December 1917, Paris, France
When McDougall and Flynn both disappeared, Evette took it upon herself to find the traitor in British intelligence, but she had no authority and few clues. She began by tailing everyone who worked in McDougall’s office with the rank of captain or higher. It was a tedious process. She had hoped she might catch them meeting Lohr, but nothing so dramatic occurred. The men went to the office as expected and ate sometimes at a restaurant and sometimes at their various residences. She learned which post offices they used, where they banked, how often they shined their shoes and cut their hair. If one of them was a traitor, he did a good job hiding it.
Weeks went by, and 1917 drew to an end. Christmas Eve that year lacked the spirit Evette usually found in remembering the birth of the Christ child. With Emile gone, she felt more alone than ever. And she felt guilt. Had she allowed a silly infatuation with a soldier she’d met once to color her judgment and send first McDougall and then Captain Flynn off to rescue someone who was already lost? And were all three now dead?
Claire suggested they go to midnight mass, and Evette agreed, hoping it would cheer her. Many of the parishes weren’t holding a service, so they pedaled through the cold, dark streets to several churches before finding an open one. The inside of the church was scarcely warmer than the street, but at least it was sheltered from the biting wind.
The war hadn’t made her lose her faith, but it had made her question it. Evette tried to focus on the familiar carols, the candles, and the promise of the infant Savior. This year the ceremony was simpler, less elaborate. She found that appropriate. The birth of the baby in Bethlehem had, after all, been a simple affair. As the service ended, she felt a sliver of hope. Perhaps like the Wise Men seeking earnestly for the King of kings, she would have a long journey, but maybe something good waited at her final destination.
* * *
Evette dined with the Donovans on Christmas afternoon. The meal would have been considered a feast in her village, especially since the war began, but it was a relatively humble supper for the wealthy Americans. After the meal, Claire played Christmas carols on the piano while Mr. Donovan, Evette, Mr. Franke, and the cook sang. The rest of the staff had the day off. As the sky grew dark, the others excused themselves, leaving Claire and Evette alone in the library.
“If you could have anything for Christmas, what would it be?” Evette asked.
Claire smiled wistfully. “I should say peace, and I would like the war to end. But I’d settle for a letter from Warren. I wrote him three weeks ago, and I haven’t heard back.”
Evette’s cheeks burned. “Claire, I have something to tell you.”
“Yes?”
“Monsieur McDougall told me to ask Captain Flynn for help with one of our projects, so I wrote to him. But when I explained what had happened with Spider, he flew to Germany to try to rescue him. He was only supposed to be gone a day or two. But . . . but something must have gone wrong. I haven’t heard from any of them. I’m so sorry, Claire. If I’d known what would happen, I wouldn’t have written to him.”
Claire didn’t respond. She stared at her fingers, still on the piano keys.
“He told me if he didn’t make it back to tell you he still loved you.”
That brought a sob and a sniffle.
“He may be fine,” Evette added. “I’ve read accounts of pilots crashing on the wrong side of the lines and sneaking back through Belgium or Holland. It just takes time.”
Mr. Donovan returned to the library, the terrier at his heels. “Who’s ready for a Christmas toast?”
Claire ran from the room, tears streaking down her cheeks.
Mr. Donovan watched her go, then turned to Evette, a bewildered look on his face. “Whatever is wrong?”
“Captain Flynn is missing.”
“Oh.” Mr. Donovan sat in his favorite armchair, and the dog curled up near his feet. He could have said he’d been right all along to discourage the couple from marrying, but his face showed concern, not triumph. “What should I do for her?”
“I’m not sure. Missing is better than confirmed dead, but I think they feel like the same thing to Claire just now. I’ll go see if I can comfort her.”
“Give her a minute,” Mr. Donovan said. “Let her get a few tears out. My wife always said it was healthy for a woman to cry from time to time.”
Evette obediently waited. Maybe the late Mrs. Donovan was right.
As Evette wondered how to help Claire with her problem, an idea for fixing one of her own formed. “Mr. Donovan, I would like to ask a favor of you.”
“I would be inclined to grant it, especially on Christmas.”
“I’m trying to find a traitor, and I’ve narrowed the investigation down to three men. They all have accounts at the Caisse des Dépôts et Consignations. I need to know if any of them made a large deposit in June. If I can confirm one of them received bribe money when a German agent was in Paris, I’ll have the evidence I need to take the matter to someone who can prevent them from doing any more damage.”
“I know the manager. I shall have a chat with him as soon as he is back at work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“With Russia out of the war, the Germans will have the advantage. Maybe this will help even things out. Run along after Claire now. I’m not the best person to comfort her about Captain Flynn, given what happened this fall. But I love my daughter more than anything. If you think I can help her, tell me how.”
Evette spent the rest of the night letting Claire cry on her shoulder. She ached for Claire and for herself. If neither Captain Flynn nor Lieutenant McDougall had returned, it probably meant they were dead, and Spider along with them. Spider’s death was bitter—with him gone, Evette lost a dream, an ideal. But it was worse for Claire. If Captain Flynn was dead, Claire was losing something much more tangible than a dream.
* * *
Mr. Donovan was true to his word. He somehow convinced the bank’s manager to let Evette read through the deposit histories for Captain Peter Broxton, Major Kent Halliday, and Lieutenant Colonel T. Horatio Walsh. In both May and November, Major Halliday had made abnormally large deposits. It was enough of a red flag for Evette to take the information to Lieutenant Colonel Walsh.
He worked in the same building as McDougall, and he seemed to recognize her when she came up to him. “Sir, may I have a moment of your time?”
He glanced at his watch and nodded curtly before leading her into his private office.
She explained how she’d overheard Lohr telling Simon about his source in British Intelligence, someone who had known why Simon was released and of the spies in Essen and Munich.
“Several of my men knew those facts, including me,” Walsh said.
“Yes, sir. Lohr also said the man was expensive. I have a friend who is on good terms with the manager of the Caisse des Dépôts et Consignations. Your Major Halliday deposited a large sum into his account in May, when Lohr was here, and again in November, when Lohr may have been here again.”
Walsh studied her for a moment, and she knew she’d convinced him.
The next day she heard the news. Lohr’s source, Major Kent Halliday, would spend New Year’s behind bars. She breathed a little easier knowing he couldn’t betray any more intelligence. But Halliday confessed to selling out the spies in Munich and Essen. Lohr knew about Spider, and Evette had sent both McDougall and Flynn into a trap.