Velvet Undercover (4 page)

Dear Miss Donaldson,

Enclosed you will find the papers necessary to complete the first leg of your journey. I have no doubt that you will be a credit to your family and your country. You can be assured that you'll be properly compensated for any inconvenience in the manner in which you most desire.

We'll be sending updates on the wonderful job you're doing to your mother. Packing instructions are included.

Thank you for your service.

I throw the letter down, frustrated. I'm going to get into a motorcar to go God only knows where, to be trained to do God only knows what, all so Captain Parker will investigate my father's abduction. For all I know, he may not find out anything new. Clenching my teeth, I pick up the list of
things to bring. They include toiletries and warm clothing, which are basic and included on any trip. At the very bottom are several words that make no sense at all. It takes me a moment to realize they must be in some sort of code.

Ghvwurb diwhu uhdglqj

I snatch up a pencil and paper and my fingers race. In addition to playing our math games, my father used to leave coded little notes for me around the house. After several minutes I grasp that it's an easy three-shift Caesar cipher, where the letters are simply shifted down the alphabet by three. I scoff. It's one of the first puzzle codes my father taught me.

Destroy after reading

Bridget knocks on the door and I startle. Her disapproval is evident in the tightness of her jaw and the stiffness in her back. “I hope you know what you're doing,” she says, leaving a large leather satchel on the foot of my bed. Her tone implies that she doubts very highly that I do.

Somehow I make it through the rest of the evening, though I'm so nervous that even the scraping of cutlery on the china makes me jump. My mother doesn't seem to notice that anything is wrong. Or does she? After supper she gives
me an uncharacteristic hug before inquiring politely about my travel plans. I tell her what I know, that a car will be picking me up in the wee hours of the morning, and she nods.

“We'll say good-bye now, then.”

My chest tightens as my mother presses her cheek against mine and pulls me in for a warm embrace. “Sleep well, my dear,” she says.

But sleep eludes me. After checking to make sure I have everything, I carefully burn the papers in the coals left in the fireplace, keeping only the travel documents.

At a quarter to five, I wrap my wool coat around me, pull my tam over my head, and walk down to wait in the foyer. My hands are so slick with sweat that I can barely maintain a grip on the satchel.

The stone statue of Diana in the corner, the potted palm, and even the bookshelf full of books take on a strange and unfamiliar quality in the early morning light. There's a light tap on the door and, taking a deep breath, I open it. The driver reaches for my things with barely a glance in my direction.

I follow him to the motorcar parked in front. He places my bag in the boot and then opens the door for me without a word.

I start to crawl in but hesitate a moment when I see a woman already in the backseat. As I slide in, an expensive French perfume assails my nose. Glancing sideways, I note that the woman is wearing a fashionable fur coat and her
felt hat has a sweeping brim that partially obscures her face. The dim light reveals carnelian-red lips and matching fingernails. A gleaming chignon of dark hair sits low on her neck. The woman leans forward and taps on the glass separating the driver from the passengers. The little silver bells hanging from her pierced ears tinkle enticingly as she moves.

She turns to me and I see that her green eyes are daringly rimmed with kohl. Her allure is so potent, so chic and modern, that I blink.

“Are you hungry?” the woman asks. “I think we can get tea at the station.”

I frown as her voice, tantalizingly familiar, tickles my ear. Except something about it is just slightly off, like looking the wrong way through a spyglass. “Who are you?” I ask.

Even her laugh is charming. “Samantha! Don't you know me?”

She faces me and removes her hat. It takes my stunned brain several seconds to recognize who it is, and when I do, my heart slams into my chest.

Miss Tickford.

Swallow: An attractive female agent used to seduce people in order to obtain intelligence information.

“W
hat? How?” I'm pretty sure I look as idiotic as I sound.

Her mouth twists. “My alter ego's disguise must be very convincing.” She sticks out her hand. “Perhaps we should reintroduce ourselves. My name is Letty Tickford and I'll be your handler.”

My world tips for a moment as I try to grasp this new reality. I shake her hand automatically and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “What on earth is a handler?”

She smiles. “Your trainer and point of contact when you go in the field. I'll be your handler, so you'll be sending messages to me and I'll be sending them to you, through various people and methods, of course. It's important for you to remember that you must trust only me and the people I trust.”

My suspicion gets the better of me. “Trust you? I don't even know who you are!”

She folds her hands in her lap, her lips twitching. “Tell me, what do you wish to know?”

“Is Letty Tickford your real name?”

“You don't believe me?” she asks, amused. “Why not?”

I cross my arms, feeling as if I've been had. “I find all this a bit disturbing, especially so early in the morning.”

Her grin widens. “You always were like a little old woman inside a young girl's body.”

My cheeks flame. “Are you making fun of me?”

Her smile disappears and her expression becomes serious. “No, little one. Your maturity is actually one of the reasons you were chosen for LDB. There are assignments that only someone with your talents can carry out.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Captain Parker said the same thing. What sort of assignments do you mean?”

Miss Tickford shakes her head. “We'll discuss that later. First, I must make sure you understand the gravity of the situation. While you're perfectly suited to help us, MI6 isn't in the business of sending girls to their deaths. But it
is
important that you understand that most of our agents are now considered officers, not spies. Think of LDB as an auxiliary, albeit secret, military operation. Once trained, you'll be considered an officer.”

I frown. “Why is that so important?”

She regards me, and I notice that her green eyes are no longer childlike, but instead crackle with intelligence and energy. “Because the punishment for betraying your country is much more severe for an officer in the king's army
than it is for a common citizen.”

I straighten. “I'd never betray my country!”

She pats my hand and nods. “I know. But the lines of loyalty and betrayal are often blurred in our line of work.”

Miss Tickford lets that sink in for a moment and then continues.

“I was delighted when Captain Parker told me that you'd be joining us. I think you're an extraordinarily talented young woman—and our organization is in desperate need of talented young women.”

I wait, knowing there's more.

She tilts her head to one side as if deciding how much to reveal. “While I can't tell you about the type of assignments you'll receive, I can tell you that you'll be undergoing a short period of rigorous training. Only after you've successfully completed that training will you be given your first assignment. Now you may ask me a few questions, if you like. I may not be able to answer them all, but will if I can.”

“How long have you been a part of La Dame Blanche?”

Her brows arch in surprise as if she hadn't expected me to ask anything personal. But why wouldn't I? Her transformation is dizzying.

“For a little over a year. Because of my background, I was uniquely qualified to be a liaison between La Dame Blanche and MI6. I accepted immediately.”

I want to ask her what her background is, but I know from experience that she dislikes talking about herself, so instead I ask her what she's doing working at MI5.

“Recruiting.”

I nod. That makes sense. “Where are we going?”

“Our first stop is Verdun. Your training will begin there.”

“And then?”

“We will move to another location for some specialized training.”

“After that?”

She shakes her head. “After that we shall see.”

I digest that, then ask curiously, “What will I be learning during this training?”

“You'll be learning everything you need to know as an officer of La Dame Blanche.”

I refrain from snorting. She's telling me nothing, really, so I change tactics. “What do you know about my father's disappearance?”

She startles and I grin. She's not the only one who can surprise people.

“I don't know anything about his disappearance that you don't already know.” She reaches out and her gloved hand touches my arm. I look up and her green eyes are soft with sympathy. “I wish I did, Samantha. But I don't.”

I detect no deceit in her voice, but then, until a few minutes ago, I had no idea that mousy Miss Tickford was a beautiful spy, so I should be on my guard.

The motorcar pulls up to King's Cross Station and the driver hops out to open Miss Tickford's door. I scoot out after her while he gets the bags. He pulls out our cases and follows us into the train station.

Most of the people milling about are soldiers, and I marvel at how awake everyone is. Of course, they probably slept last night, which I most assuredly did not.

The train trip to Dover is uneventful. Miss Tickford takes out a small pillow and dozes in the cramped compartment. In spite of my lack of sleep, I'm oddly awake. What sort of assignments am I uniquely suited to? Yes, I'm good with puzzles, codes, and languages, but surely MI6 has other employees who are also good at such things.

Fog obscures the early morning light as we reach our destination. The damp chill seeps through my coat and I shiver. My legs inch forward like blocks of concrete and a giant yawn almost splits my head in two. A porter takes care of our luggage while Miss Tickford guides me through security.

Crossing the Channel by ferry isn't as common as it used to be. Though our submarines and military vessels are regularly patrolling the waters, we know that the Germans have U-boats out as well. Travel between countries, except by military personnel, is rare now. I hold my breath as I hand the officers my fake papers, but they don't question them at all.

Once we're in the comparative warmth of the salon, Miss Tickford buries her nose in her book. I walk over to the window and look out. The mist is rolling over the water in eerie waves and I pull my collar up around my neck. Shivers dance up and down my spine as the ferry slides noiselessly through the water. There could be U-boats stalking us at this very
moment. The sun is beginning to burn through the fog, causing glittering streams of light. The beauty doesn't ease my anxiety, so I take a seat and shut my eyes.

Miss Tickford seemed surprised when I brought up my father. I hope that's the truth. I desperately want to trust her.

When the ferry arrives in France, we're instructed to wait to take our leave until the servicemen and nurses have disembarked. Again, my papers are not questioned. I wonder if Miss Tickford is also pretending to be someone else or if it's just me. Why don't they want anyone to know I've left the country?

So if I don't return, I can't be traced?

I shiver. Part of me wants nothing more than to bolt back home as quick as I can, but I shove the thought from my head. I must concentrate on completing my training and assignment, so Captain Parker will investigate my father's abduction.

After the train departs from the station for Verdun, Miss Tickford orders tea from a passing porter. I wolf down the biscuits, longing for something more substantial, but beggars can't be choosers.

When we're finished, Miss Tickford leans toward me, her eyes serious. “You must listen carefully and remember everything, all right?”

I nod and she continues. “The Germans have a far more advanced espionage network than the British or the French do. The Abwehr—their intelligence organization—has
been key to the Germans' military success. I'm afraid that we're playing catch-up.”

Her head is close to mine and the urgency in her voice is clear. “The women of La Dame Blanche are largely responsible for what intelligence success we've had. As one of us, the work you'll be doing is crucial.”

A little kick of elation erupts in my chest and I lower my eyes to avoid showing her the excitement that seems so inappropriate. Men are dying and here I am, thrilled to be chosen to spy.

She seems to know how I'm feeling, though, because she reaches out and tweaks a loose curl. When I look up, startled, she smiles, her green eyes glittering.

“You may have found playing errand girl for the men of MI5 dull, but trust me, little one, being a spy for La Dame Blanche is far, far from boring.”

Ears Only: Material and information too sensitive to be put in writing.

B
y the time we reach Verdun, I'm stiff from sitting, and my muscles protest as I follow Miss Tickford off the train. I glance around, struck by the tension in the station.

“Everyone is getting ready for the spring offensive,” Miss Tickford murmurs as we gather our cases. “Come along, we're going to walk.”

The Germans had invaded France last summer with their sights set on Paris, but were stopped just outside of Verdun. The civilians and the military personnel of this small city look equally grim.

I follow close behind Miss Tickford. I'm glad for a chance to stretch my legs. The fishy scent of the river Meuse wafts through the air of this tiny city of church spires and quaint gables. The trees on the hills surrounding the city are still bare of leaves. It's hard to believe that the front is just a few miles away.

I shudder as if the proverbial ghost has crossed my grave.
“Where are we staying?” I ask.

Miss Tickford slows a bit. “A little farm just outside of town. We have training houses all over France and we alternate our use of them so we don't arouse suspicion. It's a short walk, and I wanted to go over some of our expectations during this part of the training.”

I nod.

“You won't be allowed to roam about on your own. It's important that we keep our presence here as low-key as possible. There are informants everywhere.”

“In France?” I ask, surprised.

“Everywhere,” she says firmly, and then continues. “While here, you'll talk to no one except myself and your cryptography instructor. And, of course, the housekeeper. Beyond codes, we'll be teaching you how to use a gun, how to defend yourself physically, how to make dead drops, brush drops, and live drops, among many other necessary skills. After that, you'll be smuggled into Luxembourg, where we'll prepare you for your first assignment.”

I nod. Luxembourg's been occupied for almost eight months and is completely overrun by the German military.

We turn into the wide, circular drive of a large white farmhouse surrounded by stone outbuildings. The shutters on the multipaned windows are blue; the door is a sedate green. I spot a pond behind the house, and in the yard, chickens peck at the ground in search of bugs.

Standing outside the front door, as if he'd been expecting us, is a tall middle-aged man in a plaid cap. He frowns at me
and I look to Miss Tickford for guidance.

“Monsieur Elliot, how nice to see you again. This is Rosemary James. She'll be our guest for the next several weeks.”

Rosemary?
Of course, the name on the papers. “It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Elliot.”

The man tips his hat, revealing a round, bald head fringed with dark red hair. Then he turns to Miss Tickford and speaks in rapid French. “This is what you're bringing us these days? She's not only wet behind the ears, I bet she's in nappies as well. What am I supposed to do with this? What could such a baby know of codes and ciphers?”

My face burns and I realize that this man who looks like a French farmhand is my cryptography teacher. I answer in French before Miss Tickford can reply. “I assure you, monsieur, that while I may be wet behind the ears, I am
not
wearing nappies. I can also assure you that I have a working knowledge of almost every common code in existence, including the Vigenère cipher. I look forward to our studies.”

Monsieur Elliot raises an eyebrow and bends over my hand. “Touché, Mademoiselle James. My apologies. We'll meet in the library right after supper to see just how much you know.”

He takes Miss Tickford's bags and goes inside.

The rooms inside the house are small and cramped, but the walls look as if they have been freshly whitewashed and the red tiles on the floor are immaculately clean.

Madame Ducat, the stern-looking housekeeper, shows
me to a small, tidy room. The bed is narrow and pristinely white, with two soft down pillows. I place my satchel on a trunk next to the door and, barely pausing to kick off my shoes, stumble across the room to the bed.

By the time a knock on the door wakes me for dinner, the sun has disappeared. I run a brush through my hair and twist it into a low knot at the back of my head, doing my best to calm the unruly curls. Slipping on my shoes, I try to press the wrinkles out of my dress with my hands, and I hurry to join the others for dinner.

In a house full of tiny rooms, the dining room is an exception. A cheerful fire crackles in a large fireplace on one wall, while a large, dark cabinet holding glasses and pottery fills the other. The gleaming table could seat a dozen or more people, though at the moment, only two are sitting together at one end.

“Did you sleep well?” Miss Tickford asks.

I nod, taking a seat. “I did, thank you.”

The housekeeper serves a beef consommé with thin shavings of carrots and leeks floating in it. I concentrate on not wolfing it down and let the conversation wash over me. I almost miss it when someone says my new name. I look up, startled. “Excuse me?”

They exchange looks and I wonder if I just failed some sort of test. What if Miss Tickford is already regretting her choice? I straighten. “My apologies. What did you say?”

Monsieur Elliot clears his throat. “I was wondering why
you agreed to join La Dame Blanche, mademoiselle.”

“Please, call me Rosemary.” I'm proud of myself for not even hesitating over the name.

He inclines his head. I dart a glance at Miss Tickford, but she continues to eat. I chew on my lip, feeling as if my answer will be weighed and scrutinized. My father, ever the diplomat, told me that in any new situation it's best to get people to root for you, whether they agree with you or not. In a case like this, where I'm dependent on other people to teach me what I need to know to survive, it's even more important. “As I'm sure you are aware, I was part of the Girl Guides. We'd all heard about a female espionage group, though we couldn't confirm it, of course. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to become a member and help my country in a more concrete way.”

From the expression on his face, Monsieur Elliot isn't overwhelmed by my patriotism. “So you're ready to die for your country, mademoiselle? Be tortured for your country?” His voice echoes harshly in the sedate and proper French dining room and my heart slams against my ribs.

Miss Tickford's spoon clatters on the table.

“That's enough,” she says. “There's no need to terrify her.”

“There's not?” His features are stark in the gaslight and I can't believe I ever thought he looked like a genial farmhand. “Shouldn't she know why we're recruiting children? Because so many of our more mature, experienced agents are missing. The more she knows, the more seriously she'll take her lessons.”

He leans across the table toward me and I force myself not to back away.

“You'll be pretending to be someone you're not, and for the most part, you'll be doing it alone. If you're caught, you'll be thrown into prison, tortured for information you probably won't have, and quite possibly killed. Does this sound like a school vacation, mademoiselle?”

My eyes sweep to Miss Tickford, whose calm gaze is trained on me.

It's time to bluff.

I lift my chin. “Of course not, Monsieur Elliot. I'm well aware of the gravity of the situation, don't worry on that account. And I have
always
taken my lessons seriously, as you're about to discover.”

I pause to butter my dinner roll. Only a slight trembling of my fingers shows my agitation. “It's true I have a lot to learn, but I think you'll find there are reasons why my superiors thought I'd be an excellent candidate. And please, call me Rosemary.”

I take a bite of the roll, which tastes like sawdust, and give Monsieur Elliot a stiff smile.

Miss Tickford calmly resumes eating. The man across the table stares at me before bursting into surprised laughter.

“We shall see, Rosemary, we shall see.”