From Fitzroy's Private diary (Extract 10)

More than once I’ve been asked if I ever met Mata Hari. I did, but it wasn’t at all as some of my more liberal minded colleagues imagined.

I was in Paris not long before the Great War. As you can imagine, there was a pressing need for intelligence, but this had to be obtained amidst the growing hostilities in the area. I have loved Paris. This time my whole attention was on doing my job and getting out of the city as soon as I could. I went alone, by choice, and I don’t believe I ever told Alice about this particular mission.

I had a better idea than most as to what was coming with this war - although I could not have imagined the atrocities both sides were to inflict on their soldiers in what became a war of attrition. I only knew we were in for a bad time - and I didn’t want Euphemia, or any woman, if I could help it, anywhere near the battle lines. I’d seen war before. No matter how brave or how prepared you may think you are, no man who has ever experienced fighting in a war would willingly inflict that suffering on any other, least of all a woman.

British Intelligence had a passing interest in Mata Hari. Personally, I thought we were at too late a stage for her to be of any use to us. She was ageing by then. Still most attractive and exotic, if her photographs were anything to go by, but rumour had it she no longer exuded the magic that older men once described. The idea she could get military information out of senior military men, or German Princes, I thought overblown.

However, I did not expect what I saw when I finally met her. I use the term loosely; we were never introduced. Rather, I attended a party where I knew she would be, so I could satisfy myself that I was correct in my assumption that there was no point in approaching her.

I do remember, not a silence in the conversation, but a quietening, and the heads of many gentlemen turning towards the door as she made her entrance. She paused in the doorway with her long cigarette holder held so that it was just touching her painted lips. She wore her infamous jewelled brassiere, her strange little bejewelled hair net over long jet-black hair and a cascade of material that covered her modesty but exposed her abdomen in a manner that stopped just short of being lewd. A ripple crossed the room as many of the watching gentleman adjusted their gait.

I confess, it is rare for me not to be drawn to an attractive woman - a failing of mine, but I offer as penance that physical attraction alone has never been enough for me for form a relationship.

However, that is not to the point. What is, is that I felt instinctively repelled by this woman.

I never spoke to her, but as she brushed past my shoulder, she gave me a small, pouting smile. I barely noticed it. I know all about acting a part. Instead I looked into her eyes and I saw a depth of coldness within those lovely orbs that sent shivers down my spine. Despite the seductive attire, I saw a woman, broken and lost, completely undone by life and in the most desperate need of love, or failing that, distraction - any distraction.

I knew in that moment she was the worst choice for a spy. Life had stripped her of all convictions, of all loyalty, of everything. I left the party early, despite strong enticements to stay. I could not bear to be around her.

It was only later I learned of the death of her two young children, the disastrous marriages and the affairs she had embarked upon to save herself, but she had failed. By the time I met her, Mata Hari’s soul was long gone.