L'Agent Double

by Kit Sergeant

  “Not quite,” Bouchardon waved at her chair. “There is the matter of Lieutenant Masloff’s deposition.”

  M’greet heaved a sigh before resuming her seat.

  Bouchardon passed a paper across the table. “As you can see, the lieutenant denies ever having been in love with you.” He tapped at a sentence. “He called your affair ‘merely casual.’”

  She shoved the paper back at him. “I have no reply to that statement.”

  Ladoux stood, his short, fat body towering over the still-seated M’greet. “If you do not reveal the names of your German accomplices, you will be shot as a spy.”

  She had finally reached her breaking point. “You know nothing of my character, nothing! Because of my travels, my foreign acquaintances, my manner of living, you think poorly of me. But…” she stuck her finger in Ladoux’s fat face. “You are a petty, small man. It is not my fault you did not know how to employ me properly. This is all your doing, not mine.” The tears coursed their way down her face, but M’greet did not bother to wipe them away. “Everything I thought I once knew is collapsing all around me. Never would I have believed that such cowardice could come from him,” she nodded toward the awful paper with Vadim’s statements, “a man for whom I would have gone through fire.” She rose. “I will defend myself, and if I fail, it will be with a smile of profound contempt.”

  Chapter 65

  Alouette

  March 1917

  Alouette was still seething over the explosion of the French munitions factory. What was happening at the Deuxiéme Bureau? The answer came, once again, in the form of a newspaper. The headline read: “Arrest of Famed Dancer and German Spy.” Perusing the article, her eye caught the following sentence: “Lady MacLeod was the mistress of the German naval attaché in Madrid.”

  Struck with inspiration, Alouette hobbled into von Krohn’s office, intent on getting more information out of him. She threw the newspaper onto his desk. “One of your women spies has been arrested in Paris.”

  His face turned white as the blood drained from it. “One of my women spies? What is her name?”

  “Mata Hari, the dancer.”

  The color returned to his face, but it still held a look of bewilderment. “It is possible that this woman is in the pay of Arnold Kalle, but I know nothing about her.”

  Alouette tucked her crutch under her armpit in order to fold her arms in front of her. “Prove it.”

  He sighed before going to his locked cabinet. He took a set of keys out of his pocket and opened the drawer to retrieve a file. He carefully locked it again before setting the file down on his desk.

  Von Krohn opened the file to reveal a pile of photographs of women, some with a typed paper stapled to it. Alouette assumed the typing contained vital information about each woman’s position and location, but von Krohn flipped through them too fast for her to make anything of it.

  She decided to force him to slow down. “There!” she shouted, pointing to a picture of a dark-haired woman. “That’s Mata Hari!”

  Von Krohn frowned as he read the information before shaking his head.

  Alouette already knew it was not the woman in question, but at least it got him to go through the file at a slower pace. When he reached the last picture, he shut the file firmly. “I told you, she’s not one of mine.”

  “Is it possible she was employed by the Embassy?” Alouette was dying to know what else was in that locked cabinet.

  “I suppose it is possible.” By this time, von Krohn seemed almost as eager as she to find out if Mata Hari were employed by Germany. He extracted a few more files, but they could find no evidence whatsoever that Mata Hari had been sent to Spain by Germany.

  Chapter 66

  M’greet

  June 1917

  M’greet’s trial was the farce she had predicted it would be. The prosecution called six witnesses, the first being one of the two men who had followed her all throughout Paris. His name turned out to be Police Inspector Monier, who spoke about M’greet meeting her lovers in fancy hotels and expensive restaurants and of her extravagant shopping trips, but gave no evidence of espionage. The second witness was the man who had arrested her, Commissioner Priolet, who, once again, could provide no proof of her spying for Germany.

  Next up was Ladoux, who said pretty much the same as he did before: that he had never employed her as a French agent, but pretended to do so in order to prove her employment for Germany. He was followed by Ladoux’s boss, Colonel Goubé, who claimed that M’greet was “the most dangerous spy he’d even encountered,” but offered no reasoning as to why he thought that.

  The last two witnesses to give so-called evidence of her guilt did not physically make it to the stand. The prosecution read aloud a statement from Lieutenant Hallaure, the man who’d suggested that M’greet go to the Deuxiéme Bureau in the first place. He claimed he wasn’t aware of the supposed sickness that required her to take the waters in Vittel.

  To M’greet’s chagrin, the last testimony was that of Vladimir Masloff. Bouchardon read the same proclamation, the one where Vadim claimed he’d never loved M’greet, aloud to the jury.

  Clunet had elicited several people to come forward in M’greet’s defense, but the only one who dared show his face in court was Harry de Marguérie. Of all the men who had claimed to love her, had showered her with adulation and money through the years she’d been Mata Hari, only Harry stood by her side. He began his testimony by insisting she’d never discussed military matters at any point.

  Bouchardon paced in front of Harry in his typical manner. “Are you saying that you spent multiple days in the presence of the accused and never once mentioned the subject that has all of Europe obsessed—namely, the war?”

  “We spoke of art and music. You are right, the war is a constant topic of conversation in my line of work, and it was a relief to not have to chat about it endlessly.” He looked directly at M’greet as he continued, “Nothing will ever spoil my good opinion of this lady.”

  As Harry left the stand, instead of showing obeisance to the jury, he bowed to M’greet.

  Despite the lack of evidence, the jury needed less than half an hour to declare her guilty. Not only was she condemned to death, but the tribunal also stated that all of her precious possessions were to be sold in order to reimburse the French Government for the cost of her trial.

  “It is impossible!” she screamed after the verdict was read.

  Clunet put a restraining hand on her arm. “I will appeal,” he stated. But M’greet knew that all had been lost: they had condemned her not because she had given the enemy any information, but because she had refused to play by society’s rules.

  Chapter 67

  Marthe

  June 1917

  Those days waiting for her execution were the longest of Marthe’s life. Each morning she awoke, she wondered if she were twenty-four hours closer to the firing squad.

  One day, the same unteroffizier who had escorted her to her trial and then sentencing, appeared at her cell door. “Please come with me, fräulein. The judge has summoned you back to court.”

  The judge was in his customary position, as were the jury but Marthe noted the absence of her prosecutor this time.

  The judge picked up an order. “It has previously been decided that, as a convicted spy, you will be put to death by firing squad.”

  She nodded bravely, realizing they must have finally scheduled the date of her execution. At last these months of torturous waiting can come to an end.

  “But…” as he cleared his throat, Marthe looked up, not allowing herself to dare hope. “There has been new information to come to light.” He addressed the jury. “One of our own men, Alphonse Martin, has come forward.”

  Her face colored at the mention of Alphonse’s name. Why had the judge said that he was one of theirs?

  He continued, “The accused knew him as an ambulance driver for the hospital. But he was also a double agent, one who exposed many Belgians spying for th
e Allies. He had been working on finding out who this ‘Laura’ was. According to him, it was not the accused, but rather an old woman who sold fruit out of a farm cart, and who’d previously been discovered and taken care of. Herr Martin insists that the accused is innocent of nearly all charges.”

  Marthe willed her racing mind to focus. It was obvious they thought Canteen Ma had been operating under the code name Laura, which was not true. But what was that about Alphonse being a double agent?

  The judge set down the paper. “Based on this information, plus the fact the accused has been awarded the Iron Cross, and the special testimony provided by our own countrymen, Herr Martin and the Oberarzt at Roulers Hospital, the Commander-in-Chief of Areas under Occupation has graciously decided to commute her death sentence to one of imprisonment for life.” He turned his stern eyes to Marthe. “Do you have anything you wish to say?”

  She shook her head numbly. She couldn’t have said anything if she tried.

  The unteroffizier led her back to her cell. Marthe supposed she should have felt elation at escaping the death penalty, but she felt nothing. The judge had to have been mistaken. There was no way Alphonse was a double agent. If their relationship had been based on the simple matter of him trying to trap Marthe, he would have never lied to the judge about Canteen Ma being Laura. And if the judge were correct, then she didn’t know the first thing about Alphonse. Why would he have helped her blow up the ammunition dump if he was working for Germany?

  Marthe was moved to a new cell, where, as a prisoner for life, she began a soul-numbing routine. She was awakened at dawn to a tray of tea and black sour bread and then taken to another room, where she, along with twenty-five other women, were expected to repair German uniforms, before being returned to her cell for a dinner of bean soup. The endless sewing was difficult on her eyes and fingers, but she welcomed the few hours away from her thoughts.

  The lack of food and fresh air depleted her health. The prison warden sent for a doctor from the hospital, and, to Marthe’s delight, it was one with whom she had been friendly. He was deeply shocked at her appearance and slipped her some extra bread.

  “Do you know of the ambulance driver named Alphonse?” Marthe asked once she had swallowed the bread; it was dry but much more palatable than the prison rations.

  The doctor frowned. “I believe so. Tall, brown-haired?”

  She nodded. She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of Alphonse being a double agent.

  “He no longer works for the hospital.”

  “What happened to him?”

  The doctor shrugged. “I think someone once said he intended to become a priest. Perhaps he’s gone on to seminary school.”

  For once, Marthe wanted to be alone with her thoughts. “Thank you, Herr Doctor.”

  He patted her leg. “Don’t worry. The war must be over soon: humanity cannot stand much more of it.”

  As she watched him leave, Marthe thought to herself there wasn’t much left of humanity. But she forced that thought away. Just because she had been imprisoned, and the man she loved turned out to be an enemy spy, didn’t mean that there was not still good in the world. Or even in Alphonse. Maybe he’d only pretended to work for the Germans. After all, it was partly on his word that she hadn’t been sentenced to death. Or maybe all the things he’d done to convince her of his loyalty were based on lies.

  Knowing that she would never again lay eyes on her lost love, Marthe hoped that he would find peace, either as an agent of Belgium, or Germany, or God. As for herself, she now had no idea what her future would be. Whether for good or evil purposes, Alphonse had stolen that from her. For the first time in many days, she started to cry.

  Chapter 68

  Alouette

  October 1917

  In mid-October, von Krohn handed Alouette yet another newspaper. She read the headline aloud: “Mata Hari put to death by French firing squad.” She paused, her mouth still open. After a moment of reflection, she stated “I never thought it would come to this.” Although she herself had lived in fear of standing in front of a German fusillade for the past three years, it never occurred to her that the French government would send one of their own to the execution post at Vicennes. And that it would be Ladoux to hammer the last nail into the proverbial coffin.

  Von Krohn took the paper and refolded it. “She was either a terrible spy or else an incredibly accomplished one.”

  Alouette recalled how the dancer had revealed Kalle’s involvement with the Moroccan submarines at dinner. “I think it might be the former.”

  “Well, both possibilities make her boss, the head of this so-called Deuxiéme Bureau, look like an incompetent buffoon.” His lips turned up into a sinister smile. “Or else maybe he’s a double-crossing fraud and we should be recruiting him for our side.”

  “Hans, didn’t you say that you believe the French cracked your government’s code a few months ago? That they could decipher whatever telegrams they intercepted at the Eiffel Tower?”

  “Yes. That’s why we had to switch to a new cipher last fall.”

  “Did Kalle know that?”

  “Of course.”

  She shook her head. Ladoux must have known that too. He must have figured out that Kalle was setting Mata Hari up, feeding her intoxication of no use to the Deuxiéme Bureau and then using a code he knew the French could interpret to lie about her involvement. Kalle probably sacrificed Mata Hari to keep his other agents from suspicion. She had simply been a helpless pawn in Germany’s game, yet Ladoux let her go to her death anyway. Why? There was only one person she could ask, and he was in Paris, a place Alouette couldn’t suddenly go jaunting off to without good reason.

  Luckily von Krohn presented her with an escape route. “I’m going to Malaga for a few days.”

  Alouette pretended to be elated. “When do we leave?”

  His face fell. “I can’t take you, Alouette. I’m sorry.”

  She pursed her lips in a fake pout. “Why not, Hans?”

  He patted the hand holding the cane that had replaced her crutches. “You’re not strong enough yet. Besides, I’m going to be paying a visit to my wife.”

  Alouette nodded, making up her mind that she’d take the Paris express as soon as he left.

  After she’d boarded the train, Alouette opened that evening’s paper. All of Europe, it seemed, had caught Spy Fever, seeing agents of espionage in even the most innocent of people. The paper listed some of the more famous cases. The Germans had even arrested a Belgian nurse to whom they had previously awarded the Iron Cross.

  For once in her life, Alouette had to admit she was in over her head. She longed to return to Paris for good, but knew she wouldn’t be able to until she’d put an end to the German Intelligence’s Spanish branch. And that meant the end of von Krohn.

  An overwhelming feeling of depression swept over her. She felt that she was no closer to stopping von Krohn than when she first started. She thought of that stupid filing cabinet in his office, hiding all of his secrets. If only she could get access to his keys, she could reveal every bit of information contained in those files.

  As she stared at the passing landscape, a plan formed in her mind.

  Of course, the first thing Alouette did when she reached Paris was to pay a visit to 282 boulevard, Saint Germain. Against all odds, Ladoux was actually present.

  “How dare you not answer any of my letters. You are keeping me a virtual prisoner in Spain!” She used her cane to point at him.

  He looked understandably shocked at her condition: she’d lost a fair bit of weight, and she was still not able to walk without support. “Is that all from the accident? Monsieur Davrichachvili told me about it.”

  So Zozo had made it back to Paris. She hobbled to a chair. “Yes, it was from the accident. Something you would know if you deigned to read any of my letters.”

  “I assure you, I’ve read them all. I just haven’t been able to respond. There are circumstances underfoot about which you don’t need
to know…”

  “Oh I know. I know you are the one who sent Mata Hari to her death. I just don’t know your motivation.”

  Ladoux held up his hand. “Alouette—”

  “We all know these are the consequences you risk when you agree to play your little game, Ladoux.”

  He seemed about to explain his side of the Mata Hari plot, but Alouette wasn’t in the mood to hear any more lies. “I want you to help me with one last coup, and then I’m out.” She told him about von Krohn’s filing cabinet. “There are names and photographs of all of the Baron’s contacts, not to mention there must be oodles of other information of worth. If I could slip some sort of drug into his drink, I could steal his keys and then empty the safe.”

  “That’s too much of a risk.”

  “No.” She glanced at her cane, which lay just out of reach, longing to bang it on Ladoux’s desk. “I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown and need to leave Spain for good.”

  He threw up his hands. “Leave then. No one is stopping you.”

  “My conscious is. Something you probably know nothing about. I have to do one last mission for France.” She fixed a pleading gaze on her boss. “Help me.”

  “I can see that you are extremely tired and overwrought.” He lit a cigarette. “But…” she could tell he was about to deny her again so she changed her expression to one of menace. “Very well.” He dug into his desk drawer. “I’ll permit you to try out your plan, if only to prevent your resignation.” He passed her a visa, along with two little packets. “Drop one of these packets of powder into the baron’s beer. It will not take long to act, but be careful not to overdose him, as the results could be fatal.”