Treacherous Is the Night Read online

  He slowed the motorcar and pulled toward the verge of the road. I could feel him searching my features, his gaze so intense it was almost tangible. He’d not offered me trite reassurances earlier when my distress had been evident, and I braced for them to be spoken now. But instead he turned to stare out at the waving grasses that lined the road before us.

  “Not long after I was promoted to captain, there was a young lieutenant assigned to my company. A rather green fellow. Barely eighteen.” He spoke softly, carefully, but I could hear the tension at the edges. “Suffered a fair amount of teasing from his fellow officers.” His mouth flexed in a grin. “Especially after his mother sent him an undergarment of chain mail.”

  “You’re jesting?”

  He shook his head. “The poor woman thought it would protect him.” He cleared his throat. “Young Atkins took the teasing well. He was a good sport. But the new officers always made me nervous. They made all the men nervous.” A deep furrow ran between his brows. “They’d yet to be tried in battle, and you never knew how they were going to react the first time they faced a hail of German bullets.”

  His shoulders bunched and his hands tightened around the driving wheel before he dropped his arms into his lap. I felt an answering constriction in my gut, waiting on the hatchet to fall.

  “As such, I preferred to keep them as isolated as possible,” he explained. “Until they’d survived a few bombardments. Until they’d killed their first Jerry. Until I knew they weren’t going to freeze, or leg it, or grandstand, and get my men killed because of their idiocy. So when my company was ordered over the top, I elected to leave Lieutenant Atkins behind in charge of the reserve platoon with a stalwart corporal to assist him.” His expression turned grim. “Little did I know that away from the trench was the safest place to be, for a shell hit it dead on. Killed or injured three quarters of the platoon, including Lieutenant Atkins. And the worst part was, it was one of our shells.”

  My stomach quavered, wondering at the piece of luck that had seen that Sidney was not the officer in the trench.

  He turned his head to look at me for the first time, his eyes stark with memories I was certain I couldn’t begin to fathom, even knowing all that I did. “I tell you this because, the truth is war is hell on everyone who falls near its angry maw. The actions you take thinking to spare the innocent or inexperienced can just as easily cause their destruction, simply because the world is turned so bloody upside down. So don’t take on the guilt of that woman or her brother’s sufferings from where it truly belongs.”

  His voice was so vehement on my behalf that for a moment all I could do was stare at him. That he should so fervently want to ease my pain made a space in my chest that had grown cold begin to warm again, and I had to struggle to find my voice. In the end, I could only nod.

  He searched my gaze a moment longer, as if to be certain I meant it, and then lifted his hands to grasp the driving wheel.

  “But what about you?” I finally managed to say as he turned to look over his shoulder at the road behind us.

  He scowled as he pulled forward, gunning the engine. “I’m a different story.”

  I frowned. “How can . . .”

  “Now where to?”

  “Sidney . . .”

  “Where to?” he snapped.

  I wanted to press the matter even though it was clear Sidney had no desire to discuss it further. On the roadside deep in the Belgian countryside, at the edge of the war-ravaged areas, hardly seemed to be the ideal place. But I could see how much pain it caused him, how much blame he carried around on his shoulders. And I was not going to forget.

  CHAPTER 20

  Rarely had my memory failed me. It was something I’d relied upon day to day, hour to hour during the war. As a Secret Service agent, it had been perhaps my greatest asset alongside sharp instincts and acute observation—enabling me to form connections between seemingly random bits of intelligence collected in other reports and develop a broader picture of the enemy’s actions and intentions. It had enabled me to pour out the information I’d carefully memorized into my debriefing reports the moment I returned to Rotterdam, and expand on the data already included in La Dame Blanche’s dispatches.

  And yet I could not recall where the cottage was located where I’d buried that German aviator’s map case.

  I’d directed Sidney down numerous roads and back lanes between Chimay and the Franco-Belgian border, scouring the landscape for any clue as to where this home was situated, but I simply could not find it. The problem was that everything looked so different in the daylight. Had I set off from Chimay on foot under a full moon, I might be able to stumble upon it, but even that was doubtful. And I wasn’t about to waste any more time on such a task.

  I planted my hands on my hips, staring out over a dormant field run rampant with wild grasses and bounded by overgrown hedges. I stood at the edge of a wood, the boundary of which marked the border of Belgium and France. If I were uncertain of that, the remnants of barbed wire still strung between a few posts cleared up any confusion. It seemed so innocuous now, but I remembered how the sight of it looming up out of the dark made the heart pound with fright, knowing a German patrol could be but a few feet away.

  Sidney toed the end of the line where it trailed into the grass. “Is this where you snuck across?”

  Upon seeing the narrow trail leading away from the road toward the border, I’d decided we should follow it on foot to see where it led, but it hadn’t led anywhere. I sighed, exasperated at the results of this last fool’s errand. “Most likely not.” I pointed before me. “These fields are too open. It would have been far too easy for a patrol to spot us crossing from a distance. Safer to either pass through an actual border post—and hope our passes, and identification cards, or a skillful bluff would see us through—or dart across in a heavily wooded area where the wire had been clipped.”

  He narrowed his eyes, squinting into the afternoon sun. “Madame Ledoq mentioned smugglers. Of what? Contraband?”

  I grimaced. “Food. Potatoes typically. For every hardship the Belgians faced, the French in the occupied territories had it worse.”

  “No love lost between the French and the Germans,” he remarked wryly.

  “I don’t think the smugglers made much profit. It was more like another form of resistance. In any case, they were invaluable help at times in transporting agents across frontiers. They knew all the paths through the wildest areas and were able to follow them even on moonless nights.” I dropped my arms, shaking my head in frustration. “I keep thinking about all the things Emilie might have witnessed during her frequent treks to visit expectant mothers, all the secrets she potentially could have been keeping. It’s impossible to know what exactly sent her into hiding.”

  Sidney lifted a hand to rub circles on my back. “Then let’s start with what we do know.”

  I inhaled a deep breath, releasing some of the tension knotting my frame. “Yes, you’re right.” I knew better than to let my emotions run away from me. That way lay trouble. But calm, careful thinking would save you more often than not.

  “All right, so we know that a few months after the end of the war, Emilie decided to move away from Macon for a time, not long after a fire at her home. She gave the priest a message to relay to me, but didn’t tell him or any of her neighbors where she was going. And she gave the chiefs of La Dame Blanche a fake address. She may be at her sister’s home in Quevy, as the message she gave to the priest seemed to imply.” I grimaced. “But somehow I doubt it will be that simple. She obviously wanted to disappear, but from whom exactly? And why is she leaving me, of all people, breadcrumbs to follow her? How did she know I would come looking for her?” I bit my lip, contemplating the matter.

  “We also know that someone who was privy to the knowledge that both you and Emilie worked for British Intelligence convinced Madame Zozza to pretend to summon Emilie and urge you to ‘unearth her secrets,’” Sidney chimed in, shifting to lean back against the e
mpty post on the opposite side of the path, its barbed wire already having been removed and taken away, probably by some farmer. “At the least, this person knows Emilie was the code name of Madame Moreau, and that you both operated covertly. The rest, perhaps, could have been inferred. For what person in such a situation doesn’t have secrets to hide?”

  “True,” I agreed. “Although whoever it was, certainly thought it imperative enough to conceal their identity and intentions by killing Madame Zozza and setting fire to her house and all her notes. And now we know that her assistant, one Pauline Laurent, was a girl from the same village where Emilie lived, and must have played some part in the matter.” I paused, a thought occurring to me. “In fact, Melanie Tuberow told me it was Mademoiselle Laurent who made the arrangements for Melanie to gift her session to Daphne and convince me to join her. At the time, it hadn’t struck me as suspicious because such things are normally handled by an assistant.”

  “So whoever is behind all this has some connection to both Macon, Belgium, and London. That certainly fits Mademoiselle Laurent.”

  “Yes, but how did she come to be in possession of classified information?”

  “Maybe it isn’t Pauline Laurent. Maybe her mother or Madame Ledoq stumbled across Madame Moreau’s code name. Maybe when they saw our picture in the newspaper, they mentioned seeing you about the village during the war.” He tilted his head. “You pretended to be a relation or assistant of Madame Moreau’s, didn’t you? So others must have seen you together from time to time.”

  “Yes,” I replied hesitantly, though I’d done my best to avoid it.

  “Then if Madame Moreau’s role with La Dame Blanche became known after the war, it wouldn’t take a great leap of logic to realize you might have been an intelligence agent as well.”

  “That’s possible,” I conceded. “But if Mademoiselle Laurent has been in London all this time, why did Emilie feel threatened enough to move? And what possible motive could Mademoiselle Laurent have for harming her?” I straightened. “Unless she had a partner? A lover, perhaps.” I frowned, feeling like I was grasping at straws.

  “Maybe she’s a German agent seeking revenge.”

  Daphne had mentioned Mona Kertle was included in MI5’s Registry as a suspicious person. I wondered if Pauline Laurent was as well. But as for either of them being a German agent eager to avenge any wrongs, I shook my head. “No. Their networks fell apart at the end of the war. And with the state of chaos in Germany, I doubt they have time to worry about petty grievances, which is all I can imagine Emilie having anything to do with. She didn’t kill anyone or double-cross them.”

  “That you know of.” He arched his eyebrows significantly.

  I allowed myself to consider the possibility. After all, war had forced so many of us to do things we would never have believed possible. But whatever the truth, I still didn’t believe Mademoiselle Laurent could be a German agent.

  “Unfortunately, I think a great deal of this comes down to motive, which isn’t clear yet. And it might not be until we find Emilie. Which I think has to be our priority.”

  Sidney straightened away from the post. “Then on to Quevy?”

  I gazed out over the border across the sun-drenched fields one last time and nodded. “On to Quevy.”

  * * *

  Though we set out from Macon with what I’d thought would be ample time to reach Quevy, I soon discovered I hadn’t taken into account the poor state of the roads in this part of northeastern France after the Germans’ retreat. The most direct route to Emilie’s sister’s village took us north through one of the French peninsulas that jutted into Belgium, for the border between the two nations was by no means straight. Most of the roads we’d encountered in Belgium had been in relatively good repair, but here was more evidence of the greater animosity felt toward the French, as well as the fact that the further northwest we traveled the closer we came to the front.

  However, Captain Landau had foreseen just such a difficulty. I’d been able to locate a telephone as we passed through Trélon and place a static-filled call to him in Brussels, asking him to send someone to speak to Pauline Laurent. I’d even been specific as to the agents I preferred to handle the matter. Whether London would honor that request was uncertain, but given that the directive came from Landau, I hoped we’d see results.

  When he’d asked our plans, I’d told him I would have to telephone him, as I had no idea where we would be staying. But he’d known the area far better than I and suggested where we might consider stopping for the night. He instructed me to give them his name, and the best room would be ours. I’d thanked him, but privately dismissed the possibility of us halting our journey so soon. Not while the sun was still so high in the sky. But with each mile that dragged on, I began to understand his insistence.

  I couldn’t help but cast worried glances at Sidney from time to time as he navigated the pitted roads. His shoulders steadily inched toward his ears, and the cigarettes in his silver case dwindled. Near Trélon, where the German Army Headquarters had been located, we encountered an astonishing number of shell craters as well as the ravaged ruins of old buildings, their craggy turrets of crumbled masonry casting odd shadows across the landscape. Continuing north, we passed the charred remnants of once proud villages—evidence of the Germans’ ruthless advance five years earlier when they’d set fire to some towns after claiming they’d been fired upon by civilians. In other places, we came upon slag heaps of spent shell casings and jumbled piles of railway track torn apart by the Germans as they retreated.

  At Maubeuge, where the outer ring forts were pulverized into twisted wrecks of metal, we elected to halt our journey for the night just as Captain Landau predicted. The hotel he’d recommended was located near the middle of the city, and while somewhat austere given the depravities of the war, it was clean and comfortable, and the simple but satisfying food in their restaurant most welcome after a long day. Sidney seemed to agree, for the strain marring his brow during the difficult drive diminished as our meal took on the semblance of normalcy.

  The food and wine had all but lulled me into a comatose state when the concierge unexpectedly appeared at our table. “Excuse me, Madame. This was just delivered for you.”

  I took the white envelope from his hand and thanked him. Thinking it was from Captain Landau, I only waited long enough for the man to depart before breaking the seal and extracting the paper inside. However, the contents all but erased the serenity of the moment before.

  “What does it say?” Sidney asked.

  I passed it over to him, knowing I couldn’t very well hide the telegram from him.

  LOCATED THE AVIATOR FROM CHIMAY—(STOP)—

  KILLED IN ACTION JULY 1918—(STOP)—DEAD

  END

  CAPTAIN ALEXANDER XAVIER

  Sidney’s mouth twisted in displeasure. “Why am I not surprised to hear from him?”

  “He’s merely trying to help,” I replied, though I was no happier than he was that Alec had reinserted himself back into our lives, no matter the altruism of his motives.

  “I suppose Captain Landau told him where to find us.”

  “Undoubtedly,” I replied, tearing the telegram into neat squares.

  He arched his eyebrows at my actions, and I stopped, setting the papers aside.

  “Sorry. Just a habit from the war.” It had been imperative to never keep incriminating evidence. I inhaled a steadying breath, trying to feign an ease with this new development despite the sharp glint in Sidney’s eye. “So that aviator I stole the map case from is not our culprit.”

  Not that I’d actually believed him a good suspect, but it was good to rule out someone.

  “Alec must still possess some extensive connections in Germany for him to have discovered that so quickly.” His voice was tinged with suspicion.

  Having worked with him during the war, I was less surprised. “Yes, well, Alec always was resourceful.” I glanced toward the front of the restaurant, wanting to change the
subject.

  But Sidney seemed determined, now that he had me relatively alone, to pursue the matter of my and Alec’s connection. “How then were you responsible for compromising him?”

  I turned back to meet his gaze, realizing he was referring to the conversation we’d had in that café outside of Brussels. I’d not planned to tell him the entire tale of our most important assignment together, but it was difficult to explain my role in drawing the Germans’ suspicion towards him without it. Still, part of me screamed at me not to speak, to avoid the discussion. But I ignored it, reaching out a hand that was surprisingly steady to straighten the cutlery beside my empty plate, and accepted the inevitable.

  “Throughout the war, Alec had continued to make his way up the German chain of command, and in the summer of 1918 he was a hauptmann in charge of the coding division at the Kommandantur in Brussels. Early in the war, without the enemy being aware, the British had obtained a copy of the original diplomatic code book used by the Germans. It was a critical piece of intelligence. But apparently, the Germans had become suspicious because their coding office had been given a new book. One they had been ordered to begin using on a specified date, once copies had reached all other divisions. There was, then, a short window of opportunity for us to copy the new code before it was put in use, and without the Germans catching on.”

  Sidney sat back, lighting a cigarette he smoked leisurely as he listened to me. His deep blue eyes seemed to take in every aspect of my demeanor, and though I strove to remain composed, I knew my agitation must have been evident.

  “I was in Holland at the time, so when Alec’s urgent missive arrived via courier, I was sent to Brussels to . . . pose as his mistress.” I hadn’t meant to stumble over the words, but I did nonetheless.

  His only reaction was a slight furrowing of his brow.

  “I took rooms at a hotel that Alec had arranged for me, just a simple Belgian girl from a small village near the border with Germany, an identity I’d used twice in the past. Every day at midday he would visit me, bringing a portion of the code book for me to copy onto tissue paper. He would return in the evening to assist me, though we still had to go out at night to dinner and parties with his fellow officers to maintain the ruse.”