by Kate Breslin
At the time of their rescue, Colin discovered Richards was alive, just barely. A few days later, he perished at the field hospital. Doctors claimed extensive internal injuries were the cause, but Colin wasn’t convinced. It took weeks into his rehabilitation at Dublin’s hospital before he would accept a glass of water from the nurses without a struggle. Even now he forced himself to drink, something that had sparked Miss Reyer’s curiosity the other night at the café.
“I’m very sorry, Lieutenant. Now it is I who should apologize for prying.”
He blinked at her light touch against his arm.
Her blue eyes held compassion. “It must have been awful for you.”
“It was worse for the others.” His jaw tightened. “I still wonder why I survived. And at times I . . . struggle with it.”
The train slowed, and both looked out the window as they reached Orléans, their first stop. Colin recognized some of the refugees and clusters of frightened children he’d seen on the platform at Paris. The war followed him wherever he went. Taking a deep breath, he checked his watch. “What time did the conductor say we would arrive in Toulouse?”
When she didn’t answer, he turned to see Miss Reyer still watching him intently. It was another moment before she roused herself. “Oh yes . . . seven-thirty this evening.” She scanned the nearby seats before lowering her voice. “We can ask after our friend at the desk when we check into the hotel.”
He nodded, nervous expectancy warring with his impatience. Only hours remained before they spoke with Petit and learned the location of Kepler and Jewel. Perhaps Colin might catch a glimpse of her before the night was done.
He cast a quick glance at the gloved hand. Would she accept him now as he was . . . or run away from him?
Perhaps he wasn’t so impatient after all.
CHAPTER
8
BARCELONA, SPAIN
The afternoon sun shone bright as Captain Marcus Weatherford stood beside the quay at Barcelona’s coast, watching an old fisherman in a rickety boat toss his nets across the water. East of the quay lay the small coastline community of La Barceloneta, where crowds of tourists sat beneath the awnings of open beach cafés, sipping horchatas or sparkling cava, and sampling an assortment of tapas. He wondered how many spies, German and Allied alike, were seated among the throng, watching for U-boats or some unmarked Allied vessel straying too close to Spain’s neutral shores.
Despite the cool breezes coming off the Mediterranean, the sun’s warmth made Marcus glad for the lightweight linen suit he wore instead of his woolen naval uniform. He adjusted the brim of his felt hat to shade his eyes and turned back to gaze at the busy port behind him, then toward the city as he scanned the seaside street of Ronda Litoral, and the Plaça del Portal de la Pau, with its monument to Columbus. Beyond the statue lay the busy promenade of La Rambla—and with it, the hope that today would be the day the German master spy, Zero, approached him to discuss the deal he had entered into with the Allies.
Marcus withdrew his chain watch from his vest coat pocket and rechecked the time. He wasn’t surprised to discover that two o’clock had come and gone. For weeks he’d been in Barcelona, each day coming to the agreed-upon meeting place at 1400 hours, yet once again he saw nothing of the man he was supposed to meet.
His eyes drifted to the tiny photograph opposite the face of the watch, and his heart constricted at the familiar image of his sweetheart, Clare Danner. Her dark hair and gray eyes made him realize just how long he’d been away from Britain and all he held dear. Clare, his family, even his close friend Jack Benningham, who must be wondering why his best man had disappeared.
Snapping the watch closed, Marcus quelled another urge to return home. While each day of the past few weeks had tested his patience, he knew surveillance was often a waiting game. And the stakes had never been higher. Stealing the infamous Black Book from the Germans was a coup for which the Allies would have paid a king’s ransom. And if Zero ever did decide to make an appearance, the tell-all book would be within their grasp.
Again Marcus surveyed the crowd at the beach café. He’d been told his contact wore many disguises, and he wondered if Zero was already in the area, watching him.
They had met once in Paris, a year ago, during the trial of the Dutch spy Mata Hari. Marcus sat next to a French journalist, Philippe Tremont, who was there covering the trial. Both men shared mixed feelings about the fairness of the courtroom procedure, and as Tremont was registered at his hotel, they later discussed their similar opinions over dinner, then again at breakfast the following morning. Marcus found he liked the man, sensing compassion and a brilliant mind behind Tremont’s quiet speech and piercing blue eyes.
At the time, Marcus had no idea the Frenchman was one of the most notorious German agents in Europe. Then a month ago, he received an urgent summons from “C”—Captain Sir Mansfield George Smith-Cumming, head of the British Secret Service, who told him “Philippe Tremont” had requested a rendezvous in Spain with his old friend.
For MI6, the purpose of the meeting was crucial, not only to aid in the defection of a German master spy to the Allies, but to obtain the “book of forty thousand names” that Zero promised to provide. The kaiser’s secret weapon, the book contained the scandalous secrets of Europe’s most prominent and powerful persons, which if used to Germany’s advantage, could change the entire outcome of the war.
Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. It seemed Zero wasn’t planning to show up today, either. He wondered how long C would keep him in Spain and decided he might be forced to remain until the war ended, which could be another year. The thought made him groan.
Pocketing his watch, he considered returning to his temporary office at the British consulate in Barcelona. Instead, he struck out along the quay toward La Barceloneta, absently watching the gulls wheel above the old boat at sea, its hull now laden with fish. The notion of tapas and a glass of sangria sounded much more appealing.
He hadn’t gone far along the shoreline when he spotted an elderly gentleman seated on a bench behind a canvas and easel. The grassy spot where the artist had taken up residence was set back from the quay and hidden in the shade of leafy green plane trees.
The hair on his nape rose. Marcus had been coming to the quay for weeks, yet this was the first time he’d noticed the man. Increasing his stride, he approached the old painter. “Bona tarda, senyor. A beautiful day, isn’t it?”
The man paused, one gnarled hand gripping the brush. Beneath his brown cap, the wrinkled face was dark and contrasted sharply with his snowy white beard and moustache.
“Sí, senyor, and plenty of fish to be had in the sea.”
Marcus darted a glance toward the old man in the boat. “He is your subject?”
The aged artist nodded, and Marcus took a step closer. “May I please see your work?”
In response, the old man leaned back with his brush, allowing him a closer look.
Marcus stepped around to study the scene, admiring how well the artist had captured the essence of the old fisherman at sea with his boat, gulls swooping down in an effort to steal his fish. “You have remarkable talent, senyor.”
The elderly man looked up and smiled. “Thank you, Marcus.”
Hearing the quiet statement, Marcus froze. He searched the wizened face and finally recognized the eyes, brilliant blue and full of intelligence.
“Philippe Tremont.” Heart hammering, he fought for calm. “Or should I call you Zero?”
The artist shrugged and shot him a sideways glance. “Today I prefer Monet.”
“How long have you been in Barcelona?”
He turned back to his work. “A few days.”
Marcus stifled his anger. “I hope you’ve enjoyed playing your games.”
“Just hiding in plain sight.” He flashed Marcus another smile. “The sign of a good spy.”
Zero removed the painting from the easel and reached for a fresh canvas. As he began mixing paints together on a small handheld b
oard, he met Marcus’s stare. “A year ago in Paris, I decided you were a man with a sharp mind. I knew you would find me eventually.”
He indicated the bench adjacent to his own. “Now you sit there. I’ll paint your portrait while we speak. That way, we can watch each other’s back.”
Marcus did as he asked, and a moment later, Zero made the first brush stroke against the canvas. “When last we met, you were still a lieutenant, but I have seen you at the consulate in your uniform. Congratulations on the promotion, Captain.” Zero filled his brush. “I also know about your work at Cambrai. For such a young man—thirty, perhaps?—you are very clever.”
Marcus clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “I didn’t realize you invited me here to discuss my accomplishments. Suppose you tell me about the Black Book instead.”
Zero ignored the question and reached for more paint. “I thought as my friend, Marcus, you would be interested to know why I have decided to defect.”
Admittedly it was one of the first questions Marcus had asked C. “I’m listening.”
“I should really start at the beginning. I was born to German parents sent to France as ‘fixed posts’ back in seventy-one, shortly after the Franco-Prussian War—part of a colonization plan by Wilhelm Stieber, the German Empire’s head of espionage at the time. My parents and others were instructed to infiltrate French life while keeping surveillance. They reported any new fortifications and advancements, military or social, and people’s prevailing political sentiment, which of course was ever changing.”
Again Zero paused to wet his brush. “My father lived modestly, working as a grocer. He was well liked by our neighbors and involved in the community. His secret job, however, was to act as a collection point for information from other German plants in France—waiters, hotel maids, barbers, clerks, brothel owners—working in embassy cities like Paris and Tours, or playgrounds of the rich, like Biarritz and Monte Carlo. For years, they gave my father secrets about the most powerful and influential men in Europe, to be used one day to further the German cause.”
Marcus leaned back and crossed his arms. “The Black Book.”
Zero nodded and kept painting. “When I was still a child, I showed an aptitude for art, so my father encouraged my painting. My skill increased as I grew older, and once I became a young man and discovered the truth about my roots, I was captivated with the idea of becoming a spy alongside my father. I was sent throughout France to paint, but of course I first had to learn a particular method taught to me by another German artist.” He paused with the brush in hand. “Do you know about steganography?”
“I know it’s an ancient art. The ability to hide images or information within other images.”
“Very good.” Zero smiled. “Steganography enabled me to paint critical intelligence into my scenes, and only the trained eye could detect my forested mountain was in truth a new factory or armory. A scenic outcropping near the shore or a rocky island at sea was in reality a new ship or port building.”
“Impressive.” Marcus frowned as he wondered how much intelligence the Boche spies in Britain had already gathered in the same way, and what the Admiralty knew about it.
“When the war broke out, I was conscripted into the French Army.” Zero grimaced. “A contingency I was not prepared for. I arranged to be taken prisoner by the German Army at the Battle of Champagne. Once I spoke with the camp kommandant, he made inquiries, and I was fortunate to be sent on to the German spy school at Antwerp.”
“Fräulein Doktor?” Marcus had heard rumors about the mysterious German woman who ran the espionage school in occupied Belgium.
Zero nodded, dipping his brush into a cleaning jar. “Eventually I emerged as Zero, taking on any assignment that might hasten a German victory.”
“I’ve read the reports. You’ve wreaked your share of havoc on the Allies over the past three years. With your talent for evading arrest, you continue to frustrate the French. And now it seems the Americans cannot find you.”
Zero’s blue eyes gleamed. “Their G-2 agents have been trying to keep up with me.”
“Which brings us back to the start of our conversation.” Marcus straightened, relaxing his arms. “Why have you decided to defect?”
The older man reached for a rag to wipe his hands. “When you saw me last year in Paris, I was already becoming disillusioned with the kaiser’s campaign for power. A regime that chooses to blind itself to the hardship and needs of its own people is doomed to failure. Like your countrymen, mine are also exhausted and impoverished by the war. The numbers who wish for an end to it and to form a new republic grow steadily. Also . . .”
He paused, and Marcus eyed him sharply. “What?”
Zero sighed. “Despite all I have done, with the passing of years, I realize I am more French than German. Painting a landscape is one thing, but providing intelligence that leads to the sabotage of a ship full of men or the deaths of French soldiers is quite another.”
His aged features hardened. “I have made this arrangement for amnesty with the Americans because I believe they are my best chance among the Allies. I am certain the French still wish me dead.”
Marcus couldn’t argue the point. “And?”
Zero dropped the rag back onto the bench. “In return, I will hand over the Black Book, after all of my conditions are met.”
“Exactly when will that happen?” Marcus was tired of waiting.
Zero’s expression eased. “I apologize for keeping you here so long, Marcus. I had to take care of an important errand once I received word a precious package I had been waiting for was delivered by another agent.”
Relief lifted Marcus’s spirits. “And this has been accomplished.”
“I believe so. However, a good spy never trusts another spy, even a fellow German.” Zero’s blue gaze penetrated his. “That is why I need you. In Paris, I realized you were an honorable and fair man. You will go and verify the package is what I asked for. Once you confirm, I will set up the time and place of our meeting and the transfer of the Black Book.” He hesitated. “If I find the Allies have tricked me, the deal is off.”
Marcus’s pulse pounded. “Where is this package?”
Zero removed the canvas and turned it around so he could see it.
Instead of his portrait, Marcus stared at the painting of a city, as though seen from a hillside. Rose-colored buildings with red ochre rooftops sprawled among the leafy tops of trees, while in the foreground, a dark green river drifted lazily beneath a vaulted arch bridge. “What place is that?”
“La Ville Rose, my friend.” Zero smiled at him. “Toulouse.”
CHAPTER
9
TOULOUSE, FRANCE
The sunset was a mere shadow on the horizon by the time the train arrived at the Toulouse station. Colin disembarked with “Mrs. Mabry,” and after arranging for a porter to gather their luggage, they made their way outside the terminal to the lamplit street.
The porter hailed them a cab, and while their baggage was being stowed in the taxi’s boot, Colin and Miss Reyer slipped inside the shadowy confines of the car.
“I think, Lieutenant, we should start calling one another by our Christian names.” Miss Reyer spoke in a low voice, tilting her head to peer at him from beneath her brim. “After all, as you said earlier, we must maintain our cover as husband and wife to prevent any accidental slips. Do you agree?”
Colin nodded just before the driver opened the door and slid behind the wheel.
“Hôtel Blanc, s’il vous plaît.”
As he gave the order, the cab moved forward, traveling west along Toulouse’s dark, quiet streets. The tension in Colin’s shoulders eased as he breathed in the cool night air blowing through the open window.
The train trip to Toulouse had been long and exhausting. After their stop in Orléans, they traveled on to Limoges, Montauban, and finally Toulouse, with a few other stops in between. He and Miss Reyer had been confined for hours in small, often cramped spaces an
d subjected to the stifling body heat and chatter of several other passengers.
Colin returned his attention to the illuminated tree-lined causeway taking them westward from the Toulouse station. Eventually the cab slowed near a square with a small grassy area dotted with more trees, a fountain at its center. He could hear the rush of water and see the shadow of a statue rising above the pool.
“Is that a park?” Miss Reyer’s gaze had followed his direction.
“Lafayette Square.” The driver glanced toward the fountain. “The statue of Goudouli, our beloved poet, sits inside the waterworks.”
The cab continued beyond the square and soon pulled up to a multistoried brick building on rue Léon Gambetta. While the driver gathered up their bags, Colin and Miss Reyer alighted to enter the lushly decorated lobby.
A swarthy, barrel-chested man in suit and tie stood behind the desk, smiling expectantly. “Bonsoir, madame, Lieutenant. Welcome to Hôtel Blanc. What is your pleasure?”
Miss Reyer stepped forward. “Monsieur, I believe you have a reservation for Lieutenant and Madame Mabry?”
The hotel clerk reached for his reservation book and used a finger to scan the page. “I see no reservation, madame.” He gave her an apologetic look. “When did you request it?”
“The telegram was sent to you early this morning from Mademoiselle Moreau in Paris.”
He turned and sifted through a box of papers behind the desk, then swung around, shaking his head. “Non. I am sorry, there is no telegram.” He smiled. “This is not a problem, however. We do have a room available.”
Miss Reyer gripped the handle on her cloth kit bag, her stance rigid. “We require connecting rooms, if you please.”
As the clerk glanced between Colin and “Madame Mabry,” his accommodating mood dimmed. “I am sorry, madame. I have no connecting rooms available at the moment. I can offer you only a single room.”
Miss Reyer set down the kit bag and crossed her arms. “That is simply unacceptable.”