The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  “What is it?” she demanded with more than a touch of impatience.

  “I’ve just returned from a conference with Prince Ratibov, the German Ambassador. One of our submarines has torpedoed a Spanish steamer, endangering relations between my country and this one. Spain might even decide to side with the Allies. I expect to receive my marching orders at any moment.”

  “And what of me?” Alouette asked, the desperation in her voice real.

  Von Krohn turned to face her. “You will stay here and take my place. I’ll arrange for you to receive money and instructions through Portugal.”

  She frowned as it occurred to her that if the Germans cleared out of Spain, the information contained within von Krohn’s safe would be utterly useless.

  “I have full trust in you, Alouette. You will head the information bureau here, and when the war is over, Germany will hail you as a queen.”

  There was no way Alouette would allow any of that to happen. She was employed as a double agent in order to supply France with information regarding its enemies, but she had no desire to rise any higher up the ranks of German intelligence.

  Before she could reply to von Krohn, he gathered up a pile of papers from his desk. “I’ve got to return to the Embassy and see if we can clear up this matter.”

  Alouette remained seated in his office after he’d left, staring at the filing cabinet. It was, of course, still locked. She pulled out a blank piece of paper to write the Deuxiéme Bureau regarding this new information. She asked for a visa to return to France, having given up the notion she’d ever infiltrate the Baron’s safe.

  Ladoux never replied.

  The Spanish eventually relented and rekindled their diplomatic relations with Germany. Von Krohn would be staying in Spain after all. But that didn’t change Alouette’s mind any further.

  She was on her way to meet the Baron for lunch in the Palace Hotel’s restaurant when a desk clerk called her over.

  “Madame, I am afraid you are going to have to change hotels.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He had the audacity to not be embarrassed. “Your room is being reserved for a Frenchman. My manager has decided to no longer cater to German spies.”

  She glared at him. “Fine.”

  She walked away slowly, not wanting to reveal the burning lump that had formed in her throat from the injustice of it all. As she strolled outside, a hot wave of hatred swept over her. Hatred for the war, for Germany, but most of all, hatred for von Krohn, who’d gotten her into this mess. Someday that stupid desk clerk would learn how he’d misjudged her while she was fighting heart and soul for her country.

  Her sour mood hadn’t lightened when she sat down for lunch.

  “What’s wrong, Alouette?” von Krohn asked. “Another headache?”

  “No. I’m fed up with Spain, with living in exile.” It was rare for her to be completely honest with the Baron, but this was one of those moments. “I want to go back to France.”

  His eyes widened. “You are exhausted and clearly in need of a vacation. Have patience and we can visit Morocco in a few days’ time.”

  “I want to go back to France, now!” She banged a gloved fist on the table for emphasis, causing the glassware to rattle.

  “You can’t do that, Alouette. It would mean your death, and you know it.”

  “And whose fault is that?” she asked, bitterness dripping from her voice.

  “Wait until the end of the war. It can’t be too far off now. The minute it is over, I will make arrangements for you to go to Germany.”

  She clenched her fists. “I am a Frenchwoman! A Frenchwoman! Do you know what that means?”

  He shook his head dully.

  Ladoux’s betrayal, coupled with the embarrassing situation with the desk clerk this morning, had finally pushed her over her limit. “It means that, from the first day I met you, I’ve been working for my own country. I have kept records of all of your movements and reported them to Paris. That’s what it means to be a Frenchwoman.” She jumped to her feet, her eyes on von Krohn.

  A confused smile formed on his thin lips. She could tell he was wrestling over whether to believe her or not, probably finding it very difficult to accept he’d been duped by a woman.

  She leaned in toward him, resisting the urge to spit in his face as she shouted, “Ich bin eine Französin!”

  His face puckered in horror to hear her speaking a language she claimed she didn’t know.

  For the coup de grâce, she dug a ticket out of her purse and waved it under his nose. “As you can see from the date on this, I’ve been to Paris quite recently.”

  He stood, turning purple with rage. “You—”

  “Yes, me!” She pumped a fist in the air, wanting the entire restaurant, if not the whole of Spain, to hear her next words. “Get this into your thick head, Baron von Krohn, naval attaché to Wilhelm II, Emperor of Germany. I came to Spain to serve my country and spy on you for France’s benefit.”

  He struck her across the mouth with such fury he broke one of her teeth.

  Alouette put a hand to her bleeding mouth, knowing that, had they not been in a public place, he wouldn’t have hesitated in killing her with his bare hands.

  She turned and fled as fast as her legs could go, leaving her cane on the ground beside the Baron.

  Chapter 69

  Alouette

  October 1917

  The person who answered the door at 282 boulevard, Saint Germain, was not familiar to Alouette. “Where is Ladoux?” she demanded.

  “He is not here.”

  “I am the Skylark and I demand an audience with him.”

  “As I said, he is not here, but Colonel Goubé will see you.”

  Colonel Goubé was a bald man with a thin graying mustache. He rose when Alouette entered his office. “You should not have left Madrid without our permission.”

  She paused, dulled by his reception. “I came here to speak with Captain Ladoux,” she finally replied in an acid tone.

  “Captain Ladoux no longer works here.”

  “Very well then, I will meet with his successor.”

  “I am his successor, Madame Richer,” he replied, his face turning amber. “And, I demand you to return to Spain.”

  “I can’t,” she spit back at him. “I’ve compromised my position, after managing to ruin von Krohn’s career.”

  “Another will be sent in his place.”

  She bowed her head, deeply hurt. She didn’t want any monetary reward, but thought Goubé could at least show some appreciation for all that she had accomplished. Even Ladoux could, possibly, have been capable of that. “By the time they’ve set someone else up in von Krohn’s position, the war will be over. Where’s Zozo?”

  “Monsieur Davrichachvili has gone back to Russia to help Lenin and the Bolsheviks in their revolution.”

  She could feel her disappointment mounting. Now that she’d finally been able to retire to her home country, all of her supposed allies were gone. “Would you please tell me how to contact the captain?” she asked Goubé in a pleading tone. “It was he who had originally engaged my services, and seeing that they have come to a conclusion, it is only fitting that I should tender my resignation to him.”

  His face appeared to soften. “I’m afraid that is not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  He leaned his elbows on the desk. “Captain Ladoux has been arrested on suspicion of betraying France to our enemies.”

  “I see.” Alouette’s heart sank even lower. Another tragic end to spy mania. Whether or not Ladoux was truly a double agent was no matter at the moment, but it was another sign that it was time for her to be done.

  She held up her hand and gave a resigned wave before exiting 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain for the last time.

  Chapter 70

  Marthe

  October 1918

  After almost two years of being imprisoned, Marthe was awoken one morning by the urgent clanging of church bells. The
shouting in the courtyard came closer, and soon she could hear the stomping of many boots along the corridor of her prison.

  She braced herself as someone threw open the door to her cell. A disheveled man with a ragged beard stood in the threshold. “The war is over!” he shouted. “You are free to go!”

  Marthe found Roulers in near ruin. The British had almost bombed it out of existence; there was hardly a building with an intact roof in the entire town. She knew that most of the inhabitants had been evacuated months ago. Mother had sent word that both she and Father had found shelter at the Sturms’ farmhouse outside of town, the same place Max had died. An ironic twist to be sure. Those kinds of ironies had occurred since the beginning of the war, she mused as she came upon a deep trench carved into the ground and found herself gazing into the sewer where she and Alphonse had their first kiss. Good luck to you, Alphonse. Wherever, whoever you are.

  The sound of a hurdy-gurdy brought her out her revelry, and she watched as a group of civilians began dancing on the street corner, reminding Marthe this was a time for celebration. There would be plenty of time later to mourn those who were lost.

  She grinned as she realized the men patrolling the streets wore the light blue uniforms of the French and the khaki uniforms of American doughboys. There was no need to check for safety-pins now as the Vampires and the rest of the Germans had been forced out of Roulers.

  She arrived at what remained of the Café Carillon where a party of British officers sat on the ruined patio, eating their lunch.

  “You look hungry,” one of them said, passing her a sandwich. He laughed as Marthe devoured it. “You were hungry,” he stated as he dug in a nearby box for more food.

  “I belong to the British Secret Service.” Marthe sat down, arranging her tattered skirt. “But I’ve been a prisoner, and have no money. My parents—”

  “Just eat now,” the officer said, handing her another sandwich.

  She could feel him staring at her as she chewed. She couldn’t help noticing that his eyes were as blue as the sky over Roulers, and that one of his legs was wooden. Though he was unshaven, his facial features were well-defined. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had a dependable air about him that Marthe immediately found attractive.

  “This will help to wash down those sandwiches,” he said, producing his canteen. “I’m Lieutenant Jack McKenna.”

  “Marthe Cnockaert.”

  * * *

  Not long after the end of the war, she married that handsome young officer and became Marthe McKenna. They built a new house among the burned ruins of the old one in Westrozebeke, the house where Father had nearly burned to death. They also restored the garden, planting flowers as fragrant as those of the 1914 Kermis, when her adventures had begun.

  Epilogue

  Marthe Cnockaert was eventually awarded British, French and Belgian honors for her work in World War 1. In 1932, she and her husband, John McKenna, published “I was a Spy,” about Marthe’s espionage adventures. Winston Churchill penned the foreword for the book, stating, “Her tale is a thrilling one. Having begun it, I could not put out my light till four o’clock in the morning.” More spy thrillers followed, making her a minor celebrity. The couple never had any children and McKenna left Marthe in the 1950s. She died in 1966 in Westrozebeke, at the age of 74.

  Alouette (Marthe) Richer married Thomas Crompton, a financial director of the Rockefeller Foundation, in 1926. His death two years later left her a wealthy widow. She received a French Legion of Honor in 1933 for her espionage work during the first war. Her minor fame was extended when Georges Ladoux published the book, “The Skylark,” in which he called her “Marthe Richard,” a name she eventually took on. She published her own memoirs, entitled “I Spied for France,” in 1935 before resuming her spy game in World War 2 by befriending several members of the Gestapo in German-occupied Paris. She ran for political office after the second great war and championed the closing of Parisian brothels. She died in 1982, at the age of 93.

  Margaretha Zelle MacLeod’s body was not claimed by any of her survivors after she was executed at Vincennes and it was sent to the Museum of Anatomy in Paris. Some claim the body was then dissected by medical students and disposed of. Her head was embalmed and at one point became part of a display of infamous criminals. It was discovered to be missing in 2001.

  When John “Rudy” MacLeod was informed of his ex-wife’s death, he stated, “Whatever she did, she didn’t deserve that.” Their daughter, Non, died less than two years after her mother, at the age of 21.

  In October 2017, 100 years after her death, Mata Hari’s files were declassified. The evidence for her actually being employed as a German spy is scant, though she herself admitted to taking money from them in compensation for her stolen furs. Whether or not the intercepted telegrams were a set-up by Kalle, Ladoux, or both, remains a mystery.

  Georges Ladoux was arrested under suspicion of espionage four days after the execution of Mata Hari. He was eventually committed to house arrest and spent the rest of the war undergoing interrogations, similar to what he’d put his supposed double agent through. Although the case was dropped after the cease-fire, he was arrested once again for concealing evidence for a colleague at the Deuxiéme Bureau. The case was acquitted on May 8, 1919. In 1923, he was finally promoted to the rank of major. He wrote several books, including a somewhat fictionalized biography of Marthe Richer and another of Mata Hari, in which he maintains his belief that she was a German agent. He died in 1933 at the age of 58.

  A note to the reader: Thanks so much for reading this book! if you have time to spare, please consider leaving a short review on Amazon. Reviews are very important to indie authors such as myself and I would greatly appreciate it!

  Read on for a preview of The Spark of Resistance: Women Spies in WWII!

  Also, please feel free to send any comments or suggestions to kitsergeant@gmail.com

  Stay tuned for the next installment of the World War Spy Series! Sign up to my mailing list at kitsergeant.com to be informed of my next release featuring women spies!

  For more information on the real-life women featured in this book, be sure to visit my website: www.kitsergeant.com!

  Selected Bibliography

  Craig, Mary W. A Tangled Web: Mata Hari: Dancer, Courtesan, Spy. Stroud: History Press, 2018.

  Ladoux, Georges, and Warrington Dawson. Marthe Richard, the Skylark: The Foremost Woman Spy of France. London: Cassell and, 1932.

  McKenna, Marthe. I Was a Spy! London: Jarrolds, 1933.

  Proctor, Tammy M. Female Intelligence: Women and Espionage in the First World War. New York: New York University Press, 2003.

  Russell Warren Howe. Mata Hari The True Story. Little Brown, 1995.

  Richard, Marthe, and Gerald Griffin. I Spied for France. London: John Long, Limited, 1935.

  Shipman, Pat. Femme Fatale: A New Biography of Mata Hari. HarperCollins, 2009

  Acknowledgments

  Thank-you to my critique partners: Ute Carbone, Theresa Munroe, and Karen Cino for their comments and suggestions. I am eternally grateful to the gracious Kathy Lance for her superb editing skills.

  And as always, thanks to my loving family, especially Tommy, Belle, and Thompson, for their unconditional love and support.

  The Spark of Resistance Preview

  Read on in the Women Spies Series- The Spark of Resistance: Spies and Traitors in World War II!

  Prologue

  May 1945

  Vera Atkins barely recognized the woman standing alone on a platform at Euston railway station. She was clad in a bedraggled coat, unusually thick for this time of year, that hung too loosely on her frail figure. “Yvonne?”

  The woman turned. At only eighteen, she had been one of the youngest hired, and still bore the look of a child, though now a starved one with dark circles around her eyes and matted blonde hair.

  Miss Atkins had the mind to hug her, but was afraid she’d either break the girl’s bones or Yvonne would collapse
under the weight of her former boss’s arms.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Miss Atkins said instead. “Was your journey all right?”

  Yvonne attempted a smile. “As good as could be expected.”

  Pleased as Miss Atkins was to see Yvonne, her thoughts were eclipsed by one, niggling inquiry. She voiced it after they had settled into the car, Miss Atkins sitting as straight as always, Yvonne’s head leaning against the seat. “What do you know of the other girls?”

  Yvonne’s eyes flew open. “The other girls?”

  “Yes. Who else was with you?”

  Yvonne closed her eyes again, scrunching her face in recollection. “I saw Alice at Ravensbrück, and they said there was another British woman there, Lise, but she was in solitary confinement and I never got a good look at her face. And I encountered Louise, Nadine, and Ambroise at Saarbrücken when I was taken there, temporarily. I remember going into a prison hut and seeing them, and thinking, ‘The whole women’s branch of F Section is here.’”

  Miss Atkins mentally matched the code names with the real identities of her girls: Didi Nearne, Odette Sansom, Violette Szabo, Lilian Rolfe, and Denise Bloch. Nearly forty women had gone into the line of fire, and most of them, except Yvonne, were still missing in action. “I’ve been looking into it, but I was notified that there had been no British females held at any concentration camp.”