Parsifal’s Quest: A New Grail
by Santa Crux

I have no rights to the universe of The Lost World but I enjoy the opportunity to wander around in it for a while.

Most of the background of my tale is based on historical sources and I have attempted to stay true to the history of the characters as described in The Lost World. This includes the Dieter moments in Tribute, Winston Bloody Churchill’s very bad day from Out of the Blue, triple agent Parsifal from Tapestry, Marguerite’s time in Cairo in Trophies, her allusions to Paris street-life in Brothers in Arms, and her intriguing disclosures in Into the Fire.

I have included a few of the historical incidents I have referenced in the story in notes at the end.

The scene on the plateau takes place after Trapped and before Heart of the Storm. Most of the story, however, takes place before the explorers arrive at the plateau and focuses on Miss Krux’s mysterious past.

Prologue

It is a mistake to try to look too far ahead. The chain of destiny can only be grasped one link at a time.
Winston S Churchill

April 1910, Monte Carlo, Monaco

They had left the casino in humiliation. The middle-aged gentleman, told that his credit was no longer good, was drunk and truculent. His wife, a dark-haired beauty, was shamed and in despair. Henri Pontneuf had inherited a fortune from his father and spent his life spilling it away on poor investments, reckless gambling and beautiful young women. Marguerite Pontneuf had been one of those beautiful young women who, through charm and deceit, had tricked the millionaire into marriage. Theirs was a loveless union, uneventful at first when money was plentiful for her spending and his gambling. Nowadays they clashed often. He had a vicious tongue and an air of violence about him. She was completely undaunted, a mocking manner to go with her luscious looks. In the street outside the casino, they began to argue.

“Let me call you a cab. You’re in no condition to be in public.” The slim young woman with angry gray eyes searched the streets for a horse-drawn hansom.

“I told you, I’m going to the bar. I need a drink to wash away the taste of that insolent dog. I should go back there and give him a beating.” The man made as if to return to the casino. The woman placed a warning hand on his arm.

“Don’t be stupid. Haven’t you done enough tonight? Perhaps there are one or two people we know that didn’t see you thrown out of there as the penniless loser that you are.”

With a growl, the furious roué wheeled and strode into the back alley that served as a short cut to the Bar des Molines. The smouldering brunette watched him weave as he walked, using his walking stick to maintain his balance. Suddenly, she understood what she must do. Lifting her skirts, she ran to catch up to the receding figure.

She ran in front of him and turned so that the irate man was forced to stop.

“I’m leaving, Henri. I’ve lived with your mistresses, your rudeness and your ridiculous excesses. But no more. As delightful as it has been, it’s time for a change. I’ll be gone by the time you return to our rooms.

“The hell you will!” the gaping aristocrat bellowed indignantly. He grabbed the arm of his wife as she turned. She pulled away from him, removing his hand with a disdainful gesture.

“Yes, the hell I will.” came the cold response. The scornful gaze from under those wide brows sparked Pontneuf’s fury. His left arm arced in a backhanded swing at her smirking face. The woman ducked backward to avoid the force of the blow. His signet ring, however, grazed along her cheekbone, leaving a stinging scratch. She stood there mutinous. He raised the walking stick in a threatening gesture. As the blow descended, the street-fighting Marguerite had been exposed to as a young girl in the streets of Paris served her well. The agile woman ducked inside his swing and kneed him in the groin. He doubled up with a groan and sunk to one knee. With unexpected swiftness, she wrested the cane from his unresisting hand.

The agonized man remained on his hands and knees, moaning and cursing, threatening his young wife with any number of indignities. Marguerite stood above, gripping the walking stick. If only he were dead, she thought, all her troubles would be over. No more threats, no scenes, no messy divorce. It would be so easy. She could just end his miserable existence. They were alone. She looked both ways down the alleyway and raised the weapon. Then a smoky haze came over her senses. As it cleared away, she straightened and tossed the cane at the feet of her raving husband and walked away, back to the casino to hail a cab to their apartments.

Her husband died later that evening. Henri Pontneuf was found in that back alley with his throat slashed from ear to ear. His wife pondered the irony of the timing of his death, but chalked it up to fate. She thanked her guardian spirit that had prevented her from committing murder. A petty criminal was fingered for the crime by underworld sources. He was killed while being arrested. Incriminating evidence was found in his room. The case was closed. Pontneuf’s estate went to his two grown sons; they were faced with the chore of sorting out Henri’s overdrawn accounts. His wife was excluded from the will but was the sole beneficiary of a life insurance policy that settled upon her a tidy sum. The widow Pontneuf disappeared from polite society.

The Present

The clouds came in like they often did on the plateau, roiling and lightning-streaked, obliterating the bright tropical sunlight in an instant. Lord Roxton had reacted to the faint far-away rumbling while the jungle around him still glittered with brightness.

“We’d better take cover. Hell of a rainstorm about to come through here.”

He turned to his companion, the raven-haired beauty who was his partner on one of Challenger’s intricate plans to solve the problem of the plateau’s confusing topography which had proven impossible to accurately map. George had posited the theory that minerals in the mountain range, perhaps even iridium, were somehow distorting the magnetic emanations detected by their compasses.

This simple excursion was designed to find a certain high point of land where they could convey a signal to Challenger and Veronica who would be on a similar highland miles away. Roxton had immediately volunteered both he and Marguerite for this detail, eager to spend some time alone with the woman who had stolen his heart. He felt this would be an ideal opportunity to press the advantage that he felt he had gained during the gruelling hours they had been trapped in that cave-in a few weeks ago. He had been overwhelmed to hear her finally say that she loved him, but the wary woman had been elusive since their escape and he was anxious not to lose the ground he had won at such great effort.

Even though he had expected that she might give him a hard time when she found that he had spoken for her, he was dismayed by the reception he had received earlier that day when he had broached the subject at the door of her room in the tree house.

“Really, Roxton, must I? How could you speak for me that way? Can’t you handle this yourself? I have a lot of chores to do around the tree house.” Her voice sounded both annoyed and dispirited. “This really isn’t a good time.” Marguerite fidgeted with some clothing she was folding, her eyes downcast.

“Marguerite, I thought… Finn’s left already to gather fruit. It takes two people. If I had known you wouldn’t…” Roxton stammered, taken aback by her distant demeanour.

Her eyes rose at his tone as she recognized that she had dashed his plans. She smiled a faint smile. “Forget it. I’ll come with you. Just give me a minute to dress for the occasion.”

During their journey, he had taken every opportunity to engage his quiet companion in conversation but she had responded in monosyllables to all his gambits. Seeing that she was completely distracted, he gave up his efforts and trudged up the hill in silence.

When Roxton warned her of the impending storm, Marguerite raised her eyes skyward. She had been unaware of any change in the weather as she had been totally absorbed in trying to recall a strange dream she had had the previous night. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. The more she tried to bring it clearly into her mind’s eye, the more it slipped into the neverland of jumbled memories. It only seemed real when she didn’t try to understand it. What really made her uneasy was that she had had another dream like that recently.

“We’re going to get drenched if we don’t find cover,” growled the wilderness expert beside her.

Marguerite sighed. “You’re right about that. Should we find a palm tree, lace some fronds?”

“In this terrain we’re better off looking for a cave.”

Despite her efforts to mask it, her brief look of panic was detected by the tall hunter. He bent his head toward hers and brought his hand to her face, her chin raised a little in his blunt fingers, holding her like that until she raised her eyes toward his. His small smile betrayed the depth of feeling he had for her.

“Come on. It will be fine. Don’t forget, caves have been our refuge many times in our stay here on the plateau.”

“Well, we’re not exploring it, no matter how intriguing it is,” she said firmly, far from reassured.

“I promise. We’ll stay in the entrance, just until the storm blows by.”

Marguerite could see the rising breeze sway the limbs of the trees beside her. “Well, we’d better hurry or we’ll be so wet it won’t matter if we do find shelter.”

Uncanny in his ability to interpret the terrain of the plateau, it wasn’t five minutes before Lord Roxton had found the entrance to a small cave. In that short time the first fat harbingers of the rainstorm had plopped down on them, mostly deflected by the wide brims of their hats. They were at a near-run as they approached the cave, slowing in caution as they made sure that no other creature had also sought refuge in the cavern. Finding nothing, Roxton slipped off his pack, unfolded his bedroll, and spread it on a natural shelf just inside the entrance to the cave.

“Might as well make ourselves comfortable. No telling how long this will last,” the hardy explorer called out to his companion.

Marguerite turned to look out on the torrents of rainfall, washing all vestiges of dust from the vegetation. Soon the jungle floor was saturated and rivulets of muddy water rushed along the animal trails. A small lake began to form just outside the entrance to the cave.

“Great. At this rate we’ll have to swim home once this deluge stops.” She stood, her arms across her chest, the cool breeze playing across her wet clothes dropping her body temperature substantially. Roxton saw the slight shiver and strepped toward her, stretching out a long arm to pull her to his side.

“Let’s sit down over here, I’ll keep you warm.” They stepped to the blanket and sat down together, his arm still loosely draped around her shoulders. She felt the fire of his body all along her side. She began to feel much warmer.

“Is that better? Or should I make a fire?” he asked attentively.

“No, it’s fine. You’d have to go out in that downpour to get firewood and it probably wouldn’t burn anyway. Besides, Roxton, why the sudden solicitude? I don’t expect it of you.”

“I don’t know.” John hesitated, unsure whether he should say more. “You just seem lost in your own world somehow. I was wondering if you were having second thoughts, or avoiding me. I can’t really explain it. It’s just a feeling.”

Marguerite turned toward him, her face so close to his he could see her lips part in surprise.

“No, I wasn’t thinking about you, well not now. No, it’s just something that’s been bothering me. About the cave. I keep thinking… Never mind, it’s stupid. We already explained it.”

Roxton, still holding her tight to his side with one arm, now drew his other hand along her wavy thick hair, an action that never failed to give him pleasure. He was torn between comforting her and curiosity about what was troubling her. He could not contain his interest.

“What is that, my dear? What did we explain earlier?”

She sighed and nestled a little deeper into the refuge of his arms. “You know, in the cave. The dream I had. The one you said I already told you about. With the druids, the emeralds, the fire. I’ve been trying to figure it out. Sometimes it seems so real. I find myself dreaming about it still. But I don’t remember knowing about it before that moment when I awoke. “

Roxton felt her slim form tense in his embrace, heard her voice rise with confusion. His love was clearly troubled and he wasn’t sure how he could help her.

“Well, maybe it was coincidence, maybe I dreamed it too. We shared the same dream. Nothing on this plateau is impossible, you know. The coal gas, the figure in the burial chamber. Who knows?”

“I know. I’ve thought of all those explanations and you’re probably right. But now that I’ve dreamt it, it seems real. I wake up each day with more memories about it. I hear conversations. I can even feel that horrible quicksand where Ned was trapped.” Marguerite broke off in disgust at the vision.

Roxton chuckled beside her. “I remember. You were quite the hero volunteering to rescue Malone like that.”

Indignant, she swatted him across the chest, turning her face up to catch sight of his foolish grin. “Volunteer? As I recall, I was not a volunteer at all; I was a dupe!” Her wide grin turned immediately to a frown of concentration.

“That’s what I mean, John, it’s like it’s real. Until I ask myself ‘when did it happen?’ Then it slips away like smoke.”

“Well,” he said, once again trying to reduce her distress, “Don’t think about it too much. Maybe it will come to you then.”

“Yes, but…” Marguerite stopped abruptly, hesitant to go on. She had kept her complicated life back in Europe so completely out of her relationship with John that she could not fathom how she would begin to share her past even if she decided it was a good idea. Though it seemed that so many secrets had been reluctantly wrung from her by the nature of their life here on the plateau, she had never sat down and willingly divulged those grim secrets that had consumed her life before she had joined the Challenger expedition. Teetering at the brink of just such a sharing, she found her courage abandoning her.

“Ye-es?” her companion quietly encouraged her to speak.

“It’s nothing,” she responded hurriedly.

He gave the tense woman a gentle shake. “Come on. Fortune favours the brave. Out with it.”

She chewed at her lip and, taking a deep breath, continued. “I’ve had another, well, dream I guess you’d call it, but it seems so real. It’s a dream I had once before, I think. And it’s about a time in my past – when my husband died. But the thing is I know what really happened that night and it wasn’t like my dream at all. I had put it aside as crazy ravings, hallucinations – I was in a bit of a situation at the time. But now with this strange vision in the cave, I’m starting to wonder what’s real and what’s not.”

He could feel her draw inwards. Though still surrounded by the circle of his body, it was if she were no longer connected to him, but was shrinking away to some lonely place inside of her. He took her arms in his large hands and gently turned her to him, resting his forehead for a moment on hers. He raised his chin to gently kiss her brow.

“Trust me,” he said simply and felt her body relax slowly into his grasp, as she raised her lips tentatively to his. After a brief kiss, she assured him, “I do, but…”

“Marguerite.” He interrupted on a rising tone of gentle warning.

“I know you don’t believe much in spirits and such.”

The veteran of three years on the plateau responded with a short bark of laughter. “Make that ‘didn’t believe’. There has been far too much evidence that there are enough demons and evil spirits here to keep us on our toes for a lifetime.”

She shot him a crooked smile and haltingly forged ahead.

“You realize by now that my younger years were pretty rough. Anyway, I grew up angry and wild and not very happy with myself or anyone else. I could have thrown it all away back then …”

Roxton could feel the trembling in her body as she drew a ragged breath.

“But, I always felt this presence. Something, or someone, guiding me. I had always hoped it was the spirit of my dead mother or father but now…” She gulped and went on “I think it’s him, the man in that dream.”

The accomplished hunter felt out of his league, unsure of what to say.

“What makes you think that?”

“It’s a long story.”

Her handsome companion looked out at the sheets of rain just outside their refuge and shrugged. “Looks like we’ve got lots of time.” He pulled her close, her back resting against his chest, his arms clasped loosely around her waist. “Comfortable?”

She nodded, her dark hair tickling his chin. And Marguerite began to tell Lord Roxton a little of her past.

Chapter 1

Solitary trees, if they grow at all, grow strong.
Winston S Churchill

June 10, 1916, Berlin

The ballroom glittered as had once been common before the war. The men were resplendent in their dress uniforms, the women draped on their arms like one more trophy of war. Outshining the assembled women as a tropical bird would contrast with those of more northerly climes; a slim brunette leaned languorously toward Colonel Nicolai, head of Department IIIb, the intelligence division of the German High Command. Her rapt expression indicated to all that the colonel's words were surely both memorable and witty. That Walther Nicolai would be accompanied by such an exotic beauty, most definitely not his wife, led many tongues to wagging, but in a discreet way muted by the power of his position. He was a man who knew many secrets and who stood apart among the rest of the military order which valued honour above all.

Espionage was not an honourable profession.

Marguerite Schmidt maintained her expression of enchanted delight as her mind wandered far afield.  She could tell her presence here with the Silent Colonel had created a ripple of curious speculation. After all it had only been a month ago that she had accompanied one of the naval command officers to a soiree at this same hall. People would be commenting on how she might benefit by having an affair with the wealthy Nicolai. If only it were that simple, she sighed inwardly as she listened, apparently fascinated, to the colonel's comments. Just another step down the path, she thought. How long had it been since she had acted unguardedly without consideration of potential gain for her country or her own desperate quest?

This was such a fiasco. She shouldn't be here celebrating a German naval victory at Jutland. She had risked her life and the lives of others to send information to England, information that must have broken the German command codes. That should have been enough to turn the tide of the naval battle indisputably in Britain's favour. But instead it was Germany that was claiming victory and over six thousand British sailors had perished in the icy waters of the North Sea.

Now those in command at MI6 had suggested that she curry the acquaintance of the head of the German Secret Service, to what end she did not know, though she feared to confront the suspicion in the back of her mind. Marguerite knew she was a valuable resource to the cause; it must be important to place her so near such a dangerous man. She sighed again. She was so tired. She snapped out of her reverie and once again focused that radiant energy on the colonel and the rest of their party.

Sitting at their table was Colonel Nicolai’s adjutant, Traugott von Jagow. He was accompanied by a gaudily-dressed woman who had been introduced earlier as Margaretha Zelle, a famous exotic dancer. She was boldly attractive, wearing too much makeup to disguise her sagging skin and network of fine wrinkles, the curse of a woman approaching the age of forty. Marguerite’s trained eye had scanned the many pieces of jewellery that the woman wore and assessed it to be mostly paste aside from a few items of real value. At that moment Fraulein Zelle leaned toward Marguerite and spoke.

“You and I have much in common, I see. Our names –Margaretha, Marguerite –they’re almost the same. And neither of us are German, but look at us, here we are with the most powerful men in Germany. I am Dutch, but I can’t quite place your accent, Fraulein Schmidt. Where are you from?”

“My father was Austrian, my mother English. I spoke only English until I went to school.” The lies flowed easily from her lips, but Marguerite felt a change of subject was required. “May I see your bracelet? The engraving is very unusual.”

Fraulein Zelle extended her arm so that Marguerite could get a closer view.

“Eye of dawn, eye of the morning.” Marguerite muttered almost under her breath.

The other woman pulled her arm away, her eyes wide in astonishment. “You can read Javanese?” She looked at the bracelet. “This is written in old Kawi, Arabic. It’s my stage name –Mata Hari. How could you know that’s what it says?”

Marguerite searched furiously for a reasonable excuse. “I –I knew that script was Arabic and I just - guessed the rest. You are a famous woman after all, Mata Hari, the Javanese princess. I spent some time in Paris before the war. You are quite a celebrity.”

The dancer was flattered that her stature had been recognized. “Well, thank you. Those were wonderful days. Not like now where there is nothing but bombs and death. I was saying earlier to Traugott that you never see a party like this anymore.”

“So how do you know Hauptmann von Jagow?” Marguerite was thankful that her ploy had worked and that Fraulein Zelle had lost interest in her linguistic abilities.

“Oh, I knew him when he used to be police chief in Berlin, long before the war. We used to be lovers back then. I come to see him often. He asked me to come back to Berlin for this and Paris has become so dreary.”

The British spy filed this little tidbit of information away for future use. Could the intelligence officer be using Mata Hari to collect information for Germany? The woman certainly had access to powerful men, officers for many of the combatant countries. And her scandalous reputation certainly indicated that she knew how to get close to people. British Intelligence might want to keep an eye on her.

“Will you be returning to Paris?”

“With my profession I travel a lot. But yes, to Barcelona and Madrid then back to Paris.”

Both women turned as a man’s voice called out “Margaretha” Von Jagow was hailing the Dutch dancer and Marguerite was free once more to pursue her thoughts.

Across the room, a group of junior officers from the Air Arm tossed back drinks in celebration.

"Here's to the mighty Zeppelins, the menace of the air."

"And to the aeroplane. To the von Richthoffen brothers," piped up a lanky lieutenant, Dieter Schnell, who had flown a number of missions in France and Belgium before being recalled to headquarters. He served as an attaché to General Von Hoeppner.

"The aeroplane is merely a toy," scoffed another officer. "The Zeppelin is our secret weapon. With them we can protect our ships, even deliver bombs to the heart of the enemy's homeland. Their citizens will be filled with terror. The English have nothing to match our proud airships."

Marguerite's eyes drifted to the noisy young pilots at the bar. Her gaze fixed on one man, tall and blond, quite striking in appearance, with an aquiline face. A face she would never forget. She paled as the unwanted memories returned…

October 4, 1915 Evere, Belgium

Marguerite bundled her coarse cloak tighter around her neck. It was a true fall day with a brisk wind swirling the falling leaves along the streets of Evere. Dressed as a shop-girl, she moved as quickly as possible along the boulevard, hastening to reduce as much as possible the chance she might be noticed. She ducked into the entry of the home and knocked sharply in code. After a brief wait, the door abruptly opened. Though no face was visible, a hand gestured for her to enter. The door swiftly closed behind her.

“Bonjour, Hélène,” said Marguerite

“Bonjour Marie,” replied the homeowner. She continued in rapid French. “You should not stay long. I fear the Boche may be onto us soon. M. Arnaud has confessed and Mlle. Cavell has told them the names of everyone she knew to be involved in the escape route.”

Marguerite cursed under her breath. The experienced operative had met Edith Cavell, the Red Cross nurse, who was pivotally involved in the escape route and she had found the woman’s approach alarmingly amateurish. She had warned her contact that it was dangerous to use the same people who were smuggling downed British airmen back to England to also take information out of the country, but headquarters had insisted on it Since the underground already existed, they said, it would be foolish not to use it. But now these people were arrested and being interrogated. The network here was destroyed and maybe her cover as well. The time she had spent chatting up the officers in the town had created a steady stream of information to the Allies –troop movements, likely targets for bombing, even occasionally some battle plans. She would be forced to move on. And start again.

A girl of twelve burst through the door, a scurry of leaves accompanying her. “Marie-Claire, shut the door quickly!” “Sorry, Maman. It was the wind. I will just get some soup for lunch.” Hélène frowned Marguerite into silence until the girl had left the room.

“She doesn’t know,” the woman whispered. “I thought it safer.”

The slim brunette gave a smile of understanding as she rose to her feet. “You will pass on my message to Gavotte, find out where I should make contact next?” she asked.

“Yes. Marie, my final duty before I wipe my hands clean of this business. I have family to consider.”

Marguerite nodded. “I will return at the same time tomorrow.”

“I will be here. A demain .”

“A demain .”

Marguerite moved boldly out of the house and strode down the sidewalk. Her demeanour spoke of a young woman hurrying to her work after lunch. She was skilled by now at telling if anyone was watching or following her; no tell-tale signs of pursuit were visible. Luck was with her.

The British agent strolled along the streets for hours, checking shop windows for bargains (and for reflections). When the work day was done, it was safe to go home. She went into the front door of her pension and walked up to her third floor room. Marguerite sat on the edge of the ladder backed chair and eased her feet out of her cheap shoes. Weary, she leaned her shoulders back against the chair and ran the heel of her hand along her forehead and into her hair. She hadn’t realized how drained she was from the strain of the last few days. Where would she be going next, she wondered, perhaps Paris to strike up old acquaintances? Maybe even Cairo, the place was a hotbed of rumours, fertile soil for an agent looking to gather information, possibly even foment revolution. And few other agents would have the advantage of being fluent in Arabic.

She would miss the people she had met in Evere, good people, hard-working and fierce in their resistance to the occupying army. The German officers themselves weren’t that bad –just eager young boys, garrulous as puppies, full of themselves and their position as overlords in this town. The fliers were the worst, a cocky lot, but eager to brag about their exploits to an attractive young woman. She had learned a great deal from encouraging them to talk, plying them with drinks. It was all so easy. But each day she became a little harder, more willing to play a role to get the information she needed. She sometimes thought she had lost any real emotions she had ever had. Marguerite closed her eyes. No point in thinking about such things. She would be gone from here soon, tomorrow or the next day at the latest.

October 5, 1915 Evere Belgium

The day dawned cold and gray. At mid-morning, Marguerite emerged from her pension. She slipped a kerchief over her hair, bowing her head against the wind, and joined the passers-by. Travelling without attracting notice was always difficult for her. Her distinctive looks, such an advantage when cultivating officers for information, were equally a disadvantage when she attempted to be invisible. When she was in public she always wore her hair pulled back or up or covered with a hat in hopes that the fullness of her long curly hair when left loose might actually serve as a sort of disguise. Even then, it drew notice. It was best to cover it completely on sorties such as this. Her eyes, so large and light-coloured, were even more problematic. She had learned long ago they drew attention, made her memorable. Even spectacles did little to change her looks; she had sometimes thought her best disguise would be the dark glasses that blind people wore. The best she could do was to keep her head down and avoid eye contact. Again this day she took a circuitous route to her destination, tirelessly checking for enemy agents that might be following her. As it neared noon, she entered Rue du Picardie, the street of the safe house. It was filled with people hurrying to lunch or shopping for their evening meal.

There appeared to be a small knot of people gathered talking animatedly near her destination. Marguerite’s war-trained instincts caused her to slow her pace She turned to a nearby barrow displaying a variety of vegetables and pretended to examine the squash. Unfortunately this placed her near two German officers from the Air Arm who were buying bouquets of fall flowers. To her dismay, she recognized the tall lieutenant from an officers’ party she had recently attended at the air base. The cautious agent turned away and pulled the kerchief further over her face.

She noticed that the crowd outside the dwelling of Helene Dupont had increased in number. Curious people watched in alarm as three German soldiers came out of the house, pushing before them a man and woman, their hands shackled behind their backs. The disguised Englishwoman felt her gorge rise as she recognized the captives as Helene and her husband Louis. The man appeared bewildered and stunned but Helene paused on the doorstep, looking wildly around the street. The soldier behind her used his rifle to give her a rough shove forward. She stumbled heavily but regained her balance, still looking frantically about. Marguerite felt a moment of panic; surely Helene was not looking for her, to expose her as a spy, to somehow barter for a lighter sentence.

The panicky operative willed herself not to walk away; her only safety lay in anonymity. Just then a small form brushed by Marguerite from behind, running blindly toward the soldiers and their prisoners. “Maman,” the girl cried out in a piteous wail. Helene heard the cry and responded, “No! Marie-Claire, don’t come near. Run. Dear God, run!” As the mother threw her body at the guards, the young girl hesitated for mere seconds, pivoted and ran back from where she had come. Marguerite watched as the terrified fugitive neared, gasping between sobs. One guard freed himself from the melee and ran after her, shouting to stop in both German and French. The fleeing child darted past Marguerite but suddenly jerked to a halt, her sleeve clutched in the strong grasp of the tall German airman. She screamed out to him, her tear-stained face a blur of misery and terror. “Please, no, let me go. Let me go!”

The aviator hesitated. Just then, with a desperate yank, the girl freed her arm from his grip and stumbled away. The gun-wielding soldier had gained ground and ran pell-mell after her. The young girl neared a gap between the buildings. Marguerite found herself urging the girl on under her breath. If only the fugitive could reach the alleyway, she might have a chance; Marie-Claire would know the streets of Evere far better than the German soldiers.

The soldier came alongside Marguerite and shouldered her aside to clear his line of sight. Off-balance, the startled operative crashed into the vegetable stand. As Marguerite fought to regain her feet, the soldier paused above her. He called once more for the girl to halt. In a few brief seconds that reeled on forever, Marguerite stared, helpless, as the soldier raised his rifle. She watched his finger tighten on the trigger, heard the sharp crack as the rifle fired, saw the stock slam back into his shoulder, listened to the report echo down the street. She turned to see the rag doll tumble of Marie-Claire, saw the scarlet splotch marring the fallen form, heard the terrible cry of a mother who has lost her child. All the rest was silence.

All eyes were on the broken figure lying on the paving stones. The German soldier looked stunned, his gun barrel drooping toward the ground. The officer who had slowed the young girl’s flight contemplated his own hand, a stricken look on his face. Marguerite pulled herself to her feet, fighting the trembling she felt in all her limbs. A small part of her fought through pity and horror, stilling the tears that had sprung to her eyes. A lifetime of self-preservation topped off with two years of espionage had hardened her heart. She knew that she needed to take flight immediately if she hoped to avoid capture. People began to gather, to rush forward. A German patrol vehicle came to take away the prisoners. Marguerite melted into the crowd.

Hours later, the shaken spy sat in the passenger’s seat of the delivery truck as it made its way south, the wind snatching at the strands of hair that escaped her kerchief. She had convinced a man friendly to the Allied cause to take her as far as he could toward the coast. She sat, dry-eyed, slumped in the seat as the sun set over the fields of Belgium. The Germans had the whole escape ring in custody now and might well make an example of the people involved. She could only imagine the fate of Helene and Louis.

Marguerite had known from the beginning that this work would be hard and dangerous, but never had she envisioned the murder of a helpless girl before her eyes. At that moment she had almost grabbed the German soldier; indeed, had she been on her feet, she would have intervened somehow. And, if she had, she’d be imprisoned or dead right now. A spy must never allow weakness to rule them; it was too dangerous. Marguerite made the vow to herself that never again would her emotions, her compassion, betray her. But when she closed her eyes, she saw the young girl’s body lying on the cobblestones in a spreading pool of blood, the only sound a mother’s choking sobs.

Chapter 2

For myself I am an optimist – it does not seem to be of much use being anything else.
Winston S. Churchill

June 7, 1916 The Admiralty, London

Captain Murray Sueter cursed as he threw down the evening paper. The reporters were enthusiastic in their reports of the great naval triumph at Jutland. But, as head of the Royal Naval Air Service, all he could think of was how the whole operation had been botched. They had the German codes thanks to an MI6 agent and the code-breaking wizards in Room 40. The German High Seas Fleet had been at their mercy. But missed orders and miscommunication within both forces had blunted the superior force of the British Grand Fleet. Then low cloud and the hawkeyed scouting of Zeppelin airships had allowed the German fleet to scurry back to port at Wilhelmshaven.

The loss of British lives and ships far outstripped that of the Germans. It was a disaster, an opportunity for a clear-cut victory lost. The only consolation was that the German navy was bottled up in port and was unlikely to emerge any time soon. Those damn airships - if only they could find an answer to the Zeppelins. The Holy Grail, he thought with an ironic smile, remembering the challenge that his old boss, Winston Churchill, had given him over a year ago.

March 15, 1915, London

The First Lord of the Admiralty fumed in his seat as Admiral Fisher towered before him apoplectic with anger.

“That’s it. I resign. This is insanity, Churchill. It’s folly to ship all of those munitions across France. It’s too complicated. Too many things can go wrong. Nor can we send that many ships to the Bosphorus. It would leave our Atlantic fleet stripped and vulnerable.”

“Now, Jackie, be reasonable. The Prime Minister asked for a plan and we agreed. It is our duty both to our Russian allies and to our own boys in the trenches. We can’t just let our troops in Flanders chew on barbed wire for month after month. An attack through the Dardanelles, we’ll take Constantinople, break through to the Russians. It will loosen up this dreadful deadlock. It will work, I know it. Come now, man, we’ve got to see this through.” Even in everyday conversation, Churchill maintained a\the measured cadence that had made him a well-received public speaker.

“No, you can’t ease me round, not this time. You’ll have my resignation on your desk today before I leave.”

Admiral Fisher rose to his full impressive height and, marshalling his considerable dignity, left the room. Winston Churchill sighed heavily and turned to the man still seated at the table.

“That’s the fifth time he’s resigned in the last six months.” Churchill ran a hand over his thinning hair and reached for his trademark cigar smouldering in the ashtray. Soon, he was peering pensively through a cloud of blue smoke.

“What do you think, Sueter? Have I made an unforgivable blunder?”

Captain Sueter considered his words carefully.

“It’s an ambitious plan. It will require co-operation from the French and co-ordination among the commanders of many vessels. If all that comes together, it should work. I can’t see the Turks putting up that much of a fight.”

“Well, it’s my plan and it’s a good one. I’ll live and die by it, I suppose,” Churchill sighed as the haze of smoke grew thicker. “If only we could have managed the attack through the North Sea. But the German navy is still unchallenged in the Baltic and there are no surprise attacks with German airships dogging our every move. Those cursed Zeppelins; they’re even flying over London, terrorizing the populace, shaking our resolve.”

He turned a fierce frown toward his subordinate. “I told you when this war began I wanted a viable airship service. I gave you the resources, took over the existing airships from the Royal Flying Corps. What have you done with them? The Zeppelins soar over London and spy on our ships at sea. The cabinet asks me what we’re doing about it and I have no response for them,” He leaned forward, his bulldog jaw jutting toward his target. “I am not accustomed to having nothing to say.”

Murray Sueter felt like a rabbit frozen by the gimlet gaze of an attacking fox. His voice started on a squeaky note before settling into its normal baritone.

“Sir, we’ve been building dirigibles based on the design of the ones we purchased a few years before the war. Made some modifications as we’ve gone along, of course. They’ve been of great value spotting submarines in the Atlantic. They’re a non-rigid design, makes them a lot easier to store, but they don’t have the long-range or high-altitude capabilities of the rigid design like the Zeppelin airships that the Germans are building.”

“How many airships do we have now?”

“We have around 60 Submarine Scouts commissioned or about to be, only five of the larger dirigibles – the Parseval class.”

The First Lord of the Admiralty rolled the cigar in his fingers and stared pensively at the lengthy ash.

“Parsifal, the purest knight of King Arthur’s court, the man who found the Holy Grail,” Churchill mused.

“No sir,” the adjutant responded, confused. “August von Parseval, the German chap who designed it. Where we purchased our first airships.”

“I know that,” Churchill snapped, “Do you think I’d forget what kind of blasted aircraft we have? So, I ask you, why aren’t we building rigid airships if they are so bloody superior?”

“I’m afraid it’s because our prototypes have not been particularly successful. If only we had the schematics for the new Zeppelin design, we could build our own airships just as good as the German ones.”

“Then find me someone who can get their hands on those blueprints. An agent, a spy. Use Naval Intelligence. Or MI6. Don’t they have agents on the continent we can use? I tell you an answer to the Zeppelin could be our Holy Grail. Find me a Parsifal who can bring us this prize.

June 7, 1916, London

Captain Sueter tossed down the newspaper, its screaming capitals describing the ‘epic sea battle’, turned to the pile of naval intelligence reports and settled in for a long night of reading. Hours later, he pulled off his reading glasses and fisted his eyes then reread the paragraph that had caught his attention. Could it be that he had found his ‘Parsifal’? He reached for the telephone and dialled the number of the head of Naval Intelligence. As he heard ringing on the receiver, he glanced at his watch – it was after midnight. William Hall would be huffy about this unwanted call. A sharp sleep-filled voice could be heard through the static-filled connection. “Hall here.”

“Blinky,” said Sueter. “I need you to call your counterpart at MI6. I’ve got an idea.”

June 8, 1916, London

William Hall stood outside the office of the Secret Service Bureau, MI6 division. As he waited he was diverted by the comely young lady whose typewriter clacked briskly as she finished a report and cranked the page out of the machine. It was increasingly common to see women in these kinds of posts as more and more young men in the military went on active duty. Eventually his mind came back to the task at hand. Thank god there was close co-operation among the intelligence services of the oft-times rival army and navy; even Scotland Yard’s Special Branch contributed information. The secretary answered the buzz on the intercom, then turned to the waiting director. “Captain Cumming can see you now, Captain Hall.”

Hall entered and sat stiffly on the hard backed chair in Cumming’s office. After brief pleasantries, the Naval Director broached the subject at hand. His signature facial tic moved across his face as he made his proposition to his counterpart in Army Intelligence.

“I was reading the MI6 report on the Jutland affair. So that was your agent that sent most of the cipher information that led to Room 40 breaking the German codes?”

“Yes, she’s a good one;” the director responded affably, “Her information has been steady and useful. And now she’s the first operative we’ve had in Germany since 1914.”

“She? … a woman?”

Mansfield Cumming chuckled at Hall’s surprise. “You, of all people, should know women make the best agents. Men say things to a woman they wouldn’t mention to another chap.”

“So, she’s gotten the information through the use of, uh, pillow talk?” the naval captain blinked furiously, embarrassed to be so blunt.

The MI6 director smiled broadly. “I don’t ask, Hall. We just tell her who or what we want and leave it to her to find a way.”

“I just meant, um, that really wasn’t what I was looking for. Has she ever done any undercover work? Not….” He broke off, embarrassed, “Well, I mean …things like stealing papers, intercepting wire messages, breaking into secure areas, that kind of thing.”

“Well, actually, that was one of the reasons we recruited her. Rumour had it that, before the war, she might have been involved in a few ‘irregularities’ that involved stolen gems. Never proven, mind you, but she certainly ran with a rum bunch back then. But what we really found amazing was her skill with languages. She’s fluent in a dozen or more, you know. Maybe that ability also helps her discriminate vital information from the heaps of useless trivialities. I only know she’s shown an uncanny knack for getting into the right places and sending us what we need.”

Hall took a deep breath and launched into his plea, “I hope you’ll listen fairly to my request, Mansfield. I need this agent for a special assignment. We can’t do it without an operative in Germany. It’s vital to our defences.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible -for two reasons. You see, we have plans of our own for her. We need to feed false information to German intelligence, make them think she’s working for them. She’ll be perfect for the job. The other reason you can’t have her now is that she’s in Cairo at present.”

“Cairo?”

“Yes. Just tying up a few loose ends in Egypt. We needed to let things cool off a little in Germany before we begin this next phase. I suppose that was one good thing about the debacle in Jutland. It did remove suspicion that we had broken their codes. We might have lost her if all had gone well.”

“So will this woman be coming back to Germany?”

“Yes, sometime in August I should think.”

“Look, let us have her for a short while. If all goes well, she’ll be back with you in, say, a couple of months, maybe less. She need only acquire a copy of the plans for the new German airship and get it back to us, and then she’s done. And if she can’t get it, we’ll have her send whatever information she can gather by observation. What do you say, man? A couple of months, that’s all”

The man known as C sat back abruptly in his chair, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if seeking guidance there. He put his fingertips together to make an arch as he mulled over the request.

“All right, Blinky, two months. But I want her back. We need that woman.”

Chapter 3

The price of greatness is responsibility.
Winston S. Churchill

August 18, 1916 East Prussia

Friedrich Stolle leaned into the corner of his seat in the rail car. The tall Austrian watched a darkening view of the Prussian countryside slide past him as the train chuffed its way toward Berlin. He was one of only a few men on the car under fifty. Most passengers dozed as they rocked back and forth with the motion of the train. Stolle allowed his mind to drift back to the preparations that had led to his being here, an agent for Britain riding a train into the heart of Germany.

Stolle had been a visiting professor at Edinburgh University when the war had broken out. Placed in internment for some months, he had been approached by a nondescript fellow who turned out to be an MI5 agent. A long-time critic of Kaiser Wilhelm, the Austrian academic had willingly agreed to the operative’s plan that he enter into correspondence with old contacts in his homeland. These letters were given to MI5 in hopes that there would be information valuable to the Allies intelligence efforts. When Naval Intelligence was looking for a German-speaking agent to help with the ‘Holy Grail’ mission, Stolle seemed like an ideal candidate. Tall, lean and saturnine, the forty year old physics professor had the keen mind typical of his specialty and the fit body of a competitive fencer. He had spent two years in the military and remained a member of the Austrian reserves since that time.

In his pocket were papers identifying him as Friedrich Gerringer, an Austrian businessman selling engine parts. He had different papers when he was on board the Danish fishing boat churning through Baltic submarine wolf packs, but that I.D. was burned now, just as his real identity had been purged before he had left England. Now he was alone on a train with a coded message for Parsifal, a tenuous plan to infiltrate an airship factory and a couple of contacts who would hopefully smuggle him and the information out of Germany

The Austrian defector looked at the people around him. Most showed signs of privation. Clothing was drab and carefully repaired. The women appeared tired and worn; most were dressed in smocks, probably workers in the munitions factories. The children seemed little inclined to run around and clung close to their mothers.

The effects of the British naval blockade could be seen everywhere around him. Grocery stores had been closed or open far fewer hours in a day. New clothing was at a premium and houses showed the effect of the lack of materials.

Stolle wondered how his family was faring in these difficult times. His wife and two daughters lived in Saltzburg; his parents in Vienna. For months in England, he had waited eagerly for letters from them and perused newspapers for items from his homeland. A lump formed in his throat as he tried to picture what his young ones would look like after being away from them for two years. If this sketchy plan made the war even a single week shorter, it would be worth the risk.

Just before sunrise the train steamed into Lichtenberg Station in Berlin. People roused themselves from their slumber, picked up their bundles of belongings and stumbled off the train into the predawn light. Stolle shuffled out with them. He would have plenty of time to set up a meeting with the mysterious female agent now code-named Parsifal.

August 19, 1916

Marguerite walked into the small café. She had little knowledge of what was to come, only that it was important enough to pull her away from Colonel Nicolai. She had not seen the Secret Service head since her return from Cairo. She felt a guilty sense of relief; the colonel had been a cruel man and dangerously suspicious. Even the intrigue-filled streets of Cairo with its cut-throat crowd of lowlifes had seemed refreshingly benign after Berlin. She wondered who she would have to approach, to charm, or more likely, seduce this time. She felt a faint chill that it mattered so little to her now. Just another small sacrifice for king and country.

A tall man scanned the room as he entered. His face lit up as he saw her and, as he approached the table, he drew her hand to his lips.

“Liebchen. I’m sorry I am so late.” He leaned closer and his lips brushed by her cheek. “Parsifal?” he whispered.

“You must be Wagner,” Marguerite responded in code with a charming smile.

He sat down, leaned forward, elbows on the table to clasp both of her hands in his. This brought their heads close together and from any distance their whispered conversation looked like the exchange of two people very much in love.

“You understand our mission?” he muttered

“To steal the plans for an aeroplane,” she replied in a disbelieving tone. “That won’t be easy.”

“Not an aeroplane, an airship.”

“A Zeppelin?” Marguerite’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. “That’s a closely guarded secret. Unless you were right inside an airship factory…”

“A super-Zeppelin, actually, though we’ll take what we can get. And those are only being built in Dusseldorf.”

“So who am I to get this information from?”

“You don’t. You go in as a worker in the plant. See what you can, make notes, find out where the blueprints are kept. Then one of us will steal the schematics and get them to our contact.”

“Worker? Hold it right there, Herr Wagner. I’m supposed to pose as a worker in a factory? What am I going to do? I’m no mechanic.”

“There are lots of positions for women there, working with the rubberized envelope, putting together the frame. What skills do you have?”

“I can sew, I suppose,” the woman replied dubiously. “Would that work?”

“I’m sure the fabric would need to be sewn. Seamstress it is then. Start thinking like a factory girl. You need to be invisible for this to work. And I’m not sure in your case that is going to be possible.” He eyed her form with a professional air slightly tainted by the appreciative light in his dark eyes.

“Thank you, kind sir. I’ll take that to be a compliment,” the brunette replied in a faintly ironic tone of voice.

“Yes, well, just stating facts. When can we be off to Dusseldorf?”

“I need to clear with one contact, then I’m yours. Day after tomorrow?”

“Do you have the appropriate clothing for an aircraft factory?” he said, admiring the lovely cut of her obviously expensive dress.

“No, not really,” she replied in dismay.

“Don’t worry. I’ll pick up something suitably drab. Size 38?” he said.

“Ye-es,” she drew out the word, a little unnerved by his presumption.

“I’ll come by your room tomorrow, drop them off, if that’s all right? When should I arrive?”

“Oh, late afternoon should do. I’ll have seen Hermann by then. We can plan our departure.”

“Excellent. Good day, liebchen.”

“And what should I call you, liebling? Wagner seems a little…formal. Richard, perhaps?”

The woman’s wide eyes danced with mischief behind the adoring face she turned to her supposed sweetheart.

“Friedrich will do. And you?”

“Marguerite. Marguerite Schmidt.”

Friedrich Stolle bowed to once more place his lips on her hand and turned to leave the room, leaving the jaded spy a little dazzled in spite of herself.

August 20, 1916, Berlin

Stolle climbed the stairs to Miss Schmidt’s room, a paper-wrapped bundle beneath his arm. The apartment building had a solid middle-class pedigree but its furnishing had obviously been neglected recently. He knocked quietly at the dark wood door. It was quickly opened by his hostess and he was escorted to a sitting room and invited to recline in a tall armchair.

“A cup of tea?” the beautiful brunette offered politely. A note of tension lay behind her mild words.

“Thank you, yes. Here you are,” he said, proffering the dresses he had purchased.

She untied the string, unwrapped the plain serviceable smocks and held them before her, distaste showing in her every action.

“Thank you. They’re – lovely.” She tossed them over a chair without a second glance.

He watched as she pulled the kettle from the range and poured the boiling water into the pot. Her movements as she gathered up the tray were neat and accomplished. A becoming grace extended to even her smallest gestures. She looked up to notice his inspection and boldly caught his eye. With a provocative shake of her head, she said with a crooked smile.

“Do I pass muster?”

“Oh, undoubtedly, Fraulein Schmidt. And you’ll look very becoming in your new outfits.” He countered, nodding toward the discarded smocks. He was rewarded by a low laugh. She sobered as she poured the tea, then perched on the chair opposite.

“We have a problem, Herr Friedrich. My contact tells me the super-Zeppelins are under the tightest security possible at the base in Dusseldorf. There have been no new workers hired in the last six months. We could wait for another six months and still have no luck.”

Stolle cursed lightly under his breath and returned his teacup to its saucer.

“Damn, what are we going to do? We can’t wait that long.”

Marguerite watched the tall man fume for a moment, rather enjoying his display of frustration.

“However…” she paused until the man could wait no longer.

“Well, spit it out!” he finally snapped.

“The first of the new dirigibles have been shipped out to the bases in Belgium. They have been making flights over the English Channel for a few weeks now. And some, as one might expect, have been damaged on their missions.”

He eagerly followed her train of thought. “And they need to be repaired!”

“Exactly! And security is not as easily achieved in Belgium. The work force is more ‘unstable’ you might say. They could probably use a skilled worker soon.” Her eyes danced blue with excitement.

He laughed aloud at her mischievous delight. “Belgium it is, then. That’s going to throw off the plan substantially.”

The thought quietened them both. She thought feverishly. “I used to have contacts there. We could probably get the information out through them,” she offered.

“And I think my cover will hold up in Belgium.”

“What is your cover, Herr Friedrich?”

“My cover name is Gerringer. I’m an engine parts maker –own a company. Should get me through a few checkpoints.”

“Well, I hope you won’t have to test it until you are on the way out with the plans.”

He raised his teacup in salute, a twinkle in his dark blue eyes.

August 28, 1916 Evere Belgium

The bored secret agent continued to push the rubberized material through the massive industrial sewing machine. Meter after meter of fabric stretched before and behind Marguerite as it had first thing in the morning and would until late that afternoon. She stretched her aching shoulders and arched her neck. Ten other women were working at stations beside her, worn into silence by the monotonous work. The chatter of the machines lulled the reluctant seamstress into a reverie, her nimble fingers working the fabric through, almost on their own volition.

Marguerite had been working in the repair depot of the Evere air shed for three days. Her co-conspirator had paid one of the women who worked there a princely sum to find another position and Marguerite had appeared shortly after the girl had failed to show for work. Since that time she had seen little of the Zeppelins in the hangars; the depot was a little apart from the main building. She listened carefully to the gossipy conversation of her co-workers, but they were obviously unaware and unconcerned with the workings of the base other than an intense interest in some of the more handsome male workers in the mechanical department.

Each day she reported her findings to Stolle who had taken a room in another building. He spent his days collecting data on zeppelin flights, train movements etc, information that might prove useful in reports or in their escape. Each night, they would dine simply and then he would leave to avoid patrols enforcing the curfew. She would nod off soon after, unaccustomed to long days of physical labour. But the time they spent talking was pleasant time. Marguerite found herself looking forward to their dinners, a chance to talk about little things, amusing anecdotes from before the war, favourite meals, places she’d been.

It hadn’t been long before Friedrich had told her of his wife and children in Austria. It had not dulled her attraction to the man. So long had she used her sensuality as a practiced art, she had grown more and more insulated from her own feelings. With this man, though, she had no past, no future, only a brief respite from the roles that she played. But her fascination must be denied. It was personal and this was business.

August 30, 1916 Evere Belgium

As she sat at her station, the bored operative was startled from a daydream by a popping noise like a tyre blow-out. Suddenly her sewing machine became sluggish in its operation. All the women around her groaned and spoke out bitterly.

“No, not again.”

“The damned hydraulics again.”

“Where’s Marcel?”

“Where’s that damned Marcel?”

Marguerite turned to the girl next to her. “What happened?”

“Ah, the air hose from the basement has blown out again. Makes the machines too hard to use. We will fall behind in our production. Won’t get paid as much. They must find Marcel to go beneath the floor to fix it.” She gestured with a jerk of her chin to a trapdoor near the pallets that held heaps of fabric.

The curious brunette looked around the room. “Why can’t one of these other gentlemen fix the hose?”

The young worker shrugged. “They are too big. They can’t fit through the trapdoor; it’s too cramped down there.”

“Can’t one of the women fix it?”

“It’s very difficult and dirty. Not worth it.”

Marguerite sat back for five minutes then, her patience at an end, walked toward the large repairman with the toolbox standing over the open trap door.

“So how do you fix this thing?”

“Why do you want to know?” he replied defensively.

“Well, as I understand it, my wages depend on this machine working. I’ve fixed a few things in my time. Wouldn’t hurt to give it a whirl.”

“First you’ve got to go down in there. If you still want to try it, I’ll lower the tools to you. Take the lantern,” he directed as she eased her way through the opening and clambered down the ladder. She reached back up to grab the light.

Following the man’s directions and using her own native intelligence, she managed a creditable repair within fifteen minutes. Grimy and dust-streaked, she emerged from the cellar to a round of ragged clapping and cheers from her workmates. Looming above her was the grinning repairman who extended a hand to help her to her feet.

“You’re pretty good,” he said, in admiration. “Seem to know what you’re doing.”

The slim brunette looked in dismay at her dishevelled clothing “Don’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t want to be doing dirty work like this all the time.”

“You sure? I could use someone handy down at the air shed. Not mechanical work, just getting in and around some of the awkward areas in the Zeppelins. You’ve got skilled hands; you would learn quickly.” Noticing her doubtful look, he pressed on. “It would mean a raise in pay.”

“Well, in that case, say hello to your new girl Friday.”

“What?”

“I’d love to take the position. When do I start?”

“I’ll have to talk to Herr Guenther, but how about I show you the ropes after lunch break.” He tossed her a rag as he walked away. Marguerite smiled in triumph as she scrubbed the grease from her fingers. This day was getting much better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hope you’re not afraid of heights.”

The big repairman shouted up to Marguerite as she clung to a ladder propped against the curving frame of the tall airship. Afraid to look down, Marguerite flung a few scathing comments over her shoulder.

“Get to work,” he growled in mock anger.

“I can’t. I can’t let go of the ladder. I’ll fall and make a mess of your precious new airship.” Though she tried to keep her voice light and mocking, she could hear the shrillness of panic behind her words. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.

From below, she heard his deep rolling laugh. “You are afraid of heights! Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

And then, the newest recruit to the airship repair team was alone with her ladder and the task of strapping the new hydrogen packs into their slots along the frame. She reached out one tentative arm, her other hand clenched tightly to the rung at chin level, the ladder shaking with the quivering of her muscles.

But within an hour, she had mastered the task. She now reached out confidently with both arms, keeping her balance with her lower body pressed against the ladder. She had scaled and descended the steps any number of times. She called over her new friend to help her move the ladder. As he stabilized it she stuck out her hand in greeting “My name is Marie by the way.”

“I am Pieter.” He responded, his large paw enveloping her delicate hand.

“Well, thank you, Pieter, for moving the ladder and for finding me this new position. I owe you.”

He blushed a little and mumbled a quiet welkom as he went back to his own work.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hunched over a notebook at Marguerite’s table, Stolle furiously scribbled down information as Marguerite recited details of the layout of the new Zeppelin. She had paced off the length and width of the airship along the internal walkway. The oversized craft measured over six hundred feet long. Estimating from the series of ladders and scaffolding she had inched along that day, the dirigible had to be as much as 90 feet high at its highest point. Detail upon detail followed: placement of petrol tanks, crew’s quarters and bomb storage areas.

Stolle took no time to look up at his exhausted co-conspirator, her eyes closed to better visualize the layout she had committed to memory. The Austrian was anxious to return to his quarters well before curfew. He did not wish to encounter military patrols with such incriminating papers in his possession. Nervousness warred with excitement. Even if their plot to steal the blueprints fell through, the information in these pages would be invaluable for the RNAS and RFC defence forces facing squadrons of these new Zeppelins.

Cautious, he interrupted the stream of minutiae. “How can you tell it’s the new design? Is it just bigger?”

Her large gray eyes opened and slowly focused on his. “No, not just larger. It looks quite different. The bow is bigger and then it tapers down almost to a point at the stern. The gondolas are different too.”

“This is valuable information, Marguerite. You have an amazing eye for detail. I’ll set up a meeting tomorrow with our contact here. I’m going to use up my entire supply of invisible ink at this rate,” he smiled in admiration. “What are our chances of getting a copy of the plans?”

“Be patient, Herr Stolle, it’s a long way from a ladder in an airship to the inner sanctum of the engineer in charge. I’ll probably have toppled to my death long before I have a chance to find out where to look,” she grinned ruefully, remembering her first moments of terror hours earlier. “Give me a few days; I think I’ll have the lay of the land by then.”

The lanky professor glanced at his watch and unfolded his frame from the fragile chair on which he had been perched.

“I’d best be on my way. I want to avoid the patrols tonight, that’s for sure.”

Marguerite rose to see her partner to the door. His hand hesitated as it reached for the doorknob and he turned abruptly. The weary woman managed to stop just before she ran into him. He tilted his head down to look at her startled upturned face.

“You really are a wonder, you know. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.” His hand reached out to brush along her cheek and rested at her chin. He desperately wanted to kiss this mysterious, amazingly talented woman and his head bent towards her. He saw first bewilderment then yearning cross her face. A wave of guilt flooded through him. My god, he was a married man with children! This woman was an agent that he would only know for a few weeks. The fact that this was wartime was no excuse. A hot flush flooded his cheeks as he turned once again to the door, opened it and left with a hurried “Good night, fraulein.”

The wide-eyed brunette was still standing in consternation behind the closed door as the firm tread of his shoes faded down the corridor. For a moment, she had felt a tiny part of her lonely heart open up to emotion and the empty room seemed achingly solitary with regret now that the man was gone.

September 8, 1916 Evere Belgium

“So, all the charts are normally kept in the main floor office in a locked cabinet. There are two guards outside the main building and more along the perimeter of the fence. We need to find out what their night-time patrols are like.” Marguerite looked up from the sketch she had made of the floor plan of the air shed.

“I can do that. I’ll slip out to the countryside one day, stay overnight and return in the morning.” Stolle turned his face toward her from his position at her side where he had been absorbing her detailed plans for a break-in. The riveting regard of her eyes with their witch-like ability to shift from green to gray to blue distracted him once again from more serious business. He had just recovered himself from noticing the scratches and faint grease marks that marred her lovely hands, from thinking that such fine hands didn’t belong in an aircraft repair shop. And through it all the unsettling waft of the beguiling fragrance that she used filled his senses. He could barely restrain his hand from shifting her plait of hair from the shoulder where she had flipped it carelessly while thinking through a stage in their plans.

She recognized the look of open desire on his face and her body responded in kind. Wordlessly she reached up to pull his head down to hers, their lips searching for solace. His hands held her through the coarse cotton of her smock, her warmth inflaming him further. Marguerite’s hands were locked behind Stolle’s head, not allowing him to back away from her.

Driven by passion and loneliness, she pulled his body closer to hers. They stood like that, wild kisses and clinging arms the response of two lonely hearts to the first caring either had encountered in far too long a time. Eventually Marguerite relaxed her grip and leaned back far enough to raise her luminous eyes to his in trepidation. He bent to answer her question with a kiss, knowing that no words would make sense of their actions. The church bell tolled eight. Both agents tensed in dismay.

“My God, how could it have gotten so late?”

“We been busy and …distracted, I guess.”

“It will be dangerous for you to travel the streets tonight. Patrols are everywhere these days.”

“Well, I guess it’s fate then. I’ll have to stay here.” A crooked grin lifted his thin lips. She nodded in agreement. Then he kissed her again, this time more slowly, more deeply. The church bells were tolling midnight when they finally fell asleep in each other’s arms.

September 19, 1916, Evere Belgium

“No, it doesn’t work that way. I’ll be able to stay in the building after my workday is over. There is no need for you to break into the air base. It would be too dangerous -- for both of us.” Wide brows were gathered over the glittering green eyes of a very angry Marguerite Schmidt.

“This is nonsense. You can’t do this by yourself. Breaking into the office and stealing the plans is one thing but getting out of the building, across the field and through the fence is nearly impossible for one person; someone needs to watch for the patrols.”

“But if I’m caught alone, I’ll just convince them I was looking for money. That should put me in the hands of the civil authorities. It’s much easier to escape from a city jail than an army stockade.”

“Don’t tell me you have experience with such things?” he interjected, dismayed.

“There’s a great deal you don’t know about me, Herr Stolle. I have never been in a stockade but I have had the uncertain pleasure of a brief stay in a French jail in my youth. Given an opportunity, I expect I could make short work of a Belgian lock-up.”

The dark-haired physicist felt the anger drain out of him as he shook his head in amazement. What an astonishing woman she was, brimming with unusual talents and hints of a chequered past. This past few weeks had been crammed with stolen moments of pleasure, snatched from a hectic existence lived under the noses of a suspicious enemy. Both of them knew it was a fragile bubble doomed to burst in the urgent needs of their mission. But neither of them could find the strength to deny their hopeless passion.

As his anger cooled, he realized that part of his desire to accompany her on the mission was the protective instinct he had inherited from generations of chivalrous Austrian noblemen. Her sensible arguments ran counter to his emotions. He fumed wordlessly, pinned by the mocking gaze of her cool blue-gray eyes. Finally he hung his head in sadness and defeat.

“You’re right, I suppose. I’ll wait outside the fence at the north-east corner as you suggested. I’ll dig a tunnel below the fence. Come out there; I’ll take the blueprints. You make your way back to your room. I’ll stay in the woods overnight and hand the plans to our contact the next day. It’s the best plan. And I hate everything about it,” he spoke the last part softly. It was not intended for her ears.

Chapter 4

Courage is rightly esteemed the first of human qualities …because it is the quality which guarantees all others.
Winston S Churchill

September 21, 1916 Evere Belgium

In the ghostly darkness of the air shed, Marguerite sat huddled on the floor in the parts storeroom waiting for the last of the cleaners to leave the building to the mice and to her. It had been relatively simple to turn back at the end of her shift claiming that she had left her hat in the cloakroom. From there she had slipped away to the storeroom and waited with waning patience for five hours.

She checked the pocket watch she had purchased for the occasion, its large hands visible in the faint glow of the shrouded light bulb. The patrol should be passing by this area within the next ten minutes. As soon as they were past, it would be time to make her way to the engineer’s office. The apprehensive agent, her heart hammering as she heard muffled voices approach, saw the shaft of light from their torches glancing off the bench and ceiling of the storeroom.

She shrank further into her dark corner, breathing easier when the sound of footsteps faded as the soldiers rounded the corner. Marguerite rose to her feet and crept to the door, easing it open a crack. Greeted by silence, she stepped into the main area of the hangar, the giant shape of the airship soaring above her, its bulk lost in the gloom of the upper reaches of the air shed. She made her way silently across the floor in stocking feet, her shoes in hand.

As she neared the engineer’s office, she paused and reached into the small knapsack she had brought with her, drawing out a pry bar. She jiggled its tip until it was below the hasp of the latch barring entry to the office. With practiced ease, she quietly levered the metal from the wood of the door. The skilled thief then slid a knife point along the door frame and pushed back the lock. Within a minute she was in the office, the door closed behind her.

Checking that the blackout curtains were drawn, she flipped on the light. . The resourceful operative moved to the tall cabinet in the corner of the room. The lock provided little resistance to the force of her crowbar, but creaked alarmingly as the screws pulled out of the resisting wood. Marguerite froze, her heart hammering as her ears strained for the sounds of approaching footsteps. All remained quiet.

Reassured, she pulled the cabinet gently open. The interior was strewn with a sheaf of papers, heaps of blueprints and a bottle of Amontillado sherry. The jittery Englishwoman was sorely tempted to have a swallow of the liquor to calm her frayed nerves, but instead turned her attention to the blueprints. There appeared to be plans for several different types of airships and it took her a little time to find the one that reflected the distinctive shape of the super-Zeppelin on which she had been working a few weeks ago.

Folding it up, she stuffed the bulky paper in her knapsack and closed the cabinet behind her. She pulled out a tube of wood glue, coated the screws and put the lock and hasp back in place. With any luck, the cabinet would look undamaged during a cursory inspection

With urgent speed, she crossed the room and slipped into the chair behind the desk. With just a twist of her penknife she forced the locks on the drawers, flipped through the contents, gleaning a few documents that looked useful. A small metal lock-box in the bottom drawer caught her eye. She pulled it out, levered the tip of her knife under the lock and carefully pried it open.

She was rewarded by the discovery of a small cache of German and Belgian currency. Disdaining the German marks she stuffed the Belgian cash in her bodice, closed the box and replaced it in the drawer. Placing her pry bar in the sack, she picked up her shoes and, with great caution, left the office.

Before she turned out the light she confirmed that she still had ten minutes before the soldiers would complete their patrol around the perimeter. Soon she melted into the darkness of the hangar, gliding to the side door that led most directly to her planned escape route. The cautious intruder stopped outside the entrance to slip her feet into her shoes then jogged forward, crouched low to avoid detection.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a warm evening. Friedrich Stolle lay flat in the grasses just outside the fence and surveyed the compound anxiously for any sign of a slim figure moving toward him. He had created a shallow gap below the fence that would allow his co-conspirator to slip swiftly through. It had been a quiet wait. The patrols had passed exactly as his surveillance had shown they would; the German military was very precise.

His restless examination of the base was disturbed by the faint sound of an engine droning nearer. He tried to determine the source of the noise when he was struck with realization. It was an aeroplane! He could only hope that it was returning to its base for, if it were an Allied ship on a bombing raid, all hell would break loose on the base.

His worst fears were realized. He could hear shouts and movements as troops moved to the anti-aircraft guns. The spot-light was activated and stabbed through the night skies. Stolle frantically searched the compound for any sight of a fleeing woman. Without thought, he dove beneath the fence, wriggling through the hole fashioned for a smaller form. On hands and knees he worked his way closer to the towering mass of the air shed.

Marguerite had been partway to the fence when the defensive force deployed. She threw herself to the ground, motionless as patrols rushed to their posts. Her mind reviewed options frantically yet with cool control. To continue to the fence was foolhardy. It was just too far. Perimeter patrols would be intensified. If Stolle had any sense he’d had left already. God, she hoped he was gone.

Turning her mind from hopeless speculation, she began to plot her own survival. It would be certain death if she were apprehended with the plans on her person. Since she had a slight chance that the blueprints might not be missed for a while, Marguerite needed to secrete them somewhere. Then the fugitive could make her way back to a quiet corner and try to hide out until she could slip out to join her shift next morning.

As she glanced furtively about she spotted a building close by, the depot where she had first worked. The Englishwoman snaked through the grass and used her penknife to force the lock on the door. In minutes she was inside and running across the floor to the trap door near the pallets. The agile woman hoisted up on the latch and, leaning in from the waist, stuffed the knapsack between a pipe and the floor joists. Content that the bag would be relatively difficult to discover, she closed the door and rolled to her feet.

In an instant she was out of the depot and heading back to the air shed. Small blasts of explosion rocked the tarmac. The aeroplane was dropping its bombs. The sound of anti-aircraft fire crumped in the darkness. The searchlight flickered through dark skies, finally picking out the aircraft. At that moment the little biplane turned tail and flew away. The defensive fire lapsed as their target moved out of range. Marguerite, wraith-like in the dark, sprinted across the open concrete area outside the hangar.

She heard a startled shout, guttural in German, “What was that? Who goes there?” Filled with desperation and fear she accelerated as she neared the air shed. A couple of rounds of rifle fire imbedded themselves in the wooden frame of the building ahead of her. They must be close behind. She veered, heading for the greater darkness of the surrounding fields. Rifle fire from above spattered into the concrete around her. She lost her balance and fell heavily forward. She lowered her shoulder and rolled along the concrete.

She regained her feet, only to fall once more to her knees. Something was wrong with her left leg; it wouldn’t hold her weight. She looked fearfully behind her. The soldiers were almost upon her. She raised her hands and stood up, her weight on her right leg, the other beginning to throb miserably as she felt a warm gush of blood sliding down her calf and into her shoe.

“I surrender!” she called out. “Please, don’t shoot.”

Stolle jumped to his feet as he saw his comrade tumble to the ground. Torn between his feelings for the fallen woman and his duty to the cause, he hesitated. If she were dead, he must go. If she lived, he would give his life for her freedom. His heart soared as she rose to her feet. He ran toward her.

The two German riflemen were upon Marguerite in an instant. One took her arm in a rough grasp, twisting it up behind her, dragging a reluctant scream from her throat. The other rudely searched her, checking for weapons. Finding the penknife, he backhanded her across the face.

“What were you up to, heh?” the man was triumphant with dissipating fear. “Trying to steal something? Or maybe you’re a spy.” Holding his pistol near her face, he groped inside her bodice and wrenched his hand out, filled with Belgian francs. “You thieving bitch!” he growled, thrusting the money into her face then putting it in his pocket.

Marguerite stood on her tiptoes to avoid having her shoulder wrenched out of its socket. Her injured leg quivered in agony trying to maintain the awkward position. Her mind raced to put together a plan that would allow her to live another few minutes.

Suddenly beyond the shoulder of the gloating soldier she caught a glimpse of movement. To her horror it was Friedrich, running flat out at her attackers. The anguished woman heard a grunt of alarm from the soldier behind her and the grip on her arm relaxed. Stolle had been spotted. Her arm was released. Behind her she heard the bolt of the man’s rifle loading a shell into the chamber. The man facing her followed the gaze of his fellow and began to pivot. Sensing the tragedy that was about to happen, she screamed shrilly. “No, Friedrich, no. Go! Run!”

The love-sick physicist paused than slowly, regretfully turned and ran. Relying on old street skills, Marguerite smashed her heel down on the instep of the soldier behind her them slammed her head back against his face. She felt the crack of his jaw against her skull followed by a thump as he pitched backward to the ground. She launched her shoulder into the ribs of the remaining soldier, knocking him sideways as he tried to fire at the escaping Austrian.

He missed the shot and turned his attention to the spitfire beside him. As she took another swing at him, he deflected her blow with his rifle. Then, reaching out with his free hand he tangled his fingers in her long hair and flung her away from him. Marguerite stumbled and fell to the ground. She scrambled awkwardly back to her feet; her eyes riveted to the weapon in the soldier’s grasp and, beyond that, the running figure of the man who was her lover. Two limping steps she took, one too few to disrupt the aim of the rifleman. He fired once, twice. The figure quivered, took one more step then tumbled to the ground in a rolling heap.

“No! No!” Heedless of the danger, the distraught spy grabbed at the weapon held by the soldier. He ripped it away from her grasping hands and brought the rifle stock sharply down on the crown of her head. Marguerite slumped to the ground unconscious. The cautious guard leveled his weapon at the woman’s sprawled figure. Tears shone wet on her ghostly cheeks in the faint light of the cloud-covered moon.

September 22, 1916 Evere Belgium

Marguerite awoke to the nudge of a gun barrel pushing at her chin. Her eyes flew open in alarm. Her gaze travelled up the length of the pistol, along the arm that held it, to the deep brown eyes in the long face behind it.

“Wake up, fraulein. I must talk with you.”

The fragile agent tried to raise herself to a seated position, but gasped when the low throb in her calf flared in fierce painful protest.

“Yes you have a nasty gash there, shrapnel. A concrete piece or a ricochet I suppose. The doctor stitched it up, though I don’t know why. You’ll be in front of a firing squad before too long.”

The prisoner turned wide fearful eyes upon her captor.

“Huh? All I did was take a few francs. Things are tough these days. Since when do you get shot for giving in to a little temptation?” The linguist’s accent and argot mimicked that of someone from the Belgian criminal underworld. The jailer behind the German officer snorted a response. “Sounds like you got yourself a thief not a spy.”

An hour more of questioning did not shake the woman from her belligerent denial of espionage. Claiming she’d stayed after her shift to see if she could pick up something valuable to sell, seeing the strongbox the desperate woman had given in to the urge to take the cash within. She repeated her story over and over as her interrogator became louder with frustration. Finally about four in the morning the German officer stood and addressed the Belgian policeman in an aggravated voice.

“It’s still a few hours until the engineer arrives at the base. I propose we leave this woman in your custody, until he has an opportunity to make a thorough search of the building. If she is a spy, we will take her into our custody in Brussels. If not, we will leave her in your hands for a civil trial. I will return later today.”

The officer left the Belgian policeman alone with the injured prisoner. He noticed that she was a very attractive woman beneath her accumulated smudges and bruises.

“Get some sleep,” he advised. “You look like you need it.” The sergeant left the cell and returned to the front office.

Marguerite’s shoulders slumped despondently. Stolle was dead. When the officer told her the dreaded news she had almost lost the heart to keep up the pretence. When asked about Stolle, she said only that he was her lover, an accomplice in her theft. He had been there to help her get through the fence and make her escape. Only those layers of self-preservation she had built her entire life kept her in the role of two-bit thief. Tears rose to her eyes and splattered on her grimy clothes. Slowly she raised her head and scrubbed away the tears with an angry hand. There was no more time to mourn. She was alone now. Love had been a foolish caprice that had cost Friedrich his life. Escape was her sole concern now. She had only a faint hope of saving her own life.

The prisoner levered her shoe from her right foot. Glancing at the door to the office, she worked one nail in the bottom of the heel against the frame of the cot on which she sat. The task would have been much easier if she still had possession of her penknife. With painstaking effort, the nail was removed and the heel twisted to one side to reveal a small receptacle holding two delicate metal tools. She removed them and hobbled to the cell door.

Even with expert manipulation, it took many minutes until the lock picks did their work. Finally she heard the satisfying click of the release of the latch. She crept to the connecting door to the office and peered through the barred opening. The careless policeman, underestimating his catch, had not even bothered to lock the door. She could see the man alone at his desk, writing reports in a slow longhand, reaching often to refill the nib with ink. She eased the door open then crossed the distance between them in a lurching run. She was behind him before he heard her footsteps and had a grip around his neck with one arm, her other hand clamped over his mouth. Increasing pressure on nerves and windpipe reduced the jailer to unconsciousness. She found handcuffs on his wall, shackled his hands behind his back, gagged him with his own handkerchief and dragged him back to the cell, leaving his sprawled figure on the floor.

Marguerite returned to the office and debated her next move. If she went out in the streets, she could not afford to attract attention. It soon would be daylight. A brief survey of her condition filled her with dismay. The hem of her skirt was splattered with dried blood from her leg wound. Her blouse was torn at the left shoulder and bloodied from the scrapes received during the hard fall she’d taken earlier on the concrete apron.

She searched the room and was rewarded by the discovery of a suit of clothing hanging on the coat rack. The jailer was not much taller than herself though he was a good deal rounder. Donning the voluminous shirt and pants, she shrugged on the suit jacket and returned to the cell to wrestle the boots off the unconscious man’s feet. Luckily they were oversized as she eased one over her bandaged calf. Swirling her hair into a tight knot, she tucked all the tendrils she could into the man’s fedora. Finding an umbrella in the stand, she exited the jail as confidently as she could, hoping that any glance would merely show a businessman getting an early start on his day.

Leaning heavily on her makeshift cane, she struggled along the street. She made it back to her room without incident. Using a small knife she had commandeered from the jailer, she broke in and swiftly picked up one of her smocks to don. She paused, one again swamped by grief as she recalled the day Stolle had purchased them for her, his mocking humour when she had tossed them aside. Startled that she was standing immobile, holding the dress to her face, she tore off her oversized outfit and slipped into the more familiar dress. Removing the boots exposed a blood-soaked bandage. Her brisk walk had stretched the stitches and opened the wound. She paused to replace the bandage with one she fashioned from a cotton skirt. Her long skirt would cover the bandage, but a blood-stained hem would surely give her away.

During her escape from the jail, Marguerite had reviewed her options. She could commandeer a vehicle or throw herself on the mercy of old contacts she had made in her last sojourn in Evere in hopes they could help her escape. But a nagging frustration that their planned theft had come so close to success had her mulling over a daring alternative.

If she returned to the air shed, she might be able to retrieve the stolen plans, then stow away in one of the supply trucks that were constantly entering and leaving the base. If she did it, she must go right away; it would soon be time for her shift to go on duty and she was a long way from the base. With one last thought to her dead partner, she resolved to go through with her plan. It might give some measure of meaning to the death of a good man. It would honour Friedrich’s memory if she could get the plans back to England.

Marguerite created a pack from a large kerchief. She included a change of clothes, a few provisions, her new knife and the last of her Belgian money. It could be a while until she found her way to safe territory. Tying a kerchief over her head, she left her room, and descended the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing. As she entered the street she realized her leg would not bear the strain of the long walk without ripping out the stitches.

She cast her eye around the neighbourhood and limped over to a bicycle leaning against the wall of a nearby building. Soon she was coasting down the slight hill that led to the air base. She dismounted as she reached the gate, leaning on the handlebars for support as she entered the compound. She responded with a brief wave to the cheery greeting of the Belgian man signing in the workers. She split from the main group of workers and pedalled to the repair depot. She approached in trepidation. If there were workers there already, she would have a difficult time recovering the hidden knapsack.

Reaching the door, she was relieved to find it locked. Once again she slipped her knife along the jamb until she heard the lock release. As fast as her injured limb would carry her, she crossed the floor to the trapdoor, flung it open and reached into the darkness below to retrieve her prize. Marguerite paused to stuff her package inside the knapsack. Slinging it over her shoulder, she was out of the depot in minutes. The shaky foreign agent retrieved her bicycle, slowly walking toward the lorries in the yard, her heartbeat easing up from its trip hammer rate. With just a little luck she might actually escape to live a little longer.

But as she approached the motor pool, her heart fell. The yard was thick with patrols; she could see increased activity around the main hangar as well. There would be no chance to approach either unseen. Leaving the bicycle against the building she turned instead to the main airfield where six airships sat tethered hovering above the grass field. There was a slim chance that she could cross the field to the fence opposite. It was the most inaccessible corner of the station abutting a deep ravine and the least likely to be guarded.

As she passed under one of the monster airships, her painful progress was halted when she saw a patrol heading directly toward her. Glimpsing a ladder alongside, she pulled her way up into the main gondola. From there she mounted the interior steps until she stood on the roof of the metal cabin. Above her a duralumin ladder led to the main body of the dirigible. Fortunately, it was the super-Zeppelin that she knew so well from her repair work. She was aware of the numerous nooks in which she could hide until this fever of activity died down. Perhaps at night she could find a way to dig under the fence and begin the treacherous quest for a way to send off the plans and save her own life. But for now she needed a refuge to hide her aching body and soul.

She stumbled along the metal walkway, suffused with pain with every step. Finally she reached the bomb storage area beyond the crew’s quarters and dragged herself into a small dark corner. She plumped her knapsack into a pillow, curled up in a miserable ball and soon drifted into a nightmare world of dreams.

Henri Pontneuf remained on his hands and knees cursing and threatening Marguerite. She stood above him, the wood of the walking stick smooth in her hand. On its end was a massive silver knob in the shape of a cobra. It glittered in the faint glow from a distant streetlight. Her hands tensed. She had a moment of absolute clarity. She would kill her husband. She had such high hopes when she had married a millionaire. Wealth would bring her beautiful things, put an end to her hand-to-mouth existence, the shame of her nameless birth, and maybe even fill that emptiness within.

The distraught woman was startled to see tendrils of fog fill the alley, so swiftly that within a minute the muttering figure of Henri was hidden from her sight. A deep melodious voice came from directly behind her.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Marguerite wheeled at the sudden intrusion. “Who…?”

“My name is Beau. I’ve met you at the promenade. I sell my art there.”

Marguerite gathered the wisps of her concentration. The fog cleared briefly to show a brawny middle-aged man with longish unkempt hair dressed in a cheap cotton painter’s smock. He looked like nothing other than some medieval friar.

“Of course, modern art, right?” Marguerite had a sense that the man was familiar. The artist nodded slowly.

“Just leave him, Marguerite. Your destiny is not here. It’s time for you to move on.”

The confused woman gave up trying to make sense of the man’s cryptic comments.

“You must have me confused with some other art lover.”

“No, I know you, Marguerite. I know the emptiness you feel. I know that you are driven by something you don’t understand. It’s time for you to take the first step in your journey.” The artist’s vague pronouncements triggered a defensive reaction in his audience.

“Now, I don’t know what you might have overheard or thought you saw but...”

The artist faced the woman through the thinning fog, palms up in a posture of entreaty.

“Please, Marguerite. Just leave us here. I’ll take care of your husband. Go now. The rest will reveal itself in time.”

He held her eyes with his and reached out an open hand. Without really knowing why, she placed the walking stick in his palm. The fog settled in again. She walked toward the main street. Her last dim view was of the strange artist bent over her husband. He resembled a Druid priest about to make a human sacrifice.

The disoriented woman awoke with a start, the vision fresh in her mind. What a strange dream! It was the night her husband had died but where had the Bohemian artist come from? It was not at all what had happened that night but it seemed so real. She snapped back to reality to realize that the sound that had wakened her was the clang of booted steps on the walkway.

She pulled out her pocket watch to discover that she had overslept her planned time to escape. Now it sounded as if an entire crew was aboard and she felt motions that led to a dreadful conclusion. The Zeppelin was about to take flight. There was no escape now. The unwilling stowaway was along for the ride. Nothing to do but wait it out. Maybe she could make her escape upon the airship’s return to base.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There really was little sense that she was thousands of feet above land. The air crew had settled into their flight; the sound of jokes and card-playing drifted into her distant crevice. Once an airman had come to check the load of bombs, but had left satisfied after a cursory glance at the cargo. As the hours went by, the temperature cooled precipitously. Marguerite shivered, her breath visible in the dim light.

The secret agent was increasingly aware that this armada must be targeting England. They were rising to fly above the patrolling aircraft. It was going to get cold in her corner, very cold. With clumsy fingers she fumbled open her knapsack and pulled out her change of clothes and spread them over her. She came upon the food she had packed and was surprised to find that her stomach was knotted with hunger. It was a shock to recall she had last eaten over thirty-six hours earlier.

The stowaway ate greedily; the meal was not nearly enough to satisfy her hunger, but it allayed that sick faintness she had been feeling. She made a crude shelter out of the knapsack and kerchief and wrapped her arms around one knee. Her left leg extended before her still throbbing with pain. Marguerite dreaded the moment that she would have to use it to bear her weight.

For hours, the suffering agent endured the ever-increasing cold. Wracked by shivers, her chattering teeth kept a rhythm of misery. She gasped to get oxygen from the thin air of the upper atmosphere. Her thoughts were reduced to the single overwhelming need to get enough air to survive. She began to hallucinate, fantastical scenes prancing across her vision as if they were real. Friedrich Stolle’s strong hand reached to caress her cheek. Finally, she slumped to the side, unconscious from anoxia. The airship flew on.

Chapter 5

Nothing in the world is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.
Winston S. Churchill

September 23, The coast of England

Marguerite sat up with a start. The metallic sounds of moving men rang through the bomb storage area. She had visitors! The fugitive caught a glimpse of about ten soldiers loading bombs onto a cart and rolling it out through the entrance. The airship must have descended to begin its attack on its target. A splitting headache remained a reminder that lack of oxygen had led to a spell of unconsciousness.

The silence in the crew’s quarters raised her curiosity. She ran her hands back along the supporting frame to push herself to a stand. She stood on one leg, reluctant to put her left foot on the ground. She was in pitiful condition; her scrapes and bruises had stiffened to a painful tautness. She stood there, her leg dangling, scorning the weakness that kept her motionless.

Self-reproach finally spurred her into action. She put weight on her injured leg, ignoring the scream of lacerated muscle. Haltingly she stumbled out of her refuge and tottered along the walkway. Her mobility increased with action and her various aches and pains subsided into a general sense of soreness. A little more fluid in her movements, she entered the deserted crew’s quarters.

The desperate Englishwoman searched through the men’s belongings looking a weapon she could use. Suddenly the fabric of the aircraft was stitched with small holes. Bullets clanged into the support frame and whined off at different tangents. Marguerite ducked under the scant cover of the crew’s hammocks. The airship was being fired upon.

As the damage had come from the side it was obviously a fighter plane emptying its machine gun into the skin of the Zeppelin hoping to set off a spark that would ignite the volatile gas or at least damage enough hydrogen packs to bring down the airship. The attack continued. More holes appeared along the fabric. The hiss of escaping hydrogen increased the danger that even a single spark would turn the airship into a ball of fire that would light up the night skies above southern England. A wild desperate plan began to formulate in the trapped spy’s imaginative mind. She needed a weapon.

She tore her way through metal lockers strapped along the airship’s frame. Finally she found one full of small arms holstered in gun belts. She grabbed one and cinched it around her waist, then slung a couple of pistols and ammunition belts over her shoulder. Moving gingerly nearer the gaping hole that led down to the gondola, she ducked her head through the opening. Her kerchief was ripped back by the buffeting winds. The blackness of the night was broken only by the flash of the little aeroplane as the pilot doggedly buzzed past the airship. She descended partway down the ladder and paused.

Marguerite Schmidt was suspended ten feet above the gondola even in elevation with the aft engine twenty feet away from her. The airship must be lower now; she could hear the thump of anti-aircraft fire and noticed larger holes being ripped through the envelope of the dirigible. A metallic rattle could be heard as the heavier calibre weapon tore into the aluminium alloy of the cabin below her. She clung to her perch in terror until the airship passed over the battery and the anti-aircraft fire faded away. She braced herself against the ladder, her familiarity with this craft a vital component of her unlikely scheme.

Marguerite could barely conceive of the audacity of her plan. She was going to try to bring down the flagship of the German Zeppelin fleet on British soil. And she intended to do it with small arms fire and with the unknowing assistance of a few British home defence aviators who were circling the monster aircraft like angry hornets. She held her pistol along the ladder and began to fire at the aft engine.

Luckily the airmen had been issued semi-automatic weapons and she could fire until she needed to reload. Awkwardly she took another magazine from the ammunition belt and reloaded the pistol. Her weight borne completely by her right leg, her left wrapped around the ladder, she could feel her muscles shaking in exhaustion. The pistol overheated with the constant firing and she flipped it into the night. Her efforts seemed to have little effect, most shots deflected off the cowling of the engine.

She pulled out a second weapon and emptied it into the engine. She heard a hesitation in the engine and suddenly the cowling was blackened by a spray of oil. She grinned in triumph as the engine cut out completely and the airship wallowed slightly as it dipped in its flight. The saboteur saw crew members swarm down the ladder to the aft engine room intent on repairing the damage. One of the attacking aeroplanes flew so close she could see the expression on the pilot’s goggled face. She recognized with dread that he was targeting her position.

Fright gave the exposed woman unexpected daring. She removed her hands and feet from the rungs and slid down the sides of the ladder, landing with a thud on the topside of the cabin. Unable to bear the impact on her injured leg, she ended up sprawled on her back on the slippery metal gondola roof. As the airship yawed to one side, she found herself slithering helplessly to the edge of the cabin. Her flailing hands grasped a control cable and she stopped her momentum, her legs already dangling over the edge. She pulled herself back onto the roof and lay there, dead-tired from exertion and panic

At that moment, the hatch to the cabin opened and a head could be seen looking anxiously toward the aft engine. He shouted down to people within the cabin. Marguerite overheard the urgency in his warning. Predawn light showed the gray landscape below them. It appeared alarmingly close below the wallowing airship. Miles before her she spotted the steel-gray expanse of the North Sea. Knowing that captains of German airships had standing orders to ditch their crafts at sea rather than let them fall into enemy hands, she could only hope that their precipitous descent would assure a dry landing. The sinking craft drifted over treetops and open fields.

Suddenly the forward gondola caught in the branches of a huge elm tree. The wounded airship heeled over until the underside of the bow crashed into the open field before it. With the shrieking of bent and protesting metal and rivets the Zeppelin came to a sudden stop. Marguerite was wrenched loose of her grasp on the steering wire. She was flung free of the gondola, tumbling twenty feet through the air before landing heavily in a plowed field.

Stunned and breathless, she lay there gasping as the main body of the dirigible continued to crumple into the ground. The helpless woman was pressed into the earth by the envelope of the aircraft. The stifling fabric impeded Marguerite’s already urgent attempts to breathe.

Blackness from her heavy shroud matched the darkness creeping in from her oxygen-starved body and she briefly lost consciousness. As its forward momentum ceased, the buoyancy of the airship’s design allowed the airbag to rise and hover once more above the gondola. Left lying face-down on the dark earth, the debilitated operative desperately gasped for breath.

The gondola door opened and disgorged the aircrew. The men, battered after the rough landing but basically unharmed, clustered in agitation. The officers debated what they should do as they spotted lorries filled with troops approaching along the roadway. Their duty to their country demanded the destruction of their beloved Zeppelin. The loss of the L33 would be a blow to the airship service, but not as serious as the catastrophe of having a functioning new airship fall into the hands of the enemy.

Resolved, the captain sent most of the men out of harm’s way, then created an incendiary device of cloth and oil. The first officer tossed the flaming object on top of the gondola then ran for cover. The firebomb burned eagerly as they tensely waited behind a stone fence for the escaping hydrogen to ignite.

The bedraggled woman wearily raised her head in surprised relief that she had not been crushed by the metal frame of the airship. Shakily she rolled to a sitting position to take inventory of her situation. Above her loomed the nose of the airship, blotting out most of her view. She swivelled her aching head to view the gondola, to see if she had been spotted by the escaping air crew. With alarm she saw the flames licking up toward the bullet-ridden airbag and understood her imminent danger.

The injured operative rose to her feet and tottered forward. Terror gave her the will to break into a shambling run. She came out from under the shadow of the airship and, lit by the first light of dawn, staggered forward. Her progress was slowed by the thick earth clinging to her feet, sapping her strength with every step.

With a blaze like a new sun, the hydrogen caught fire. A series of explosions moved from the centre of the ship to the ends –over six hundred feet of hydrogen-filled fabric incinerating in an instant. Marguerite was slammed into the ground by a wall of hot air. She lay there, sobbing with exhaustion in the shadow of a stone fence, listening to the crackle of the fire consuming all the flammable parts of the airship and the stately elm which imprisoned it. Sounds dissolved into silence as the woman, no longer driven by the imperative need for survival, slipped into unconsciousness.

September 23, 1916 Essex England

The British soldiers leapt from their trucks and cautiously approached the German airmen whose arms were in the air, clear in their desire to be captured rather than killed. They were soon taken into captivity. The patrolling soldiers spread further out searching the wreckage for more members of the air crew. The commanding officer shouted out “Don’t touch anything. Everything must remain as it is until the people are here from the Admiralty.”

Minutes later, a patrolling soldier came across a limp figure beside the stone wall of the farmer’s field. Fearing a farm girl had been killed in the crash, he ran to her side. She lay face-down, a tattered and blackened knapsack on her back. Her plain dress was rucked up to her knees, exposing a blood-soaked bandage on one leg. Dreading what he would discover, he rolled over the unresisting frame. A pale mud-covered face tracked with tears met his gaze. He put fingers along her delicate neck. There was a pulse. Rapid and shallow perhaps but still she was alive. The dirty Huns hadn’t managed to kill this British girl!

He checked for further injuries. She was scraped and bruised wherever her skin was exposed but there didn’t seem to be any serious bleeding. Her limbs appeared unbroken though he hadn’t had the effrontery to look beyond what he could see without touching the unconscious woman. The warm-hearted soldier gently picked her up and carried her to the first aid wagon that had accompanied their patrol.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marguerite sneezed and coughed, trying to escape the hand that had an iron grip on the back of her head. An awful acrid aroma drove into her skull. She raised her hand to push the offensive odour away from her.

“Easy now, miss,” the cultured tones of a deep English voice spoke reassuringly. “You’re safe now.”

The eyes of the dazed agent flew open, seeing before her the kindly face of a middle-aged man in uniform, a Red Cross on his sleeve, a bottle of ammonia in his hand. She scarcely dared to believe that her lunatic plan could have succeeded. Could she be safe right now in the hands of an English medical officer? She struggled to a seated position, fighting nausea. Her efforts were made even more difficult by the fact that she had been lying on a stretcher just inches off the ground.

“Whoa, best be careful, miss. You’ve got lumps and bumps all over your noggin,” piped up the orderly who was leaning against the ambulance.

“Yes,” added the doctor, “I wouldn’t doubt that you have a concussion. Probably a nasty headache, right?”

Marguerite nodded carefully. “Um-hm,” she responded guardedly, choosing not to mention that she had been nursing a raging headache from the time she had awakened from her bout of altitude sickness.

“Look, could I speak with your commanding officer. I have some information…” The officer frowned in puzzlement. What would a farm girl have to tell the captain?

“Well, of course, miss but he’s very busy right now, the folks from the Admiralty have arrived.”

“All hush-hush, you know,” the orderly added excitedly. “We’ve never had one of those big Zeppelins crash here, you know. This is a red letter day, you’d best believe that.”

“Who’s here from the Admiralty?” the anxious patient broke in.

The doctor’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Are you from around here, miss?”

“Yes, of course, but I saw something as the ship came down. I think it might be important. I should tell someone.” The phoney Miss Schmidt was thankful that her ability to think on her feet had not been damaged by the repeated bouts of unconsciousness she had suffered in the past two days.

“Well, I saw Captain Sueter; he’s the head of the whole Air Department of the Royal Navy and the man with him,” he leaned forward confidentially, “I think he’s the head of Naval Intelligence. I wouldn’t be surprised.” He nodded his head toward the field behind Marguerite. “That’s got to be a tremendous coup for our side. We’ll find a way to destroy those filthy Zeppelins once we figure out how they work.”

She turned in discomfort to see what the medical officer was pointing to. The blackened frame of the super-Zeppelin rose above the field. The nose looked as if the skin could be stretched over it tomorrow, but in the middle the heat from the fire had twisted the metal so much that the whole frame had fallen in on itself. A fleeting sense of disappointment crossed her mind as she saw the destruction caused by the air crew. If only she had been able to stop them from setting fire to the craft, the prize would have been even greater.

But Marguerite mollified herself with the recognition of the desperate plight she had been in just two days earlier. With those memories came overwhelming sorrow at her loss. Stolle was dead. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. At least his mission had been a success.

The plans!

“Where is my knapsack?” the woman looked frantically about, struggling with the doctor in an attempt to gain her feet. He caught her as she fell back groaning with pain.

“Look, now, I mean it, miss. You just can’t get up right now. Your body has taken a hell of a beating and it just wants to rest. It’s not going to let you abuse it any longer.”

Marguerite bit her lip in concentration until the pain in her leg subsided somewhat. She raised her eyes, using their captivating power to give her words the urgency needed to gain the doctor’s agreement. “Could you please relay a message then to the man from Naval Intelligence? Could you tell him there is a woman here who has brought him the Holy Grail? Please?”

The doctor relented with a nod. Trust a helpless woman with big green eyes to twist a man around her finger. Both grudgingly and flattered, he rose to his feet. “Take care of her, Patterson. I won’t be long.” He strode away.

The pale brunette turned her charms on the loafing orderly. “Private, do you suppose you could find me to a better place to sit. I feel at such a disad