The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  “Madame!” one of the movers called. But it was too late. M’greet heaved the dresser off the landing, watching with a sick satisfaction as it tumbled down the steps and then crashed into the newly plastered wall.

  The movers exchanged looks of horror before simultaneously starting downstairs. They climbed over the splintered wood as best they could before wordlessly letting themselves out.

  M’greet turned to Dekker, her arms crossed over her chest. “What do you think about that?”

  He cleared his throat before replying in a quiet tone, “Madame, you do realize there is a war going on, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I do. Why would you ask such a stupid question?”

  “Well, most people in Holland are cutting back on expenses, preparing for the slim possibility of a German invasion. But here you are, spending money like it is nothing.” He picked up one of the photographs from the Nouvelle Mode shoot off a nearby table. “You chose to wear an outfit like that,” he said, his finger stabbing at her likeness.

  “That dress is a Paquin, from Paris,” she replied, not understanding his point. “And that hat is made from endangered osprey.”

  “Yes, but look at these women.” He pulled a newspaper out of his pocket and pointed to a picture of women feeding wounded soldiers. They were dressed in black dresses buttoned up to their necks. “This is what a woman your age and class should be wearing.”

  M’greet wrinkled her nose. “Never.”

  “And this.” He flipped to a list of the latest casualties and waved it under her nose. “A war, madame. People are dying, and you are building an indoor bathroom.”

  “I know there is a war going on,” Her voice rose in volume as she continued, “It’s all anyone ever talks about. There are no parties, only fund-raisers for the army. There are no more glamorous ladies of the haut monde on the streets, only grieving widows and amputees. Is it such a crime that I want to be surrounded by color and style in my own house when the rest of the world is dreary and gray?” She narrowed her eyes at Dekker. “Not to mention that my decorating budget is keeping a roof over your head.”

  He walked down the stairs, muttering to himself how the Hague was not Paris as he investigated the hole in the wall.

  Chapter 25

  Alouette

  February 1915

  A few days later, Kraut left a message for Alouette to join him that evening at the restaurant atop Monte Igueldo.

  He was already seated when she arrived, and mournfully watched her walk across the restaurant. He glanced toward the ocean as she sat. “If it weren’t for the war…” his voice trailed off.

  “What would you do differently?”

  “I would abduct you.” He pointed beyond the bay, to the open sea. “We’d head off to somewhere exotic.”

  Alouette fiddled with her napkin, thinking if it weren’t for the war, she wouldn’t be a widow. “I did not come here tonight to flirt.”

  Kraut clasped his hands together, once again all business, the sentimentality of the previous moment forgotten. “My chief has agreed to meet with you.”

  A band started playing somewhere below them, haunting strains of a foreign song drifting in the breeze. Alouette felt a pang of misgivings as she recalled the mess with Gerda Nerbutt. “Your chief isn’t a dreadful man, is he?”

  A faint shadow covered Kraut’s face. “He is a decent chap.” He stood, throwing his spotless napkin on his plate. “Be at the foot of the funicular railway tomorrow morning at six. A man will pass close to you and say, ‘Follow me.’ Don’t dress too smartly as to not attract attention.” He met her eyes. “Good luck, fräulein.”

  Alouette rose at dawn the next morning and put on a simple walking dress. Her heart was beating double time as she checked her hair. What if Kraut had laid a trap for her?

  Although it was nearly daylight when she left the hotel, Alouette did not see anyone up besides the desk clerk. The beach was equally deserted. She walked quickly to the train depot, her spirits rising in time with the sun emerging from the rose-tinted clouds in the east. Her favorite time to fly had always been in the morning, and she recalled the exhilarating feeling of being in the air, the wind in her hair, the view from above. She was ready for another adventure and this time she would get the information Ladoux wanted.

  She arrived at the rendezvous point well before six. Two priests standing at the foot of the funicular railway looked at her, no doubt surprised to see an unaccompanied woman wandering the streets so early in the morning.

  As Kraut had foretold, exactly at six a man appeared wearing a blue military suit and a yachtsman’s cap. He passed so close to Alouette that she thought he might run into her. “Follow me.”

  Alouette noticed with a slight irritation that the priests were staring at her as the man strolled away. She impatiently glanced at her watch and then at the incline suspensions before shrugging to herself, as though she’d made the sudden decision to walk.

  She walked down the platform of the funicular, noting that the man waited by a Mercedes. The man opened the door and climbed in the backseat and then reached a long arm across to open Alouette’s door. She could feel his gaze on her as she entered, but kept her own eyes straight ahead as the chauffeur started the car.

  The car sped up and Alouette began to feel uneasy as the rocky landscape passed by in a blur.

  The German wore clunky black spectacles which partially hid his face but did not conceal the fact that he was scrutinizing Alouette in between crossing and uncrossing his long legs. His edginess got on her nerves. Where was this man taking her at such breakneck speed, and why hadn’t he spoken to her yet?

  Alouette’s ears popped as the Mercedes ascended a hill. She was so preoccupied with staring at the winding road ahead that she almost didn’t hear when the man finally spoke.

  “Has Herr Kraut told you what we want you to do?” Although he addressed her in French, his low voice held the guttural resonance of a native German speaker.

  “Not exactly.”

  He moved so close that his thin leg nearly touched Alouette’s. “I’m told you are an airwoman.”

  “Yes.” She gripped her hand on the door of the car and shrank away from the man. Although his actions—the long moments of silence and his overcrowding—would be considered quite rude, his next words were said in a surprisingly deferential tone. “Do you speak German?”

  Once again, she thought it would be best to not admit she spoke the language fluently. “No, I do not. Is that a problem?”

  “No.” He removed his spectacles to clean them and she used the opportunity to do her own scrutinizing. His face was as gaunt as the rest of his body. The eye on Alouette’s side stared forward instead of looking down at the task and she realized it was made of glass. “What do you want to know about France?” she asked, partially just to end the silence.

  The man took his time replacing his glasses before digging into a valise at his feet. He retrieved an envelope and dumped it on her lap. “Open it.”

  She showed no surprise as she retracted 3000 pesetas and a sheet of paper. The paper contained typed questions followed by blank spaces, asking such things about the new anti-aircraft defenses around Paris, the places that had been bombed, and the morale of the army at the front.

  Alouette refolded the questionnaire and was about to put it back in the envelope when the man took it from her.

  “Leave nothing to chance,” he said with a patronizing tone. He struck a match and held it up to the paper. The light from the burning questionnaire gave his features an ominous air, the fire reflecting off that strange glass eye. She refrained from shivering outwardly as he rolled down the window and threw the burning paper out.

  He reached into his coat pocket and extracted a strange-looking pen. He touched the tip of it. “This bulb is to prevent the pen from scratching the paper when using invisible ink.” He then produced a vial full of silvery powder and shook it. “Dilute this in two or three spoonsful of water. You need to u
se thick white paper on which you will write a gossipy letter to an imaginary friend. Between the lines you will trace the information which I want from you when you return to Paris. You will sign with the pseudonym S-32.”

  Alouette took the vial from him. “What is this powder? If I run out, I will have to secure more.”

  “Collargolium.” He handed her another slip of paper. This one read Madeline Stepino, Calle Algorta, Madrid. “Always write to me at this address. Never call on me, no matter how important you think the information is.”

  “You make it sound dangerous.”

  “It is.”

  She closed her eyes, reminding herself what it felt like to be the only one in the cockpit, in complete control of her airplane. She must not lose the upper hand to this man. “Well, if that’s the case, then I have to tell you I value my life more than 3000 pesetas.”

  “We want to see what your capability as a spy is. We can match your payments to your skill.” He gazed at her searchingly before edging closer. She scooted as far away as she could until she was flattened against the door.

  “And one more point, S-32. Now that you have pledged yourself to serving Germany, if you do not fulfill your undertakings, your life will be forfeit. If you play us foul, those 3000 pesetas will be the last payment you receive before your death in front of a firing squad.”

  Alouette refused to dwell on the consequences of becoming a double agent and flexed her hands, pretending she was easing up on an airplane lever. She shifted her eyes to meet his. “I have no desire to serve Germany. I only wish to serve myself.”

  His thin lips spread into a sinister smile. “When you are ready to return to Spain, you will place an advertisement in the Echo de Paris for a chambermaid. You will give your address and invite your imaginary applicants to call on you the day and hour that your train will be leaving.”

  The car pulled to a sudden stop. Alouette had been so distracted by the man’s commands—and his movements—that she hadn’t noticed the car had turned around. They were once again at the funicular station. “Thank you, mein herr,” she said before she opened the door behind her and practically spilled out of the car. It wasn’t until after they pulled away that Alouette realized she never caught her new spymaster’s name.

  Chapter 26

  Marthe

  March 1915

  A few days after finding out that Alphonse and Stephan were safety-pin men, Marthe entered the hospital grounds as the old groundskeeper Pierre was trimming a bush. Once again he tipped his hat to her. “Morning, mademoiselle.”

  She nodded a greeting and then hurried along.

  “Mademoiselle?” He followed her into the courtyard.

  “Monsieur?” She met his eyes. One of them only half-opened, but the other one was fixed on her with a penetrating stare.

  “Our acquaintance Alphonse wanted me to pass this on to you.” He handed her a fat envelope.

  She tucked the envelope into her coat pocket but hesitated before she went inside. She was expecting him to show her safety-pins, but he turned back to his work, whistling Frère Jacques.

  No one was in the staff room when Marthe arrived, so she peeked into the envelope. A small slip of paper sat between several hundred francs. She pulled the paper out and hid the money in her skirt underneath her nurse’s apron. The note contained instructions from Alphonse regarding helping the Allied patients escape. She memorized the contents before she ripped it into tiny pieces, swallowing them along with several swigs of chicory coffee.

  She hurried into the room where Jimmy and Arthur were having a friendly argument. “You’re a bleedin’ liar!” Jimmy remarked.

  “Jesus Chrrist, have ye no bin to schule?” Arthur replied.

  Another patient was on the other side of Jimmy, so Marthe went to the Scotsman’s bed. “Good morning, Arthur,” she said in a bright voice.

  “Mornin’ miss,” he returned.

  On the pretext of tucking in his sheets, Marthe leaned in close and whispered, “There is an envelope full of francs under your mattress. This evening on your walk, you and Jimmy will look for a short man with a squinty eye near the civilian workers’ cabin. He will be your guide to get you over the border.”

  Arthur’s eyes widened as Marthe straightened. “Ye know, lassie, what I’m gonna do once this war is ohva?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m gonna become a meenister.”

  It took her a second to translate his words in her head. I’m going to become a minister. She grinned at him, picturing the large Highlander who peppered his speech with Jesus Chrrist standing in front of a congregation. “You might get the chance sooner than you think.”

  She lingered as long as the busy morning would allot for, hoping that the men would be safe on their journey. For all she knew Pierre might be an agent of the Germans and had claimed knowing Alphonse to set her up. When an orderly barreled into the room, Marthe froze, thinking that she had indeed been double-crossed.

  “Fräulein, there are two ambulances on their way from the front. We will need you to prepare for the arrival of more wounded soldiers.”

  “Yes, mein herr,” Marthe replied. She gave the men a little wave before rushing off to change the empty beds in the German ward.

  It was around seven o’clock that evening when there was a sudden ringing of bells outside the hospital. Marthe raced into Jimmy and Arthur’s room to find both of their beds empty. A feldwebel entered, his eyes jumping from one vacant bed to the other.

  “What do you know of this, nurse?” he demanded. “Two patients from your ward walked off right under your nose! When did you last see them?”

  “This morning, Herr Feldwebel. But they can’t possibly get far without civilian clothes or money,” she replied, knowing that, if things went as planned, they would have both.

  He stomped away, shouting for orderlies to search the grounds as he did so.

  As Marthe left that night, she passed by the civilian cabin. Alphonse was standing in the doorway. “Good evening, Marthe,” he said, stepping toward her. His green eyes twinkled with merriment in the light from the torch in his hand. “A friend of yours wanted me to tell you he should be in Holland by midnight.”

  She smiled and nodded, her insides filling with gratitude. Perhaps Arthur would indeed become a minister someday, and as for Jimmy, well, she wouldn’t mind him keeping the promise of delivering the Kaiser’s head on a platter.

  “Thank you, Alphonse.” His thin figure seemed fuller underneath his heavy coat, and his once severely cropped hair had been allowed to grow. His gaze cut through the darkness of the night and Marthe hoped that he wouldn’t be able to discern that her cheeks—judging by how hot they felt—must have grown crimson under his gaze.

  Chapter 27

  M’Greet

  March 1915

  M’greet was bored. The Hague was no Paris, and van der Capellen, though generous, was not proving to be a very exciting beau. And she’d had enough of Dekker and the endless construction on her house. But Dekker refused to hurry and it was only after a letter from her attorney that he finally finished.

  M’greet persuaded van der Capellen to pay for the immense bill from the Paulez hotel, where she had stayed during most of the heavy construction, as well as Anna’s salary. She figured she’d wait a few more months before begging him for travel money so she could go back to Paris and get away from the dullness of The Hague.

  She had not been in her new house for a month when Anna handed her a calling card. It was from Karl Kroemer, the German consul in Amsterdam.

  “I wonder what he wants?” M’greet asked. “Perhaps the Germans have decided to return my funds and furs after all.”

  “I don’t know, madame. He is coming tomorrow, so I’m sure you will find out.”

  The time of Kroemer’s announced visit came and went, with no sign of the German consul.

  Anna had gone to bed, and M’greet was writing a note to Harry de Marguérie when someone knocked at the front
door. Deigning to answer it herself, she found a man of medium height standing on her doorstep. His dark hair was parted straight down the middle and he was wearing an impeccably neat suit.

  “Herr Kroemer?” she ventured.

  “Indeed, fräulein. You are as astute as they say. May I come in?”

  M’greet moved aside. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, fräulein. What I have to say won’t take long.”

  He sat in a pink armchair and she draped herself on the white velvet couch across from him.

  Kroemer took his hat off and set it on a marble-topped end table “I have heard you have recently been to Paris.”

  “I have.”

  He leaned forward. “Tell me, what was the atmosphere like there?”

  “Oh, the French are quite sick of the British. They are afraid the British will never leave and will decide to settle in. After all, both the weather and the fashion are much better on the Continent.”

  Kroemer coughed politely. “That is not exactly what I meant.”

  “No?” M’greet put a hand on her chest and let out a giggle.

  “No.” He sat back in the chair and steepled his hands together. “How would you like to return to Paris in order to gather some information?”

  “What do you mean, ‘gather some information?’”

  “For our intelligence services. I’ve been authorized to offer you twenty thousand francs.”

  M’greet folded her hands across her chest. “That is not very much money.”

  He rubbed one of the sides of his mustache until the gap above his lip was no longer perfectly aligned with the part in his hair. “Well, there could be more, but you would have to prove your worth.”