L'Agent Double

by Kit Sergeant

  “You didn’t learn of secret inks when you were in Antwerp?”

  M’greet froze, the cigarette halfway to her lips. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

  Ladoux sat back and crossed his left arm under the one holding the cigarette. “I’m sure that you do.”

  She recalled what Harry had said in his office that day after she’d first met Ladoux. “If you are so convinced I am a German spy, why do you propose to recruit me?”

  “Well, for one, I am hoping you will betray some of your associates to me.”

  She stabbed her cigarette out. “Even if what you are accusing me of is true—which despite all your little agents and your dirty tricks, we both know it is not—I would never denounce anyone.”

  Ladoux lit another cigarette. “You act as though spying is a dirty practice when you yourself are to become one, most likely a double agent. You, who makes a living off of other women’s husbands, refuse to reveal the names of fellow spies?”

  M’greet held a gloved hand to her lips and coughed. “Even I have standards that I will not forsake.”

  When she returned to the hotel that evening, she found that some of her debtors had gotten a court order for her trunks.

  The desk clerk handed her a bill for five hundred francs. “They are saying they will surrender your belongings if you can pay half.”

  “I can’t pay any of it,” M’greet responded, the desperation obvious in her voice. How was she supposed to seduce men in the name of France if her magnificent wardrobe was not complete?

  She sent Ladoux a pneumatique asking the same question that evening. When she didn’t hear from him for two days, she paid yet another visit to 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain.

  Ladoux did not seem pleased to see her. “I had heard that you were quite the revolving door, but didn’t think I’d have the pleasure of witnessing this behavior myself.”

  “Nonsense,” M’greet snapped, well aware of his double entendre. “Did you get my request?”

  “If you mean the uncoded pneumatique you sent—the one that anyone could have confiscated and read for themselves—then yes.”

  “And?”

  “And my superior refuses to give you an advance. Had you taken a bit more precaution, I could have maybe argued for a little money.” He reached into his desk and pulled out a packet of antipyrine. “I can teach you how to make a simple invisible ink with this stuff.”

  M’greet snatched the packet.

  “You are willing to learn about secret inks?” The hopefulness was too obvious in his voice.

  “No,” she snapped. “You are giving me a headache.”

  The frown returned to Ladoux’s face.

  She sat down. “You cannot expect me to pay for all of my expenses on my own.”

  “What about your Belgian lover?”

  “If van der Capellan knew what the money was for, he would refuse to pay, and I would no longer have a protector in Holland.”

  “Well then,” Ladoux gave a dismissive wave. “I guess you’ll just have to find someone else to pay your way.”

  In a huff, M’greet left his office and then went to the post office, where she sent a letter to Anna, begging her to ask van der Capellan for six thousand francs. She couldn’t write to the Baron directly, for fear his wife would intercept the letter. She then sent an express letter to Vadim, paying for it with credit, reaffirming her love and promising to secure an apartment for them in Paris.

  Chapter 52

  Marthe

  October 1916

  Marthe awoke to a sliver of sunlight shining on her face. At first she wasn’t sure where she was, but then reality came crashing home: she was confined to Roulers’ military prison, formally charged as a spy.

  A guard opened the heavy door of her cell, and set down a tray containing a mug of tea and a dirty plate of black bread before leaving, locking the door behind him.

  Marthe ate automatically, washing down the hard bread with the tasteless tea. This scenario had been playing out for weeks: in the afternoon, the tray contained thin soup and at night the same soup accompanied by moldy potatoes. No one had spoken to her, and she occupied her time lying on her bed, staring up at the tiny window slit, not wanting to think of what had happened to Alphonse, least of all daring to dwell on what would become of her.

  Finally, a detective entered her cell. He was a large man with a deformed lump in the middle of his nose, as though it had been broken and never healed correctly.

  “You are going to die in a day or two,” he told her. “You might as well tell me the truth. We have your friends and they have confessed to your involvement in their crimes.”

  Alphonse. Just thinking of him was like a blow to her heart. But something about what the detective said didn’t sit right with Marthe. Alphonse would never have revealed her name, not even under the pain of death.

  The detective shook his fist in her face, and she had the mind to strike him across that hideous nose. “Speak,” he demanded. “Who were the other people helping you? Your mother? Your father? Out with it!”

  She sat on the bed. The detective was lying when he said he had her friends. He knew nothing.

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Are you going to tell me, or should we resort to other measures?” His face was next to Marthe’s, his spit showering her face. “We have ways of making sure people talk, especially women.” When he let go, her form went limp and she fell to the bed like a rag doll.

  The detective tried one last time. “Who were those notes for? What did the codes mean?”

  When he realized that Marthe was not going to speak, he left, stomping his feet as he walked out of her cell.

  He came back a few hours later, bursting into the room while Marthe was sleeping, cursing and spitting at her until she woke up. This continued at all hours for the next two days; if it wasn’t the broken-nosed detective, it was another man, a cadaverous bald man, who hissed and whispered his curses instead of screaming them.

  Marthe thought she would go insane with hatred for the horrible men, but she consoled herself with one thought: they didn’t have Alphonse, for if they did, they would never go through such lengths to get her to confess. She desperately hoped he was safe, wherever he was.

  The detectives at last ceased their visits, and Marthe was once again left alone. A few days later, a young lieutenant entered her cell. He unfolded a piece of paper, and, after clearing his throat, read, “By order of the General Officer of Occupied areas, you are to be tried by a court-martial. You will be arraigned under Article 90 of the Military Penal Code, Section 2, which concerns the destruction of munitions and Section 4, regarding your service as an enemy spy.”

  He folded the paper and clicked his heels together before peering at Marthe.

  “I’ve been asked to act as your defending officer.”

  Marthe’s voice was hoarse. “I do not wish for a defending officer.”

  He sat in the rickety chair, the only other furniture she had besides the hard bed.

  “You do not trust me. But, rest assured, I will not tell the authorities anything that you disclose.”

  “I have no reason to mistrust you, Herr Lieutenant.” She was pleased to hear her own voice grow stronger. “It is just that I do not believe you can help my case.”

  He nodded. “From what I can see of the evidence held against you, you are probably right.”

  “Is it possible you could explain what information the prosecution has?”

  He sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. “I have been informed of the events leading up to your arrest. One day a passing soldier spotted a group of children playing around a hole in the ground near the supply dump which had gone up in flames under mysterious circumstances. Below the hole, the soldier discovered a stone shaft, which led straight to Roulers Hospital, upon which was found a concealed exit.”

  Marthe nodded.

  “A gold wristwatch was found in the tunnel, about half-way through.”
<
br />   At this, she froze, remembering Alphonse spinning her around, right before he kissed her.

  The lieutenant continued, “Suspicion fell upon you, since the watch bore your initials and you were an employee of the hospital. You know what happened after that.”

  “And they have no knowledge of anyone else involved?” Marthe asked.

  “Not at this time. But if you are willing to give up the names of your accomplices, I could probably argue for a lighter sentence. Life imprisonment, perhaps, instead of the death penalty usually reserved for spies.”

  “I will never reveal any names.”

  “I thought as much.” He stood. “Should you change your mind, I am at your service.”

  “Thank you, Herr Lieutenant.”

  He knocked for someone outside to unlock the cell. “Whatever you did, fräulein, I believe you did it for the good of your country, same as the rest of us. May luck be with you.” He bowed as the door opened and Marthe was left alone once again.

  Chapter 53

  M’greet

  November 1916

  The Baron’s money finally came through in early November and M’greet was at last able to retrieve her confiscated trunks. She rented an apartment on avenue Henri-Martin and left the belongings she wasn’t taking to Holland there. She then sent Vadim a letter, telling him all about the apartment and included a money order in his name for five hundred francs. As she signed it over, she realized that was the first time she’d ever given a man money.

  She left Paris on a night train to Spain on November 5th. In Vigo, M’greet boarded the S.S. Hollandia. Even though the ship was from a neutral country, it was forced to dock in Falmouth for a routine inquiry by British authorities.

  Two women were employed to search M’greet’s cabin. They were surprisingly thorough in searching through her trunks—they even removed the mirror from the wall and peered under her bed with the aid of an electric lamp.

  M’greet watched them with derision, figuring the women, who were both dressed very plainly and had short hair, were the suffragette type. She wasn’t worried about their meticulousness: after all, she was employed by France, an ally of England.

  The suffragettes finally left and M’greet lay on the bed to take a short nap.

  Not more than ten minutes later, her rest was interrupted by a loud knocking. She opened the door to find a man in a khaki uniform and short mustache holding her passport.

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  “Madame, is this your passport? Are you Margaretha Zelle-MacLeod?”

  “I am.”

  “Have you ever traveled under any other name?”

  “My stage name is Mata Hari, but I don’t use that name on official documents.”

  He stared at her fixedly for a minute. Once again, M’greet was not overly concerned and met his gaze. He pulled a wrinkled picture out of his pocket. “Is this you?”

  She took the photo from him. It was an amateur photograph of a woman in a white mantilla, one hand placed on a hip and the other holding a fan. The woman was shorter and more muscular than M’greet. She recognized the woman as Clara Benedix, the spy she’d trained with under Fräulein Doktor.

  “That sort of costume is not my style, sir. That picture is definitely not me.”

  “I think you’d better come with me,” he replied.

  The officer and one of the suffragettes, who turned out to be his wife, escorted M’greet by train to London. Luckily, they decided to unload her trunks from the ship before bringing her to Scotland-Yard, where she was put in a room by herself.

  The questioning began the next day. They provided her with a translator, but, in M’greet’s opinion, he spoke Dutch like a dirty Flamand. When he told her interrogators that M’greet had a German accent, she decided she’d had enough and demanded to carry out the rest of the examination in French.

  The main investigator was an elegant gray-haired man with bright blue eyes. He introduced himself as Sir Basil Thomson, head of the Special Branch of Scotland Yard. His companions both worked for the Criminal Investigation Department.

  Worried by the mention of Scotland Yard, M’greet asked Thomson if he thought she was a criminal.

  “Tampering with a passport can be judged as a crime.” He produced her papers. “Someone here has changed your age, as you can see. A very clumsy forgery, indeed.” He tapped on the age, which M’greet had changed from 38 to 30 when she had first received it.

  Under the circumstances, she figured a few white lies wouldn’t hurt anyone. “It is not a forgery.” She folded her shaking hands under the table. “Is it possible the Dutch ambassador can be present during this questioning?”

  “Why do you need the Dutch embassy? Clara Benedix is a German.”

  She sighed. “I am not Clara Benedix.”

  “Did you ever have an inflammation of the left eye?”

  Taken aback, M’greet replied that she’d never had anything wrong with her eyes.

  “But one of your eyes is more closed than the other.”

  She touched the left side of her face. “It has always been so, but nobody is usually so rude as to comment on it.”

  Thomson ignored that last retort. He pushed the photograph of Clara forward. “The woman in this photograph also has this peculiarity.”

  “Perhaps, but that is not me.”

  He decided to change tactics. “Just before you left for Paris, did you receive the sum of 10,000 francs from anyone?”

  M’greet’s heartbeat sped up as she recalled the money from Karl Kroemer and Fräulein Doktor. She crossed her still hidden fingers. “No.”

  “We have information that Mata Hari received thousands of francs from the German Embassy.”

  Her throat went dry. “Is it possible to have a glass of water?” she asked one of the other men who stood behind Thomson. He nodded and left.

  When the man returned with the water, M’greet took a long sip before setting the glass on the table. “I was not going to say anything, but you might as well know that I am employed by Captain Ladoux of the French Secret Service.”

  From the skeptical look on Thomson’s face, he didn’t appear to believe her. “Is that so? Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

  “I didn’t think it proper to inform you of Ladoux’s business.”

  Thomson seemed at a loss for words and glanced at each of his companions in turn, who shrugged. “I will inquire further into this,” he replied finally.

  Three days later, Thomson called her back into the examination room.

  “You should know that Ladoux is claiming that he never hired you.”

  M’greet couldn’t keep her mouth from dropping open. “Why would he say that?”

  Thomson raised his eyebrows in an uncharacteristically inelegant fashion. “I don’t know. But,” he continued, relaxing his face, “our thorough search of your possessions has failed to turn up anything incriminating. In addition, we’ve received telegrams from several prominent men all insisting upon your identity as that of Margaretha Zelle-MacLeod.”

  Flattered at the mention of these prominent men, M’greet demanded to know their identities.

  One of Thomson’s lackeys handed him her file and he flipped through it. “Let’s see. The Baron van der Capellan, Robert Henry de Marguérie: Secretary of French Foreign affairs, and the Marquis Frederic de Beaufort—he signed his telegram as Freddy.” He shut the folder. “Therefore, we have no choice but to release you.”

  She heaved a great sigh of relief. “I am to go to Holland, then?”

  “No. You will return to Spain.”

  “But—” she insisted.

  Thomson held up his hand. “Spain.”

  Chapter 54

  Alouette

  November 1916

  Kalle’s agents had become a constant presence outside the Calle del Alcalá apartment. Consequently, Alouette had only been there infrequently in the past few months, and the Baron had given up going there altogether. He had invited Alouette to stay
with him at his house, as the Baroness was away on a visit to relatives, but she had, of course, refused and instead returned to the Palace Hotel.

  However, Alouette could not alienate von Krohn completely, so when he extended a lunch invitation one day in mid-November, she had to accept. She found him seated in his office, intently studying the map before him. An electric desk lamp was lit, but the rest of the room was dark. Without raising his eyes from his work, he waved her toward the seat in front of him.

  Alouette knew better than to disturb him, so she waited in silence, refraining from drumming her fingers on the desk.

  Finally he looked up. “Ah, Alouette, I’m glad you came.” He picked up a pencil and tapped it a few times.

  “What is it?” she asked, as nervous as she always was when the Baron had that gloomy expression in his eyes.

  “This fiancé of yours…”

  “Zozo.”

  “You mentioned once that he was an anarchist.”

  Alouette shook her head, not recalling that particular conversation, but it was true that the man Zozo was a Bolshevik.

  “Can you send for him to come to Madrid?”

  “Zozo?” she repeated dumbly. “What would you want with him?”

  “I’ve been tasked by the German Secret Service to start a propaganda campaign to, as they put it, ‘beat down the morale of the Frenchmen.’ They gave me several hundred pesetas, so obviously they mean business.”

  “I could write to him…”

  “Do it. And as quickly as possible. I want to beat Kalle in the race.”

  Accordingly, Alouette wrote to Zozo, imploring him to visit her in Spain. She also wrote to Captain Ladoux to ask that he send Zozo as soon as he could. She mentioned the money von Krohn was willing to pay, thinking that, at the very least, would elicit a swift reply from Ladoux, but she was wrong.