Mata Hari's Last Dance(53)

“Excuse me, Mata Hari?” A waiter stops at my table. “The man across the room has asked me to deliver this.”

He hands me a card. It reads JEAN HALLURE, LIEUTENANT. I search my memory. The Kursaal. He was the musician who had gotten so drunk we’d had to cancel our rehearsal. A lifetime ago. That afternoon, Edouard and I went to the museum. I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory. I don’t want to think about that day. I don’t want to think about Edouard being married. I look at Lieutenant Hallure and he tips his hat to me. The years have been good to him: He is tan; his hair is still thick and dark. He also looks sober.

“Jean.” I hold out my hand as he approaches my table.

“Mata Hari,” he says, kissing it. “After all these years, what a surprise.”

“A delightful one. Are you really a lieutenant? What brings you to the Grand?”

“I am—discharged. My hearing is not so good anymore. What are you doing in Paris?”

I tell the shortest version of my story. “I met a man,” I say.

“Let me guess. An officer?”

Of course. “Vadime de Massloff. But his leave is up tomorrow.”

“Where is he going?”

“Vittel.”

“That’s not bad. I’d call it a resort.”

“Until they send him to the front,” I counter. “I’m hoping to visit him.”

“Has the government given you permission?”

I stare at him. Why would I need permission to visit a French town?

“There’s an airbase in Vittel,” he explains, glancing at my drink. “You can’t drop in for a social call.”

“He didn’t tell me that.” Do I have any contacts left in Paris? I have more in Berlin.

“I can ring the Secret Service and tell them Mata Hari is looking for a pass.”

I think he is joking. But he takes out a pen from his vest pocket and writes down an address. Then he reaches over and tucks it into my brassiere, an intimacy that gives me chills.

“When the time comes.” He winks. “Tell them Jean Hallure sent you.”

*

Vadime takes off his scarf and wraps it around my neck, holding the ends down and pulling me toward him. “Will you think of me when I’m gone?”

“Of course.” I feel my throat close. “And you’ll be fine,” I say, convincing myself.

“I want to come back to you.” He stands at the door, ready to go. “I love you, Mata Hari. I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you performing Salome.”

“You never told me that.”

He shrugs, embarrassed. “There were men going back stage to see you. I knew I’d never be invited, so I didn’t try.”

“I’m sure I would have.” My face warms and my eyes fill with tears. “Come back, Vadime.”

“I will.”

When he leaves, I don’t retreat to my room. I haven’t lost him. When the war is finished and the broken pieces of Europe slip back together, he’ll return to me.

*

I fill my days with trips to museums and dinners with men who don’t interest me. Ambassadors, police chiefs, military men of various ranks. I don’t phone Edouard or Givenchy to tell them that I’ve returned to Paris. If they care about me, they will find me. I’m preparing to go out to dinner with a new acquaintance when the concierge stops me as I am leaving the Grand.

“Madam, if you would come back inside for a moment? A telegram has arrived.”

The look on the concierge’s face is grave and immediately I’m unsettled. I follow him across the lobby and he hands me a slip of paper. I take it with trembling hands. My eyes scan so quickly I can barely understand the contents. I see “Vadime” and “hospital in Vittel.” I read it again, slower this time, and the world stops.

Vadime has been seriously injured. He may be blind.





Chapter 16


Welcome to the French Secret Service

I’m from The Netherlands, Commandant. We are neutral. My passport allows me to travel to any nation. How many of your people can do that?”

Commandant Ladoux studies me from across his desk. I have gone to the address Jean Hallure gave me, to the heart of the French Secret Service, and have offered to bring them information. Spain, Germany, Belgium, England—wherever they want me to go. All I am asking for is a million francs in return. Enough to get myself and Vadime out of France. I want to take him far from this horrible war to America, where it is safe. I want us to live in New York. We can start over in that city of magic.

The Commandant nods slowly and my heart leaps.

“For that sum, significant information must be produced. Information that will benefit France.”

“I have a way with military men, Commandant. Whatever they tell me I will pass on to you.”

“We would need you in Belgium.”

“That’s fine.”

“And you understand what’s required? To reach Belgium you must travel through Amsterdam. To reach Amsterdam, you must pass through Spain. Intelligence from any of these countries—”

“I have relationships with men in every major city in Europe, monsieur.” What do I care about the route I travel? “You read the papers, don’t you?”