by Teri Brown
I raise an eyebrow. “She could be both.”
“Right,” Miss Tickford agrees. “Germany’s aggressive ground tactics have been devastating, but Velvet’s detailed information on troop movements has saved countless lives. The project she’s working on now is even more important.”
“And what is that?”
“German scientists are developing a new weapon. We believe it has something to do with explosives, and according to the information we’ve received thus far, the results are going to be devastating.”
My mind is racing. “And Velvet’s trying to find out what it is?”
“Yes, we believe she is very close.”
“And she’s in danger?”
Miss Tickford nods. “As you said, everyone who knows who she is has been neutralized in some way. We’re concerned that she may fall into enemy hands.”
I digest that for a moment. Then something occurs to me. “Are you more concerned about Velvet or about getting information on the weapon?”
Miss Tickford’s face stills. “La Dame Blanche and the British government do everything in their power to ensure the safety of their agents and their citizens. Though, clearly, obtaining both Velvet and the information on the new weapon would be preferable.”
My eyes narrow. I bet it would.
“We’re in the middle of a war, Samantha. Don’t be a child.”
I press my lips together and keep quiet.
Miss Tickford clears her throat. “We’ve come down to two likely candidates. It will be your job to ferret out exactly which young woman it is.”
“How did you narrow down the field?” I can’t believe I’m accepting all of this as if it’s not the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.
“Some of the women who were possibilities were ruled out immediately. Their loyalty to Germany is beyond question or they simply don’t have access.”
“Isn’t loyalty beyond question a good quality to have in a spy?” I ask. “She wouldn’t have access to such valuable information if she weren’t considered loyal beyond question.”
Miss Tickford gives me an approving nod. “Of course, you’re right. We’re just making educated guesses at this point.”
“So you’re sending me to find someone based on educated guesses?”
“I never claimed the assignment would be without risk,” she says sharply.
I nod, biting back the bitter words that threaten to spill over.
Patience, Samantha. Remember, the end goal is checkmate.
I sigh and hold my tongue.
Miss Tickford stands and walks over to an imposing dark cherry wood secretary stuffed with china. Opening the cupboard, she fiddles with the bottom shelf until it comes loose. Then she pulls out a dark leather folder and glances through the contents.
“Go over these and then start working to complete a biography on Sophia Thérèse. I’m going to retire. Remember when I told you that the person you’re impersonating has to be fully realized?”
“Yes. That’s how you were able to be someone else for so long.”
“Precisely. Now you must do the same for Sophia Thérèse. Figure out how much of her is going to be you and vice versa. Remember, it’s up to you to study her legend.”
“Legend?” I ask, puzzled.
“Her history. Now I need to go lie down. I’m not as young as I used to be and sneaking into an occupied country is hard work.” She smiles at her little joke and takes her leave.
I watch her go, nerves swirling in my stomach. Do she and Captain Parker really expect me to flush out a spy that the Abwehr has somehow missed? Shrugging off the feeling that I’m in completely over my head, I turn to the folder and study the women who may or may not be Velvet.
Marissa Baum is a pretty nineteen-year-old expatriate from the United States. Marissa’s mother is related to the kaiser’s wife, the empress Auguste Viktoria, and her father is a German immigrant who made his fortune in Chicago. According to the file, she’s a favorite of Prince Wilhelm’s wife, Cecilie; the women are practically inseparable and have the run of Berlin. In spite of the fact that the duchess is married to the prince, the two women have been causing minor scandals with their hijinks—they dress up as men and sneak into private clubs and once even posed as café singers.
One can only imagine what the German royal family thought of that.
The other possibility seems to be the polar opposite of Marissa. Lillian Bouchard is the mature, quiet governess to the kaiser’s grandchildren—and the woman I’ll be working with most closely. She’s half French, half German, and has been a trusted employee for the past several years. She’s highly regarded by the Hohenzollern family and therefore can come and go as she pleases both at the Berliner Stadtschloss—the City Palace—and at the Marble Palace in Potsdam, just outside of Berlin.
I finally call it a night when I realize that I can’t possibly shove one more fact into my head. One thing bothers me, though. How am I going to get close to Marissa? If she’s a friend of the duchess, I hardly think we will be running in the same circles. Did MI6 or La Dame Blanche even think of this?
My stomach knots. If I can’t trust them to think the mission through, that leaves me no one.
No one at all.
EIGHT
HLJKW
Dead Drop: Secret location where materials or information are left for another operative to find without direct contact between the two agents.
Not wanting to leave sensitive information lying around the apartment, I take the packet into my room with me and set it on the antique nightstand next to my bed. My bedroom is narrow, with a large window behind the bed and a giant red lacquer wardrobe on the opposite wall. Miss Tickford has given me two drawers in the wardrobe. Like the rest of the apartment, the room is sumptuously appointed, with heavy velvet draperies, feather pillows, and an ornate gold-framed mirror that’s practically the size of the wall it’s leaning against.
Where does La Dame Blanche get its money? I run a finger along the silky-smooth finish of the wardrobe. Who pays to let a beautifully furnished six-room apartment on one of the most prestigious streets in the city sit vacant most of the time?
As fatigued as I am, I’m too restless to crawl into bed yet. Instead, I quietly open the different drawers and compartments of the wardrobe, looking for clues to the room’s prior occupant. Most contain normal guest room items—extra blankets and pillows, sachets filled with lavender. I’m just about to close the third drawer when I spot the corner of an envelope peeping out from underneath a pillow. Curious, I pull out the envelope and sit on the edge of the bed. I frown at the word scrawled on the front. Leticia.
I pull out four photographs. By the look of the clothes, they seem to have been taken about twenty to twenty-five years ago. One is of a young man with dark, slicked-back hair. Another is of the same man in a uniform, but I can’t tell what sort it was. It definitely doesn’t look British or French. Maybe Luxembourgian? Prussian? The next photograph is of a boy in a sailor suit sitting with a young girl wearing a hair bow as big as her head. I turn the photograph over. Lawrence and Leticia. Siblings, no doubt. I peer again at the picture. Yes, there’s a certain similarity in the shape of their faces and in their coloring. The last picture is of a family—a mother and father posed with the same two children that were in the last photograph. Startled, I take another glance at the woman and gasp.
Miss Tickford.
Well, not exactly. The woman in the picture is stouter and older and the clothes are too old-fashioned, but the features are so similar that the woman in the photograph could be her mother.
I look at the other pictures again, my pulse racing. The young man and the little boy in the photographs are clearly the same person and there’s a strong family resemblance among all of them. I peer closer at the photograph of the little girl.
It could be no one except Miss Tickford, which means the woman must be Miss Tickford’s mother. But why are the photographs hidden away in a drawer? And why are they he
re? Could this be Miss Tickford’s home? If so, where is her family?
I replace the photographs carefully in their envelope and crawl into bed. Instead of studying the papers, I turn off the light and ponder the mystery that is Letty Tickford.
The next morning, I try to put the pictures I found out of my mind. They aren’t any of my business, but the questions they raise about who Miss Tickford is linger. Is this really her apartment? Where is her brother now?
I shake my head and focus on Sophia Thérèse. For all intents and purposes, the young woman whose identity I’m going to assume led a quiet life much like mine. She comes from a good family, is active in her community, and, though she’s not overly social, seems to have a small, select group of friends. But how am I supposed to become her? I don’t know her favorite color or food, or even her favorite book. Does she have a young man who is off fighting in the war right now with no idea that his sweetheart is dead? What sort of secrets would she share with her best friend, the way I share mine with Rose?
“Remember that the duchess has only met her young cousin once, many years ago. She doesn’t know any of Sophia Thérèse’s mannerisms, either,” Miss Tickford says when I bring up my concerns.
She joins me at the table and sets out a wooden box containing several small pots. “But there is one thing that you must learn immediately,” she says.
“What’s that?” I frown as she takes the lids off the pots, revealing two different rouge-color ointments and one powder. “Don’t tell me that Sophia Thérèse was devoted to cosmetics?”
“No. But you’re about to be.”
I frown. “I don’t understand.”
“Sophia Thérèse had a small crescent-shaped birthmark on her right cheekbone.”
My mouth opens. “I can’t fake a birthmark!”
Miss Tickford smiles. “Oh, yes, you can.”
I shuffle through Sophia Thérèse’s photographs again. “I don’t see one . . .” I stop, realizing that her face was always angled so that the camera caught only her left side. Then I come across the one of her as a toddler. I point. “She doesn’t have one here.”
“That photo was hand-colored,” Miss Tickford says. “Her parents must have had it tinted out. We’ll practice until you are comfortable duplicating the same mark over and over. And don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. Now put that stuff down and hold still.”
I do as she says, and before I know it, I’m staring in the mirror. The mark isn’t too big but it’s definitely visible, and it makes me feel self-conscious. I wonder if Sophia Thérèse felt the same way and remember that her parents had the birthmark tinted out of her baby picture. My throat tightens in sympathy. No wonder she always turned her face away from the camera.
“Now let’s go. We have to pick up a few things for you to assume your new identity.”
“Like this?” I ask, and am immediately ashamed of myself. Poor Sophia Thérèse.
“You might as well get used to it,” Miss Tickford says matter-of-factly.
Luxembourg City may be shadowed by the fortress that overlooks it, but the city itself is quite modern. Miss Tickford is wearing a smart gray walking suit with a black toque set atop her upswept hair. I feel out of place in the same wrinkled dress I’ve been wearing for the past two days. At least my coat covers most of it. We’ve already ordered a whole new ready-to-wear wardrobe for my new identity. Two walking suits, four simple blouses, and three fitted skirts with matching jackets.
Miss Tickford takes my arm and steps briskly down the street. “Now we go to the hairdresser.”
“The hairdresser?” My voice rises at the end.
Her lips quirk upward in a smile. “How do you think we’re going to make you look like a woman of twenty?”
I screw up my face, wondering what she means. Sophia Thérèse had white-blond hair, much like I do. Miss Tickford can’t possibly mean she is going to have mine dyed. That wouldn’t make any sense at all.
A few moments later, she takes me into a hair salon on a small alley just off the Boulevard Royal. A tall, slender man cries out and rushes toward us, babbling something in Luxembourgish. Miss Tickford replies, speaking so quickly that I know she must be fluent.
She touches his cheek briefly, then switches to German. “Antoine, this is Sophia Thérèse. I’ve brought her to pay homage to your genius.”
I yelp as Antoine plucks out my hairpins and untwists my hair. Unbound, it falls to my waist.
“She wants to look older,” Miss Tickford says.
“We’ll go with a bob, then. With that bone structure and those curls, she’ll look just like a golden-haired Polaire.”
I blink, not at all sure my traditional mother would appreciate the comparison to the famous French actress and café singer.
“You’re going to love it, you’ll see.” Then he picks up his shears and they hover over my head.
I squeeze my eyes shut, both thrilled and terrified. The scissors make a soft whoosh in my ears as they lay waste to my curls. My head lightens with every cut until I’m sure it’s going to go floating off into the Luxembourg sky.
Antoine turns the chair away from the mirror and I open my eyes. I search Miss Tickford’s face for a clue as to whether she likes it or not, but her expression is noncommittal. I look away, disappointed. Her feelings about my hair are irrelevant, as are mine. We’re not preparing for a ball; we’re spies working at making me look older so I’m not exposed as a traitor in an enemy country.
Because if I am, it won’t matter what length my hair is.
Antoine holds out his hand and his assistant quickly gives him a pair of scissors so small they look as if they’re used to clip the wings of fairies.
He snips here and there, taking his time. Then he takes a comb, parts my hair on one side, and scrutinizes it. Finally he nods. “I think we’re done.” He turns to Miss Tickford. “What do you think?”
She smiles. “The difference is extraordinary.”
Antoine turns the chair around and I face myself in the mirror. My curls, which have always been weighted down, now spring about my face like silvery, flaxen flower petals.
“Well?” Antoine asks.
I see my lips curve in the mirror and it looks like the smile of a grown woman. A pretty, modern, grown woman. “I love it,” I say simply, unable to explain how free I feel.
My eyes seek out Miss Tickford’s and for a moment I see the delight in them, as if she were my mother and oh, so very proud of me. She blinks and turns away, pulling some notes out of her pocketbook. “Thank you so much, Antoine. You did a wonderful job.”
“I always do. Now, when are you going to let me bob your hair?”
Miss Tickford gives a charming laugh. “Oh, I’ll never cut my hair!”
We leave the shop and Miss Tickford wastes no time getting back to work. “Now let’s talk about the different types of surveillance and how to tell if someone is following you.”
The lighthearted feeling I had in the shop dissipates and reality crashes in as we begin another lesson in spy craft. My life and the lives of others depend on how well I learn. I concentrate on her words.
“So remember, even if you notice someone following you, it is best if you give no indication of it.”
“Why is that?” I ask.
“Because if he knows that you know he’s following, you force his hand. He has to do something. Most of the time, he’ll just disappear, but he may also confront you. You don’t have any idea who he is or who he works for.”
I nod.
“First off, if you’re being followed, you do nothing. It’s very important that you behave normally and nonchalantly, as we are right now. Watch to see if there is more than one person tailing you.” She pauses to look in the window of a bakery. “Right now there are three.”
“Three what?”
“Three people watching you. You can go back to the apartment as soon as you spot them.”
I shoot her an uncertain glance. “Is this a test? Part of my
training?”
“Of course.” Miss Tickford turns to me with a smile and touches my sleeve. “Remember all you’ve learned of surveillance and don’t forget that you’re in an occupied country. If you make a mistake, the consequences could be irreparable. Once you’ve spotted all three people, you can come back to the apartment. It’s on the rue Beck. Good luck.”
“Wait!” I clutch at her sleeve. “How will I know?”
My voice trails off at the smirk on her face. She gently removes my hand and walks away.
My heart pummels my rib cage. Knowing that the first rule of being watched is not to let your follower know that you’re aware of him, I force myself to move down the street.
Two German soldiers pass me by in their dun-color uniforms. One gives me a friendly smile, but I avoid his eyes and move quickly on.
I must collect myself. I pause on the street corner, trying to think. I’m completely alone in a strange city with only a vague sense of how to get back to the apartment, but at the moment, I have other things to worry about.
I glance behind me. I know I’m being obvious but can’t help it. Panic threads its way through my body. This is my first big test and it looks as if I’m about to fail it completely.
All I see is men and women hurrying about their business like they do in any city of size. Most of the residents are wearing decent, if plain, clothing, and the streets are well cared for, as if the stoops and storefronts are scrubbed on a regular basis.
How am I supposed flush out the spies if I have no idea what to look for?
Then I spot a man smoking on a stoop just down the block from me. Unlike the other industrious, well-groomed Luxembourgians, this particular man seems to be loitering, and his clothes are rough. I take a deep breath to fight off my anxiety and snap my fingers as if I’d forgotten something. Then I swiftly backtrack toward where the man is lounging, the brim of his hat pulled down low on his head and a newspaper tucked under his arm. He stands as I approach, then, without sparing a glance in my direction, tosses his cigarette into the gutter and hurries across the street, narrowly missing being run over by a trolley.