Velvet Undercover (7 page)

When he turns around and sees me, he flushes and darts away, but not before I notice that he has a rolled-up newspaper stuck in his back pocket.

A picture of the first spy walking away with a newspaper under his arm flashes in my mind.
That's
why Miss Tickford asked for a description. Each person watching me will be carrying a newspaper. Triumph erupts in my chest.

There's nothing more satisfying than figuring something out.

I glance around but see nothing peculiar. From the look of the sun on the horizon, it's been about two hours since Miss Tickford left me. I don't want to make my way back to the apartment in the dark. Besides, Luxembourg probably has a curfew, and the last thing I want is to get arrested for breaking it.

So how can I make the third tail reveal himself? I stroll toward the old part of the city, racking my brain. The metallic scent of ancient stone splashed with the blood of centuries floods the alleyways and thoroughfares. Spires rise above the city, casting needle-sharp shadows on the cobbled streets below. I shiver, forgetting my mission for a moment. The permanence of Luxembourg seems to mock occupiers and citizens alike, for what is another war to a city that has witnessed so many?

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the spell of the city.
There has to be a way to end this. Then my lessons on surveillance come back to me. You watch someone to note what they do, who they meet, et cetera. Every seemingly innocent action could be a sign to a fellow spy.

Even if this
is
just a test, how would they react if they thought I was making a dead drop? If it looked as if I, the student spy, were trying to contact someone outside of La Dame Blanche?

The curiosity would be too much. They would have to go see what I'd done and, by doing so, reveal themselves.

I hurry into a little stationery shop on the corner and buy a sheet of paper and an envelope. The dead drop must be clumsily done, as if by an amateur, but not so obvious that it looks like a trap.

I borrow a pen from the stationer—a short, dimpled girl no older than I am—and scribble a quick note. I seal the envelope and stick it into my purse. The city seems more like a modern metropolis now than a medieval outpost, though I'm sure that'll change after the sun retreats.

Making my way toward a patisserie with a large sign hanging on the façade, I look around as if wary of being observed.

Then I study the sign as if trying to decide if I want to go in to purchase myself a meat pie. I'm actually looking for a place to hide the envelope. Heart pounding in my ears, I stick the envelope behind the sign, just above one of the bolts attaching it to the stone wall. Then I bend and pick up a rock and casually set it atop the sign.

I look around again and then hurry back to the stationer's. The dimpled girl is still there and I smile. “I'm so sorry to bother you again, but there's someone out front whom I don't wish to see. A young man. Do you have a back way out of the store?”

An older person might have been suspicious, but the girl just smiles at me. “But of course,” she says in French. “We girls must help one another, yes?”

With a swish of her skirts, she leads me through a cramped back room that smells of liverwurst, fresh bread, and ink. She points at the door.

“Thank you,” I say.

“I adore your hair,” the girls calls as I go out. “I've been longing to bob my hair forever, but my father says no. I'll do it when I'm eighteen, see if I don't!”

“You'll love it,” I assure her and then step out into the twilight.

I stand in the shadows around the corner of the building and wait to see who, if anyone, will take the bait. They may be suspicious of a trap, but I'm counting on the distrustful nature of our work to lure them in. They're going to want to know what a La Dame Blanche trainee is doing leaving clandestine notes.

My eyes scan the quickly darkening streets. Whoever it is must still be watching the stationer's to see if I come back out. At some point they're going to realize that I've slipped away, and they'll go to pick up the note, I'm sure of it.

The minutes tick by. I stare at the sign, willing the person
to come out and get it. My fists are clenched so tightly that my nails are digging half-moon-shaped grooves into my palms.

Just when I think it's not going to work, a man saunters up to the sign, pauses for a moment, and then walks on. If I hadn't seen the flash of white from the envelope, I wouldn't even have known that he had taken it.

Heart in my throat, I follow him down the street, almost running to keep up with his long strides. I try to remember what Miss Tickford taught me about trailing someone, but I'm too busy just trying to keep pace with him.

When he disappears down an alley, I hesitate. It could be a trap. I'm hoping he was so focused on the envelope that he didn't think to check if he was being tailed. I take a deep breath and edge around the corner of the building into the alley.

The man stops in a doorway and I watch as he pulls the envelope out of his pocket. I can't see his face, but the movement reveals a knot of silky dark hair under the collar of his jacket. I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp. My stalker isn't an unknown male at all, but rather a female, and one I know very well.

Miss Tickford.

Allegiance: Giving an oath of loyalty to one intelligence organization above all others.

M
y shock turns into satisfaction as Miss Tickford reads the note. She's so daunting that I can't help the sense of pride that washes over me at having beaten her at her own game. She tosses the note away and then jumps as I say the words the note contained.

“Caught you.”

Annoyance flashes over her face before she breaks into a reluctant smile. “Indeed. How did you know it was me?”

I shake my head. “I didn't until I saw your hair under your collar.”

She nods. “Good eye. I didn't have much time to change into my disguise.”

A thought comes to me. “Were you the first man, too?”

“Yes. I had to make a complete change while you were distracted by the floater.”

“Floater?” I ask.

“Yes, the boy. That's what we call someone who is
unknowingly used in an operation only once.” Her mouth twists into a smile. “The fake drop was an excellent idea, by the way, and you pulled it off well. Not many people get the better of me.”

I glow at her words.

“Now, come along.” She pulls her collar up to better hide her hair. “We should turn in early tonight. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

“What are we doing?” I ask, even though I'm dreading her answer. Every time I master a new skill, I'm another step closer to being ready for the assignment, and the thought both terrifies and excites me.

“You'll be assuming your new identity, little one,” she says matter-of-factly as she walks out of the alley. “Tomorrow you must become Sophia Thérèse von Schönburg.”

Even though I'm exhausted, I have trouble falling asleep. The responsibility of the task ahead presses in on me.

I roll onto my stomach, trying to get comfortable. After returning from our outing, Miss Tickford changed her clothes and we ate a simple dinner of sliced beef and bread while she quizzed me about Sophia Thérèse. Afterward, she read for a bit before retiring to her own room. I wanted to ask her if the apartment is hers and what had happened to her brother, but there's something about her that discourages such questions.

I stare into the darkness, the apartment so quiet that my own breathing fills the space like a lonely ghost. Somewhere
out in the world, my father is alive, I know it. Is he hurt? In pain? Is he as lonely and afraid as I am?

Suddenly the staccato beat of heavy footsteps splinters the stillness. I raise my head, staring hard into the darkness. Moments later, blinding light illuminates the room as my door is thrown open. I freeze in stunned disbelief and in that moment lose any chance to react. Rough hands yank me out of my bed. My attacker shoves a coarse, stifling hood down over my head and I'm half pushed, half pulled out of my room and down the hall. My heart slams against my rib cage.

“Take her into the kitchen,” a female voice commands in guttural, almost incomprehensible, German.

My breath comes out in short gasps as fear squeezes my chest. I lift my feet in an attempt to topple the man holding me, but he rebuffs my feeble attempts as if I'm a child.

What do they want? Where is Miss Tickford?

As if reading my thoughts, the woman says, “We've already gotten rid of your friend, so she can't help.”

Gotten rid of her? What have they done?
My body shakes convulsively.

The Germans have me.

“Tie her to the chair.”

The man silently, but firmly, sits me down. I struggle as he ties my hands and feet to one of the kitchen chairs Miss Tickford and I had sat in just hours before, studying Sophia Thérèse's life.

“What is your name?” The woman's voice is harsh and I whimper.

Frantically, I try to remember if Miss Tickford gave me any instructions on what to do or say if I was captured. Am I supposed to give my fake name or remain silent?

Someone grabs hold of my inner thigh through my nightdress and pinches so hard that tears spring to my eyes. Terror, hot and corrosive, shoots through me as I realize that my captors can do whatever they like to me.

I'm completely alone.

“I asked your name.” The woman's voice is softer, and treacherously close to my ear.

Fear crawls across my skin.

Stop and take a deep breath, Sam. And most importantly, think.

My father's voice is clearer than it's ever been, and I take a shaky breath. He's right. I need to calm myself and think this through. I have no doubt they can make me talk if they want. The question is what I'll tell them.

“Who are you?” I ask in German, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

“
Nein
. You do not ask the questions.”

Another pinch on my thigh renders me speechless. “Now tell us your name. Don't make me set Rickard loose on you.”

Think.

I need to buy myself some time. I may not be able to do anything about it, but trying is better than giving up. “Sophia Thérèse,” I tell her in German. “Now, who are you? What have you done with my friend? And what do you want with me?”

“Your friend will probably be killed. Luxembourg is not at war with Germany, and yet she betrays her own people by
spying,” the woman says. “The question is, Sophia Thérèse, what are you, an English girl, doing in Luxembourg?”

Thinking quickly, I switch from German to Portuguese. “How do you know I'm English?” I switch to French. “You didn't even know my name.” I return to German, which I notice I speak with more precision and a much better accent than she does. “I could be from anywhere.”

I suddenly freeze, my mind racing. The woman had said, “She's a traitor to her own people,”
“Sie ist eine Verräter von ihr Volk,”
but the grammar was poor—she'd used
eine
instead of
ein
and
ihr
instead of
ihrem
, and she didn't pronounce her
v
's as
f
's as a true German would. It suddenly hits me so hard it almost knocks the breath out of me. Why can I speak German so much better than a supposed German? Because she's trying to hide an accent.

The woman is not German.

Then where is she from and why is she speaking in German? Because she wants me to think she's German. But why?

My mind races. Why didn't I hear anything before they rushed into my room? I wasn't sleeping and the house was silent. A surge of anger rushes through my body as it dawns on me who it is. I open my mouth but then snap it shut, afraid of what will come out.

There's only one reason someone would come into Miss Tickford's home and pretend to be German. To test me.

“Who's Lawrence?” I blurt.

The silence that greets my question tells me that I've hit the mark. I'd be elated if I weren't so furious.

After a few moments, the hood is pulled from my head. Miss Tickford is dressed in the same white blouse and moss-green skirt she'd been wearing earlier.
She didn't even go to bed
, I think,
while here I sit, embarrassed, in my thin white nightdress. She sat and waited until she thought I was asleep to strike.

“You can untie her, Rickard.” Her eyes, as flat and still as a brackish green pond, never leave mine. Anger emboldens me and I don't flinch under her gaze.

“You've been snooping.” Her voice is devoid of emotion.

“I've been
spying
.”

She crosses her arms and this time I look away. Perhaps in this case—riffling through someone else's wardrobe—spying and snooping are interchangeable.

I rub my hands as soon as they're free and glare at Miss Tickford. “At least I didn't drag someone out of bed and make them feel as if they were about to be shoved in front of a firing squad.” I stand on wobbling legs.

“You still have no idea how serious this is, do you?” she asks.

I hold out my wrists, showing her the burn marks left by the ropes. “This looks pretty serious to me. Wasn't there any other way to teach me about interrogation?”

I glance at the man, a burly fellow with a soft brown beard. He meets my eyes without any emotion. “My apologies,” he says with a thick French accent.

No wonder he'd been silent.

I ignore him and turn back to Miss Tickford, who doesn't look discomfited at all. “It's my job to make sure you're ready
for your assignment,” she says. “Don't be such a child.”

My chest tightens. “So the apartment
is
yours. I should think that as a spy you'd know better than to keep personal effects where they're so easy to find. If a novice could discover them so easily, the Abwehr would have located them in minutes.”

Miss Tickford's pale skin flushes. She glances over at Rickard, who raises his eyebrows.

“The apartment belonged to my brother and me. Like you, Lawrence had a knack for languages.” She walks over to the sink and runs water into a teakettle. I watch, scarcely daring to breathe. “He rose up the ranks quickly in the Luxembourgian military even without royal connections. Everyone loved him, you see. He just had this quality about him. After the war began, MI6 recruited him right away. They wanted someone with Luxembourgian military experience.”

Miss Tickford turns, her hands clenched. Dread tightens my stomach and I know what's coming.

“He disappeared on an assignment in Paris. He was found in the Seine a week later, his body mutilated. It was a warning to British Intelligence.”

She pauses so long, I think she's done, but then she turns with a hard smile. “Being a woman, I'm not allowed to join the armed forces, so I did the next best thing and became a spy. Turns out, I'm very, very good at it. Aren't I, Rickard?”

The bearded man nods. “One of the very best.”

Miss Tickford takes several cups out of the cupboard and sets them on the counter. “Now, I could give you reams of
information about how to survive an interrogation, but in reality there are only two skills you must know.”

I swallow, trying to adjust to the abrupt change of conversation. “Just two?”

She nods. “Interrogation is terrifying. If they want to break you, they will.”

I think of how frightened I was while tied to the chair and I nod.

She continues. “The first skill you've proved you already possess—the ability to control your own fear. Secondly, you must know how to leave your captors feeling like you have more information than you really do. That you're more valuable alive than dead.” She stops there and gives me a look that chills me to my soul. “That is, until you come to the conclusion that you really are better off dead.”

My stomach churns as I think of her brother in the river. The teakettle whistles and I startle.

“Go get into your robe and you can take your oath,” she says.

I blink. “Now?”

She nods. “It's time. An opportunity has arisen that we must take advantage of. Prince Wilhelm is here and the grand duchess is throwing a reception for him tomorrow evening. It's the perfect time for you to ease into your new persona. I've already sent a note to the prince's secretary to tell him of your presence in the city, and you've been issued a formal invitation.”

I turn to leave the kitchen.

“Samantha,” she says.

I pause in the doorway.

“You understand why I am so very, very hard on you, don't you? I don't want any more bodies left in the Seine.”

Her voice is pleading for me to understand and I give her another nod before going to my room. The bedding is strewn across the floor and I shudder as images of being dragged out of the room replay in my mind. I sit on the bed, hoping the trembling passes before I have to go back out into the kitchen. For some reason it's important to me that no one knows just how terrified I actually was. Taking a deep breath, I grab my robe from the hook behind the door, and return.

Somehow, I'm not as thrilled as I thought I would be taking the La Dame Blanche oath. Perhaps I've already expended my allotment of emotion for the evening. My words feel flat as I repeat after Miss Tickford:

“I declare and enlist in the capacity of soldier in the Allied military observation service until the end of the war. I swear before God to respect this engagement, to accomplish conscientiously the offices entrusted to me, to comply with instructions given to me by the representatives of the Direction, not to reveal to anyone (without formal authorization) anything concerning the organization of the service, even if this stance should entail for me or mine the penalty of death, and not to take part in any other activity or role that might expose me to prosecution by the occupying authority.”

A chill runs down my spine as I finish. I've just promised to face a firing squad rather than reveal anything about Miss Tickford, Captain Parker, Velvet, or La Dame Blanche.

“Congratulations,” Miss Tickford says. “You are officially a member of La Dame Blanche. Now sit. You have some official papers to sign.”

After I'm done signing the papers, Miss Tickford leans forward, her green eyes serious. “Rumors have surfaced about the schematics for a new weapon becoming available on the black market. We believe it's the same weapon Velvet has been hinting about. Either Velvet has turned or someone has discovered that she has access to the plans and is somehow using her to obtain them. We must find her quickly.”

My pulse speeds up, but I try to match Miss Tickford's calm demeanor. “You said her handler had disappeared,” I say. “Do you think it's connected? Do we know yet what sort of weapon it is?”

Miss Tickford shakes her head. “At this point, we're just dealing with unverified reports.”

“So you believe there's a possibility that Velvet has turned and yet you're sending me in anyway?” Why am I not more surprised by this?

Miss Tickford gives me a sharp look. “Velvet's loyalty has never been questioned before. We're not about to cut her off over rumors, but it does make it imperative that we get to her as soon as possible.”