by Kit Sergeant
She rose to leave.
“And, madame, in case you are looking, you will find your friend Masloff in a hospital at the front.”
She refrained from gasping aloud. Ladoux was clearly trying to get a rise out of her, but she refused to give in. “G’day, Captain.”
“Good-day, Madame Zelle-MacLeod.”
The following afternoon, M’greet went to the Quai d’Orsay to visit Harry de Marguérie. She was so used to looking upon Vadim’s young face that Harry looked like an old man.
She told him everything. To his credit, he did not seem to be jealous about Vadim. After she’d finished her story, he ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Did it ever occur to you that little Normie, had he lived, would be the same age as Vadim?”
She opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. “It’s not like that,” she managed to croak out after a beat. “We’re in love. I just want to be near him. And now this Ladoux man wants me to become a spy.”
He laughed. “Another disguise, Marguérite?”
“This time it would be in the service of France, not to better my own life.”
He shook his head. “You know, some people view the work of espionage as opportunistic and mercenary.”
“Some would say the same thing about myself.”
That old grin again. “True.” His face grew serious as he asked, “How old would you say Ladoux is?”
“I don’t know. Forty-something, though the fat might have hidden some of his wrinkles.”
“Did you ever ask yourself why this, as you say, forty-something man is still a captain?”
“Does it matter?”
He put his steepled hands under his chin. “French men at the front have a survival chance of less than half.”
M’greet frowned as she recalled what Ladoux said about Vadim.
Harry didn’t seem to notice her reaction. “Officer promotions are handed out swiftly in order to fill these dead men’s posts, so you’d think by now Ladoux would have a higher rank.”
She supposed the points Harry brought up should have bothered her, but at that moment, she could think of nothing else but Vadim. “Maybe that’s the highest rank he can achieve in his line of work.”
Harry tucked his hand underneath his face and thought for a minute. “This line of work is, indeed, extremely dangerous, but if anyone can serve my country with such work, it is you, Marguérite. Ladoux probably knows that too.”
She gestured toward the window. “If that’s so, why do you suppose he is still having me followed?”
“Is he?” He went over to the blinds and peered out. “Two youngish-looking men, one in a brown suit, one in a green?”
“That’s them. They’ve been tailing me for months.”
“I wonder why Ladoux would offer you a position in the French Intelligence Service if he suspects you enough to have you tailed.” Harry picked up his suitcoat from the chair. “C’mon.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to have some fun. Watch what happens when Ladoux’s flunkeys try to follow the Secretary of Foreign Affairs as he takes Mata Hari out to dinner.”
The next day M’greet returned to Ladoux’s office. She stalked in this time, displaying a confidence she did not quite feel. “Captain, in principle, I submit.”
Ladoux’s stern expression showed no surprise. “Does that mean you agree to work for me?”
“Yes, provided you will still allow me to go to Vittel.”
He scribbled something on a piece of paper before sighing, “So be it. You will report back here when you return for further instructions.”
His tone indicated that he had finished with the conversation, but M’greet was not satisfied. Yesterday he had seemed so interested in her affairs and now it was as though he couldn’t care less. “Captain, is it possible for me to send a telegram to Vadim Masloff from this office? I have not heard from him since he left.”
“Is this official espionage business?”
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“Then I suspect you know the answer to your inquiry.”
M’greet rose, but Ladoux did not look up as she left.
She headed straight to the post office, trying to shove off a nagging thought about Ladoux’s indifference. What did it matter? She was going to Vittel to see Vadim! She sent him a quick note for him to expect to see her within the week.
Chapter 46
Marthe
June 1916
Marthe once again met Alphonse in front of the staff cabin a few days later.
“I made a ladder to get in and out of the pit,” he told her. “So you don’t have to worry about getting a mouthful of dirt this time.”
She was about to ask when he’d found the time to concoct a ladder when he suddenly seized her in an embrace. She peered up at him. The seconds turned into hours as his lips grew closer and closer until they were upon hers. They were still locked in a passionate kiss, her eyes closed, her head whirling with questions, as the sound of marching soldiers broke her revelry. She opened her eyes to see three soldiers nearby, taking a shortcut across the hospital grounds.
“Fräulein Cnockaert does indeed have a lover,” one of them chuckled as they passed.
When they finally broke apart, both of them panting, Alphonse apologized. “That just shows you how careful we have to be, Marthe. This is very dangerous work we’re doing.”
“Are you sure you want to become a priest?” She wiped her mouth with her cape as discreetly as she could.
“Yes,” he replied, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “It is my calling. Just as much as this work we do.”
Marthe forced her lips into something that could pass as a smile.
They lowered themselves into the sewer in silence. Their going should have been much easier this time, due to the hastily-made rope ladder, but Alphonse fumbled as he descended and dropped his torch. Luckily it was not harmed, and, as he lit it, Marthe saw that another ladder lay at the bottom of the sewer, accompanied by a flat wooden circular piece.
“It’s a lid,” Alphonse said, upon catching sight of her puzzlement. “To camouflage the hole we’ll make at the other end of the tunnel.” He handed her a pickaxe. “Ready?”
Silence descended once again as they made their way through the sewer. Anytime she felt something at her ankles, Marthe lowered her torch to scare away the rats, watching them flee into the corridor with a feeling of satisfaction, as if she were frightening off her own worries at the same time.
Once they’d arrived under the stone marked by the white chalk, they set to work. Alphonse had already propped the loose planks to form a tetrad against the stone ceiling so it wouldn’t crash on their heads as they worked. Half-blinded by the descending dirt and dust, perspiration dripping down her burning neck and shoulders, Marthe attacked the stone ceiling with her pickaxe. After half an hour, he stopped working and peered up at the stone. All of the mortar was gone from around it.
“Stand back,” he told her before removing the prop. The slab refused to give way. He reached into his sack and grasped a crowbar. As he inserted the crowbar to wiggle the slab loose, she closed her eyes, hoping nothing would fall on his head. Suddenly he leapt backward as a piece of the slab crashed down. The echo reverberated through the tunnel and Marthe said a silent prayer that the Germans hadn’t heard it above ground.
After a little more work with the crowbar, Alphonse had opened a wide gap, through which they could discern moonlight. They moved the other ladder into position and he ascended it. “Marthe, we did it,” he called down. “Hand up the lid.”
The stone lid was heavy but she was able to lift it high enough for Alphonse to grab onto it.
“And now the dynamite,” he said when he’d reappeared. She carefully transferred the dynamite into Alphonse’s strong hands.
“You can come up now. We are protected from view of the sentries by piles of ammunition.”
As Marthe climbed the ladder, she could s
ee giant tarpaulin-covered mounds extending in every direction. “We did it,” she giggled once she was on solid ground.
“Stay here,” he commanded when he’d finished maneuvering the camouflaged lid into place. “I’m going to look for a good spot to place the dynamite,” he stated before vanishing among the piles of ammunition.
Soon she could hear the measured click of a sentry’s boots and cowered into a nearby mound as best she could. She saw the glimmer of a bayonet as the sentry passed by, but thankfully he took no notice of her.
She started visibly as she heard another sound behind her, but it was Alphonse returning from his reconnaissance mission. He pointed off to her right. “Over there is a pile of petrol. Place one of the dynamite sticks in there and then lead the fuse to our hole.” He took hold of the other stick. “I’m going to put this one in that stack of rifle bullets.”
Marthe lifted up the tarpaulin and was about to place the stick as directed when her foot slipped, striking a stray can of petrol. The faint metallic sound of the petrol can hitting another sounded like a gunshot in the otherwise still night.
“Is someone there?” called a gruff voice.
She maneuvered herself against a pile of ammunition, this time careful not to strike any more cans.
“Hello?” called the voice again.
After a few more beats, the voice was silent and she was able to put the dynamite in place.
She found Alphonse waiting by the hole.
“Did you hear anything?” she whispered, too embarrassed to reveal her blunder.
“Nothing,” was his terse reply.
She helped him prop up the camouflaged lid before he drew the two fuses together. “What a shame we won’t be able to see the sentries’ reaction when the whole thing blows.” He struck a match and shielded it with his hand. “Okay, Marthe, get back into the sewer. As soon as my head drops below the parapet, knock away the prop, but mind you not before—I don’t want a bump on my head.”
After she’d climbed back down, she watched Alphonse bend to touch the match to the fuses and then she heard a fizzling sound. After he was satisfied they were burning, he descended the ladder. She reached out with the crowbar and hit the prop, causing the lid to drop into place.
“Now run!” Alphonse commanded, and she sprinted as if the whole German army were after them.
They had only gone a few meters when a loud rumble shook the tunnel. Their hands went instinctively to their heads, but nothing fell. Another boom sounded, and then silence.
“Well,” he said, a grin stretching from ear to ear. “Well, I think we did it.”
Marthe began to laugh uncontrollably. As if her giggles were contagious, Alphonse did the same. It was as if the explosion had also cracked the thick veneer of austerity that surrounded his heart. Whooping madly, he spun her around. She nearly collided with the walls of the tunnel before she realized that, in their mirth, they’d accidentally extinguished the torchlight.
A hand found hers in the darkness, and then something soft touched her lips. The moment she’d been dreaming about was finally happening again—Alphonse was kissing her! And this time there were no soldiers around to fool.
She reached up and entangled her hand in his hair.
When they finally broke their embrace, both of them were panting.
“I—” Alphonse began, but Marthe touched his lips with her finger before placing her lips upon them once again.
She had no idea how long they kissed in the darkness of the sewer. He finally stopped to light a cigarette before he bothered to light the torch.
They walked back toward the staff cabin in an exhilarated silence, Alphonse’s strong hand still wrapped around Marthe’s.
When they emerged into the night, they could see an orange glow coming from the direction of the ammunition stores. She expected Alphonse to pull away again, but he squeezed her hand. “I have to go back to my barracks before I’m discovered, but you might be able to see some of the commotion on your way home.”
His face was close to hers, so she kissed him again, a quick, gentle kiss this time, not the long, needy ones of the tunnel. “Good night, Alphonse.”
“Good night, Marthe.”
Chapter 47
Alouette
June 1916
The tension between the military attaché, Kalle, and von Krohn continued to grow throughout the first half of 1916. The Baron often accused Kalle of appropriating naval matters which were supposed to be under his own jurisdiction.
Von Krohn returned to the apartment one night in June in a foul mood. Alouette found him stuffing papers from his desk into a handbag. “I have to leave for Cadiz as soon as possible,” he stated in a weary voice.
“Am I to accompany you?”
“No.”
“Oh Hans.” She threw herself dramatically into a chair. “Every time you are in a conference with Kalle, you come back in the most devilish temper. And then you try to wall me up even more in this gilded cage.”
He stopped. “I’m sorry, Alouette. But great events are happening with the German navy that will allow us to end this war, which has come to an impasse in the trenches.”
She’d found that sarcasm usually worked to draw out information when he was in such a state. “You are going to win a victory from an armchair in a Cadiz office?”
“Do not question me further, Alouette.” His voice contained more than a hint of warning. “I would pay anything to see Kalle’s face in a few weeks when he hears the news, but for now we must have patience.”
She put a hand on his arm. “But Hans, I was really hoping for a vacation on the coast. It’s so hot in Madrid.” She moved her hand to his face. “And maybe this time we could share a room.”
His face relaxed. “Well,” he cleared his throat. “I suppose…”
“I’ll start packing,” she said quickly, before he could change his mind.
It turned out that a German submarine was to be interned in the Cadiz port. Alouette realized the significance of this right away: the ability of U-boats to come and go as they pleased in Spanish waters could be considered a violation of Spain’s neutrality. It might eventually anger the Allies enough to declare war on Spain.
Von Krohn was obviously taken aback when Alouette requested to see the submarine soon after entering their hotel room. “That’s an impossible task, and you well know it.”
She placed her bag on one of the two beds, willing herself not to wonder if von Krohn expected to share it with her. Instead of resorting to anger and demands, she forced her voice to take on a soothing tone. “Can you tell me, Hans, who is in charge of a submarine when it enters into neutral waters?”
“A commander is the master of his own vessel,” von Krohn stated, opening his suitcase. To her relief, he dumped his clothes on the other bed. “But in a case like this, he does not dare move without receiving permission from the Minister of Marine Affairs of the neutral country.” His voice boomed. “As I am the German naval attaché in this country, the commander of the submarine is subject to my orders.”
“Well, if that is the case, why do you hesitate to take me aboard the submarine? What difference can it possibly make now that the submarine is interned?” Von Krohn’s face remained stony, so she tried a different tactic. “I’d love to see the vessel that is currently at your beck and call.”
At last his expression changed, to that of a dreamy one, and Alouette wondered how it came to be that this man whom she detested had become so infatuated with her. He nodded his assent. “I’ll step out of the room so you can dress properly.”
They took a boat from the other side of the harbor, as von Krohn said the fewer people that saw them board, the better. As they crossed in a fisherman’s dinghy, the Baron told her, “Alouette, one of my greatest thrills is to give you any pleasure that lies in my power.”
Her grip on her purse tightened, but he obviously had other pleasures in mind than the one she most feared.
“Now you will have an id
ea of the scientific superiority Germany has over the Allies and you will see firsthand how resourceful my country is. But,” he glanced down at her, “remember to never tell a living soul that I allowed for you to board a U-boat. And, Alouette, please don’t speak French to anyone on board. If you need to say anything, say it in Spanish.”
The submarine—according to the block lettering on the side, was named U-52— was anchored to the left of the port, hidden by a large brick wall. Alouette could see how easily it could sneak in and out of the harbor without being noticed.
The commander, an athletic-looking man in his mid-thirties, received them on the bridge. “I like your dress,” he told Alouette in Spanish.
She looked down, brushing imaginary dust off her black and yellow skirt. She’d paired it with a red blouse, purposefully dressing in the colors of the German flag. “Thank you. I wanted to show tribute to your sailors.” She nodded toward the crew, who stood at attention in full naval attire.
“Sie sind mutige deutsch,” the commander said with pride. They are brave Germans.
Alouette was taken off guard for a moment and nearly answered back.
Noting her bewildered expression, the Baron explained that she did not speak the language.
She took the commander’s arm and resorted to Spanish. “As an airwoman, I am especially intrigued by the submarine’s motors. Can you explain how they work?”
He grinned before leading her down the deck. “Of course. Let me give you a full tour.”
Von Krohn was forced to tag behind, though he intermittently cut the commander off in his explanations. It was obvious to Alouette that he was trying to reestablish the commander as his underling.
As they went back on deck, von Krohn said in German, “I won’t be back again.” He moved to examine a fitting. “I give you carte blanche to decide when to launch. If, however, there turns out to be any hitch, ring me up at once.”