Unable to find Lohr or Simon, Evette went to McDougall’s home to confess her failure. Madame Morel gave her the usual look of disapproval but went to rouse McDougall from his bed. She wished McDougall would tell Madame Morel what his work involved so she would stop assuming the worst.
“Evette?” McDougall turned back briefly. “Thank you, Madam Morel.”
As soon as the housekeeper left, Evette spoke. “I lost him.”
“Well, we know where he lives. I expect he shall return there before long. Hopefully he won’t arrange anything untoward in the meantime.”
“It’s worse than that. He met with Lohr. I crawled through a window and listened to part of their conversation, but I lost them when they left.” Evette looked at the floor, not wanting to see the disappointment in McDougall’s eyes.
“Come into my office.” He placed a gentle hand on her elbow.
When they were seated, Evette forced herself to look up.
McDougall watched her but didn’t seem to condemn her. “So he met with Lohr?”
“Yes. Lohr told him he wants sabotage, lots of it, quickly. And he has at least two sources here in Paris. They didn’t say either name, but one arranges money for the League, and the other is selling them information.” Evette was about to tell McDougall that the second source was with British Intelligence, probably someone McDougall worked with, but would he believe her? What if he included the information in a report and Lohr’s source found it? Or worse, what if McDougall was somehow involved? Evette pushed the thought from her head. She’d worked with McDougall for almost two years. He couldn’t be a double agent. Still, she held that piece of information for later, focusing on the more urgent facts. “Lohr said he was leaving for Germany tomorrow, but he also said he hadn’t learned much of significance. I assume that means he doesn’t know about the mutinies.”
“I can issue an alert with his description and try to stop him at the borders. I don’t know how he’s getting in and out, but I shall see that the appropriate people are watching for him.” McDougall opened a drawer and held out a set of three keys to her. “Skeleton keys, in case you have to follow him inside again. Perhaps he has made it home.”
It was a long, dark walk back to Simon’s flat. A light shone through a crack in the curtains, so she assumed he was inside. Agent Fournier was due to relieve her at midnight, but he never came. She hid from yet another police patrol out looking for anything suspicious and cursed Fournier. Simon had been boring recently, but that wasn’t an excuse to neglect one’s duty.
Dawn found her bleary-eyed and hungry, but a scream and several loud, excited voices drove the sleepiness away. The noise came from farther down the block. As Evette approached, she saw a small crowd forming. In the center of the commotion, she recognized Agent Fournier sprawled on the grass next to the sidewalk, a knife protruding from his back. Evette gasped and took several steps backward on shaky legs. A middle-aged woman sobbed and gestured as she recounted how she’d discovered the body.
Evette’s relief had come; he just hadn’t made it to her. Fournier’s murder escalated her assignment from dangerous to deadly.
She couldn’t neglect Simon, especially not while Lohr was in France, so she returned to her post. She was terrified that he might be the murderer, but she followed him anyway when she caught sight of him leaving his house. Where was he going so early after such a late night?
Six blocks later, he stopped and sat at a table outside a café. Evette held back until a French officer joined him and Simon slid an envelope to him. She suspected it was a bribe of some sort, which meant Simon had gotten money while she hadn’t been watching. She sat a few tables away with her back to Simon, but she faced the reflective glass window of the café so he couldn’t sneak away without her knowledge. She ordered and paid for coffee and a roll while the men did the same.
“Things are bad,” a voice said in a whisper.
“How so?” Simon asked.
“The poilus are sick of fighting. All along the front, the men are saying they’ll hold the line but they won’t attack. Soldiers singing the ‘Internationale,’ issuing manifestos, refusing to obey orders. It’s mutiny on a scale so large it’s frightening.”
“Is the Communist revolution spreading to France?”
There was a pause. “I wish that were the case. Some involved are Communists. Most have just lost all trust in their leaders. They’ve been at war a long time, seen a lot of men killed. They aren’t willing to die for some general’s glory anymore. They’d rather live.”
“Imagine that—wanting to live.”
The officer muttered something unintelligible.
“I have a friend who might find this information useful. You’re sure it’s as bad as all that?”
“Yes.”
“Enjoy your breakfast. I need to catch him before he heads out of town.”
In the window, Evette saw Simon leave his table and rush away. If Simon told Lohr about the mutinies, it would be a disaster. She slowly counted to twenty, then calmly stood and followed, hoping the officer wasn’t paying attention.
Simon’s rapid stride drew curious glances from other passersby, and since she had to match her pace to his, so did Evette’s. Dozens of other pedestrians hid her from Simon, but she wished another of McDougall’s agents were there to help her. Outside a hotel, Simon questioned a heavy-set woman wearing a porter’s uniform. Evette was too far away to hear what was said, but the woman gestured to the lobby, and Simon darted inside.
Evette followed.
“May I help you?” The porter scrutinized her through narrowed eyes, making Evette suspect that her all-night vigil was evident in the state of her hair and clothing. “The hotel lobby is for paying guests and their friends only.”
“The man who just went inside is my husband. I want to make sure he’s not meeting another woman.” Evette’s simple lie made the porter hesitate long enough for Evette to brush past her.
Inside, Simon paced across the lobby. He saw her when she arrived, but his attention quickly turned to Lohr, who descended the staircase with his luggage.
Evette scanned the lobby. An elderly man was stationed at the desk, and a few prosperous-looking couples sat in plush armchairs, reading papers and chatting. Ideally, both Simon and Lohr would be arrested. She walked to the clerk and whispered, “Please call the gendarmes at once.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It’s urgent. Please. A matter of national security. Those two men are spies.”
His scowl told her he didn’t believe her. With all the spy scares over the past few years, it wasn’t surprising, but it was disappointing.
Lohr noticed Simon and strode toward him. The clerk and the porter wouldn’t help her, and Evette wasn’t sure any of the hotel patrons would either. Desperate to prevent the two from talking to each other, she took a chance. “Stop those men!” she shouted. “They’re spies!”
All noise ceased. The middle-aged women stared, and their husbands rose to their feet but didn’t move forward.
Lohr and Simon proved their guilt by bolting for the door. Evette flew after them, but they turned opposite directions when they reached the street.
“Stop!” she yelled again. “He’s a spy!” She turned after Lohr, chasing him until he shoved a coachman from his parked carriage and shook the reins, urging the horse into a trot.
Her lungs ached as he drove off. She searched for a horse or a car, but there were no other horses nearby, and all the automobiles were empty, so she couldn’t ask for a ride, and she didn’t know how to drive. She ran after the carriage for a block but fell farther and farther behind. A gendarme stopped and questioned her. He was skeptical while she explained the situation, and in the meantime, Lohr vanished.
When it was over, she walked slowly to McDougall’s office, fighting back tears of frustration and exhaustion.
He listened in silence while she told him about his dead agent and the successful escapes of both Simon and Lohr. “I’m sorry,” she finished. “I tried, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
“We shall catch them yet. The important thing is you prevented Lohr from hearing about the mutinies. That act alone may have saved the Allied cause.”