L'Agent Double

by Kit Sergeant

  A warm smile appeared under his substantial mustache as he took her hands. “Aren’t you the woman who came in with Arnold Kalle?”

  “Yes. I’m surprised you noticed.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I have never seen anyone more breathtaking. What shall I call you?”

  “Mata Hari,” she said, withdrawing from his grip.

  “And what is your purpose in visiting Madrid, Miss Mata Hari?” His voice held the tinge of a challenge. Noticing an empty sitting room, she motioned for him to follow her.

  “Don’t worry, Colonel,” she hissed once they were out of earshot of the dining room. “I am one of yours.”

  “Pardon?”

  “If only I had met you a day earlier, I would not have had to go through the trouble of sending a letter to Paris. I could have given you the letter and you could have taken care of it.”

  “What information?”

  She relayed to him all she had learned from Kalle, figuring that, even though she had just met the man, his position in the French Embassy meant he was trustworthy.

  “Is it possible for you to get more specifics?” he asked when she’d finished.

  M’greet frowned. “I tried to at dinner, but Kalle seemed reluctant to provide any more.”

  “Try again.” He must have sensed her hesitation as he patted her hand. “For France.”

  She nodded.

  Denvignes rose. “You are a very beautiful woman, Mata Hari, a true Parisian flower. Is it possible for you to join me for lunch tomorrow? That is, if Kalle does not call.”

  She gave him a seductive smile. “Of course.”

  For the next week, Denvignes took on the role of both substitute spy-master and ardent suitor. He seemed enamored with M’greet, and plied her with lavish gifts. At lunch one day, he rather reluctantly informed her he was to start out for Paris in the morning.

  His hand reached toward M’greet’s bosom, and to her surprise, plucked a posy from her corsage. “I will carry this to France to remind me of my Parisian flower. Can we continue this relationship when I return?”

  “I would love for that, Colonel, but unfortunately I must be leaving Madrid soon.”

  “I see. Well, then perhaps we shall meet again in Paris. I’ll be staying at the Hotel d’Orsay.” He wound a ribbon around the posy before adding, “Is there anything I can do for you while I’m gone?”

  “Yes.” She leaned forward. “Will you please pay a call on Captain Ladoux and tell him how well I’ve done?” She pursed her lips. “Since I’ve been here, I haven’t heard a word from him. Going forward, I’d like for him to treat me with more respect.”

  “Of course.” He set the beribboned posy down. “In the meantime, should you retrieve any new information from Kalle, pass it on to my replacement at the embassy instead of sending it back to Paris.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  Perhaps as not merely a coincidence, only hours after Denvignes departed, Kalle sent an invitation for M’greet to pay a call to his apartment.

  As soon as she was shown into his study, he stated, “I’ve heard your French friend was ordered to return to Paris.”

  M’greet’s heart sped up. “Have you?”

  He poured himself a drink. “You must have repeated what I’d told you, for the French have sent their radio messages everywhere, asking when the officers will alight in Morocco.”

  “It wasn’t me,” she insisted. She brightened as a thought occurred to her. “Maybe it was that blonde woman at dinner?”

  “Alouette? Most certainly not.”

  M’greet decided to change the subject. “How do you know what the French are telegraphing?”

  Kalle took a long gulp of his drink. “We’ve had the key to their cipher for months now.”

  “Oh.” She walked over to him and put her hand on his arm. “How very clever.”

  She could feel his arm muscles relax. He set his drink down on the bar. “I can forgive such a beautiful woman as yourself, but if Berlin knew it was me who told you this information, it could cost me my life.”

  “They will never know,” she assured him, unbuttoning her blouse. He took her hand and led her into the bedroom, where she let him do what he wanted with her.

  Afterward, he lit a cigarette. “This war will perhaps lead elsewhere. There are among us Germans some officers who are nothing but brutes.”

  M’greet took a puff on his cigarette. Was he wishing to confess something? “The German army has some of the bravest men in the world.” She turned toward him, offering a full view of her naked body.

  “The French do as well,” he conceded. “Especially the aviators. They have one right now who flies over our lines to deposit a passenger, a spy behind enemy lines, that we must search for. But we also have our own agents in France who are very well informed.”

  “How do these agents get word to you?”

  “There are many means. We use couriers instead of sending letters.”

  “Well, I find that astonishing. I have traveled a great deal during this war and, judging by the inspections to which I have been subjected, I wonder how anyone could pass the security checks with secrets. In England, they even examined my hatpins.”

  He reached out to caress her bare thigh. “But it is not with women like you that one transports such things. Our couriers are a little dirty, people whom one doesn’t usually notice. They carry the reagents to our ink formed into little white balls in their ears and under their fingernails.”

  M’greet gave a fake moan of pleasure. “My God, such inventions!” She shifted abruptly, as if a thought had just occurred to her. “I only wish that I could return to my home country for a trice. I have a daughter there I haven’t seen in ages.”

  Kalle blew out a ring of smoke. “I told you I cannot assist you with the border guards. But,” he sat up and reached into a desk drawer. “Maybe this will help.” He dumped several bills in the space between them.

  M’greet counted them as soon as she left his apartment. Kalle had given her $3500 francs.

  Chapter 58

  Marthe

  January 1917

  The months before Marthe’s trial dragged by. She wished to get the whole business over quickly; knowing that the trial would be a sham and her condemnation was certain.

  Finally, the stomping of a great many feet could be heard outside her cell and the door flew open, revealing a German unteroffizier and two privates, their callous eyes staring straight ahead. To them, Marthe was already a convicted spy, and, in a short while, they would aim their rifles at her heart with the same lack of interest they displayed now.

  The unteroffizier gave her a curt nod and Marthe followed him, the privates walking behind her. They left the confines of the prison and marched across the grounds to the courthouse. She had not been outside in months and she took a deep breath of the winter air, noticing everything: the smoke wafting from the prison kitchen, the bird poised on a leafless tree branch, the German flag waving in the breeze in front of the courthouse.

  In too short a time, Marthe was inside the courtroom, facing eight officers in impeccably neat uniforms seated at a long table.

  She was led to a shorter table with two empty chairs. She sat in one and pulled it forward. It squeaked along the floor, causing the jury members’ frowns to deepen. She offered no apology. Instead, she placed her folded hands in front of her and stared straight ahead.

  Another officer stood. He was short, with glasses that emphasized his stony eyes. The prosecution.

  He began pacing the narrow space between the accused and the judge. “Marthe Cnockaert, a Belgian subject under the jurisdiction of the Imperial German Government, is accused of grave offenses against the Military Code. These offences are treasonous to our great country and are punishable by death.” He paused to see the full effect of his words, but the only sound to be heard was a rustling of papers.

  Marthe remained frozen, refusing to follow the little man with her eyes and thus only caught si
ght of him when he stopped directly in front of her.

  “I will prove the guilt of the accused fully and conclusively. After leaving her home village of Westroosebeke, she took on the role of nurse in order to carry out her destructive deeds. There is no doubt she was dangerous even from those early days, working under the façade of being a ministering angel, while all the while passing on secrets regarding our army’s positions.” He pointed at Marthe. “This woman has caused the death of hundreds of our comrades-in-arms!”

  The jury refused to show any verbal response to his accusations, but this time the sound of paper rustling was accompanied by the furious scribbling of many pens.

  The prosecutor continued, “I will call witnesses who will testify to her guilt. We must remember, gentlemen, that these are times of danger; our Fatherland and the safety of our soldiers fighting in the trenches must be ensured. No sentiment toward womanhood must cloud our judgement. The only fate for the operative responsible for the destruction of the stores of our armies is death!”

  This time there was absolutely no other sound as the prosecutor took his seat.

  The judge straightened. “These are very serious charges, Fräulein Cnockaert. What say you?”

  Marthe refused to speak the language of their so-called Fatherland and replied in Flemish. “Ik zeg niks.” I say nothing.

  The judge peered at her over the top of his pince-nez glasses. “Who were your other associates in the burning of the ammunition dump? It is well known you worked with the spy Lucelle Deldonck.”

  Marthe was a stone wall.

  “Fräulein, I have to warn you, you are hurting your own case.” The judge took off his glasses to plead with her. “Be frank with the court. These messages were signed by ‘Laura.’ Are you Laura?”

  After another moment of silence, he nodded at the prosecutor. “Proceed with the evidence.”

  Over the next few hours, the prosecutor called several Germans to testify against Marthe, including the brigade officer who had arrested her, the gefreiter who had discovered her watch, and the secretary to the Town-Kommandant who had heard her claim the watch. It was well into the afternoon when the detective from the prison came to the stand.

  Marthe stiffened when she saw his face, with that hateful distorted nose. She tried to focus on the wooden desk in front of her instead of listening to his testimony, but when the detective stated, “The prisoner admitted her collusion with the enemy more than once to me,” she could no longer restrain herself.

  “That is a lie,” Marthe stated quietly. “This man invaded my privacy night and day—when I was weak from hunger and lack of sleep, he threw me against the wall and shook me, threatening to kill me. And I never admitted such a thing. This is the kind of man you will listen to under oath?”

  The judge held up his hand. “We concern ourselves only with facts in this court. If your charges are disproved, you will be released.”

  “I do not recognize this court or its verdict,” Marthe replied, her voice so low that every man in the room leaned in to hear her. “I am well aware that my fate had already been determined before I even walked into this room. But if you think that your country can keep down the Belgian spirit of freedom, you are mistaken.” She stood up, her voice growing stronger. “I see myself as a soldier in the field, with the same rights to defend my country against an invader who has ravaged our land, raped our women, and who has rewritten our laws for their own convenience.”

  This finally elicited feedback from the jury, who buzzed with anger as she sat down.

  “Do you intend to call any more witnesses?” the judge asked the prosecutor when the court had quieted. The prosecutor shook his head.

  Just then the unteroffizier came in and handed a note to the judge before saluting and exiting as quickly as he had entered.

  The judge read the note, his eyebrows knitting together and his frown deepening. He then called the prosecutor to the bench and the two spoke in furious whispers.

  The prosecutor threw up his hands and retreated back to his table as the judge cleared his throat. “Although this is against the usual procedure, the court has decided to hear the evidence presented by Herr Doctor Herbert Stolz.”

  All heads in the room, Marthe’s included, swiveled to the back as the Oberarzt entered.

  After he was sworn in, the Oberarzt began his testimony. “The accused has worked untiringly under my command for more than two years and has always taken great pride and generosity in her work as a nurse. I have come here on my own will to testify to her excellent character and her endless willingness to alleviate the sufferings of our wounded countrymen.”

  Marthe could feel her facial muscles relax as she looked upon her former boss.

  The prosecutor rose and walked toward him. “Would it surprise you to know that the accused has confessed to her guilt?

  “That does not concern me.”

  The prosecutor spat out his retort. “What should concern you is that the accused obtained the job of nurse at a German hospital in order to conduct espionage against said countrymen.”

  “She may have conducted espionage in the interests of her country, just as you and I act in the interest of our country. But it is my opinion that Fräulein Cnockaert carried out her duties as a nurse purely in the interest of helping humankind.” The Oberarzt turned to the judge. “This woman was awarded the highest honor that our Fatherland bestows—the Iron Cross.”

  At this, several men in the jury gasped.

  The judge banged his gavel. “The sentence for the accused will be announced in four days’ time. Remove the prisoner and clear the court.”

  Chapter 59

  M’greet

  January 1917

  M’greet’s stay in Madrid proved to be more than fruitful. Armed with all of the information Kalle had provided, she intended to return to Paris and demand payment from Ladoux. The only question was how to get back.

  She’d befriended two Spanish envoys: the senator Emilio Junoy and his assistant, Diego de Leon. Their relationship was strictly platonic, as her only concern was getting them to sign her travel papers. To emphasize her intentions, M’greet told them all about Vadim, who, to her knowledge, was still at Verdun.

  “But señorita, the Battle of Verdun ended weeks ago,” Junoy replied.

  “Oh.” M’greet’s face wrinkled unintentionally. “I wonder where in the world he is now?”

  She was surprised when Junoy told her over lunch the next day that he had been approached by a “handsome Slav, clearly in the employ of French intelligence” who had demanded to know why they had been seen in the presence of someone clearly hostile to the Anglo-French alliance.

  “He couldn’t have possibly meant me,” M’greet insisted.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Junoy replied. “I told him we knew you as a charming, intelligent, spiritual woman, and that no word of politics had ever crossed your lips.”

  “In fact,” de Leon added, “when we asked you about the whereabouts of your soldier fiancé, you had no idea. If you were indeed an enemy spy, you’d be much more informed of military operations.”

  There was no way M’greet could argue with that statement.

  “But I do have good news.” Junoy produced a French visa. “You’ll now be able to return to Paris as soon as possible.”

  “Oh thank you!” she blew him a kiss with her gloved hand.

  One of the first things she did after checking into the relatively inexpensive Hotel Plaza Athénée was visit her customary hair salon, to touch up her hair color and cover her emerging grays.

  Afterward, she called on 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain.

  “Captain Ladoux is not in,” a suave, dark-haired stranger told her.

  “Do you know when he will return?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure.” The dark-haired man shot her a wide grin, as if he already knew the answer to his question. “Do you care to wait for him?”

  “No.” M’greet frowned. How was she supposed t
o get paid if Ladoux was nowhere to be found? “Do you know anything as to the whereabouts of Colonel Denvignes?”

  “Ah, yes.” He scratched at his unruly beard. “I believe he returns to Madrid this evening.”

  Denvignes had implied he would be in Paris for several months. M’greet forgot all of her carefully cultivated demeanor as she demanded, “What?”

  “If you can get to the Austerlitz station in time, you might be able to catch him before the train leaves.” He stepped into the street to wave down a passing taxi.

  The passengers had already boarded by the time the taxi arrived in Austerlitz. M’greet hailed a conductor and begged him to inform the French military attaché that she was in need of his presence.

  She was relieved to see Denvignes appear at the door of his carriage a few minutes later.

  “Yes?” he asked coolly, as though he didn’t recognize her.

  “So this is the way you leave town, Colonel, without a word. Have you seen Captain Ladoux?”

  He stuck his head out of the doorway to look up and down the platform before replying in a small voice, “No, but I did pay a call on his chief, Colonel Goubé. He told me that your information was very interesting and that you must be an intelligent woman.”

  “Is that all?” she demanded. “Did you explain our relationship?”

  His grip on the railing tightened. “I told him I had met you briefly in Madrid.”

  Briefly? M’greet narrowed her eyes at the person standing before her, clearly of a different mind than the one who had once been so affectionate toward her. “Why did you lie? Did you forget about your Parisian flower?”

  The train began to pull away. Denvignes called after her, “Je suis désolé mon petit.” I am sorry my little one.

  Early the next morning, M’greet arrived again at the offices of the Deuxiéme Bureau and requested to see Ladoux. After being kept waiting for over an hour, she was told to call the next day after 5 pm.