The Count stood up, placed a hand on his chest, and gave an elegant bow. “Ladies, please excuse the interruption. Forgive me for causing such a commotion. That man is not only Lila’s bodyguard, but a servant of mine. I beg your pardon for his lack of manners.”
“What’re you putting on airs for, Count?” Camille spat. “Enough with the theatrics. I was just telling this naive boy about how the world works.”
“I agree with your idea of selling information to raise money, Camille,” the Count said, as if speaking to an old friend. “But great care should be taken in choosing what to reveal to the British. You have to be selective in what you tell them. I won’t help you if it results in powerless soldiers on the battlefield being trampled underfoot.”
“You’re a bat—a bloodsucker, just like your country. You refuse to pick a side, all the while judging the Central and Allied powers.”
“Romania will join the war in the summer.”
“On which side?”
“I don’t know. Milos might know more.”
“See? Like I said: a bat.”
“I always have been.”
Camille muttered to herself as she stood up from the girder. “Well, Mr. Huber, think about it this way. You had no problem killing people on the Western Front. Whether you kill an enemy or an ally, it makes no difference. It’s all murder in the end.”
“I don’t see it that way. Soldiers aren’t murderers.”
“It’s strange. Why would someone like you object to intelligence work?”
“I dislike dirty jobs like that.”
Camille laughed loudly. “That’s what everyone says. People only ever do it for the money, but they don’t want to be called spies and ask the higher-ups in the intelligence service for a military position. You’re all so full of yourselves. I can’t stand it.”
“How many spies are there currently in Europe?”
“Lots, and they’re everywhere. Of course, only the best infiltrate enemy lines. Most gather information on enemy movements near borders. Typically, they employ locals—everyday housewives and workers—who carry out simple jobs.”
“Housewives?”
“Women like that monitor a fixed location, watching the same spot every day and reporting to intelligence bureaus if anything unusual happens. Things like convoys—their length and location, plus what they’re transporting. With just that information, the Allied intelligence bureaus can decipher the state of Central supplies and their movements. Intelligence work is a lot of mundane tasks just like that. Spies running through towns getting into shootouts is something that only happens in plays. Real agents always keep themselves hidden. They blend into everyday life. You couldn’t tell them apart from a regular person. Their game is information-gathering; their value is determined by how the data can be analyzed.”
Camille raised her right hand above her head in an elegant gesture, and a pigeon appeared in midair, as if conjured by a magician. It flew down to land on Camille’s wrist. “This bird isn’t real,” she said, stroking its back. “You’ve been on the front lines, so you should know what this is. It’s a carrier pigeon. Even now that telegrams are being used, they’re still a useful tool for communication on any battlefield. The Germans use them, too, I assume.”
“Yes.”
Germany used them for more than just communication between the front and the rear lines; they also attached cameras to the birds to photograph enemy positions from the air. Pigeons were incredibly useful as they didn’t stand out, unlike airplanes.
“Between the military and civilian carrier pigeon coops, France has around two hundred thousand birds,” Camille went on. “There are four hundred carrier pigeon clubs within France. The ten permanent military coops have between two and four hundred birds each at any given time. Civilian coops are run by a carrier pigeon communications network, which has a number of people who work with the intelligence division of the French general staff headquarters. Carrier pigeons in France collect information on the rear lines. This whole collaboration was started by the citizens themselves.”
Still consoling the bird, Camille turned the conversation onto Jörg. “Someone like you should be able to gather information better than a pigeon. Not to mention you used to be a soldier. There’s no better spy for the British than someone like that.”
“You’re telling me to work like the pigeons?”
“That’s right.” Her eyes twinkled brightly. “Or use your talents for the Central powers and give them the upper hand over the Allies. But with Germany’s food shortages, the more you help the Central powers, the more German blood gets spilled and the longer this war goes on. So working with the British will end this war sooner. At least that’s how I see it.”
Jörg was lost for words. Camille simply ignored him and stood up, the illusory pigeon perched on her shoulder.
“Think it over,” she urged. “You’ve heard what the women here have to say. I won’t forgive you if you make them suffer. Count, talk it over with the boy, will you?”
Camille leaped lightly off the girder once more and disappeared in midair. Even though she was just a soul, there was something awfully inhuman about her movements.
Jörg turned to the Count. “Just what is that woman?”
The Count’s eyes narrowed in amusement as he stared into the empty space where Camille had just vanished. “She’s human, but she has one foot in our world. You know a man named Fritz in your unit, correct? The one with a talent for drawing?”
“Yes.”
“She’s like him. Their artistic abilities allow them to see into the world of monsters.”
“So she’s a painter?”
“A sculptor. A fellow artist betrayed her, and they had a fierce fight—the result of which was that she was thought to have gone mad and thrown into a hospital. Not a single family member ever visits her. She spends every day staring at the world outside the iron bars of her window. In truth, she’s not someone who does well in a place like that. Her artistic drive must still consume her mind like a tempest, but she can no longer express it through her art. Unable to express herself, her soul wandered out of her body just like these other ladies, and she found her way here.”
“That poor woman.”
“While her situation is undeniably lamentable, don’t be so quick to pity her. For Camille, the hospital is simply the endpoint of having lived her life to the fullest.”
“Have you never thought to help her?”
“I’ll go and get her once her body stops functioning and she exists only as a soul. I admire people like her, who commit themselves fully to life without worrying about destroying themselves. Come now, how about we get going? It will be light soon.”
Jörg realized that the stars were beginning to fade. The souls were hurriedly preparing to return home, wishing one another a safe trip, and promising to meet again soon.
Jörg called out to Bernadette. “What brothel can I visit to meet the real you? I’d like to hear more of your story.”
“I work at 12 Rue Drucker, in the Second Arrondissement of Paris near Rue Chabanais. It’s easy to find; just look for the number under the red light. If you’re coming by taxi, all you have to do is tell them the street name and building number, and they’ll take you there from anywhere in the city.”
“Is it expensive?”
“It’s a long-standing establishment, so fairly expensive. Be prepared to open some bottles of champagne. We’re a fully licensed brothel. Some pierreuse walk the streets nearby, though, so don’t let those low-class whores trick you.”
As the souls were leaving, the Count looked over to Lila and Jörg. “Now then, I have a lot of questions for you both.”
“I came by myself,” Lila said quickly. “Mr. Huber chose to come on his own.”
“That’s fine. I’m not blaming anyone. However,” the Count said, glancing at Jörg, “why did you not say anything to me before leaving? After the trouble you ran into the other day.”
Jörg lowered his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.”
“Useless man. If you can’t do anything right, then perhaps I’ll turn you into a worm.”
“Not a worm,” Lila cut in. “That wouldn’t be good for anything. At least make him a house mouse or something I can keep as a pet.”
“I shall consider it.”
A chill ran down Jörg’s spine. Even as a joke, it was in bad taste.
“We’ll talk more when we get back to the inn,” the Count said, turning around with a swish of his cloak.