I stare out the window. There are women huddled with their children inside blankets, standing on the roads with their hands out in front of them. Where have I been? In hotels, in men’s suites, in restaurants where the crystal is still polished daily. I think about my furs and feel disgusted. How dare those men take anything from civilians in times like these. . . .
The driver turns down a narrow street and the car shakes over the cobbled road. I hold on to the seat in front of me. He stops in front of a plain gray building and I compare the address with the one in von Schilling’s note. “This the place?” the driver asks.
“Yes. If you’ll please wait—”
“That will be an extra charge.”
“I understand.” I go inside. It’s an office. Busy-looking men, some in uniform and others in suits, rush about. The woman who greets me asks what my business is at the German Consulate. I try not to look surprised; this non-descript building is a consulate?
“I’m here to see Consul Karl Cramer. Immediately.”
She frowns at me over her desk. “You wish to see the consul?”
“Yes. I do.”
“What is your business?”
“I was sent to him by General von Schilling. He’ll understand.”
She hesitates, then stands and disappears through a doorway. A minute later she returns and asks me to follow her down the hall.
The interior of the building is as plain as the outside, as if they are trying to hide. We come to a wooden door and the woman knocks, even though the door is slightly ajar, and I can see a balding man sitting behind his desk. He calls for me to be shown in. When I enter, she shuts the door behind me.
Consul Cramer raises his brows. “Can I help you?”
“Yes.” I take a seat in front of his desk. “My name is Mata Hari. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”
He puts down the papers in his hands. I have his full attention now. “The dancer?”
“Yes.”
His eyes wander from my face to my body, imagining what I look like beneath my black dress. Perhaps he’s been to one of my shows. If he has, he doesn’t admit to it. “I was told von Schilling sent you,” he says.
“Yes. He gave me a list of names where I might find help if I should need it. This morning, German soldiers barged onto my train in Berlin and stole my furs. They treated me like an animal.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you, but I want more than an apology. I want my property returned, and von Schilling believes you’re the man to make that happen.”
“How do you know the general?”
I lean toward him. “Didn’t I mention that General von Schilling and I are very good friends, Karl?”
His eyes light up at the implication.
“Will you help me?” I ask.
He sighs. “Mata Hari, what you are—”
“I want what is mine.”
“Perhaps we can discuss this over dinner. Shall I make reservations at Hotel Krasnapolsky?”
It’s the best hotel in Amsterdam. But I sit back, refusing to be deterred. “I’m on my way to Paris. I want to be home.”
“Paris is no place to call home right now, Mata Hari.”
I’m not in the mood for a lecture. “Can you or can you not return my furs to me?”
“You claim they were confiscated in Berlin. Yet we are sitting in Amsterdam. The appropriate place to register a complaint would be in Berlin.”
These Germans are infuriating! “Von Schilling said—”
“Yes.” He holds up his hand. “I understand.”
“They were taken from me by your men! Stolen!”
He doesn’t look in the least bit surprised.
“If you can’t return them, then I will accept compensation.”
He has the gall to look amused. Then he says, “The consulate does not reimburse travelers for lost clothing. This applies in times of peace as well as war.”
“This is outrageous. I have given so much to Berlin. So much! And in return I am robbed of thirty thousand marks.” It’s the first number that comes to my mind.
The consul rubs his temple with his fingers. Perhaps I’m not the first person to complain about this today. “Is that the market value of your confiscated property?”
“That is a low estimate. I never travel lightly.”
“Perhaps, then, we can come to a compromise.”
“I’m listening.”
“I will give you a check. Twenty thousand marks.”
I open my mouth to protest but he shakes his head.
“I am doing you a favor, fraulein. For von Schilling. I will inform my superiors that you have agreed to keep your ears and eyes open on behalf of Germany. They won’t pay you for lost goods. Are we agreed?”
We are.
“Mata Hari,” he says as I am gathering myself to leave. “I suggest that the next time you travel it not be by train.” He pauses, organizes his thoughts. “I will arrange your passage on the next available ship to France. If you are amenable.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “This type of thievery might happen again?”
He spreads his hands. “This is war, Mata Hari.”
We watch each other. “Please book my passage,” I say.