Mata Hari's Last Dance (17 page)

“You can't leave me in here,” I say, distraught. “I'm not Clara Benedix! For God's sake, go outside and pick up a newspaper!”

The men retreat without a single word.

*    *    *

I'm left without food or water, without a place to relieve myself. Hours pass. No one will believe this. I can't believe it myself. I sit on my chair and simmer with anger.
Clara,
I think with contempt. I already have negative memories associated with that name. At the Haanstra School, we were meant to “be useful” in the evenings—expected to sit in the parlor under the steel gaze of Van Tassel and knit or sew.

“Concentrate, Miss Zelle,
” Mrs. Van Tassel snaps at me.

“I'm sorry,” I apologize. “I never learned how to knit.”

“If that is true, your parents did a woeful job raising you. What kind of a girl doesn't learn how to knit?”

“
I doubt Clara knows how to knit or sew,” I counter, speaking without thinking, and all eyes shift to Clara, who is reading. She blushes to the roots of her long, blonde hair.

“Clara comes from a family with means,” Mrs. Van Tassel clarifies. “She has no need to learn trivial things. You must be trained to knit and sew properly, Miss Zelle. A girl like you requires such skills to earn her way in the world.”

Sitting in this uncomfortable cell, I wonder about Clara, my fellow inmate at the Haanstra School. She married an old man she didn't love. Is she as miserable as I am right now?

*    *    *

“I'm taking you to see Sir Basil Thomson in the Interrogation Room.”

“I'm sorry,” I say to the officer, so grateful to see another human being after so much time alone. “That name doesn't mean anything to me. Who is Sir Basil Thomson?”

The man stares at me. Then he says simply, “Interrogation Room.”

*    *    *

Sir Basil Thomson is dressed in a suit and a long woolen scarf. His thin face is drawn. The door shuts behind me and he gestures to a seat. Like the cell, the Interrogation Room is gray and windowless. It is also colder.

“I told them, I'm not Miss Benedix,” I say, taking the seat he has indicated.

“I'm told that you claim you are Mata Hari. Is that your true name?”

“Yes,” I say, as the door opens and a man with a stenograph appears. I clarify my answer. “It's my stage name. My birth name is Margaretha Zelle.”

The stenographer sits and Sir Basil instructs him to write, “The woman named Clara Benedix insists her name is Margaretha Zelle.”

“I insist because I am!” I am tired and cold and hungry and this is infuriating. “My name is Margaretha Zelle! I was married once and my name changed to MacLeod. But now I go by Margaretha Zelle and my stage name is Mata Hari. This is easily verified. Why isn't anyone listening to me? I want to register a complaint. Who is in charge?” I desperately conjure von Schilling's list of names in my mind's eye. Is there anyone in England I can call?

“You are a German spy. Your name is Clara Benedix.”

“That is ridiculous!”

But this is how it goes for hours. Lunch comes, then dinner, and Sir Thomson eats and I go hungry. He wants to know what I was doing in South America. I tell him I haven't been to South America. I inform him that any number of reputable people can identify me. But he won't look at an old newspaper or let me make a phone call. I have debated whether or not to give him Commandant Ladoux's name. Doing so will free me—but even though we are allies, giving up my
association with the French Secret Service to a British authority may spoil my assignment in Belgium. And I don't want that; I need the money that France has promised me to start my new life in New York with Vadime.

I keep my relationship with the French Secret Service to myself, and Sir Thomson continues to interrogate me, persisting in calling me Miss Benedix. It's a nightmare. At last I shut my eyes and real tears leak out. “Please,
please
believe me. I am Mata Hari.”

“Miss Benedix, I will believe you when you are honest with me.” He stands and the stenographer rises with him.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.” Sir Thomson reaches for his hat. “I will see you tomorrow.”

I'm taken back to my cell and the bars clang shut.

*    *    *

There's nothing to keep me warm for the night, not even a towel. A bucket was placed on the floor while I was being interrogated by Sir Thomson. Apparently, that's where I'm supposed to relieve myself. I collapse onto the bed and cry. Then I think about Va­­dime in his hospital bed in Vittel, waiting for me to return with the money that will take us away to New York from the wretchedness that is Europe.

I must survive this. Whatever happens, I must continue my mission and find my way to Belgium. I close my eyes and let myself dream about life in New York. We'll rent an apartment in one of the unbelievably tall buildings Guimet spoke about so long ago. My God, has it only been twelve years? It feels like a lifetime. I was so innocent then, so hopeful that everything would work out. I think of all the money that's come my way, passing through my fingers like sand. How many times did Edouard warn me? Save. Don't spend on foolish trinkets. No one needs three fur coats and
diamond rings. I'm going to save everything from this Belgian mission. Not a single franc is going to be spent before we reach New York.

But first, I have to leave London.

*    *    *

Eggs, milk, two pieces of buttered toast. When it is brought to my cell, I eat every bite because I know I'll need my strength. Then I am taken to meet Sir Thomson in the same windowless room. As soon as I take my seat he says, “We have had confirmation of your identity, Miss Zelle. It seems we must offer you an apology.”

I am relieved beyond description.

“But I'm afraid I still have questions for you to answer. Why are you traveling from Madrid to Amsterdam?”

“To see my daughter.” The answer comes to me immediately.

“Are you referring to Jeanne Louise MacLeod? The girl hasn't seen you in more than a decade. Why the urge to see her now?”

I flinch. It is painful to hear the truth. “I miss her,” I say.

“I don't believe you planned to visit Jeanne Louise MacLeod. So. Who sent you to Amsterdam, Miss Zelle?”

In the end, I tell him everything—or nearly everything. He sits across from me and listens while the stenographer writes. When I'm finished, he says, “I will send a telegram to Commandant Ladoux. If he confirms your employment, you are free to go.”

*    *    *

A basket of fruit awaits my arrival at the Savoy, on a bed that smells of freshly picked lavender. Like the Grand in Paris, it's as if the war does not exist here. The first thing I do is run the bath, then sit in the water until my fingers become small pink prunes.

I dress in my favorite silk robe and take a packet of letters out of
one of my returned trunks; the men at Scotland Yard have read them. That's fine. So now they've learned that I'm in love with Vadime. I wasn't foolish enough to write anything down that would be of concern to Commandant Ladoux. I find the letter I was writing when I was detained. I'll never be home by Christmas now. I take out a pen and complete it:

On February 3
rd
, meet me in the lobby of the Grand, my love. From there we will start a new life together. One without fear or loneliness or war. I'll be waiting for you with open arms.

The next morning I give my letter to the concierge and return to my room to wait for Sir Thomson.

I wait all day, but he doesn't arrive.

*    *    *

The following evening, I am beginning to feel very uneasy. When Sir Thomson arrives at the Savoy and tells me that Commandant Ladoux has confirmed my employment, I am overwhelmed with relief.

“He has also given you instructions,” he says. He hands me a telegram.

The paper says: RETURN TO MADRID. Three terse words.

“I suggest you leave London at the next opportunity,” Sir Thomson says.

Does he think I'm a fool? I wait until Sir Thomson has departed before destroying the telegram. Of course I will leave London. My mission is to reach Belgium. And that is what I am going to do. I will prove to Commandant Ladoux that I am a trustworthy emissary for France.

Chapter 17

Sent in Code

A
day passes. Then three. Finally, a week slips by and I am still at the Savoy. I send another telegram to Ladoux. “Without instructions for Madrid,” I say. “Immediately advise.”

By the second week I begin to worry about the silence, and soon my fear becomes a vise grip. Has Ladoux dismissed me? Or are the British detaining his telegrams? I can't tolerate more delay; I have already arranged a date to meet Vadime. He expects me to collect him at the Grand in Paris. I will not disappoint him.

I must have Ladoux's money by then.

If I don't complete this mission, there will be no money. My future depends on completing the task the French Secret Service has set for me.

Von Schilling gave me no names to call on in London, but there is a German military attaché, a Major Arnold Kalle, listed in Madrid. I decide on a course of action.

*    *    *

On the first of December I travel back to Madrid to begin my assignment for the French Secret Service.

“Mata Hari the dancer?” Major Kalle confirms, surprised by my phone call.

“Yes. I was given your name by a good friend of ours.”

There is silence on the phone.

I continue, “General von Schilling said that if I found myself in Madrid I must call on Major Arnold Kalle. And here I am, in your beautiful city, not knowing a single soul.”

“Perhaps we should have dinner, then,” he suggests.

If Mrs. Van Tassel were here, I would gloat: My skills are far more valuable than knitting. My talent in bedding officers will gain me information that may help France win this dreadful war. Whatever Major Kalle divulges I will share with Ladoux. This is how France will remember me when I am living in New York.

*    *    *

We meet at Botín, with its warm paneled exterior and redbrick arches dating back to 1725. It's the oldest restaurant in the world, Kalle says. He has clear blue eyes and thick blond hair. “A traditional
horno de asar
.”

I glance under my eyelashes at him, playing the role of a girl infatuated. “What does that mean?”

“Roasted meat.”

“I had hoped,” I say and touch my hair, “the translation would be something romantic.”

We dine and talk about the most trivial of things. The weather (good), the shops (so many closing), the food (I've never had its equal in Spain). Then he invites me back to his home. He slips his arm around my waist and within a few cobbled streets we reach his apartment. A few hours later, both of us are drunk. By midnight, we are lying together on his sheets. I brush my hand against his chest, an invitation to make love again, but he sighs and puts his forearm over his eyes.

“I'm too tired to move,” he says. “It's a great deal of work arranging for German soldiers to be deployed in Morocco.”

I prop myself up on one elbow and gaze at him sympathetically, willing him to continue speaking.

“A submarine is dropping them off.” He lifts his arm briefly to look at me. “In the French zone.”

My heart is racing—German troops being transported to French soil; I am horrified. Yet my expression remains neutral.

“You will not tell anybody, I hope?” He leans back. “It's all very confidential information.”

“I understand.” I keep stroking his chest, thinking of Ladoux. Surely this intelligence is equal to what I might have learned in Belgium? God only knows when Kalle's plan will be implemented. Perhaps I have just saved French lives.

He turns and takes me in his arms. “Then again, maybe I'm not so tired.”

*    *    *

I don't wait for morning; as soon as I leave Kalle's apartment I rush to the French Embassy in Madrid and tell them that I have information for Commandant Ladoux.

“We can place a call—”

I immediately wave this offer away. “This is sensitive information, madam. A phone call would not be safe.”

They arrange for a telegram to be sent in code. A man takes me to a private room and I tell him what I know, carefully, slowly. Then he makes me repeat it and copies it out by hand. He assures me the message will be sent at once.

“Thank you,” he says when he's sure he's got it.

“When do you think we'll hear back? I'm expecting the commandant to send me further instructions,” I explain.

“Where are you staying, madam?”

“La Paz.”

“Then wait there, madam. I'm sure word will come.”

*    *    *

On Christmas there is snow on the peaks of Peñalara. How this sight would delight Edouard! How pleased Vadime would be if he were here and able to see it with me! His nurse wrote to tell me that he is blind now, in one eye. The other is healing, if slowly. “It is healing,” I wrote to him. “Rejoice in that. It could be so much worse.” But there has been no joy in Vadime's latest letters. “All of my hope for the future rests with you,” he says. “I am counting the days—is it still more than a month?—when we will be together again.”

Together, not alone anymore.

I look around. While the world celebrates Christmas with their families, I sit by myself in a tiny café, reading a newspaper.

NAVY MEN BACK U.S. TO DUPLICATE FEAT

Declare American Submarines Could Cross Ocean as Did the
Deutschland
.

United States submarines can duplicate the
Deutschlan
d
's trans-Atlantic feat if the occasion arises, Navy experts asserted today.

A flotilla of K-class submarines last summer cruised 2,000 miles from Honolulu to San Francisco. They could have cruised for a week longer, according to navy men. They could have traveled as far as the
Deutschland
under the same conditions and at the same low speed maintained by the German super-submarine . . .

There is no one on the streets, so I'm shocked when a man comes inside and stands directly in front of my table, blocking my view of the mountain.

“Madam, my name is Pierre-Martin. I have a message for you. From a man who works with Ladoux.”

Finally! I sit up and take my purse off an empty seat. “Please. Sit down. I have been awaiting his instructions.”

He takes off his hat and sits. Without further introduction, he whispers, “I am to warn you to never go back to France.”

“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?”

The concierge nods. “Certainly.”

I lean over his desk and write down the number of my suite at the Élysée Palace. Under it I slip a fifty franc note. “The moment Vadime de Massloff checks in, will you give this to him?”

He slips the fifty into his shirt pocket. “Of course.”

*    *    *

That night the door of my suite swings open with a violent crash. Five men with rifles enter my hotel room. I am dreaming of the Walrus, of escaping his meaty hands. Now I scream, grab the covers, and pull them to my chest. I glance at the clock on the bedside. It's six a.m.

“What is the meaning of this?” I demand.

“Madam, I am Inspecteur Marcadier.” He steps around my luggage.

I'm packed and ready to leave. There are sixteen bags in all. Plus one blue-green purse. Even as the inspecteur is speaking, I'm thinking that it isn't much, the things that belong to me in this life.

“These are inspecteurs Quentin, Priolet, Curnier, and Des Logères.” The other men step forward.

“What are you doing here?” I demand. “This is outrageous! I am employed by Commandant Ladoux of the French Secret Service!”

“Mata Hari,” Marcadier continues, as if I haven't spoken a word, “also known as M'greet MacLeod, also known as Margaretha Zelle, you are charged with espionage against the Republic of France.”

They allow me to dress and while I'm given my coat Inspecteur Marcadier reads the
mandat d'arrêt.

“How do you answer these charges?”

I repeat that I am in the employ of Commandant Ladoux. It has the same impact: They ignore me completely. They lead me down three flights of stairs to the lobby of the Élysée Palace. The hotel employees are huddled in a tight circle, whispering. Shame floods my face as they parade me to the door like a criminal. Outside, the streets are thick with mist and dreamlike. Maybe I'm still sleeping, I tell myself. Maybe none of this is true.