Agent Provocateur

by Christopher C Tubbs

  “Blaez. Where is Blaez?”

  He turned around scanning the deck in panic. He breathed a huge sigh of relief when Blaez wandered up to him with a big doggy grin on his face and blood all around his chops.

  He knelt down in front of him and the dog sat and raised a paw. Marty scratched his chest and said,

  “You be a very good boy.”

  “Aye, I reckon he saved your skin back there,” marked Tom Savage from just behind him.

  “You saw?” Marty asked.

  “Aye, I did. He followed you to the rail and watched you jump over. You shot them two Frenchies and there was a third about to skewer you from the side. He suddenly rushed forward, jumped across using the rail of t’other ship to launch himself at that bloke. By the time I got there, he had him by the throat and had choked the life out of him.”

  “A regular bloody killer,” laughed Marty.

  “He’ll fit in right well with this lot!” replied Tom.

  Chapter 4: Betrayal

  They sent out boats to look for survivors of the second lugger. It had sunk in the time they took to finish the fight with the third one. It had almost full sail on when its bow was shot away, and it had taken on water so fast that only a few men had survived. Campbell reported that the thought only two of the carronades had actually hit, but that had been enough.

  The first lugger was still drifting a way off. The damage to her rigging was bad enough that the crew knew they could never out run the agile cutter.

  They buried the dead at sea and tended to their wounded. The Larks got off relatively lightly in as much as they had two dead marines who hadn’t gotten down fast enough when they took the broadside, four wounded enough to be unfit for duty, and half a dozen with minor wounds. The French had come off a lot worse.

  Marty decided that they would send the two prizes back to base, leaving the Lark at sea with a regular sized crew. He had some unfinished business to attend. He wanted to know why someone had gone to all this trouble to lay a trap and what was Jeroen’s role in it.

  He interrogated the remaining officers of the prizes and just got told that they were ordered to look for and intercept a cutter that would be cruising between Antwerp and Calais. They were to bring the captured crew and officers to The Hague and hand them over to the French Embassy.

  So, he got prize crews installed under the overall command of Midshipman Campbell. The second lugger was commanded by Wilson, the giant senior Topman, who he temporarily rated as a mate. He made sure adequate repairs were made and sent them on their way with a written report to Wickham and Lord Hood.

  Meanwhile, he turned his bow to the North with the idea that a short visit to The Hague to ask some pointed questions was in order.

  His plan was to pose as a French official visiting the town. He had the clothes that he had used in Toulon and he would take Matai with him as back up. He had an idea that the old lady who owned The Farm where he got Blaez would help.

  They landed on the same stretch of beach they did the last time and headed toward Scheveningen. They reached the farm house just after dawn. Blaez tagged along as he jumped overboard and swam after the boat when they tried to leave him behind.

  They were noisily greeted by Blaez’s mother and what Marty guessed was one of his sisters as they approached the gate. Both females stood their ground and told both the men and Blaez that they weren’t welcome. But the farmhouse door opened, and the old lady, who they met before, came out.

  She stood looking at them for a long moment and then at the dogs. A look of surprise came over her face as she recognised him. She came down the path shooing the dogs out of the way and grabbed Marty by the shoulders, kissed him three times alternately on each cheek and said,

  “Goode Morgen, hoe gaat het?”

  “Madam,” said Marty with a smile, “I am good.”

  She pointed to herself and said, “Vrouw Jongeline.”

  “Mrs. Jongeline, I am looking for Jeroen.”

  She shook her head to indicate she didn’t understand.

  “I am seeking, Jeroen,” Marty tried again.

  “Oh! u zoekt Jeroen!” she said with a sad look that said something was wrong.

  “Where is he?” Marty asked.

  “Hij werd gearresteerd en zijn met de Frans Consulaat,” she said, pointing towards Den Haig.

  Marty looked at Antton, who shrugged and then he realized what she meant. Jeroen had been arrested by the French secret police!

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Op het Frans Consulaat,” she answered and that was close enough to French for him to realise she meant the French Embassy.

  Madam Jongeline then mimed him being hit and finger nails being pulled out. Damn he’s been tortured, Marty realised.

  “Thank you,” Marty said then remembered a word Jeroen had used, “Bedanked!”

  She laughed sadly, gave him a hug, and taking him by the arm, insisted,

  “Com. Com,” and led them into the house. She fed them breakfast of bread and cheese washed down with strong black coffee and gave Blaez a bowl of meat scraps.

  Once they had eaten, she pulled a piece of paper out of a drawer and with a lump of charcoal, drew a map. She marked streets by name and a building she labelled as “politiebureau,” which she then crossed out and looking them in the eyes, shook her head and waggled her finger. She then marked a second building marked “Frans Consulaat,” she made a face and tapped it with her finger.

  “Als hij nog in leven is, dat is waar je hem vindt.”

  Marty was tuning in and beginning to follow the gist of what she was saying. If Jeroen is alive, that’s where we will find him, he thought.

  He thanked her, took the map, and folded it into his inside pocket. Finally, he stood, hugged her, and delivered three kisses.

  She held him at arm’s length by the shoulders and said,

  “Veel geluk jounger.”

  They left and followed the road into The Hague, aiming to arrive in the general area of the map. In fact, it only took a couple of questions to locals to get into the right area. Marty noted that when he asked questions in French, most people looked him up and down as if he was something they had trodden in. The French may have shown them ‘liberty,’ but it don’t signify that they like them, he thought.

  They finally arrived outside the building festooned with French flags, and Marty told Matai to wait for him outside with Blaez.

  Putting himself in the mindset that he had used in Toulon, he walked up to the front door and just went in. The guard looked at him in surprise, and Marty gave him ‘a stop me if you want trouble’ look that was simultaneously disdainful and superior.

  He walked up to the desk and announced,

  “I am Pierre Lamont of the Bureaux for Foreign Affairs, and I am here to interview the Dutch agitator Jeroen van Helden”.

  The person on the desk looked both suprised and afraid and asked him to wait while he consulted with the head of security. A couple of minutes later, he was back with a small man dressed in a black suit that was an almost identical match for Marty’s.

  “Monsieur Lamont, I am Federick La Plant, Head of Security for the Consulate. How can I help you?”

  “As I told your – assistant – I am here to interview the Dutch agent.”

  La Plant looked at him for a long moment then said,

  “Please come with me.”

  Marty was immediately on his guard as that was far too easy, but he followed along not having a better plan. La Plant led him deeper into the building and down some steps to the cellar. Why do they always hold people in cellars? Marty thought, It must be something to do with dungeons.

  They came to a reinforced door that La Plant unlocked and stepped through. The inside was lit by several lamps.

  There was a bed along one wall and chained to it was Jeroen. Marty almost didn’t recognise him. His face was swollen and bruised, his naked torso was covered in cuts and burns, and his hands and feet were wrecked. They had pulled his fi
ngernails and systematically broken every bone. Then Marty noticed that he didn’t blink. Damn! he thought they have cut off his eyelids!

  Marty fought to keep his composure and just stand there looking dispassionate, but then he heard LaPlant slowly clapping his hands.

  “Well done, Lieutenant. Your control is admirable,” he said in English. “I see our little reception didn’t stop you.”

  Marty turned to looked around, saw he had a pistol pointed at him and said,

  “So, you tortured him until he gave up everything he knew. But why did you go to all the trouble to try and trap me?”

  “So I could present you to the committee. They would value the gift of the one who stole their gold in Calais and smuggled the Dutch crown jewels out of the country. I will get a massive promotion and be a hero of the revolution,” he stated in the same flat tone.

  “How did you know they would send me and not just a Navy Frigate?”

  “They would not want to expose their connection and you are their best undercover operative. You would be the logical choice.”

  “I’m flattered you think so highly of me,” Marty replied.

  Marty looked at Jeroen, who stared back at him with tears running down his face.

  “Did you tell him about Jim?” he asked him. Jeroen shook his head.

  Marty turned back to LaPlant, who said,

  “Please drop your weapons on the floor,” and pointed his gun at Marty’s face.

  Marty took the two stilettos from his sleeves and dropped them on the floor then took the pistols from his pockets and dropped them as well.

  “Now, who is Jim?” LaPlant asked.

  Jeroen sat upright and rattled his chain as he said,

  “Why, that is his best friend, you asshole.”

  LePlant’s eyes flicked towards Jeroen for just a split second but that was enough. Marty’s hand flew back and then forward. Light glinted once on the blade of the Bowie Knife as it flew briefly through the air just before it sank to the hilt in LaPlant’s throat. His eyes rolled up and he collapsed to the floor. The blade had penetrated the spine at the back of his neck.

  Marty stepped forward and picked up his discarded weapons, put them back where they belonged, and pulled his knife out of the rapidly cooling corpse. He cleaned it on the dead man’s coat and put it back in its sheath in the small of his back. He went to Jeroen and sat on the bed next to him.

  “Who betrayed you?”

  “A woman. Anouk van den Landen. She infiltrated the group and gave me to the French,” Jeroen lisped through his broken teeth and lips.

  “Where can I find her?”

  “She lives in Rotterdam on Bredastraat. Will you avenge me?”

  “Yes, you have my word.”

  They sat for a minute or two while Jeroen told Marty the story of the betrayal and gave a detailed description of his betrayer. He stopped often, obviously in great pain.

  “Do you want to get out of here?” Marty finally asked.

  “To do what?” Jeroen lisped through his swollen lips and broken teeth. “Live life a cripple? They broke my hands and feet amongst other things. No. I would like to die.”

  Marty smiled, reached out, and put his arm around his shoulders, pulling him to him. Jeroen looked at him and smiled, they stayed like that until he sighed and sagged down on the bed, dead.

  Marty arranged the body on the bed and covered it with a blanket. You could hardly see the wound between the fourth and fifth rib where the stiletto had given Jeroen peace.

  Marty had tears in his eyes as he picked up the pistol that LaPlant had dropped and checked the priming. He then took down the lanthorns. He blew one out and poured the oil around the room and over Jeroen’s body, backing out of the door to leave a trail. He used the other to search the rest of the cellar. He found that while a couple of the other rooms were cells, one was full of papers, a cupboard full of brandy and the embassy’s store of lamp oil. Perfect!

  He poured several bottles of brandy around the room, took the lamp oil, and emptied all of it into the corridor. He backed up the stairs, turned the wick of the lamp up so the flame was good and long, and tossed the lamp on the floor.

  The effect was satisfying. The oil ignited with a wumph, flames travelled down the corridor as he ran up the last few steps and burst out of the door. He made sure he left it open to allow a good draft to blow down the stairs.

  As he ran, he yelled, “FIRE,” and bolted to the main door. He made it about halfway through the door when the world exploded.

  Chapter 5: Vengeance is mine

  Matai was laughing at him as they walked back along the beach towards Nordwijk. Marty had lost his ponytail and most of the hair on the back of his head as he had been blown out through the front door of the Embassy.

  What he hadn’t known was that the French had stored a barrel of gunpowder in the cellar. When it exploded, the blast channeled up through the open door and into the foyer, blowing Marty out into the street with a fireball right on his heels. His clothes were on fire when he landed, and he had to roll around in the dirt to put them out. He ended up with burns on his head and neck, but it was nothing too serious and looked worse than it was.

  Blaize walked ahead. He was obviously worried about his master, but the smell was bad enough to make him want to stay far enough away not to have to breath it. Marty didn’t blame him, he smelt like a half-burnt corpse.

  No one had tried to stop them leaving the town and the locals didn’t seem to be making much effort to put out the embassy either. Rather, they focused on stopping the fire from spreading. It was a fitting pyre for his friend.

  They reached the rendezvous and there was the Snipe hove to about a mile off shore. Matai waved as the boat was rowed in to pick them up. Once back on board, he went to his cabin and undressed. He had a standing bath with a bowl of warm water that Tom brought him and put on some clean trousers. He threw the burnt cloths out of the stern window to get rid of the stink.

  Tom waited patiently while he did this then made him sit while he examined his burns.

  “You will live. Though it will be a while before you can tie your hair back again. Do you want me to tidy it up?” he asked.

  “Yes, please,” Marty replied, “I need to be able to look at least respectable for when we go to Rotterdam.”

  “Rotterdam? I thought we would be going home.”

  “Unfinished business,” Marty stated, “We need to pay a visit to Jeroen’s betrayer. Once that’s done, we can go back.”

  “It will be risky,” Tom assessed, “How do you plan to do it?”

  “It’s a port. We will just sail in. We look like a neutral, so we will go in as one. Get a Swedish flag made up then set course for the harbour.”

  Tom set to work with a pair of shears and trimmed Marty’s hair into a respectable shape. Once he was happy with it, he let Marty put on a shirt and jacket. Marty then rummaged around in his chest and pulled out a fisherman’s cap, which he pulled on. It was sore wearing it, but it hid the bald patch.

  “Will I pass?”

  “You’ll do.”

  One of the men, who was handy with a needle, made up a Swedish flag and once it was in place, they headed south. It only took a couple of hours to reach the docks and get moored on a buoy in the harbour. Marty, Tom, and Matai went ashore by boat and asked directions to Bredastraat.

  Once there, they spread out to observe the address that Jeroen had given them. It wasn’t long before a woman matching her description arrived in an open Landau and entered the house.

  They waited. It started to get dark, lamps were lit along the street, and the house windows glowed with lantern or candle light. They were about to move in when another carriage arrived. It was painted dark blue and was enclosed. The occupant got out and walked up the path. As he entered, the light cast by the lantern over the door, Marty could see he was dressed in the French style.

  He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately, as if the person inside had been waiting
for him. The woman they saw earlier was framed in the door and she greeted her visitor, as a lover, with a passionate kiss before he had even crossed the threshold.

  Marty signalled for the boys to move in. Matai dealt with the driver of the carriage and Marty and Tom silently descended on the couple. Marty didn’t hesitate but hit the embracing couple in a body tackle that threw the three of them onto the floor of the hallway in heap. Tom following behind, kicking the door shut.

  Matai bundled the unconscious driver into the carriage, tied and gagged him, put on his coat and hat, and took his place on the driver’s seat.

  The woman shrieked, and the man was cursing in French. Tom stepped in and clipped him with his blackjack, knocking him unconscious. Marty quickly clamped his hand down over the woman’s mouth, waved his knife in front of her eyes, and said “Shhhssshhh!”

  Her unconscious lover was still laying on top of her, and Marty was on top of him. Marty had to slide to the side while still keeping his hand over her mouth until Tom hauled the unconscious man out of the way. Marty had his blade on her neck the whole time.

  It wasn’t the most elegant of take downs. It took a few moments to get themselves and their captives sorted out. Tom hog-tied the lover and gagged him. Marty took the woman into the drawing room, tied her hands and ankles, and gagged her. He then pulled the blinds so no one could look into the room from outside.

  He took a breath and looked around the room. There was a desk with a leather chair, a couple of comfortable arm chairs and a chaise long. He went to the desk and riffled through the papers on the top. There was a list of names on one sheet with Jeroen’s at the top and Mrs. Jongeline half way down. Several of the names had ticks against them.

  He then unlocked and searched the desk drawers. In one, he found a file. In it, written in French, was a copy of a report of how she had seduced Jeroen and used that to infiltrate the resistance group. There was a letter from La Plant telling her that her money would be paid in gold and that she was not to pass any information to anyone apart from him and ‘Arnaud’.