*
On Christmas there is snow on the peaks of Pe?alara. 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 Deutschland’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?”