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The Man Who Loved Mata Hari

Dan Sherman
Chapters (46)
  1. The Man Who Loved Mata Hari
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. PART I: The Early Years
  5. Prologue
  6. Chapter One
  7. Chapter Two
  8. Chapter Three
  9. Chapter Four
  10. Chapter Five
  11. Chapter Six
  12. Chapter Seven
  13. PART II: The Middle Years
  14. Chapter Eight
  15. Chapter Nine
  16. Chapter Ten
  17. Chapter Eleven
  18. Chapter Twelve
  19. Chapter Thirteen
  20. Chapter Fourteen
  21. Chapter Fifteen
  22. Chapter Sixteen
  23. Chapter Seventeen
  24. Chapter Eighteen
  25. PART III: The War Years
  26. Chapter Nineteen
  27. Chapter Twenty
  28. Chapter Twenty-One
  29. Chapter Twenty-Two
  30. PART IV: The Last Year
  31. Chapter Twenty-Three
  32. Chapter Twenty-Four
  33. Chapter Twenty-Five
  34. Chapter Twenty-Six
  35. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  36. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  37. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  38. Chapter Thirty
  39. Chapter Thirty-One
  40. Chapter Thirty-Two
  41. Chapter Thirty-Three
  42. Chapter Thirty-Four
  43. Chapter Thirty-Five
  44. Montserrat
  45. Author’s Afterword
  46. Table of Contents

The Man Who Loved Mata Hari

Dan Sherman

Open Road logo

Dedication

For Lorry and Charlotte

Epigraph

If I did not tell you everything before, it 

is only because I felt somewhat ashamed.

—Mata Hari

PART I: The Early Years

PART I

The Early Years

Prologue

Prologue

THOSE in search of the site where Mata Hari died are usually directed to the court-yard at Vincennes outside of Paris. Do not be deceived. The actual lace of execution lies two miles south of the courtyard on what is now a parking lot. There is no monument, and the stake to which he was loosely tied has been removed. There are, however, several eyewitness accounts, and from these it is possible to reconstruct her final hour.

She died on the morning of October 15, 1917. The temperature was thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit, the landscape obscured by a river fog. When convening officers entered her cell she was reported to have cried, "But this is impossible." Although there is no record of a reply, it is easy enough to imagine the numbed silence. . . .

She is permitted twenty minutes to prepare herself, but after a lifetime of flamboyant excess she can only sit on the cot while a guard selects her clothing. She will wear a pearl-gray dress, a straw hat and veil, blue coat, black gloves. (Her jewelry has been confiscated earlier.)

Descending the staircase to a waiting car, she holds the hand of a young nun, a Sister Leonide from one of the local convents. Journalists and spectators line the corridor between the compound and the prison gates. No one is certain who has alerted them.

The motorcade departs at half past five. The temperature has dropped another degree and the fog has still not lifted. En route, a Reverend Arboux from Saint-Lazare reads passages from the Bible until overcome with nausea. Except for an occasional delivery van the boulevards are deserted.

The field must have been an arbitrary choice. Locally known as the Poly gone, it is generally used for cavalry maneuvers. The ground is uneven, tufted with high grass and clumps of thistles. The perimeter is ringed with trees, mostly beech and poplars.

Assuming that the fog is not too thick, she will probably see the soldiers as soon as the motorcade penetrates the wood. They are Zouaves, survivors of a regiment that was butchered at Verdun. All her life she has been attracted to men in uniform, and now there are twelve, waiting in two rows of six.

The motorcade stops at the rim of trees. Farther afield two ranks have been assembled from a cavalry unit, still another from the infantry. The journalists have also come, but for once they keep their distance, lingering under the poplars, speaking softly among themselves until she steps out of the car.