here are your visas to travel to Morocco.”
Alouette congratulated herself on resisting the lure of the waste basket; it was clear now that she had destroyed the last shreds of doubt in von Krohn’s mind.
“The British have only given you a qualified visa, which means you are not immune to arrest in English waters.”
“But I have to pass Gibraltar, and the English are very active there.” She did not have to fake the look of worry on her face. “I don’t want to be detained.”
“You have nothing to fear. Neither the English nor the French have a shred of evidence against you. And this mission will prove to Kalle once and for all that you are a trustworthy agent.”
She wasn’t sure that was true: it must have been obvious to everyone in Algeciras that she was the Baron’s companion. The British Intelligence Service was surely aware of von Krohn’s role in German espionage and, since the French and English Secret Services did not readily communicate with each other, they would most likely be unaware that Alouette was under the Deuxiéme Bureau’s employ. The prospect of being arrested was a very real threat. But then again, if she could get word to the Allies, they might be able to curtail any possibility of a Moroccan rebellion. “When will I leave?”
“In the morning.” Von Krohn retrieved a box from his desk. “You will take this box of notepaper with you. It appears as if it has never been opened, but half of its bulk has been written on with invisible ink. It is obviously a parcel of great importance.”
“To whom will I deliver it?”
“When you disembark, a black man with a pencil mustache will present himself to you. And now I really do have to return to the Consulate,” von Krohn stated.
As soon as he left, Alouette put on her widest hat, complete with a lace veil, and hurried to the British Embassy. She told the secretary that she needed to speak to the Consul as soon as possible.
“And why is that?”
“Because I have news that could save the Allies.”
He didn’t seem impressed and maintained his suspicious expression. Of course he was suspicious, just as Kalle was, as von Krohn was, as Ladoux was. Distrust was deeply rooted in every line of work during the war, but especially in the business of espionage, where one false move could endanger your life.
Finally, the secretary relented and she was shown into the office of the British Consul. She refused a seat, not wanting to waste any more time on pleasantries. “Tomorrow I will be meeting a Moroccan rebel to whom I shall pass on instructions from the German Secret Service, written in invisible ink.” She gave a few more specifics before stating, “If you wish to have me shadowed by one of your agents, and I prove to be a traitor, you can have me arrested upon my return.”
The Consul listened without interrupting. When she’d finished, he rose and held out his hand. “I am prepared to accept your word. We will find a way to intercept this information.” He paused to readjust his glasses. “In twenty-four hours, I shall have details about you from Paris, and, as you say, if we suspect anything, we will arrest you.”
Alouette’s resulting grin was so large that it must have been contagious, as the Consul also smiled. He shook her hand warmly and wished her luck.
She headed back to her hotel, thinking about how the English were a strange hybrid of naivety and shrewdness.
Alouette’s crossing over the Strait of Gibraltar proved uneventful, though she kept her eyes out for anyone tailing her. If the British Consul had given orders to have her shadowed, they chose someone nearly invisible.
When the boat reached Tangier, she waited until all of her fellow passengers had disembarked before heading down the gangway herself. She gripped the railing with whitened knuckles as she wondered whom this trip would end up helping: France and her allies, or the beastly Boches.
As she reached the dock, a dark-skinned porter approached her. He grabbed her bag, stating, “I know a hotel where you will be comfortable.”
Alouette noted his thin mustache before she wordlessly followed him.
After Alouette had checked in, the porter offered to show her to her room.
“Welcome to Morocco, S-22,” he stated as he dumped her bag on the bed.
Fighting back a wave of misgiving, she handed him the box of paper.
“When are you leaving again?” he asked. Now that he no longer had to pretend to be a humble porter, Alouette could see he carried himself with a great deal of dignity. Perhaps he was a chief of one of the insurgent tribes.
“I’m going back by the first available boat tomorrow morning,” she replied.
“Very good. I will meet you at the door of the harbour restaurant at seven-thirty a.m. I have something to give to you.”
Alouette spent a very restless night in Tangier, wondering if the British had secretly come to her aid or if she had truly paved the way for a Moroccan uprising.
She arrived at the appointed place and time the next morning, but could see no sign of the supposed porter. She waited with bated breath, not daring to think that he might have been held up. At a quarter to ten, she allowed a sigh of relief. The English must have detained him, which meant that her mission had been accomplished. Impressed with the methodical efforts of the British Secret Service, Alouette boarded a boat for Spain.
A few days later, Alouette read in the French papers that U-boats laden with munitions intended for Moroccan insurgents had been intercepted. While the submarines themselves managed to get away, the potential for rebellion had been annihilated. As Alouette folded the paper, she once again marveled at the efficiency of the English. It all had gone down in such a discreet manner that von Krohn had never suspected he’d been double-crossed.
Chapter 40
Marthe
October 1915
After the death of Agent 63, Marthe’s new instructions were to deliver any communication to a chemist’s shop off the Grand Place. She had to admit that passing notes over the ordinary counter, although much less dangerous, was not nearly as intriguing as maneuvering past German soldiers in dark alleyways well past curfew. There was not much information to pass on anyway, as ever since the Kaiser’s failed visit, things in Roulers had been quiet.
She was serving in the café one evening when she heard raised voices. She pretended to be rooting through her bag as she listened to two men arguing. One of them was Hauptmann Fashugel, who was currently billeting in Otto’s old room. Fashugel was a stocky fellow with a friendly face, a machine gun company commander, whose men all adored him.
“What time did you say this blasted parade starts tomorrow?” Red Carl demanded.
“Nine o’clock,” Fashugel replied. “But we’ll have to be up a fair sight before then in order to march to Westrozebeke.” He held up his nearly empty glass of wine. “This must be our last drink—we need to be in bed before long.”
Red Carl blew out a ring of smoke. “I wish they would be content to send the padre to visit us instead of the other way around.”
“Say, Marthe,” Fashugel said upon catching sight of her. “If you please, we will be needing breakfast at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning. As if we don’t already have enough work to do without spending our Sunday morning traipsing about the countryside.”
“Oh my,” Marthe remarked. “A parade? Doesn’t a big gathering like that seem dangerous?”
“Indeed,” Fashugel replied. “The Supreme Command wants all of us licentious soldiers to hear a bishop explain how to look after our souls. Bu
t it would serve Division right if the Seven Sisters bloody well blasted the bishop and the commanders to kingdom come.”
“I hope they don’t do that,” Red Carl remarked. “Although I agree that our bloated chiefs would learn a lesson if that happened, the Seven Sisters might blow us up too.”
Marthe pulled an embroidery hoop from her bag, as if that was what she had been looking for all along, and sat in an empty chair. She ruminated over the meaning of the conversation as she pulled the needle in and out. A whole division on parade in Westrozebeke tomorrow morning! They would indeed make a fine target for the Seven Sisters. There would be little place to take cover in her already shell-shattered former village.
Marthe waited for the two men to leave the room before she hurried upstairs and penned a message. The sun was setting as she rushed to the chemist’s shop and it cast an ominous red light over the glass bottles as she handed the gray-haired man a tiny slip of paper. “Urgent,” she whispered.
The chemist gave an almost imperceptible nod. Marthe, suddenly overcome with a terrible sense of foreboding, wanted to ask that they not harm the cheerful Hauptmann Fashugel. But she remained silent as she ducked out of the shop, knowing that would have been an impossible request.
She wandered home in a state of apprehension, trying to convince herself once again that this was wartime and anything that harmed the Germans was good for Belgium. She supposed she would never get over the agitation of causing harm to people’s lives, no matter what side they were on.
All Sunday during her rounds, Marthe waited with trepidation for the news of the Seven Sisters’ presence at Westrozebeke. As the military band started up just outside the hospital courtyard, she could hear the clomping feet of hundreds of men and dozens of horses as they began their journey to her hometown. And then silence descended on half-deserted Roulers.
