Velvet Undercover (5 page)

Plain Text: The original message or word before it is encrypted.

A
fter dinner, I met with Monsieur Elliot for two hours of decoding history and practice with a cipher disc. I actually enjoyed the lesson, in spite of Monsieur's disdain, and once even earned a grunt of approval that made me beam with pride.

Then I studied invisible inks and chemistry with Miss Tickford, whose specialty, it turns out, is poisons. Her other talent, not surprisingly, is disguises, but she said she would be teaching me more about that subject once we're in Luxembourg.

This morning, Monsieur Elliot is to teach me basic self-defense, which is why I'm standing in loose cotton trousers and an even looser artist's smock in a freezing outbuilding behind the house.

His face is serious as I join him. “You know what jujitsu is, don't you?”

I nod. “Isn't it from Japan, originally?”

“Yes. I took lessons several years ago from the Garruds, who studied the art in Japan and then opened their own jujitsu gymnasium in London. It's actually quite involved, so I'm only going to teach you a few basic moves in case you're attacked.”

They expect me to be attacked?
I shove the thought away and nod.

“Unfortunately, if you're attacked, you'll no doubt be wearing skirts, but I want to start off teaching you in trousers so I can see how you move. We'll have you practice in a dress before you go to Luxembourg. I'm teaching you four basic moves: the body drop, the escape wrist grab, an escape front strangle, and an escape back strangle.

“Let's begin with the escape wrist grab.”

“Why not the body drop?” I ask. It sounds like the most fun.

“Because you'd be too sore for the rest of the lesson.” Monsieur Elliot reaches out and catches one of my wrists. “What would you do if I grabbed you like this?”

Instinctively, I try to yank my wrist away, but his grip increases. I move to hit him with my other hand, but he catches it easily.

“Now I have both your wrists. What are you going to do?”

I bring my knee up swiftly, but he jumps back and twists one of my wrists. Within seconds I'm on my knees.

I glare up at him. “Uncle.”

He immediately releases my wrists. “You'd be immobilized
in seconds, and they won't let go just because you scream or sob. Stand up.”

I stand, rubbing my wrists.

“Now grab mine.”

I do so as best I can even though his wrists are too large for my hands to encircle completely.

“The men who attack you are going to be bigger than you and stronger than you. You are only going to have two things on your side.”

“What's that?” I ask sullenly.

“Surprise. They won't expect you to fight back.”

“What's the second thing?”

He leans forward and his blue eyes bore into mine. “More surprise. They won't expect you to know
how
to fight back. Now tighten your grip.”

I do as he commands and then he suddenly claps his hands. While they're together, he steps closer and jabs his hands into my stomach, causing me to lean back. In that moment he yanks his arms backward and I lose my grip.

I shake my head, frustrated. “I'll never be that fast.”

“Yes, you will. Now let's do it in slow motion so you can observe the mechanics. Then you can try.”

After I learn that technique to his satisfaction, he teaches me how to respond if grabbed from the front or from behind. By the time we finish, I've been on the floor six times and am not only sore but annoyed. Why don't I get to knock
him
to the floor?

“I think that's enough for now,” he says. “I don't want you to overdo it.”

Resentful, I lean in close. “There's something you haven't showed me.”

Puzzled, he looks at me. “I told you, I'll teach the body drop later.”

“Not that.” Grabbing his shoulder, I pull him close to me, then sweep my leg under his, causing him to fall straight back onto his backside. I grin down at him. “That.”

To my surprise, instead of getting angry or annoyed, he laughs. “Apparently, you don't need any instruction in
that
.”

I snatch up my clothes and walk out of the barn with my nose in the air. The sound of his laughter follows me into the house.

I spend the next several weeks learning basic surveillance techniques with Miss Tickford, followed by more jujitsu. Most of the time, I feel completely inept, but when Miss Tickford and Monsieur Elliot take me out to teach me to shoot, I know the time has come to show them a thing or two.

“You'll be issued a small muff pistol and it's important that you know how to use it,” Miss Tickford tells me. Monsieur Elliot stands behind us with his arms crossed, a sour look on his face. “Don't mind him,” Miss Tickford says. “He doesn't think a lady should know how to shoot.”

Monsieur Elliot snorts.

In response, she shoots off several rounds, getting respectably close to the center of the target.

“Women should stick to their poisons,” Monsieur Elliot tells us. “They're better with them than they are with guns.”

Irritation ripples through me. “Is that so?” I ask, quickly reloading the weapon. Bringing it up, I shoot it six times in quick succession, hitting the bull's-eye with every shot. Smirking at his stunned expression, I turn and hand him the gun. “I'm not a woman, I'm a girl, and my father taught me to shoot when I was nine.”

This time it's Miss Tickford who's laughing as I walk back to the house.

My confidence grows daily with each new skill I master and each new challenge I overcome. I learn which kind of invisible ink works best with which paper, how to do a brush pass, and how to pick basic locks. Even though I worry about my mother, I have to admit the truth.

I'm having the time of my life.

But it is exhausting. I'm up before the sun each morning and I work far into the night.

I'm glad for the respite that studying codes with Monsieur Elliot affords me every evening. We're working in the library, which, with its comfortable chairs, giant stone fireplace, and low beams, is my favorite room in the house. With a pang, I'm reminded of all the hours I spent studying with my father. I swallow against the sudden pain and focus on my work, which has become increasingly challenging. We're now working more on theoretical codes and mathematics than on practical coding. I look up.

“Monsieur, can you answer me a question?” I ask.

His brows rise. “That depends on the question, does it not?”

I frown. “Do you always answer a question with a question?”

“Is that your question?” His voice is clearly amused.

I refrain from rolling my eyes. “No. We've been working on deciphering codes since I arrived. The work you've given me is getting more and more challenging. I'm good at this, I know I am. Now you know, too. But what are the chances of my actually getting a message in this kind of code?” I wave a paper filled with algebraic equations at him.

He can't quite hide the smirk on his broad face.

“Aha! I'm right! Why give me challenges I'm not going to use?”

He shrugs. “Do you know how rare it is to get a student as proficient as you? Have you not enjoyed the tasks?”

I smile and he continues. “After your work with LDB is finished, I'm going to recommend to Captain Parker that you be reassigned to a position more in line with your talents. Now off with you. I wish to read.”

I stand to go and then hesitate. “So you think I'll survive spying for La Dame Blanche? You didn't when I first came.”

He stills, his lined face falling into a tired mask. For the first time he looks older than my father. Usually his expression is so fluid and lively that it's difficult to tell, but now age marks his features like the sun marks a grape.

He waves me away. “Don't ask such stupid questions. Of course you'll return.”

He sticks his nose in a book, dismissing me.

I go to my room but am too wound up to sleep. My mind
goes round and round with all the questions I have. After an hour, I give up. Perhaps a cup of warm milk and a book from the library will help me sleep. The house is still as I tiptoe down the stairs and I wonder if everyone is already in bed. I'm just rounding the corner to the dining room when voices from the library reach me. I'm biting my lip, unsure whether I should announce my presence or not, when I hear my name.

I glance back at the staircase, knowing I should return to my room, but I hesitate. Aren't I a spy now? Perhaps it's time to put my new skills to use.

Keeping close to the wall, I move toward the raised voices, stopping just before I get to the library.

“This is a ridiculous waste of time. You know that, don't you?” Monsieur Elliot's voice is tight, like he is trying to control himself.

“That's not for me to decide, Elliot, nor for you.”

“
Merde!
She has brilliant ciphering skills, and yet instead of giving her a job where she can be of some use, they send her on a suicide mission!”

My breath catches and I strain to hear Miss Tickford's much quieter voice.

“You're being dramatic, Elliot. It's not a suicide mission.”

“So you really expect her to return from Berlin? Or is your boss so blinded by the fact that she's the only one who can gain his objective that he doesn't care? What is it you're not telling me?”

There's a long silence and my heart races.
Berlin?
Surely
not. And what objective? What can I do that no one else can? I wait, trembling, for Miss Tickford's answer. When it comes, it doesn't exactly alleviate my fears.

“Don't be silly. I'm not going to just cut her loose. Once the goal has been achieved, I'll do my best to protect her.”

“But that isn't your priority, is it.”

“Of course not,” she snaps. “We're at war. You know as well as I do that war is full of choices that would be unthinkable during peacetime. I value my agents and it is my intent to keep them safe at all times, but if it is one life against many, you can be sure I will choose the many, and so would you. She is the only way we're going to . . .” Her voice quiets and I strain to hear her words.

I swallow. They're sending me to Berlin and they don't expect me to come back. I've learned everything they've asked me to and more. I've earned the right to know what's going on.

Sometimes you
have
to upend the chessboard.

I stride into the library and stand in front of Miss Tickford and Monsieur Elliot, my body trembling. “I think it's time you clued me in to what's happening, don't you?”

Miss Tickford's face registers surprise.

Monsieur Elliot shrugs. “I thought you should have been told immediately, but what do I know?” He gives Miss Tickford a bitter look.

Miss Tickford regains her composure and twitches a shoulder. “Fine. Sit down and I'll tell you.”

“Everything?”

She waves a hand. “Don't be absurd. We're spies. Of course I can't tell you everything.”

She has a point, but still. “I think I'll stand.”

Her lips curve as if she finds me amusing. “As you like. In the morning, we'll be leaving for Luxembourg, where you'll assume your new identity. You'll also be taking the oath to become a member of La Dame Blanche. After that you'll be traveling to Berlin.”

“Berlin,” I repeat.

“Yes, Berlin,” she confirms. “We have received your assignment and we must get you to Luxembourg as quickly as possible.”

Talking about this in such a calm manner seems almost obscene to me. My chest tightens with fear and I struggle to keep my voice even. “And just what will I be doing in Berlin?

Both Miss Tickford and Monsieur are silent and I know he is waiting for her to take the lead.

“You'll be extracting a valuable spy whose life may be in danger. Her handler has disappeared. Her code name is Velvet.”

Cover: The persona and fictitious image constructed and maintained by an agent for the purpose of espionage.

T
he cliffs of Luxembourg overshadow the entire city, and I stare out the window at the remains of the ancient fortress built precariously onto the side. How bold and brash of human beings to think it could be done and how astonishing that they actually accomplished it.

Miss Tickford and I arrived at the safe house late last night after a cramped and nerve-racking twelve-hour ride up the Moselle River in a grain container and another four hours of jolting along in the back of a wagon, hidden under a pile of hay.

Upon arrival, we stumbled to our beds and collapsed. Turns out, fear is exhausting.

My stomach rumbles and I wish Miss Tickford would return with some food. We haven't eaten since yesterday.

I wonder if Velvet has enough to eat. I've been obsessing over her ever since I learned of her existence. A young woman, perhaps not so different from me, practiced in the
art of espionage but still needing help.

My help.

The responsibility is almost overwhelming.

I push the thought of Velvet out of my head and stare out over the streets of the city. The people of Luxembourg seem to have adapted to occupation far better than the French—perhaps because the Germans allowed them to retain their government. They didn't come to pillage the tiny neutral country; they came to use it as a strategic entry point to France and Belgium. That fact shows on the streets as people go about their business in a much more relaxed manner than they did in France. Just then the noise of a motor hums above me and I duck my head to look upward. My throat tightens as two German aeroplanes fly overhead, making their way toward France. Tears sting my eyes and the war seems very real all of a sudden.

I spot Miss Tickford hurrying down the street and rush to open the door for her as she comes up the stairwell. The warm, yeasty scent of bread from the basket she carries tantalizes my nose.

“Food is definitely easier to obtain here than in France,” she says as I follow her to the kitchen, salivating like a dog. “The difference between resisting and playing footsy with the enemy.”

Right now, I'd play footsy with the kaiser himself for something to eat.

She takes out the bread, a crock of butter, a small wheel of goat cheese, a bunch of leeks, and a bottle of milk.

We eat right there in the kitchen at a small table covered in a lace cloth. In my advanced state of hunger, I find that butter has never tasted sweeter, cheese has never been creamier, and milk has never been so good and cold. It isn't until the loaf is half-gone that Miss Tickford gets up from the table.

After digging around under the sink for a minute, she produces a worn leather packet.

“Start with this,” she says. “This is your cover.”

I eye it suspiciously, half wishing I could just continue eating my meal and forget my mission for a few more minutes. Sighing, I wipe my fingers on the cloth napkin and untie the bindings on the packet. Unrolling it, I find a sheaf of papers, and lay them out according to their type—official travel and identification papers in one pile, pictures in another, statistics in another. Then I pick up the travel papers.

Sophia Thérèse von Schönburg, born 1895 in Bonn, Germany.

I look up. “I'm supposed to be twenty years old?”

Miss Tickford waves a hand. “Simple.”

“Really?” With my blue eyes, pale skin, and curly blond hair, I look more like a Dresden doll than a twenty-year-old woman.

“Trust me, Samantha, we can make you twenty. Now go on.”

I glance at the dossier and read aloud.

“Her parents were both killed in a carriage accident when
she was four and she was taken in by her father's eldest sister, the baroness Eugenie, whose husband, the baron von Schönburg, died early in their marriage. The aunt lived in a small town outside Cologne. She later married Captain Franklin Prosser of the British army.”

I look up. “Who are the von Schönburgs? If the German aristocracy is anything like the English aristocracy, I'll need to know the lineage.”

Miss Tickford nods. “I have more information on the family line that I'll give you later. All you need to know at this moment is that they're the distant relatives of the duchess Cecilie and therefore considered wellborn even if they don't run in the same circles. That connection is what is important here.”

I stare at Miss Tickford, uneasiness crawling up my arms like ants. Duchess Cecilie is the wife of Crown Prince Wilhelm, the kaiser's firstborn son and the heir to the German throne. I glance over the paper, assimilating facts.

Sophia Thérèse was privately educated by an English governess provided by her new uncle, and she attended a small Lutheran church near the family estate.

I turn to the photographs. The first one is of a stern-looking couple. “Her parents?”

Miss Tickford nods.

The next photo is a woman with fair hair and broad cheekbones. “The aunt?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

After another nod from Miss Tickford, I study a small
hand-colored portrait of a child who looks to be about nine years old. Like the others, she's fair, though the colorist has pinkened her cheeks unnaturally. I suppose there's enough of a resemblance to me if no one has seen her since childhood.

The next photograph is of a group of young people at a picnic. There are several girls in the picture and I have Miss Tickford point Sophia Thérèse out to me. Her cheekbones, like her aunt's, are wide, and she's grown stouter.

“Where is she now?”

“Captain Prosser snuck the family into Switzerland. They currently live in Davos.”

I frown. “But how am I to—”

Miss Tickford interrupts me. “Sophia Thérèse died of influenza soon after she arrived in Davos. Mail service has been so disrupted since the war began that no one in Germany knows of her passing. You will assume her identity.”

I sit back, the food I just consumed turning in my stomach. I'm to become a dead girl. I don't know why it didn't occur to me sooner, but it makes perfect sense. The dead tell no tales, after all.

“How did we get this information so quickly when we just learned of the assignment?”

“A ghoul put the packet together while we were still in Verdun.”

“A ghoul?” I ask the question even though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

She nods. “An operative who scans the obituaries and
death notices for someone whose identity we can steal.”

I knew I shouldn't have asked.

Miss Tickford rises and goes back into the room where I slept last night—the maid's room off the kitchen. When she comes out, she's carrying a dusty bottle. “I thought the time was right for wine.”

She uncorks the bottle and pours us each a glass. Raising hers, she toasts: “To Sophia Thérèse. May your passing save the lives of others and do good unto the world.”

I toast, feeling a bit better.

“Come, let's finish this in the sitting room, yes?”

I take my glass and the papers, while she takes the bottle.

“So. Your assignment.” Miss Tickford kicks her shoes off and tucks her feet up underneath her skirts. Her dark, abundant hair has loosened, and tendrils fall about her face. I've never seen her look so relaxed, and her beauty is incandescent in the evening light.

“I told you that the German intelligence network is far superior to ours, did I not?”

I nod.

“La Dame Blanche
is one of the most successful answers to the Abwehr so far. There are a few others, of course, but as LDB has obtained the cooperation of several governments, it's the most effective. Not to mention the fact that the other networks are primarily made up of men—there are some things that women just do better.”

I nod. “That makes sense. Men don't suspect us as easily.”

Miss Tickford tilts her wineglass in my direction. “Correct.
When women scurry about with their marketing baskets, men assume they're getting food for their children rather than counting train cars or soldiers. You'll assume Sophia Thérèse von Schönburg's identity and travel to Berlin to assist the governess who teaches the kaiser's grandchildren. Just as with English royalty, the kaiser's personal servants are all family members or highly placed aristocrats. So your dear cousin Cecilie was more than happy to discover that her young relative wishes to serve the royal family. You will, of course, have to memorize who all the children are. She has run heavily to boys, as is common in the House of Hohenzollern.”

“How many?” I asked, alarmed. I know very little about children other than the fact that they're rather loud and messy. Especially boys.

Miss Tickford grins, as if sensing my thoughts. “Three boys, as well as several other children of relatives who live in the City Palace.”

“So while looking after a bunch of children, I'm also supposed to be helping a spy named Velvet to escape?”

“Precisely. But remember, Velvet is only her code name.”

I lean back in the chair. “Oh, that's right. What is her real name?”

She hesitates. “That's the problem,” she admits. “We don't really know.”

I stare at her. “What does that mean?”

Miss Tickford takes a careful sip of wine, her face blank. “It means, little one, that you must discover who Velvet is on your own
before
you approach her. Her handler knew
who she was, of course, but gave us precious few details and seems to have disappeared. Colonel Landau, a French operative and liaison between La Dame Blanche and the French intelligence agency, knew who she was, but . . .” Miss Tickford pauses, with a shrug.

“But what?” I ask, a cold, nameless fear starting in my stomach and moving through the rest of my body.

“He was found dead in his bed four weeks ago. The victim of an accidental, or not so accidental, overdose of laudanum.”

My jaw drops. “You're not serious.”

From the look on her face, Miss Tickford is deadly serious.

I lean back in the chair and close my eyes for a moment. When I open them, I ask, “So there are no paper records? What about her next of kin? Won't they be notified if something happens to her?”

For a moment I think she's not going to answer, but when she does, her voice is as empty as her face. “All records related to Velvet's identity seem to have been . . . misplaced.”

“This is bloody impossible!” I explode. “You're sending me on a suicide mission, just like Monsieur Elliot said.”

She takes a deep breath and gives me a small smile. “Of course not. We wouldn't send you into Berlin without a plan, or without confidence that you can successfully complete your assignment. We do have some idea who Velvet is—of course we do. Just think of it as the most perplexing puzzle you've ever been challenged to solve.”

A hysterical giggle erupts from my mouth, though I find
nothing funny about the situation. “What you're telling me is that everyone who knew Velvet's identity is dead.”

“We don't know if her handler is dead,” Miss Tickford says sharply.

I snort. “That's comforting.” The wine and food churn in my stomach. “Just what kind of information has Velvet been passing to us?”

When she hesitates, I stand, my fists clenched by my sides. “If you don't tell me, I'll walk out of here—see if I don't. If you're sending me in there blind, the least you can do is give me what little information you have.”

“And where would you go, Samantha?” Miss Tickford asks, her voice quiet. “You're in an occupied country.”

Stand your ground, Sam.

I bend so my eyes are level with hers. “If you have so little faith in me that you don't believe I could make my way back to England, how on earth do you think I'll be successful in Germany?”

She lifts her chin and her green eyes bore into mine. The room is so quiet I can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock.

After a long moment, Miss Tickford shrugs. “Fine. Now have a seat and quit standing over me like a disgruntled schoolteacher. I'll tell you what I know.”

I sit, only partially placated.

Miss Tickford continues as if the little confrontation hadn't taken place. “We know that the information she passed on could come only from a firsthand source. So she's
either very close to the kaiser's family, so close that her presence wouldn't be out of place at either the palace or the Reichstag building, or she's the mistress of someone who has intimate knowledge of German strategy.”

I raise an eyebrow. “She could be both.”

“Right,” Miss Tickford agrees. “Germany's aggressive ground tactics have been devastating, but Velvet's detailed information on troop movements has saved countless lives. The project she's working on now is even more important.”

“And what is that?”

“German scientists are developing a new weapon. We believe it has something to do with explosives, and according to the information we've received thus far, the results are going to be devastating.”

My mind is racing. “And Velvet's trying to find out what it is?”

“Yes, we believe she is very close.”

“And she's in danger?”

Miss Tickford nods. “As you said, everyone who knows who she is has been neutralized in some way. We're concerned that she may fall into enemy hands.”

I digest that for a moment. Then something occurs to me. “Are you more concerned about Velvet or about getting information on the weapon?”

Miss Tickford's face stills. “La Dame Blanche and the British government do everything in their power to ensure the safety of their agents and their citizens. Though, clearly,
obtaining both Velvet
and
the information on the new weapon would be preferable.”

My eyes narrow. I bet it would.