The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  “Wow,” Marthe breathed. “That’s some gun.” He shifted in the bed and she saw his face twist in pain. “What happened to your shoulder?”

  “We slept in a hut not far from the bastion. Our guards, believe it or not, were lazy devils and three nights ago I managed to climb out of the hut and go exploring. I had just finished mapping the gun’s position when a patrolman approached me. I ran off and nearly got back through the window but a bullet scraped my shoulder. I hid the wound from my guards until my term was up and they let me go.”

  “And now you’re here.”

  Max nodded. “Herr Jacobs has just delivered my newest orders: I’m to destroy the Langenboom as soon as possible.”

  “No, Max. You’re injured. You have to give yourself a few days to get your strength up.”

  “In a few days they could turn that gun loose on Moere and kill everyone in the town.”

  “Max,” she admonished him. Although he was older by three years, Marthe had always been the more responsible sibling. Some things never changed.

  “Marthe, please don’t tell Mother and Father that I’m here. If something goes wrong…”

  “What are you talking about? You know that I cannot keep this a secret from them. And if something does indeed go wrong—not that it will because you are going to stay in bed—they would want to see you one last time.”

  “I don’t want them to have to lie if they are questioned by the Boches.” He waved his non-injured arm. “Come now, ‘Laura,’ you of all people should understand that.”

  “If Mother and Father found out that I knew of your whereabouts…”

  “It’s only until I can manage to blow up the Langenboom. Then we can all celebrate, together as a family.”

  Marthe sighed before glancing out the window at the rising sun. “I’d better go before they start asking questions. I’ll just tell them I had to stay at the hospital all night.” She rose and put her hand on his arm. “Will you be all right?”

  “Of course I will. I’ve survived this long.”

  “I can use some of my contacts to see what they know.”

  “Don’t you go blowing up that gun on your own, little sister. This is my job.”

  “It can wait a few days. Until then, you stay here and rest. I’ll let Mevrouw Sturms know how to change your bandages and I’ll be back the night after tomorrow to check on you.”

  “Good night, Marthe.”

  As she walked to work two mornings later, a small boy ran past her and slipped a note in her hand. She recognized the boy as one of Mevrouw Sturms’, and Marthe’s heart thudded in her chest as she read the note. “No. 8 is desperately hurt and wishes you to come as soon as you can.”

  She called to an orderly just entering the hospital gates. “Mein herr, please give the Oberarzt my regards. Something terrible has happened and I must return home.”

  He nodded. “Be here all the earlier tomorrow.”

  Marthe arrived at the farmhouse red-faced and sweating. Mevrouw Sturms greeted her wordlessly and led her back to the little room. Herr Jacobs knelt beside her brother, who lay in the same bed as before, a clean bandage on his shoulder, but now a red, raw wound stretched in a jagged line across his chest. Another bandage, this one stained with blood, covered his lower abdomen.

  “Well, little sister,” Max gasped. “It seems luck is not on my side, but I’ll polish off the Langenboom yet. Just wait till I’m well again.”

  She took his clammy, pale hand in hers. “What happened?”

  Herr Jacobs answered for him. “Last night No. 8, your brother, decided to blow up the ammunition compartments under the Langenboom.”

  Max gave a wry smile. “I was hoping that a little spark would blast the whole place to bits.”

  “And it probably would have,” Herr Jacobs added, “if two German secret service men hadn’t spotted him and tried to question him. He had on his person the complete layout of the bastion and several sticks of dynamite.”

  Max’s voice had become a whisper. “I thought I had safely escaped, but a stray bullet got me, once again.” He shut his eyes.

  “Max?” Marthe squeezed his hand. To her immense relief, his eyes slowly opened.

  “I’ll give you some time,” Herr Jacobs said, rising. “And Max,” he paused at the door. “You did a brave thing.”

  “I only wish I could have finished the job.” He still had that characteristic half grin/ half sneer on his face, but Marthe could tell that her older brother was dying. He focused his eyes on her. “Now, little sister, don’t you go blowing up the Langenboom while I’m ill. This is my job.”

  “Max?”

  “I’m going to get some rest now, Marthe. I’m very tired. So tired,” he repeated as his eyes closed again.

  Half an hour later, her older brother, her tormentor, partner in crime, and personal hero, was dead. Marthe sat by his side, losing track of time as she reminisced on their childhood: Max laughing, Max putting pinecones on her chair, Max pulling her braids.

  When she finally rose and dried her tears, she took the plans for the Langenboom from his jacket and handed them to Herr Jacobs. She kept the two sticks of dynamite for no other reason that they seemed like useful articles for a spy to possess. And because they had once been Max’s.

  Chapter 43

  M’greet

  May 1916

  The Paris of 1916 wasn’t terribly different from the one M’greet had grown to know and love. The Germans had been concentrating their attack on the historic city of Verdun, miles away from the capital, but close enough that soldiers at the front would come to Paris for rest, and to forget the horrors of war. And it was not just men from the main French and English troops, but those of their colonies, such as Algeria and Morocco, which, with their Zouave uniforms, gave the city an even more international flair than normal.

  M’greet’s patterns while she stayed in the city of lights did not change a great deal—she rose around 10 each day and went down to the lobby for coffee and yesterday’s stale bread, and then returned to her room to get ready to visit furriers, shoe-makers, perfumiers, florists, jewelers, or whatever her whim was for that day. She then would return to her room to change her outfit for dinner. Having abandoned her mission, she never gave Fräulein Doktor or the rest of the Germans much thought whatsoever, besides missing her beautiful, confiscated furs on a particularly cold evening.

  Though M’greet’s overall routine didn’t vary much, her dinner companions often did. First, she resumed her relationship with Freddy, but when he left again for the front, she took up with Jean Hallaure, and then Nicholas Casfield. She was quite used to being surrounded by admiring men, so when two men followed her on a shopping trip, she didn’t give much notice, especially because neither was particularly handsome. But the same men trailed her the next day to a furrier, and then after that to a jewelry shop.

  She complained to the front desk numerous times, but the clerk could do nothing. She began making it a game to lose them, spending van der Capellan’s money on automobile taxis, gleefully watching the men’s surprised faces as the taxi pulled away, splashing mud on their trousers.

  Nicholas Casfield offered to accompany her to dinner one night at the end of May. She was, of course, late in meeting him and as she descended the steps of the hotel lobby, saw that he was engaged in conversation with another soldier.

  “Nicky,” she called, wanting his full attention on her. Both he and the other soldier looked up. She walked slowly down the stairs, knowing that her diaphanous dress would trail prettily behind her.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” she asked in a slightly breathless voice once she reached them.

  The companion stuck out a hand. “Vladimir Masloff,” he said smoothly.

  M’greet put a hand on her chest. “That’s quite a mouthful. Are you Russian?”

  “Indeed,” he replied.

  “I shall call you Vadim.” This put a smile on the man’s handsome visage. M’greet batted her eyelashes as
she studied him. He was very young, perhaps around half her own age. Thick eyebrows framed his dark eyes and his cheekbones cut a line across his face, which was clean-shaven, the better to reveal his sensuous, rouge-colored lips.

  There was something about those lips that made M’greet forget all about Nicholas Casfield. “Would you care to escort me to dinner?” she asked, tucking her arm in Vadim’s.

  Nicholas took the hint. He twirled his nearly empty glass. “I’m going to get another drink,” he said before walking across the lobby.

  “So, you are the famous Mata Hari.” Vadim’s French was slightly broken, his accent poor.

  M’greet waved her hand. “Not anymore. I haven’t danced for ages.”

  “What is your current name?”

  “Margaretha Zelle-Macleod.”

  “That is even more of a mouthful than mine.” He thought for a minute. “I shall call you Marina.”

  He told her over dinner of his background: he belonged to the 1st Special Imperial Regiment, a unit that was dispatched by the Czar himself to the French front.

  “And you are an officer,” M’greet stated admiringly. “You must be extremely talented to have your star rise so fast.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I’m stationed at Mailly, in the province of Champagne. I’m only on leave for a few days before I must return.”

  M’greet touched his hand. “I shall keep you company until then.”

  After dinner he invited her for a stroll along the promenade in the Bois de Boulogne. When they returned to the hotel, M’greet encouraged Vadim to exchange his room on the second floor for the one that adjoined hers. After they’d said public goodbyes in the hallway outside, Vadim knocked on the inside door and M’greet invited him into her room.

  They were inseparable for the next few days. M’greet wanted to soak up as much of Vadim as she could before he had to return to the front. She’d been a courtesan for nearly ten years, and had met many, many men, but Vadim was different. Perhaps it was because he still held a touch of innocence in this world of hardship.

  He asked her to accompany him to the train station when it came time for him to return to his station in the province of Champagne.

  M’greet wept openly. “I cannot wait for you to get leave again. I have to see you sooner than that.”

  Vadim pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “What will you do? You can’t exactly follow me to war.”

  “No,” she agreed. “But I will think of something.”

  The train whistle blew. “I’m sorry, Marina,” Vadim said softly. “I have to go.” He put both of his large hands on her face and tilted her head upward before kissing her mouth.

  “I love you, Vadim,” she called at his retreating back. “I love you and I will see you soon!”

  He waved as he mounted the train. She took a deep breath as it began to pull away.

  “Marina!” Vadim appeared in the corner of a crowded window. “I love you too!”

  She waved the handkerchief, shouting “I love you,” until the train was a tiny dot in the distance and the smoke had dissipated.

  Jean Halluare was sitting on a velvet chair, pretending to read a book in the lobby of the hotel when she returned. Hallaure was a second lieutenant who had been wounded and then installed in the Ministry of War. M’greet had spent a few nights with him in the middle of March—he came from an exceedingly well-off family, but he was awfully boring.

  Hallaure stood. He was tall and cut a handsome figure in his cavalry uniform but the sight of his brass buttons reminded M’greet of Vadim. Her legs felt weak. “Champagne,” she croaked out.

  Hallaure pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s a bit early, but I suppose…”

  M’greet sank into the couch. “No. Where is the Champagne province? I must get there.”

  He resumed his seat and put a tanned hand on M’greet’s white one. “It’s in the war zone.”

  “Name some nearby cities.”

  He sat back and rubbed his chin. “Reims. Calais. Vittel.”

  M’greet sat up straight. “Vittel. Yes, Vittel. I’ve been there before. The waters are said to cure any ailment.”

  “You would need to get a special pass to go there now. It’s too close to the action.” He patted her hand. “Forgive me for saying this, but, although you look stressed, you do not look that ill. Besides, there are plenty of other spa towns that are further from the front.”

  “I must go to Vittel,” she told him firmly.

  “Then you will need to procure a doctor’s note and ask at the Military Bureau for Foreigners for a permit to travel to a war zone.”

  She put a hand to her throat and coughed before rising. “I will visit my doctor soon. For now, I must rest.”

  Chapter 44

  Marthe

  June 1916

  During the first week in June, Canteen Ma failed to call for the first time since Marthe had met her. Another week passed with still no sign of the old woman.

  One evening Marthe was returning from work when she saw that the man who brought the liquor supplies to the café was standing outside the back door.

  “Good evening, mademoiselle,” he said, tipping his hat and indicating the bottles at his feet. “Will you please check the voucher?”

  “My parents normally take care of the café business,” Marthe started uncertainly, but the man thrust the voucher into her hands anyway. She unfolded it and just caught a small paper cylinder as it fell. She gave the man a puzzled look, but he lifted his lapel to reveal two safety pins running diagonally underneath.

  “Where is Canteen Ma?” Marthe asked as she handed back the voucher.

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I was told that I will be your main contact from now on.” His frown deepened. “I doubt you will ever buy fruit from Canteen Ma again.” He gave her one last nod before walking away.

  Marthe hefted the box of liquor, her heart weighing on her as much as the bottles of schnapps. She supposed that Canteen Ma’s luck had run out, a fate that they all faced every day. Perhaps she had already gone before a firing squad, leaving nothing in her wake but a creaky cart, no one to recognize or honor all of the work she did for the Cause.

  At any rate, Marthe would miss seeing the eccentric old lady.

  * * *

  A few weeks later, Alphonse approached Marthe in the courtyard and informed her in a low voice that the Germans were accumulating large amounts of rifle ammunition and using the grounds of a house near the Grand Place as their dumping ground.

  “Should we let the Allies know this would make a good bombing target?” Marthe replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Alphonse pulled at his lip. “No. They’ve also been constructing anti-aircraft guns, and I doubt the Seven Sisters could get close enough without suffering a great deal of damage of their own.”

  “We can’t just let them stockpile all of this stuff to use against the Allies.” Marthe thought for a second. What would Max have done if he was in the same situation? “Alphonse, I’ve got it.” She gestured for him to follow her into a corner, away from any prying ears. “I’ve got sticks of dynamite. If we light them and toss them into the ammunition stores, that should be enough to turn it all into one big inferno.”

  “No. Marthe, that’s madness. There’s a ring of soldiers constantly patrolling the outside walls. We could never get the dynamite past them.”

  “We’ve got to do something. Even if it’s just informing the Allies so they can come up with a plan.”

  Alphonse nodded. “You let your contacts know, and I’ll try to think of an idea in the meantime.”

  A few days later, Alphonse pulled Marthe aside as she was leaving the hospital. “Have you ever heard anyone mention a secret passage underneath the hospital grounds?”

  “No.” She sat down on a bench underneath a yew tree. “Is there such a thing?”

  Alphonse nodded, clearly too excited to sit. “In 1914, Roulers was bombed by shells. I had just finished an ambulance shif
t and joined a couple of orderlies who were investigating the craters left by them. One of them revealed a big black hole surrounded by stonework. We went down with torches—it seemed to lead for miles under the town, but we didn’t have the leisure time, nor the strength, to follow it to its conclusion so we covered it over with some dirt and forgot about it.”

  “Do you think that the others have forgotten about it as well?”

  “I believe so.” Alphonse finally took a seat next to her. “Most of the men who went down with me have long been transferred, and the wooden staff hut was erected right over the crater. But look at this,” he held up a history book. “Roulers, like many medieval towns, once had an open sewer running through the middle of the main street. Don’t you see, Marthe?” He dropped the book. “This sewer leads right past where the ammunition store is located.”

  She began to see Alphonse’s point. “If we could get into the sewer, we could work our way through until we were underneath the dump, set off the dynamite, and vanish, leaving the stores to incinerate.”

  “Exactly!”

  “But,” Marthe pulled at her bottom lip. “What if we misjudge the distance we’ve gone and stick our heads out of the ground in the middle of the Grand Place after curfew, or, worse yet, at the feet of one of the sentries?”

  Alphonse pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. “Yes. It will be risky—we could even come right through the floor of the Town-Kommandant’s office.”

  She slumped, crossing her arms across her chest.

  He blew out a ring of smoke. “But if we are careful and use common sense, I don’t think we will. It’s possible to use careful calculations, at least up to a point.”