Mata Hari's Last Dance(59)
“Is this a joke?” It is in extremely poor taste. “Who are you?” I demand.
He leans across the table. “This person believes that you should not go back. Do you understand?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea who would ask you to deliver such a message. Commandant Ladoux—”
“Ladoux believes you’re a double agent.” He looks at me critically. “A traitor.”
“Never!” I say, shocked. “France is my home.”
“If you return to France, you will be arrested on arrival. Arrested, tried for espionage, and executed.” The messenger stands.
“Who sent you?” My mind races for a candidate and I come up empty. There is no one who knows that I am in Madrid except Ladoux.
He shakes his head. “Never return to Paris, Mata Hari.” He puts on his hat, tips it to me, and walks away.
*
I go immediately to my hotel and phone the bellman. Because it’s Christmas I must wait forty minutes before a taxi arrives to take me to the French Embassy.
The white halls inside the embassy are as barren as the streets. Even the woman who signs in visitors at the front desk is on holiday. I wait for ten minutes before walking down the hall on my own. A man in a uniform sees me and asks what my business is.
“I’m here with an urgent message for Commandant Ladoux.”
“It is Christmas, madam.”
“Yes, but war doesn’t stop for Christmas.”
He hesitates, as though debating the truth of this. “What is your urgent message?” he asks.
I glance behind me. “Not here,” I say, though there’s no one present to spy on us.
We go to an empty room and he shuts the door. I tell him what I know about the German submarine taking soldiers to French soil.
“And you’re sure that this German, this Major Arnold Kalle, said—‘French soil’?”
“His exact words were ‘the French zone,’ ” I clarify.
“Am I the first person you’ve spoken to at this embassy?”
“No. I’ve been here before.” He thinks I’m wasting his time. And on Christmas Day.
“A man promised he would send this very message to—”
He puffs out his cheeks, exasperated. “Then why are you here now, madam?”
“Because I don’t believe the message was ever sent! Now I’m warned not to return to Paris. French lives are in danger, do you not understand?” I am agitated and can see that I am more than this man has bargained for on a day when he wants to be home, with his family. “I must get a message to him today,” I insist, undeterred.
“Very well, madam. As you wish.” He goes to a desk and grabs a pen and paper. “What is your message?”
“Tell Commandant Ladoux that Mata Hari is awaiting instructions in Madrid. Tell him that I have information about German submarines.”
He writes this down, without showing me any sign of recognition.
I say, “I want to add something else.”
He straightens. “Yes?”
“Tell him—no, ask him if it’s true that I’m not welcome in Paris. There’s no chance it can be true. But to be certain. Ask if I’m in danger.”
“Exactly like that?”
“Yes. ‘Am I in danger if I should return from Madrid?’ ”
He does as he’s told. “Satisfied?”
“Yes.”
I have an uneasy feeling in my stomach as he tucks the paper into his shirt pocket.
“When will you send it?”
“The moment you leave, madam.”
*
I can’t sleep on the way to Paris. I waited for a month in Madrid, yet heard no word from Commandant Ladoux. I’ve lost faith in the French Embassy. I don’t believe they sent him any of my telegrams. Now I am worrying: What if Pierre-Martin is right? What if they arrest me when I leave the train station? They won’t act toward me the way Scotland Yard did, I decide, because I’ll tell them that I work for Ladoux immediately.
I check into the élysée Palace under the name Marguerite Macdowd. Then I spend a sleepless night rereading Vadime’s letters to me. In three hours we will be reunited. I have enough money for our plane tickets to America. The rest I will worry about later.
*
I dress in a simple blue skirt and blouse that make me look dowdy; then I tie my least favorite scarf around my head, covering my hair. I go downstairs and find a taxi. I tell the driver to take me to the Grand.
Inside, I ask the concierge for the room number of Vadime de Massloff.
“Massloff.” The man taps his pencil along the list. “No Massloff today, madam.”
That can’t be correct. Unless . . . something happened to him? He can’t have changed his mind. I think of the letters he’s sending faithfully. He calls me his only hope. His star in a night filled with darkness. “Please check again. He may have arrived yesterday.”
He turns pages and scans them. “I’m sorry, we have no such guest, Mata Hari.”
Hearing my name is jolting. I’ve taken such care: my simple dress, my plain scarf.
The concierge notes my reaction. “I would recognize you anywhere, madam.”
I close my eyes and will myself to think of a quick solution. I cannot leave Paris without Vadime. He is sick and almost blind. Who will take care of him? “Then may I ask you for a favor?”