by Kit Sergeant
With each day that passed without a reply from either Ladoux or Zozo, Alouette grew first perplexed, and then worried. What was happening at the Deuxiéme Bureau that was causing them to ignore her request?
The Baron, too, grew impatient. “Why is there such a delay in getting your fiancé here?” he asked her one day.
Alouette could only murmur a half-hearted reply about him encountering “unforeseen difficulties.”
“If he doesn’t come soon, I will have to look for someone else to unload all of these pesetas on.”
To her chagrin, Alouette read of the sinking of the HMS Nottingham in August. The German submarine responsible was said to be U-52, the same boat she had been aboard a few months earlier.
Still, Alouette heard nothing from France. Her fellow countrymen in Spain continuously snubbed her, thinking she was a German spy. She longed for an end to all of the lying, all of the scheming. And most of all, she longed for an end to her contact with Von Krohn. If only Ladoux would respond! She didn’t need praise or encouragement, necessarily, although either would have been welcomed. What she really wanted at this point was acknowledgment. But Ladoux continued his silence.
Alouette walked home from yet another tedious lunch with the irritable Baron, asking herself what the sense was in carrying on such a dangerous task now that she had lost communication with the Deuxiéme Bureau. She kicked every stone in her path and heaved a heavy sigh as she entered the Palace Hotel.
She was so wrapped up in her discontent she barely noticed the tall man in the aviator jacket standing in the foyer. He turned, the familiar grin finally registering.
“Zozo!” she shouted.
He met her eyes and then bowed his head, his eyes dropping to the ground.
Alouette understood: he was cautious about the hotel staff overhearing them. Trust no one. She flagged down a porter and said in the loudest voice possible, “I am expecting some letters in the next post. Please send them up to Room 11 as soon as you can.”
She had just shut the door to her room when someone banged on it. As expected, Zozo was standing outside.
She waved him in before she started questioning him. “What is happening in Paris? Why has the Captain not answered any of my letters? What took you so long to get here? Is Paris in danger? Are we?”
Zozo opened his mouth, but Alouette wasn’t done yet. “Every week I write to the Deuxiéme Bureau, but I never get a reply. I’m beginning to wonder what my purpose is here, and whether I should continue on. Captain Ladoux has deigned to reply to none of my last twenty letters, and von Krohn seems to become more suspicious each day that passes. I am nothing but a lion in a cage here, and I’m fed up!”
Zozo collapsed into a nearby chair, holding a hand to his forehead. After a beat, he put his arm down and peered at Alouette. “Captain Ladoux has been quite absent, I’ll agree. The last I knew he had been working with new recruits, including a supposed double agent, whom he was setting up to expose. After your last letter, I was at 282 boulevard, Saint-Germain, for three days straight, my finger on the bell, but no one answered. Finally, I called on Captain Ignatieff, the head of Russian Intelligence in France. He was the one to pay for my fare to Madrid.”
“But what of Captain Ladoux?” Alouette’s voice was growing shrill, but she couldn’t help herself. “Why was the submarine able to escape from Cadiz despite all of my best efforts? I’ve been completely let down and I don’t think I can hold out much longer.”
A puzzling smile appeared on Zozo’s handsome countenance. She was indignant at his obvious amusement, which grew more intense as he said, “What do you want me to do about it? Captain Ladoux is confident in your relationship with von Krohn.” He cocked an eyebrow. “When do I get to meet the esteemed Baron… and take his money?”
“I could telephone him now and he’d come straightaway.” For some reason, Alouette felt the need to prove to Zozo the extent of the Baron’s attachment.
He nodded toward the door. “Be my guest.”
An hour later, Alouette and Zozo were indulging in aperitif drinks, a sherry for her and a bourbon for him, when von Krohn knocked on her door.
As she rose from her seat to answer, she apprised Zozo, “You are the most dangerous of anarchists.”
He gave her a mock salute and Alouette opened the door.
Von Krohn did not utter a word of greeting to either of them, but nodded at Zozo as he took the chair across from him. “You are a Bolshevik?”
“Yes,” Zozo answered. “I was a co-signer with Vladimir Lenin of the Socialist Revolutionary Pact.”
“What you have done in the past doesn’t fully inform me on how you can help in the future. France has proven to be far from open to revolutionary ideas, as was your Georgia.”
At this Zozo sat up straighter. “I am well familiar with Russian order. I cannot see much difference between that of Russia and France.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Nor can I discern the difference between that of the German order, which resulted in multiple revolutions, and is, as we speak, drowning out strikes with streams of blood.”
Von Krohn had his hand over his chin, obviously absorbing every word Zozo spoke. Finally he replied, “Bourgeois order is the same everywhere.”
Zozo rose and stood ramrod straight. “The people are starving—that’s the order. There is not justice for working men—that’s the order. Education is not for every man, only the rich—that’s the order.”
As if to slow the tirade, the Baron held up his hand, but Zozo was not finished. “It is like a grave in which the slaves, chained to their shovels, have been digging without respite for centuries, under the promise of the whip, and for the profit of a few slave traders. Don’t be surprised if, when the millions of disillusioned soldiers come home, they annihilate this so-called social order and replace it with decrees that are more humane.”
Now von Krohn stood, both hands in the air. “And yet Alouette tells me you have fought side-by-side with the French bourgeois against the Germans—”
“You don’t get it.” Zozo’s voice rose in anguish.
Whether it was false or real, Alouette wasn’t sure. Regardless, she was enjoying the showdown between von Krohn and her fake fiancé.
She grabbed a biscuit off the table and took a bite as Zozo continued, “The French watched as I fought single-handedly against five German airplanes. They believed that I was serving France against the Germans. Hence this medal.” He touched the Croix de Guerre pinned to his chest. “But they were wrong.” He shot a glance in Alouette’s direction before focusing once more on von Krohn. “Each decoration they awarded me was like a stroke of the master’s whip, trying to get the slave to germinate the seed. But all it was germinating was the harvest of revolutions to come.”
Alouette crunched on her biscuit. This is really good.
Von Krohn sat before holding up a wary hand. “If you would be so kind as to tell me what you plan to do with the money I will entrust to you.”
Zozo folded his arms across his chest. “I have no desire to serve you or your country, only my Russian brothers in their task for revolution.” He paused to gaze again at Alouette, who raised her eyebrows. Agree with his plan. “But,” he added, “if that includes galvanizing Frenchmen to rebel against their own government, I suppose it’s all for the Cause.”
The Baron nodded slowly, but Alouette could discern his barely-contained delight. She shot a grin at her compatriot. His ruse had worked!
Von Krohn stood once again. “I shall give you five hundred pesetas for your propaganda campaign.” His eyes traveled from Zozo to Alouette, forming a look of wounded pride as he left.
“Well,” Zozo took a biscuit before refilling his drink. “That was interesting.”
“It certainly was,” Alouette replied. “How much of it was true?”
He shot her a grin. “I am a Bolshevik.”
She felt a pang of jealousy. “You are lucky you can maintain your cover without having to pretend to be someone you’re not.�
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He sat next to her on the couch. “Do you mean pretending you care about that callous Boche?”
“Yes. I’m just tired of all the games in general. I wish I could go back to France for good. I wish this terrible war had never started, that my husband had never died…” her voice trailed off.
“Somehow I can’t picture you married.”
She shifted to face him, bringing her knee next to his. “You knew him, back in our flight days.”
“That old man you were always with was your husband? I thought he was your dad or something.” He shook his head. “I feel as though, had he lived, you might have died yourself, of boredom.”
“Well, that’s because you are the type to date a new woman at every aerodrome.”
Zozo put a hand on her arm, and she didn’t pull away. “Right now we’re both grounded. And I’m the only one who knows your secret.”
“Don’t forget Ladoux.”
He dropped his hand. “And Ladoux.”
Ladoux. She felt nothing at the mention of his name. For the first time in months, the feelings of indignation and abandonment had vanished. All that was left was the feeling she was no longer alone, an outcast spy, alienated by the Spanish and the French alike. Zozo had come to her aid; he was now a comrade in her lonely battle. Alouette scooted closer to him and retrieved his hand. This time she put it on her leg.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.
“Like you, I’m a spy.” She knew exactly what kind of man Zozo was: there were no secrets with him. But he was also a warm body and she had been so lonely. “Why can’t I also be a woman who sleeps with someone she doesn’t love?”
He pulled down the collar of her shirt and kissed her neck. “Well then, be sure not to fall in love with me.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
Chapter 55
M’greet
December 1916
M’greet had no idea why Ladoux had denied hiring her to Thomson, but she knew she needed to do something to impress him if he was ever going to deliver the money he’d promised. She was stuck in Spain, and, as she had failed in meeting von Bissing in Belgium, she decided to seduce a German envoy in Madrid. Of course, in order to do so, she would need an introduction.
After she checked into the Palace Hotel, she asked the clerk for a diplomatic list. She ran her finger down the sheet, looking for a military attaché. She paused at the first one that did not list a wife. “Captain Arnold Kalle,” she said aloud.
“Perdóneme?” the clerk asked.
“Can you get me an envelope and a pen?” she barked in return.
He did as bid and M’greet hastily wrote out a request to meet with Captain Kalle.
A messenger from the embassy delivered a note the next day, inviting M’greet to Kalle’s apartment for tea. She took great care in choosing her outfit, dressing in a raccoon-trimmed gray suit and matching hat.
A servant answered the door and led M’greet to the study. Kalle was tall and well-built, with an ample dark mane and no facial hair. He gestured for her to sit down and spoke in halting French, “I am not in the habit of receiving ladies who may have been sent to me by our enemies, but I am sure this is not the case with you.”
She laughed. “Why are you so sure about that, Captain?”
“Well, for one thing, I was promoted to major quite a few months ago. I am certain that Allied intelligence would be better informed as to my rank.”
“Oh, is that so?” M’greet asked, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I am sorry then, Major Kalle.”
“I noticed from your calling card that you are Dutch. Sprichst du Deutsch?”
“Natürlich,” M’greet replied smoothly in his native language. She decided to tell him that her heart was with the German cause, and explained to him of her arrest. “But I am clearly not Clara Benedix.”
He held up his hands. “I have promised the King of Spain that I would not get involved with intelligence.” He picked up his drink and took a sip. “You are to be commended on your German accent.”
“I lived in Berlin for quite some time.”
“Is that so? Did you ever meet any officers?”
She turned her shoulder. “A few. I knew Alfred de Kiepert quite well.”
“Ah.” Kalle sat back. “Now I remember you. I saw you once at dinner with him at the Hotel Adlon.”
M’greet batted her eyelashes. “I’m not sure I remember you.”
“But you are most unforgettable.” He nodded to himself. “I believe your arrest had been ordered at Barcelona.” He offered her a cigarette, which she accepted.
“Why Barcelona?” she asked, puffing prettily on the cigarette.
“I am not sure, but I can inquire of Baron von Krohn, the head of German intelligence in Spain.”
M’greet filed the name away in her head. She could see that Kalle was beginning to fall under her spell. She lounged back on the chaise. “What is life like in Madrid?”
“Tiring,” was his snappish response.
“Oh?” She straightened.
His expression softened. “Please forgive me for my rudeness. I’ve been arranging for the disembarkation of German officers and munitions from a U-boat off the coast of Morocco. It’s been taking all of my concentration lately, which accounts for my exhaustion.”
“Of course.” She got to her feet, offering Kalle a full view of her décolletage as she did so. “I wouldn’t want to disturb you any more than necessary tonight. I will take my leave.”
“I would like to meet you again, though.”
She gave him her room number at the Palace Hotel. He kissed her hand before she left.
M’greet wrote to Ladoux as soon as she returned to her room, giving him the name Baron von Krohn and revealing the information about the submarine landing in Morocco. She called for a porter and told him to send the letter through the post straightaway.
“Yes, señorita,” the porter said, bowing.
Chapter 56
Alouette
December 1916
Alouette and Zozo continued their casual relationship until he returned to Paris in early December. As the Baron had left on holiday with his wife, Alouette was once again alone in a foreign city.
One evening she found Major Kalle in the dining room of the Palace Hotel. He was accompanied by an exotic-looking woman with an olive complexion. They sat at a middle table, directly under the electric chandelier, which revealed a few stray gray hairs in the woman’s otherwise luxurious black locks.
“Arnold?” Alouette called as she approached them. “What are you doing here?”
“Ah, Alouette, I’d like you to meet the famous Mata Hari.”
Alouette held out her hand. The woman looked as though the last thing in the world she wanted to do was to shake it, but she did anyway.
“Sit down,” Kalle told her before turning to the woman. “You must forgive her. Alouette may be French, but she has the most interesting background.”
The woman leaned forward. “You are French?”
“Yes, but I’ve adopted Spain as my new homeland,” Alouette said, casting a sly glance in Kalle’s direction.
“Is that so? I do love Paris,” the woman commented. “Although it is necessary for me to return to the Netherlands as soon as possible. I was just going to ask Arnold here for his assistance.”
“You would have to pass through several borders,” Alouette replied.
They both looked at Kalle for his reaction.
“Impossible.” He waved his hand. “I’m sorry, Mata, but I cannot.”
“I see.” The woman took a sip of her drink. “It must be very difficult to disembark troops from a submarine off Morocco’s coast. How will you pull off such a coup?”
Alouette nearly spit out a mouthful of wine. To her delight, she could see Kalle’s face turn dark with anger.
“Beautiful women must not ask too much,” he replied before getting up from the table, nearly spilling everyone�
��s drink as he did so.
The woman seemed to have no remorse for Kalle’s sudden departure. Alouette waited until he was out of earshot before leaning in and saying in a low voice, “I was like you once.”
“What do you mean, like me?” the woman snapped. “You don’t know me.”
“Oh, but I do. I too had to depend on men for my livelihood. But I was fortunate to meet a man who loved me for who I was, and never tried to keep me in that gilded cage we both fear.”
“What happened to him?”
Alouette played with the stem of her wine glass. “He died in the war.”
“I’m sorry.” The woman sounded genuine this time.
Alouette decided to lend the poor thing a hand. It was obvious the woman was in way too deep with Kalle. “I know someone who might be willing to help you.”
“Oh?” The woman relaxed her face into an expression that appeared almost friendly. “Who?”
Alouette straightened her finger, as if about to tap on her wine glass, but instead discreetly pointed to a man across the room. “That is Colonel Joseph-Cyrill Denvignes, a senior attaché to the French Embassy.”
If the woman was suspicious as to why Alouette was indicating one of Kalle’s mortal enemies, she didn’t show it. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Alouette replied, her voice once again low. “We Francophiles have to stick together.”
Chapter 57
M’greet
December 1916
M’greet left the tall blonde woman to make her away across the room.
“Colonel Denvignes?” she asked, approaching the stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair. She held out both hands for him to grasp. “It’s such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”