The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  “Why are you leaving so soon?”

  “I told you, I have no money.”

  “But you won quite a bit at the roulette table last night.”

  The waitress arrived with their coffee, toast, and a dish of creamy butter. The best thing about Spain was the lack of rationing. Alouette kept Walter waiting for her reply while she spread butter over the bread with gusto. “I didn’t win too much,” she said finally. “Just enough to cover my hotel bill and pay off some of the debts I’ve incurred here.”

  This statement was met by yet another uncomfortable silence. Alouette took a bite of toast, ruminating as she chewed that she made a faux pas by mentioning needing money to the German. The pensive look on Walter’s face was probably a result of him trying to figure out how to change the subject.

  She did him the favor. “Do you know many other Germans in San Sebastian?”

  He took a sip of coffee. “A few.”

  “Have you met with any of them often?”

  “Not really.”

  The rest of the breakfast continued in a similar way, with Alouette trying to pry into Walter’s background without being overly obvious. His replies were vague, either out of caution or because he had no information of any pertinence whatsoever. Either way, she soon became bored.

  As if desperate to fill the silence, Walter launched into a description of Madrid, where he had been conducting business when the war broke out. He maintained his idle prattle as they left the restaurant. Alouette had given up her attempts to get Walter to recruit her as an agent: it was obvious he was as honest as he looked.

  As they made their way back to the car, he put his hand on her back and steered her off the sidewalk. She was about to protest when he muttered under his breath, “I don’t want to greet this fellow walking toward us. He might prove a nuisance to you.”

  “Why?” she asked, her voice also low.

  “He is a spy.”

  “Oh.” She tried to keep her voice neutral while her innards jumped for joy.

  Walter pretended to be engrossed in the store window in front of them, but Alouette made eye contact with the approaching man. He smiled at her before catching sight of Walter. “Herr Halphan! Fancy meeting you here.”

  Walter extended his hand with a slight hesitation. The tall, slim man shook it before his eyes traveled up and down Alouette’s form. “Who is the lady?” he asked Walter in German.

  Walter, ever the gentleman, answered in French. “She has come to Spain to win a fortune at the casino. From Paris,” he added.

  “Yes, and who failed to do so,” Alouette said with a laugh. “And that’s why I’m headed back to Paris quite soon.”

  The man cocked his eyebrow at Walter. He switched to French to ask, “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  Walter planted his feet and gestured to Alouette. “Madame Richer, this is Monsieur Stephan Kraut, a naval officer.”

  Kraut bowed. “What hotel are you staying in, madame?”

  “The Continental.”

  His bushy eyebrow inched its way even more toward his hairline. “The Continental?”

  She knew this time the bait had found a fish, and hooked a German naval officer at that. She glanced down at the ground, eyelashes fluttering. “I came to Spain hoping to find a rich husband. In France, there are none left.” She glanced up. “But the men here are no good: half of them are deserters and the others desire only to have women as lovers.” She emphasized the last word, her tongue caressing her teeth as she formed the l. “You aren’t like that, are you Herr Kraut?”

  Walter’s face grew dark with anger. If looks could kill, Walter’s visage would have been even more dangerous than his countrymen’s Big Bertha howitzers.

  “No,” Kraut replied, taking Alouette’s arm. “I am in the manufacturing business.”

  Walter coughed behind them.

  “Oh, you must teach me your trade!” She made her voice sickeningly sweet. “I see everybody around me getting rich, while I fall further in debt.” She fell into step with Kraut, who had begun strolling as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “They are profiteering off the war. Would you stoop so low to make money at the expense of others?” Kraut asked.

  “Never,” Walter commented from behind them.

  Alouette, pretending to be deep in thought, stopped walking, “I would indeed. This war is a silly, needless display of power. It’s as if Germany, and France, and all those other countries, are boys on a playground, fighting over possession of some ball.”

  Kraut nodded. “And by now, everyone has forgotten to whom that ball belonged in the first place.”

  She gave him a meaningful glance and dropped her tone. “If it’s just a silly ball they’re after, why not try to sell them a new one?”

  “Exactly.” He met her smile with an oily one of his own, and Alouette knew she had won the round.

  Walter’s voice broke their tête-à-tête. “Fräulein Richer, are you quite ready to go?”

  “So soon?” Kraut’s face fell. “I was hoping to have lunch, and perhaps fill this lovely woman in on a business proposition I have.”

  “Lunch? We just finished breakfast,” Walter replied.

  “You are her escort?” Kraut looked from him to Alouette. She suddenly understood that Kraut would not speak of anything confidential in the presence of his large countryman.

  “Actually, I am her d—” Walter began, but Alouette interrupted him with a wave of her hand. “I don’t need an escort. I plan on doing some shopping while I’m here, and then take the train back to San Sebastian. Alone,” she emphasized.

  Walter blinked several times before turning abruptly on his heel and heading back to his car.

  “The train arrives at San Sebastian in late afternoon,” Kraut said after Walter was out of earshot. “Perhaps I can interest you in an early dinner? I know of a great place near the Continental where we can discuss that,” he cracked the knuckle of his forefinger with his thumb, “business arrangement I mentioned earlier.”

  She hoped her instincts had been correct and he was not referring to anything more nefarious than espionage. “Of course.”

  Perhaps it was only her imagination, but the staff seemed different when she returned to the hotel later that afternoon. The clerk, who had once been quite inattentive to her, came immediately out of the office, as if he had been just inside the door, waiting for Alouette to ring the desk bell. “Yes, señorita?”

  “I’m meeting someone tonight at the El Torreón restaurant.” She stumbled over the foreign words.

  “Ah, yes.” He pointed to a spot on the map behind the desk. “It is atop Monte Igueldo.”

  “On top of a mountain?” Kraut was definitely proposing to recruit her for something—hopefully as a spy and not a courtesan.

  “Yes,” the clerk ran his hand down a diagonal line on the map. “You will need to take the funicular railway to the top.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Less than an hour, but you should go soon if you don’t want to be late.”

  Alouette nodded. She was already out of the hotel before it occurred to her that she never told the clerk what time she would be meeting Kraut.

  She was still reflecting upon this fact as she boarded the Igueldo funicular, a train car that rode along a wooden track from the lower slope of the mountain to the summit. There was only one other passenger, an elderly man in a worn coat, who asked her something in Spanish.

  Anxious to be left with her thoughts, Alouette shrugged her shoulders.

  He tried again, this time in French. “Are you going to the fairgrounds?”

  She shook her head, but he continued anyway, “They have a roller coaster. I hear you young people like such things. Personally, I don’t trust these new innovations.”

  She gave him a tight smile and then fixed her gaze on the view outside. The green forests at the base of the mountain were giving way to the amazing panoramic view that was to be expected from o
ne of the highest points in San Sebastian. La Concha Bay, and beyond it, the Cantabrian Sea, sparkled like vast sapphires. Tiny boats bobbed peacefully in the current, and Alouette wondered if anything as malevolent lurked underneath them. Kraut was a naval officer, but what was a naval officer doing in a neutral country during wartime?

  “Tell me,” she addressed the old man. “Have you ever seen any German submarines in these waters? I’m on holiday and am hoping to see one.”

  Something changed in the man’s eyes as the train jerked to a stop. “Such talk could cause you to end up like that woman yesterday, fished out of the harbor with a dagger stuck in her back.” He pulled open the door of the car. “Better to ask your officer friend,” he said, nodding toward Kraut, who stood waiting a few feet away.

  Kraut greeted her with an unexpected casualness. “Good evening, mein fräulein.”

  She was still reeling from the old man’s words, but pasted a smile across her face. “Good evening, Herr Kraut.”

  He took her elbow. “I think you will quite enjoy this restaurant.” He maintained his easy gait as they were shown to their table in the corner, a view of the bay on one side and the mountains on the other.

  “You speak French quite well,” Alouette commented as she arranged her napkin on her lap.

  “I lived in Paris before the war.” He took a sip of water, his eyes following their waitress as she retreated. He swallowed audibly before setting his glass down with a clunk. “I am to understand that you are in need of money, fräulein. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” She was taken aback at how quickly Kraut got to the point.

  “And you know why I arranged for this dinner?”

  “Yes,” Alouette repeated, crossing her fingers underneath the tablecloth. “I have an idea of what you want me to do.”

  “And are you willing to undertake it?”

  She picked up her fork and examined it, wondering how not to lose the upper-hand like in Switzerland. Kraut appeared to be a man she could handle, if only there didn’t lurk a Gerda somewhere holding the puppet strings. She wanted to show him she’d be worthy of any offer the Germans made. “Am I to understand that you are the chief of your business?”

  “No.” He cleared his throat. “My superior is out of Madrid. But if I were to write to him, even with a telegram, you’d have to wait at least a day for a reply. I am authorized to make arrangements for new recruits.”

  She wiped a smudge from her fork with the napkin. She could hear Ladoux’s voice, urging her to get the Germans to pay. “My case is not an ordinary one. The information which I am in a position to give you is exclusive. I am an airwoman and, as such, have access to all Air Force documents.” This was, of course, not true, but Kraut didn’t know that. “It is impossible for you to pay me sufficient money in return for those services.”

  “I knew you were an airwoman, even before I caught sight of your probing blue eyes. You are very astute, and the fact that you have no particular loyalties to any country makes your potential all the greater. If you come through for us, I would be able to put a fortune at your feet.”

  His voice was as slippery as the oil Alouette dipped her bread in, but at least her plan seemed to be working. “Are you so very rich?”

  Kraut looked up as the waitress poured the wine. He waited until she had finished filling his glass and once again left before he replied, “Personally, no. But Germany gives magnificent rewards to those who serve her.”

  “Serve her how? They won’t allow women to fight in the trenches and my plane has been confiscated.”

  “Oh, come now.” His tone became harsh. “You are too intelligent to misunderstand my meaning.”

  Alouette swirled her wine before sniffing it, the way her deceased husband had taught her. Stalling for time in order to steel her nerves, similar to how she once checked each instrument several times before starting her plane. She took a long sip and then set the glass back down. “And you are too much of a fool for me to continue this conversation.”

  He leaned forward as Alouette continued, “My dear Kraut, you are not much of a recruiting agent if you think a woman such as myself might have misunderstood what your business proposal was. There is no mistake about the goods you manufacture: you are supplying German submarines.”

  He gritted his teeth. “So we can indeed talk plainly. You know the end of the road I am proposing to you.”

  “The execution post at Vincennes.”

  “I am speaking about a stack of money larger than what is in the Bank of France’s coffers.”

  “And I am speaking about being hanged for espionage.” Alouette took another drink of the blood-red wine. Now she sounded like she was refusing his offer. She wiped her mouth with her napkin as she mentally switched gears. “But I do love money and want to earn it quickly. More than what you can offer me in your subordinate capacity.”

  “I only have one chief after the Emperor.”

  “If I am to risk my neck for said Emperor, and that of your employer, while they stay more than arm’s distance away from the trenches, the risk is worth at least a discussion between the two parties concerned.”

  Kraut opened his mouth, but Alouette, in a rush of brazenness, continued, “And by that I mean myself and your chief, and nobody but your chief. Take it or leave it.”

  He heaved a deep sigh. “I would have liked to have been your handler myself. But you are right in your summary—your circumstances are indeed unique. I will write to my chief. I will leave a message at your hotel when I hear back.”

  As Alouette left the restaurant, twilight began to envelop the mountain, the remains of the sun turning the horizon crimson. Now the bay resembled a crown set with jewels.

  The train was crowded with families leaving the fairground, but she didn’t mind. All she could focus on was the words she would write to Ladoux, boasting of her success tonight in infiltrating a German spy ring.

  A soothing evening breeze blew in from the sea as she left the funicular station and strolled back to her hotel.

  Walter had been keeping sentinel outside. Upon seeing her, he moved forward. “Fräulein, will you—”

  “I’m sorry, but something quite unexpected has come up.”

  Walter flushed. “Does this have anything to do with Herr Kraut?”

  “Perhaps,” Alouette called over her shoulder as she went into the lobby.

  Chapter 23

  Marthe

  February 1915

  The Englishman with the ready cigarettes and the nearly-unintelligible Highlander were installed in a small room at the hospital and assigned to Marthe’s care. The Englishman, whose name was Jimmy, had two broken legs. He had been standing behind an ammunition wagon when a shell burst a few meters away and the horses in front of the wagon began galloping away. He’d caught hold of them, determined as he was to get away from the shells, but in the process both of his legs were shattered.

  The Oberarzt set his legs a few days after he’d arrived, and Marthe was in the room when he awoke from the chloroform.

  “I didn’t cry like a baby, did I?” he asked her, genuine worry on his face.

  She shook her head.

  “Good.”

  He sat up suddenly, grabbed the chamber pot at the foot of his bed, and dry-heaved into it. “Oh, I’m sorry, miss.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking decidedly green. “I should be out there, at the front, working beside my boys, but ‘ere I am, with these useless old things.” He gestured toward his bandage-covered legs.

  “What was it like being in the trenches?” Marthe asked as she dipped a cloth into a bowl and handed it to him.

  Jimmy wiped his mouth as he thought. “Beastly, miss. Just plain beastly. Sometimes there are men whom you’ve gotten to know very well, and they are wounded, and you can’t get to them for fear the Germans will send another shell over. And those boys whom you know—the ones you were not able to save—die of starvation right before your very eyes.”

  She hadn
’t expected such an honest answer. She glanced around to be sure there was no one else around before leaning forward. “And the war? Do you think the Allies are going to win?”

  “‘E’re an obstinate lot—the British never know when they’ve been defeated.”

  “But…”

  “Just you wait, miss. I’ll bring you the Kaiser’s head on a silver platter yet.”

  Both Jimmy and the Scotsman, whose name was Arthur, healed without much trouble, and the time came and went when they should have been evacuated. But still they lingered, and though both remained as cheerful as ever, Marthe could tell by their attitudes that they were growing troubled.

  “Good morn’, Miss Cnockaert,” Jimmy greeted her one morning. “What have you brought me today for breakfast? Sausages, eggs, kippers, coffee?”

  She set the tray down next to him and he eyed the goods: minced beef from a tin can and hardtack. “Only bully and a biscuit, eh? Well, never mind, never mind.”

  Arthur had been humming a tune under his breath, but paused to ask, “We’re to be prisoners of war, aren’t we, miss?”

  Marthe, who was now able to understand most of what Arthur said, frowned. Nicholas Hoot had once been in that same bed, and then disappeared one evening. He was probably still a German hostage, if he hadn’t been shot. “I don’t know.”

  As she was leaving that evening, she caught sight of old Pierre shoveling snow in the courtyard. Before the war, Pierre had been a thief and a scoundrel, but now he was one of several civilian workers employed by the hospital. He paused in his shoveling to tip his cap at her. “Evening.”

  Marthe nodded at him, watching as he reached under his jacket. For a moment, she thought he might show her safety pins, but he pulled out a cigarette case instead, and she hurried home, away from the cold.