The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  Copyright © 2019 Kit Sergeant

  Published by Thompson Belle Press

  All rights reserved.

  This book is dedicated to all of the women who lived during the First World War and whose talents and sacrifices are known or unknown, but especially to the real-life women upon whom these characters are based.

  Glossary of Terms

  Aerodrome: a small airport

  Boches: derogatory term for Germans

  Croix de Guerre: a French military honor

  Deuxiéme Bureau: France’s military intelligence agency; translated as the “Second Bureau of the Second Staff”

  Franc-tireur: a civilian sniper

  Feldwebel: a German military rank, approximately equivalent to a sergeant

  Gefreiter: a German military rank, approximately equivalent to a corporal

  Gendarme: an armed police officer

  Grand Place: the town square

  Hauptman: a German military rank, approximately equivalent to a captain

  Huns: another derogatory term for Germans

  Kermis: a Dutch summer fair

  Lorry: a motor vehicle used to transport goods or passengers

  Meneer: Dutch for “Mr.”

  Mevrouw: Dutch for “Mrs.”

  Oberarzt: a senior physician

  Ordnance train: a train carrying military supplies

  Unteroffizier: a German military rank, approximately equivalent to a sergeant

  Zouave: a soldier usually linked to the French North African territories; they are known for their distinct uniforms

  Prologue

  October 1917

  The nun on duty woke her just before dawn. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes to see a crowd of men, including her accusers and her lawyer, standing just outside the iron bars of her cell. The only one who spoke was the chief of the Military Police, to inform her the time of her execution had come. The men then turned and walked away, leaving only the nun and the prison doctor, who kept his eyes on the dirty, straw-strewn floor as she dressed.

  She chose the best outfit she had left, a bulky dove-gray skirt and jacket and scuffed ankle boots. She wound her unwashed hair in a bun and then tied the worn silk ribbons of her hat under her chin before asking the doctor, “Do I have time to write good-byes to my loved ones?”

  He nodded and she hastily penned three farewell letters. She handed them to the doctor with shaking hands before lifting a dust-covered velvet cloak from a nail on the wall. “I am ready.”

  Seemingly out of nowhere, her lawyer reappeared. “This way,” he told her as he grasped her arm.

  Prison rats scurried out their way as he led her down the hall. She breathed in a heavy breath when they were outside. It had been months since she’d seen the light of day, however faint it was now.

  Four black cars were waiting in the prison courtyard. A few men scattered about the lawn lifted their freezing hands to bring their cameras to life, the bulbs brightening the dim morning as her lawyer bundled her into the first car.

  They drove in silence. It was unseasonably cold and the chill sent icy fingers down her spine. She stopped herself from shivering, wishing that she could experience one more warm summer day. But there would be no more warmth, no more appeals, nothing left after these last few hours.

  She knew that her fate awaited her at Caponniére, the old fort just outside of Vincennes where the cavalry trained. Upon arrival, her lawyer helped her out of the car, his gnarled hands digging into her arm.

  It’s harder for him than it is for me. She brushed the thought away, wanting to focus on nothing but the fresh air and the way the autumn leaves of the trees next to the parade ground changed color as the sun rose. Her lawyer removed his arm from her shoulders as two Zouave escorts appeared on either side of her. Her self-imposed blinders finally dropped as she took in the twelve soldiers with guns and, several meters away, the wooden stake placed in front of a brick wall. So that the mis-aimed bullets don’t hit anything else.

  A priest approached and offered her a blindfold.

  “No thank you.” Her voice, which had not been used on a daily basis for months, was barely a whisper.

  The priest glanced over at her lawyer, who nodded. The blindfold disappeared under his robes.

  She spoke the same words to one of the escorts as he held up a rope, this time also shaking her head. She refused to be bound to the stake. He acquiesced, and walked away.

  She stood as straight as she could, free of any ties, while the military chief read the following words aloud:

  By decree of the Third Council of War, the woman who appears before us now has been condemned to death for espionage.

  He then gave an order, and the soldiers came to attention. At the command, “En joue!” they hoisted their guns to rest on their shoulders. The chief raised his sword.

  She took a deep breath and then lifted her chin, willing herself to die just like that: head held high, showing no fear. She watched as the chief lowered his sword and shouted “Feu!”

  And then everything went black.

  * * *

  A Zouave private approached the body. He’d only been enlisted for a few weeks and had been invited to the firing squad by his commander, who told him that men of all ranks should know the pleasure of shooting a German spy.

  “By blue, that lady knew how to die,” another Zouave commented.

  “Who was she?” the private asked. He’d been taught that everything in war was black and white: the Germans were evil, the Allies pure. But he was surprised at how gray everything was that morning: from the misty fog, to the woman’s cloak and dress, and even the ashen shade of her lifeless face.

  The other Zouave shrugged. “All I know is what they told me. They say she acted as a double agent and provided Germany with intelligence about our troops.” He drew his revolver and bent down to place the muzzle against the woman’s left temple.

  “But is it necessary to kill her—a helpless woman?” the private asked.

  The Zouave cocked his gun for the coup de grâce. “If women act as men would in war and commit heinous crimes, they should be prepared to be punished as men.” And he pulled the trigger, sending a final bullet into the woman’s brain.

  Chapter 1

  M’greet

  July 1914

  “Have you heard the latest?” M’greet’s maid, Anna, asked as she secured a custom-made headpiece to her mistress’s temple.

  “What now?” M’greet readjusted the gold headdress to better reflect her olive skin tone.

  “They are saying that your mysterious Mr. K from the newspaper article is none other than the Crown Prince himself.”

  M’greet smiled at herself in the mirror. “Is that so? I rather think they’re referring to Lieutenant Kiepert. Just the other day he and I ran into the editor of the Berliner Tageblatt during our walk in the Tiergarten.” Her smile faded. “But let them wonder.” For the last few weeks, the papers had been filled with speculation about why the famed Mata Hari had returned to Germany, sometimes bordering on derision about her running out of money.

  She leaned forward and ran her fingers over the dark circles under her eyes. “Astruc says that he might be able to negotiate a longer engagement in the fall if tonight’s performance goes well.”

  “It will,” Anna assured her as she fastened the heavy gold necklace around M’greet’s neck.

  The metal felt cold against her sweaty skin. She hadn’t performed in months, and guessed the perspiration derived from her nervousness. Tonight was to be the largest performance she’d booked in years: Berlin’s Metropol could seat 1108 people, and the tickets had sold out days ago. The building was less than a decade old, and even the dressing room's geometric wallpaper and curved furniture reflected the Art Nouveau style the theater was famous for.

  “I had to have this costume refitted.” M’greet pulled at the sheer yellow fabric covering her midsection. When she first began dancing, she had worn jeweled bralettes and long, sheer sk
irts that sat low on the hips. But her body had become much more matronly in middle age and even M’greet knew that she could no longer get away with the scandalous outfits of her youth. She added a cumbersome earring to each ear and an arm band before someone knocked on the door.

  A man’s voice called urgently in German, “Fräulein Mata Hari, are you ready?”

  Anna shot her mistress an encouraging smile. “Your devoted admirers are waiting.”

  M’greet stretched out her arms and rotated her wrists, glancing with appreciation in the mirror. She still had it. She grabbed a handful of translucent scarves and draped them over her arms and head before opening the door. “All set,” she said to the awaiting attendant.

  M'greet waited behind a filmy curtain while the music began: low, mournful drumming accompanied by a woman’s shrill tone singing in a foreign language. As the curtain rose, she hoisted her arms above her head and stuck her hips out in the manner she had seen the women do when she lived in Java.

  She had no formal dance training, but it didn’t matter. People came to see Mata Hari for the spectacle, not because she was an exceptionally wonderful dancer. M’greet pulled the scarf off her head and undulated her hips in time with the music. She pinched her fingers together and moved her arms as if she were a graceful bird about to take flight. The drums heightened in intensity and her gyrations became even more exaggerated. As the music came to a dramatic stop, she released the scarves covering her body to reveal her yellow dress in full.

  She was accustomed to hearing astonished murmurs from the audience following her final act—she’d once proclaimed that her success rose with every veil she threw off. Tonight, however, the Berlin audience seemed to be buzzing with protest.

  As the curtain fell and M’greet began to pick up the pieces of her discarded costume, she assured herself that the Berliners’ vocalizations were in response to being disappointed at seeing her more covered. Or maybe she was just being paranoid and had imagined all the ruckus.

  “Fabulous!” her agent, Gabriel Astruc, exclaimed when he burst into her dressing room a few minutes later.

  M’greet held a powder puff to her cheek. “Did you finalize a contract for the fall?”

  “I did,” Astruc sat in the only other chair, which appeared too tiny to support his large frame. “They are giving us 48,000 marks.”

  She nodded approvingly.

  “That should tide you over for a while, no?” he asked.

  She placed the puff in the gold-lined powder case. “For now. But the creditors are relentless. Thankfully Lieutenant Kieper has gifted me a few hundred francs.”

  “As a loan?” Astruc winked. “It is said you have become mistress to the Kronprinz.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You of all people must know to never mind such rumors. I may be well familiar with men in high positions, but have not yet made the acquaintance of the Kaiser’s son.”

  Astruc rose. “Someday you two will meet, and even the heir of the German Empire will be unable to resist the charms of the exotic Mata Hari.”

  M’greet unsnapped the cap of her lipstick. “We shall see, won’t we?”

  Now that the fall performances had been secured, M’greet decided to upgrade her lodgings to the lavish Hotel Adlon. As she entered the lobby, with its sparkling chandeliers dangling from intricately carved ceilings and exotic potted palms scattered among velvet-cushioned chairs, she nodded to herself. This was the type of hotel a world-renowned dancer should be found in. She booked an apartment complete with electric Tiffany lamps and a private bathroom featuring running water.

  The Adlon was known not only for its famous patrons, but for the privacy it provided them. M’greet was therefore startled the next morning when someone banged on the door to her suite.

  “Yes?” Anna asked as she opened it.

  “Are you Mata Hari?” a gruff voice inquired.

  M’greet threw on a silky robe over her nightgown before she went to the door. “You must be looking for me.”

  The man in the doorway appeared to be about forty, with a receding hairline and a bushy mustache that curled upward from both sides of his mouth. “I am Herr Griebel of the Berlin police.”

  M’greet ignored Anna’s stricken expression as she motioned for her to move aside. “Please come in.” She gestured toward a chair at the little serving table. “Shall I order up some tea?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Griebel replied as he sat. “I am here to inform you that a spectator of your performance last night has lodged a complaint.”

  “A complaint? Against me?” M’greet repeated as she took a seat in the chair across from him. She mouthed, “tea,” at Anna, who was still standing near the door. Anna nodded and then left the room.

  “Indeed,” Griebel touched his mustache. “A complaint of indecency.”

  “I see.” She leaned forward. “You are part of the Sittenpolizei, then.” They were a department charged with enforcing the Kaiser’s so-called laws of morality. M’greet had been visited a few times in the past by such men, but nothing had ever come of it. She flashed Griebel a seductive smile. “Surely your department has no issue with sacred dances?”

  “Ah,” Griebel fidgeted with the collar of his uniform, clearly uncomfortable.

  Mirroring his movements, M’greet fingered the neckline of her low-cut gown. “After all, there are more important issues going on in the world than my little dance.”

  “Such as?” Griebel asked.

  The door opened and Anna discreetly placed a tea set on the crisp white tablecloth. She gave her mistress a worried look but M’greet waved her off before pouring Griebel a cup of tea. “Well, I’m sure you heard about that poor man that was shot in the Balkans in June.”

  “Of course—it’s been in all of the papers. The ‘poor man,’ as you call him, was Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Austria should not stand down when the heir to their throne was shot by militant Serbs.”

  M’greet took a sip of tea. “Are you saying they should go to war?”

  “They should. And Germany, as Austria’s ally, ought to accompany them.”

  “Over one man? You cannot be serious.”

  “Those Serbs need to be taught a lesson, once and for all.” Upon seeing the pout on M’greet’s face, Griebel waved his hand. “But you shouldn’t worry your pretty little head over talk of politics.”

  She pursed her lips. “You’re right. It’s not something that a woman like me should be discussing.”

  “No.” He set down his tea cup and pulled something out of his pocket. “As I was saying when I first came in, about the complaint—”

  “As I was saying…” she faked a yawn, stretching her arms out while sticking out her bosom. The stocky, balding Griebel was not nearly as handsome as some of the men she’d met over the years, but M’greet knew that she needed to become better acquainted with him in order to get the charges dropped. Besides, she’d always had a weakness for men in uniform. “My routine is adopted from Hindu religious dances and should not be misconstrued as immoral.” She placed a hand over Griebel’s thick fingers, causing the paper to fall to the floor. “I think, if the two of us put our heads together, we can definitely find a mutual agreement.”

  He pulled his hand away to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. “I don’t know if that’s possible.”

  M’greet got up from her chair to spread herself on the bed, displaying her body to its advantage as a chef would his best dish.

  “Perhaps we could work out an arrangement that would benefit us both,” Griebel agreed as he walked over to her.

  Griebel’s mustache tickled her face, but she forced herself to think about other things as he kissed her. Her thoughts at such moments often traveled to her daughter, Non, but today she focused on the other night’s performance. M’greet always did what it took to survive, and right now she needed the money that her contract with the Berlin Metropol would provide, and nothing could get in the way of that.

  M’greet was glad to
count Herr Griebel as her new lover as the tensions between the advocates of the Kaiser—who wanted to “finish with the Serbs quickly”—and the pacifists determined to keep Germany out of war heightened throughout Berlin at the end of July. Although Griebel was on the side of the war-mongers, M’greet felt secure traveling on his arm every night on their way to Berlin’s most popular venues.

  It was in the back room at one such establishment, the Borchardt, that she met some of Griebel’s cronies. They had gathered to talk about the recent developments—Austria-Hungary had officially declared war on Serbia. M’greet knew her place was to look pretty and say nothing, but at the same time she couldn’t help but listen to what they were discussing.

  “I’ve heard that Russia has mobilized her troops,” a heavyset, balding man stated. M’greet recalled that his name was Müller.

  “Ah,” Griebel sat back in the plush leather booth. “That’s the rub, now isn’t it?”

  Herr Vogel, Griebel’s closest compatriot, shook his head. “I’d hoped Russia would stay out of it.” He flicked ash from his cigar into a nearby tray. “After all, the Kaiser and the Tsar are cousins.”

  “No,” Müller replied. “Those Serbs went crying to Mother Russia, and she responded.” He nodded to himself. “Now it’s only a matter of time before we jump in to protect Austria.”

  As if on cue, the sound of breaking glass was heard.

  M’greet ended her silence. “What was that?”

  Griebel put a protective hand on her arm. “I’m not sure.” He used his other arm to flag down a passing waiter. “What is going on?”