L’Agent Double: A Novel
Spies and Martyrs in the Great War
Kit Sergeant
Thompson Belle Press
Contents
Other books by
Glossary of Terms
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Epilogue
Selected Bibliography
Acknowledgments
Other books by
Kit Sergeant
Historical Fiction:
355: The Women of Washington’s Spy Ring-Women Spies Book 1
Underground: Traitors and Spies in Lincoln’s War-Women Spies Book 2
L’Agent Double: Spies and Martyrs in the Great War
WW2 Women Spies: Coming Soon!
Contemporary Women’s Fiction:
Thrown for a Curve
What It Is
For more information on upcoming books, be sure to join Kit’s mailing list at www.kitsergeant.com and Get a FREE copy of L’Agent Double’s deleted scenes!
Although this book is based on real events and features historical figures, it is a work of fiction. Most of the dialogue and incidents in the story are products of the author’s imagination and should not be construed as historical fact. For more information on fact versus fiction in World War 1, see the Epilogue at the end of this book
Copyright © 2019 Kit Sergeant
Published by Thompson Belle Press
All rights reserved.
Created with Vellum
This book is dedicated to all of the women who lived during the First World War and whose talents and sacrifices are known or unknown, but especially to the real-life women upon whom these characters are based
Glossary of Terms
Aerodrome: a small airport
Boches: derogatory term for Germans
Croix de Guerre: a French military honor
Deuxiéme Bureau: France’s military intelligence agency; translated as the “Second Bureau of the Second Staff”
Franc-tireur: a civilian sniper
Feldwebel: a German military rank, approximately equivalent to a sergeant
Gefreiter: a German military rank, approximately equivalent to a corporal
Gendarme: an armed police officer
Grand Place: the town square
Hauptman: a German military rank, approximately equivalent to a captain
Huns: another derogatory term for Germans
Kermis: a Dutch summer fair
Lorry: a motor vehicle used to transport goods or passengers
Meneer: Dutch for “Mr.”
Mevrouw: Dutch for “Mrs.”
Oberarzt: a senior physician
Ordnance train: a train carrying military supplies
Unteroffizier: a German military rank, approximately equivalent to a sergeant
Zouave: a soldier usually linked to the French North African territories; they are known for their distinct uniforms
Prologue
October 1917
The nun on duty woke her just before dawn. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes to see a crowd of men, including her accusers and her lawyer, standing just outside the iron bars of her cell. The only one who spoke was the chief of the Military Police, to inform her the time of her execution had come. The men then turned and walked away, leaving only the nun and the prison doctor, who kept his eyes on the dirty, straw-strewn floor as she dressed.
She chose the best outfit she had left, a bulky dove-gray skirt and jacket and scuffed ankle boots. She wound her unwashed hair in a bun and then tied the worn silk ribbons of her hat under her chin before asking the doctor, “Do I have time to write good-byes to my loved ones?”
He nodded and she hastily penned three farewell letters. She handed them to the doctor with shaking hands before lifting a dust-covered velvet cloak from a nail on the wall. “I am ready.”
Seemingly out of nowhere, her lawyer reappeared. “This way,” he told her as he grasped her arm.
Prison rats scurried out their way as he led her down the hall. She breathed in a heavy breath when they were outside. It had been months since she’d seen the light of day, however faint it was now.
Four black cars were waiting in the prison courtyard. A few men scattered about the lawn lifted their freezing hands to bring their cameras to life, the bulbs brightening the dim morning as her lawyer bundled her into the first car.
They drove in silence. It was unseasonably cold and the chill sent icy fingers down her spine. She stopped herself from shivering, wishing that she could experience one more warm summer day. But there would be no more warmth, no more appeals, nothing left after these last few hours.
She knew that her fate awaited her at Caponniére, the old fort just outside of Vincennes where the cavalry trained. Upon arrival, her lawyer helped her out of the car, his gnarled hands digging into her arm.
It’s harder for him than it is for me. She brushed the thought away, wanting to focus on nothing but the fresh air and the way the autumn leaves of the trees next to the parade ground changed color as the sun rose. Her lawyer removed his arm from her shoulders as two Zouave escorts appeared on either side of her. Her self-imposed blinders finally dropped as she took in the twelve soldiers with guns and, several meters away, the wooden stake placed in front of a brick wall. So that the mis-aimed bullets don’t hit anything else.
A priest approached and offered her a blindfold.
“No thank you.” Her voice, which had not been used on a daily basis for months, was barely a whisper.
The priest glanced over at her lawyer, who nodded. The blindfold disappeared under his robes.
She spoke the same words to one of the escorts as he held up a rope, this time also shaking her head. She refused to be bound to the stake. He acquiesced, and walked away.
She stood as straight as she could, free of any ties, while the military chief read the following words aloud:
By decree of the Thir
d Council of War, the woman who appears before us now has been condemned to death for espionage.
He then gave an order, and the soldiers came to attention. At the command, “En joue!” they hoisted their guns to rest on their shoulders. The chief raised his sword.
She took a deep breath and then lifted her chin, willing herself to die just like that: head held high, showing no fear. She watched as the chief lowered his sword and shouted “Feu!”
And then everything went black.
A Zouave private approached the body. He’d only been enlisted for a few weeks and had been invited to the firing squad by his commander, who told him that men of all ranks should know the pleasure of shooting a German spy.
“By blue, that lady knew how to die,” another Zouave commented.
“Who was she?” the private asked. He’d been taught that everything in war was black and white: the Germans were evil, the Allies pure. But he was surprised at how gray everything was that morning: from the misty fog, to the woman’s cloak and dress, and even the ashen shade of her lifeless face.
The other Zouave shrugged. “All I know is what they told me. They say she acted as a double agent and provided Germany with intelligence about our troops.” He drew his revolver and bent down to place the muzzle against the woman’s left temple.
“But is it necessary to kill her—a helpless woman?” the private asked.
The Zouave cocked his gun for the coup de grâce. “If women act as men would in war and commit heinous crimes, they should be prepared to be punished as men.” And he pulled the trigger, sending a final bullet into the woman’s brain.
Chapter 1
M’Greet
July 1914
“Have you heard the latest?” M’greet’s maid, Anna, asked as she secured a custom-made headpiece to her mistress’s temple.
“What now?” M’greet readjusted the gold headdress to better reflect her olive skin tone.
“They are saying that your mysterious Mr. K from the newspaper article is none other than the Crown Prince himself.”
M’greet smiled at herself in the mirror. “Is that so? I rather think they’re referring to Lieutenant Kiepert. Just the other day he and I ran into the editor of the Berliner Tageblatt during our walk in the Tiergarten.” Her smile faded. “But let them wonder.” For the last few weeks, the papers had been filled with speculation about why the famed Mata Hari had returned to Germany, sometimes bordering on derision about her running out of money.
She leaned forward and ran her fingers over the dark circles under her eyes. “Astruc says that he might be able to negotiate a longer engagement in the fall if tonight’s performance goes well.”
“It will,” Anna assured her as she fastened the heavy gold necklace around M’greet’s neck.
The metal felt cold against her sweaty skin. She hadn’t performed in months, and guessed the perspiration derived from her nervousness. Tonight was to be the largest performance she’d booked in years: Berlin’s Metropol could seat 1108 people, and the tickets had sold out days ago. The building was less than a decade old, and even the dressing room's geometric wallpaper and curved furniture reflected the Art Nouveau style the theater was famous for.
“I had to have this costume refitted.” M’greet pulled at the sheer yellow fabric covering her midsection. When she first began dancing, she had worn jeweled bralettes and long, sheer skirts that sat low on the hips. But her body had become much more matronly in middle age and even M’greet knew that she could no longer get away with the scandalous outfits of her youth. She added a cumbersome earring to each ear and an arm band before someone knocked on the door.
A man’s voice called urgently in German, “Fräulein Mata Hari, are you ready?”
Anna shot her mistress an encouraging smile. “Your devoted admirers are waiting.”
M’greet stretched out her arms and rotated her wrists, glancing with appreciation in the mirror. She still had it. She grabbed a handful of translucent scarves and draped them over her arms and head before opening the door. “All set,” she said to the awaiting attendant.
M'greet waited behind a filmy curtain while the music began: low, mournful drumming accompanied by a woman’s shrill tone singing in a foreign language. As the curtain rose, she hoisted her arms above her head and stuck her hips out in the manner she had seen the women do when she lived in Java.
She had no formal dance training, but it didn’t matter. People came to see Mata Hari for the spectacle, not because she was an exceptionally wonderful dancer. M’greet pulled the scarf off her head and undulated her hips in time with the music. She pinched her fingers together and moved her arms as if she were a graceful bird about to take flight. The drums heightened in intensity and her gyrations became even more exaggerated. As the music came to a dramatic stop, she released the scarves covering her body to reveal her yellow dress in full.
She was accustomed to hearing astonished murmurs from the audience following her final act—she’d once proclaimed that her success rose with every veil she threw off. Tonight, however, the Berlin audience seemed to be buzzing with protest.
As the curtain fell and M’greet began to pick up the pieces of her discarded costume, she assured herself that the Berliners’ vocalizations were in response to being disappointed at seeing her more covered. Or maybe she was just being paranoid and had imagined all the ruckus.
“Fabulous!” her agent, Gabriel Astruc, exclaimed when he burst into her dressing room a few minutes later.
M’greet held a powder puff to her cheek. “Did you finalize a contract for the fall?”
“I did,” Astruc sat in the only other chair, which appeared too tiny to support his large frame. “They are giving us 48,000 marks.”
She nodded approvingly.
“That should tide you over for a while, no?” he asked.
She placed the puff in the gold-lined powder case. “For now. But the creditors are relentless. Thankfully Lieutenant Kieper has gifted me a few hundred francs.”
“As a loan?” Astruc winked. “It is said you have become mistress to the Kronprinz.”
She rolled her eyes. “You of all people must know to never mind such rumors. I may be well familiar with men in high position, but have not yet made the acquaintance of the Kaiser’s son.”
Astruc rose. “Someday you two will meet, and even the heir of the German Empire will be unable to resist the charms of the exotic Mata Hari.”
M’greet unsnapped the cap of her lipstick. “We shall see, won’t we?”
Now that the fall performances had been secured, M’greet decided to upgrade her lodgings to the lavish Hotel Adlon. As she entered the lobby, with its sparkling chandeliers dangling from intricately carved ceilings and exotic potted palms scattered among velvet-cushioned chairs, she nodded to herself. This was the type of hotel a world-renowned dancer should be found in. She booked an apartment complete with electric Tiffany lamps and a private bathroom featuring running water.
The Adlon was known not only for its famous patrons, but for the privacy it provided them. M’greet was therefore startled the next morning when someone banged on the door to her suite.
“Yes?” Anna asked as she opened it.
“Are you Mata Hari?” a gruff voice inquired.
M’greet threw on a silky robe over her nightgown before she went to the door. “You must be looking for me.”
The man in the doorway appeared to be about forty, with a receding hairline and a bushy mustache that curled upward from both sides of his mouth. “I am Herr Griebel of the Berlin police.”
M’greet ignored Anna’s stricken expression as she motioned for her to move aside. “Please come in.” She gestured toward a chair at the little serving table. “Shall I order up some tea?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Griebel replied as he sat. “I am here to inform you that a spectator of your performance last night has lodged a complaint.”
“A complaint? Against me?” M’greet repeated as she too
k a seat in the chair across from him. She mouthed, “tea,” at Anna, who was still standing near the door. Anna nodded and then left the room.
“Indeed,” Griebel touched his mustache. “A complaint of indecency.”