The Diplomat's Wife Part 16

As I near the center of the bridge, a tall figure emerges from the shadows at the far end and starts toward me. Marcelitis. I walk forward, my heart racing. Just before reaching him, I stop. From all of the stories, I expected someone young and vibrant, like Alek and Jacob had been. But Marcelitis is older, his bald head glowing in the moonlight. "Marta?" I nod. "I'm Jan Marcelitis." His English is heavily accented.

I study his pale face and bloodshot gray eyes. "Did Marek explain to you why I am here?"

"Yes. Give me the information you have for me. The cipher has been left at a dead drop. a.s.suming the information you offer is acceptable to me, I will give you the location." I hesitate. The D.M. said only to give the information to Marcelitis in exchange for the cipher. Can he be relied upon to live up to his end of the bargain? "This is the only way you are going to get the information," he adds, sensing my uncertainty.

He's right, of course. I have no other choice. I reach in my bag for the papers, trembling. As I start to pull them out, Marcelitis extends his hand expectantly, his pale, bony fingers creeping out from his coat sleeve. Something gold glows on one of his fingers. A wedding ring. But Alek had said that Marcelitis was not married. Uneasiness rises up inside me. Something is not right. Easy, I think. Alek told me about Marcelitis several years ago. Perhaps he is only recently married. But something still seems wrong. I hesitate, uncertain what to do.

"Mr. Marcelitis," I begin, s.h.i.+fting my weight, stalling for time. "I understand that we may have a mutual friend...."

"Yes, of course. Marek Andek."

"Not only him. I understand that you also know another friend of mine, a resistance leader from Krakow during the war?"

"Who are you speaking of?" he asks impatiently. "The police could be here at any time. I really cannot play guessing games."

"Alek Landesberg."

"Yes, of course, Alek," the man replies quickly.

I take a deep breath. "Have you had news of him lately?"

"Just last month," the man replies. "I saw him in Berlin."

If this man were really Marcelitis, he would have known that Alek is dead. I look down at the papers in my hand. My heart pounds. "I-I just realized that these are not the right papers," I say, putting the papers back in my bag. "I have to go back to the hotel to get them...."

"Stop playing games," the man orders sharply. "Just give me the papers." He steps toward me and, before I can react, seizes me by both shoulders. I twist, struggling to get away, but the man's grasp is too strong. He reaches down with one hand to grab my bag. He must not get the papers. Adrenaline shoots through me. Quickly, I lift my left foot and bring it down hard on his instep. The man grunts and jerks back, loosening his grip slightly. I pull away hard, breaking free and leaping backward. The man growls and lunges toward me again. He raises his right hand and I can see that he is clutching something that glints silver in the moonlight. He swings the knife wildly toward me, just missing my shoulder. I step back and he raises the knife, preparing to lunge again. The gun, I remember suddenly, reaching into my bag. But before I can pull it out, he leaps forward. I brace myself and raise my right foot. As he comes at me, I kick him hard in the s.h.i.+n.

"Aah!" the man cries, lifting his leg. But the blow was not serious enough to stop him for long. I have to act now, while he is off balance. I reach out with both hands and push him hard, sending him flying backward onto the ground. Then I turn and begin running toward the end of the bridge.

Behind me, I hear the man scramble to his feet, then start to run after me. Don't look back, I think as his footsteps grow closer. At the end of the bridge, I turn left, running harder. My lungs feel as though they are about to explode. I make a quick right onto another street. Then I duck into an alley, scanning its length. It is bare, completely exposed, except for a door at the end and a large trash bin. Desperately, I run to the door and pull hard on the handle, but it is locked and refuses to budge. I hear footsteps in the street, growing louder. The bald man, whoever he is, will be here any second. I run to the trash bin and climb over the high edge. Trash bags cus.h.i.+on my landing on the other side. The stench of garbage is overwhelming. I hold my breath for as long as I can, then, when I can stand it no longer, take a shallow breath. A gag rises in the back of my throat. Stifling it, I force myself to burrow deeper into the garbage, pulling one of the bags on top of me.

The man's footsteps reach the entrance to the alleyway, stop. I lie motionless, my heart pounding. A minute pa.s.ses, seeming like an eternity. Then, I hear footsteps again, growing fainter as he disappears down the street.

For several seconds, I remain frozen in the trash bin, too afraid to move. My mind races. The man on the bridge was not Marcelitis, but an imposter who wanted the information I am carrying, enough to kill me. But how had he known that I would be there? I think of Marek, who arranged the meeting. Has he betrayed me?

I have to keep going, I realize. The man might try to come back when he cannot find me on the street. And Renata will be waiting. I climb from the trash bin, brus.h.i.+ng myself off as well as I can. I creep to the front of the alleyway, then stop, listening. Hearing nothing, I peer out into the deserted street. My skin p.r.i.c.kles. Has the man really gone or is he just hiding somewhere, waiting? I take a breath, then step out into the street, half expecting him to leap out and attack me once more. But the street remains silent. Exhaling, I turn in the direction from which I came and begin retracing my steps.

As I walk, I think again about the bald man. Who is he? And what happened to the real Marcelitis? I was not able to make contact with him or obtain the cipher. For a minute I consider abandoning my rendezvous with Renata and going to the bar again, to try to find Marek and ask for his help once more in reaching Marcelitis. But even as I think it, I know that it is impossible. I do not even know if the D.M. would want me to continue my mission under such circ.u.mstances. I will go meet Renata. She will know what to do.

When I have backtracked to the river, I follow the directions Renata gave me. Soon I reach Krizovnicka Street and follow it until it intersects with Platnerska. I scan the opposite side of the street. There is an archway, as Renata described, but it appears to be empty. Running from the bald man has made me late, I know. Perhaps Renata was not able to wait for me any longer. As I cross the street, the front b.u.mper of Renata's Wartburg comes into view and I can hear the engine running. Relieved, I hurry toward the car.

I wave at Renata through the fogged winds.h.i.+eld. Then I open the pa.s.senger door and climb inside. "Something went wrong," I pant as I shut the door behind me. "The man who met me wasn't Marcelitis. It was an imposter and he..." I turn toward the driver's seat, then stop. Renata lays slumped forward, her head resting on the steering wheel. "Renata?"

Dread rises in me as I reach over and lean her back against the seat. Her eyes are closed and her mouth half open, a fine string of spittle running from one corner of her lips to her chin. I shake her, but there is no response. "Renata?" I lean my head close to her mouth. She is not breathing.

I jump back, staring at Renata's lifeless body, nauseous. Renata is dead. But how? There is no blood or wound that I can see. I look around the inside of the car. Four lines, each made by a separate finger, run down the condensation on the driver's-side window. Renata's fingers, reaching out for help. Otherwise, there is no sign of a struggle or any activity inside the car at all.

I lean over to study Renata once more. Closer now, I can see a small bruise high on her neck, the size of a small coin. At the center of the bruise there is a tiny spot of dried blood. A needle. Someone has killed Renata by injection. I picture the bald man on the bridge, lunging at me with the knife. I am certain Renata's death is connected to him. Could he have killed Renata before coming to meet me, or did he have an accomplice?

The attacker could still be here, I realize with alarm. I spin around, checking the backseat. I have to get out of here. But he could also be outside, waiting for me. I hesitate, uncertain. I am a sitting duck here in the car, I decide. My chances are better on my feet.

I look at Renata's lifeless body once more. I should call someone and report her death. But Renata said the police are controlled by the communists; they could well be connected to the very people who have done this. And I do not know anyone at the emba.s.sy, or anyone else for that matter, to call. No, I will have to leave her here, at least for now. "I'm sorry," I whisper, reaching over and touching her cool arm.

I open the car door slowly and stare out into the darkness. The night air has grown thick with fog, making it impossible to see more than a meter in front of me. I listen closely for any sign that the attacker might be nearby. Hearing none, I take a deep breath and creep from the car, closing the door softly behind me. I begin to walk swiftly in the direction of the hotel. But the fog makes everything look different, obscuring the street signs and making foreign the route I had taken just a few minutes earlier.

As I make my way through the streets, my mind whirls. Someone murdered Renata. But there were no real signs of a struggle. How had the attacker been able to get close enough to inject her? Perhaps he (I a.s.sume for some reason that Renata was not killed by a woman) hid in the backseat before Renata got into her car. Or maybe it was someone she knew, who had been able to get in the car and close to her without causing alarm. Someone she knew. I stop walking. The image of Marek's face pops into my mind. I put one hand up against a building for support. It had been nagging at me ever since I fled the bridge: Marek arranged the meeting on the bridge, and it seemed almost certain that whoever killed Renata was somehow linked to that meeting. Had Marek sent someone to kill Renata, or even done it himself? And if Marek was a double agent, then what did that make Emma?

I look down the street, still shrouded in fog. I have to keep moving. But where can I go? Renata, my guide, is dead. No one else at the emba.s.sy knows who I am. I will go to the hotel, I decide. It is a risky choice. Whoever attacked me on the bridge might know where I am staying. But if the man wanted to attack me in my hotel room, he could have done so earlier today instead of waiting for me at the bridge. At least there I can change clothes, try to figure out what to do.

Twenty minutes later, I reach the street where the hotel is located. I pause. It is long after curfew and I am filthy from the garbage bin and completely disheveled from my struggles. I cannot walk through the lobby like this without attracting attention. I race around the back of the hotel and into the alley, then pull on the service door. It is locked. My heart pounds. I cannot stay here. I need to get into my room. Suddenly I hear footsteps on the other side of the door. I dive behind a tall stack of cardboard boxes as the door opens. A man leans out into the alley and sets down a bag of trash. I wait until he has gone back inside, then reach out and grab the door before it can shut again. I wait several seconds, then hurry through the door and up the back stairway.

At the top, I look down the hallway. It is empty except for a housekeeping cart that one of the maids left at the far end. I walk quickly down the corridor to my room, unlock the door and step inside. As I close the door, I hear a shuffling sound behind me. Someone is here, I sense, my blood running cold. Quickly, I reach into my bag, pulling out the pistol as I turn.

"Marta, no!" a familiar woman's voice cries. My arm freezes in midair, the pistol falling from my hands and bouncing on the carpet.

"Emma!" I stare at her. "What are you doing here?" She does not answer but stands, pale and wide-eyed, in the middle of the room. I lean against the door, relieved. "I thought you were..." The events of the past few hours come rus.h.i.+ng back. Emma could be the one who betrayed me. "What's going on?" I demand. I realize that I am speaking loudly and that someone could be listening, but I no longer care. "I went to the bridge like you told me Marek wanted me to do. A man claiming to be Marcelitis showed but it wasn't him."

"Good," Emma says quietly.

I am stunned. "How can you say that? I was nearly killed."

"I didn't mean it that way. I mean it's good that Marcelitis didn't show because he would have been arrested or worse. My message must have made it to him in time."

"I don't understand..."

"Oh, Marta..." Suddenly Emma bursts into tears. "Marek's been arrested!"

My stomach drops. "When? What happened?"

"Earlier today, after I saw you. The police came to the house and said he was under arrest for treason. They beat him in front of me and the children, nearly destroyed our home before taking him away."

I put my hand on Emma's shoulder, my suspicions easing. "I'm so sorry."

Emma continues through her tears, "I figured that his arrest was somehow connected to your meeting with Marcelitis tonight. The timing was too close to be a coincidence. And I knew that if they questioned Marek, he would break and tell them the time and location of the meeting. Marek's a good man, Marta. But he's not strong like Alek and Jacob were. Like you. If they found out about the meeting, they would have arrested Marcelitis. So I was able to send word to Marcelitis through certain channels not to come. I wanted to warn you, too, but I couldn't get out of the house. The police stationed a car out front, and they had threatened to hurt the children if I made trouble. I snuck out as soon as I could, but by the time I came here, you were gone."

"I understand." My mind races. So Emma did not betray me, after all. The police must have broken Marek and learned about the meeting. But why had they sent the bald man to impersonate Marcelitis and steal the list, instead of just arresting me? And who killed Renata? Something still doesn't make sense. I take off my coat, then walk over to the bed and sink down on the edge. "How did you get into my room?"

Emma looks away. "I still remember a few things from the resistance." I remember then how dangerous Emma's role had been during the war, sneaking around the Kommandant's office and apartment, searching for information. And she risked everything tonight to come here and warn me. She has always been much stronger than she looks. "What are you going to do now?" she asks.

I hesitate. If Marek really did break and talk, then the police know that I am here and why. "I have to get out of Prague."

Emma nods. "I can show you a shortcut to the British emba.s.sy. I know it's late, but perhaps if we explain to the guard-"

"I'm not going to the emba.s.sy," I cut her off firmly. "I still need to get the information to Marcelitis."

Emma c.o.c.ks her head, puzzled. "But how? Once he received word of Marek's arrest, of the security breach, he surely would have fled. He was going to leave the country, anyway, as soon as he met with you. With the coup, the situation has become too dangerous here. Everyone is pulling up stakes."

"Out of the country, where?"

"My contact didn't say for certain, but I'm pretty sure he meant back to Berlin. Marcelitis is based there."

"Do you have his address? Or someone I can contact in Berlin?"

Emma shakes her head. "I don't. I'm sorry. But Marek did go to Berlin once last winter to see Marcelitis. He told me that Marcelitis lives in central east Berlin above a bookshop. It is right across from a famous synagogue building-Oranienburger Stra.s.se, I think the street was called. I remember because Marek found it strange that a covert operative would live right in the center of town. I pointed out to him that it was just like what the resistance used to do, meeting in the market square cafes in Krakow. The n.a.z.is never thought to look for us right underneath their noses, never imagined that we would be so bold." I nod, remembering. "But, Marta, why do you ask? I mean, it's not as if you're going to go to Berlin and find him, are you?"

I do not answer. Berlin. I turn the idea over in my mind. This is not what I was supposed to do. The D.M. sent me to Prague because I knew Marek. My job was to get to Marcelitis through him and leave. Now Marek is out of the picture. I should just take the information about Marcelitis back to the Foreign Office and let someone else pick up the mission from here. I should return to my safe secretarial job in London, to my daughter. Then I look at Emma, watching me expectantly. She would understand if I just went home. She is a mother, too. But even as I think this, I remember Hans, lying dead on the museum steps, Renata murdered in her car. I cannot quit now. I have no idea how I will get to Berlin, what I will do once I arrive. But I have to try. "I must find Marcelitis," I reply at last.

"But to go to Berlin, alone? That's so dangerous."

"It's no more dangerous than what you and I have had to do in the past." Emma does not respond, but cringes as memories of the Kommandant come cras.h.i.+ng down upon her. "I can handle it." I say this as though trying to convince myself, too.

"I would go with you, if I could," Emma offers.

"I know you would, but you have your boys to think about, and Marek, too. I wish, though, that you would reconsider my offer to come to England to live. It would be safer for all of you there."

"Thank you," Emma replies. "Maybe someday. But I can't leave Marek."

I start to reply. Then I see the tired sadness in Emma's eyes. This is her life now. "I understand."

Emma's eyes widen. "You do?"

I pause. Time is of the essence. It is not the moment to be sharing confidences. But I do not know if I will ever see Emma again. "Yes. Before I met Simon, there was someone else." A strange look crosses Emma's face. "After the war," I add quickly, so that she will know I do not mean Jacob. I have always wondered if Emma worried about him and me, if she thought there was something between us. "An American soldier named Paul. He saved my life, rescued me out of the n.a.z.i prison, and we fell in love."

"Marta, that's wonderful. What happened?"

"We were supposed to meet up in London and be married. But the airplane he was on crashed before he could get there."

"Oh, no!" I can tell from the pain in her eyes that she is reliving her own loss through mine.

"With Paul, I finally understood real love. What you had with Jacob. It was worth having that, even for only a short time."

"And your husband?"

"I actually met Simon before Paul died, on the boat coming to England. But it wasn't until afterward when I started working for him that we became involved."

"Do you love him?"

That is the same question I asked her before about Marek, I recall, hesitating. "Simon is a good man. He's kind to me and Rachel, like Marek is to you and the boys. But the kind of love that I had with Paul..."

"It only comes along once in a lifetime," Emma finishes for me. "But at least with Simon, he's the father of your child. I mean, he is, isn't he?" I look away, not answering. "Oh, Marta!"

I cannot lie to Emma. "Simon thinks she's his daughter. I didn't mean to trick him. It just all happened so quickly. I wasn't sure I was pregnant until after we were married, and then I didn't have the heart to hurt him. I've never told anyone the truth."

"Until now. Why are you telling me?"

"Because you are my best friend." Not were, I realize as I say it. Are. "And to tell you that I understand now how you did the things that you had to do, even though you loved Jacob."

Emma wipes her eyes. "Thank you, Marta. That means more to me than you know."

I nod. "We don't have a lot of time. You need to get back to your children and I need to get out of here before the police come."

"How are you going to get to Berlin?" Emma asks.

"I don't know," I admit.

"You know, when Marek and some of the others went to Berlin, they would take the train to a town near the border. They would get off and walk across the border through the woods, then pick up a train on the other side." I pause, considering her suggestion. The border is probably guarded more tightly than ever now with the coup. But it is my only chance. "Is there anything I can do to help?" Emma asks.

"No, I..." I begin, then stop. I need to send word back to Simon about my change of plans. If he thinks I simply disappeared from the streets of Prague, he will be frantic with worry. This way, maybe the Foreign Office can arrange my extraction from Berlin instead. "Emma, I need you deliver a message to the British emba.s.sy for me." I walk over to the night table and picked up a pencil and a pad of paper. Change of plans. Meeting Marcelitis in Berlin. Oranienburger Stra.s.se. I hand the paper to Emma. "Ask for a man named George Lindt in the consular section," I add, remembering Simon's mention of his former colleague. "Only him. Tell him the message is from me, that it is highly cla.s.sified and urgent, and needs to be sent by secure telegraph to Simon Gold in the Foreign Office at once."

"Can this man Lindt be trusted with the information?"

"I don't know," I admit. "But I don't have any other choice. Wait until morning to deliver the message. That way, even if he tells someone he shouldn't, I'll have a good head start. And you won't attract attention by going to the emba.s.sy in the dead of night. Will you be able to get out of your house again with the police watching?"

"I can manage it," Emma replies. "If I take the children for a walk during the day, they won't suspect anything."

"Good. I certainly don't want to put you in more danger. I think we need to get going. You go first and I'll leave a few minutes later so as not to attract attention. Take the back stairway again."

"Wait, there's one other thing." Emma walks across the room and disappears into the bathroom. A minute later, she reappears, wearing only her slip. "Take this." She hands me her dress. "Your clothes are too Western. They'll stand out."

I look from the coa.r.s.e gray dress she handed me to my own silk blouse. She's right, of course. I take off my clothes, then pull the dress over my head, Emma's familiar almond scent wafting upward as I close the b.u.t.tons snugly across my midsection. Then I walk to the armoire and take the second outfit I brought with me, a green dress, off the hanger. "Here." Wordlessly, she slips it on. "The hem is a little short for you."

"It's perfect." I can tell by the way she fingers the sleeve that she is unaccustomed to such fine fabric. Then she walks over to me and produces a scarf. "You should tie your hair back, too." Neither of us speak as she helps me to put the scarf on my head, securing it firmly underneath my hair at the base of my neck.

"Now you'd better get back to your children," I say.

Emma nods, then steps forward. "Thank you, Marta. For all that you've ever done."

I kiss her on the cheek. "No, thank you. I know what you risked coming here tonight. Now go." Emma turns and leaves the room quickly, closing the door behind her.

Berlin, I think, turning back inside the room. Will I be able to manage it? Should I? But there is no time to deliberate. I walk to the armoire and start to put my clothes into my bag. Then I stop. Renata was right. It is still better to leave my belongings behind so no one knows that I have gone. I can travel more quickly without these things, anyway. I pick up the gun from the carpet and put it in my purse, checking to make sure that my pa.s.sport and the papers are inside. Then I pick up my coat and, taking one last look around, turn and flee from the room.

CHAPTER 20.

I peer out of the doorway of the ladies' room across the deserted train station. Five-fifty, reads the clock on the far wall of the station. I arrived nearly two hours earlier after making my way across the city by foot, hoping to catch a night train. But the departure board was blank and the concourse deserted, except for a Roma family that had set up camp at the base of one of the platforms. The father, a swarthy man with a heavy mustache, informed me that with the curfew, there would be no trains until morning. Not wanting to attract attention by waiting out in the open station, I ducked into the washroom. At first I nearly gagged at the damp, fetid odor that reminded me so much of prison. Then I remembered how to breathe shallowly through my mouth until the smell was barely there at all.

A loud screeching noise comes from the far end of the station. I turn to see a man opening the metal grate on the front of a kiosk, the first sign that the station is coming to life. A few minutes later, I notice an older woman with thick shoes and a kerchief on her head much like the one I now wear, sweeping one of the platforms. The earliest of morning travelers begin to trickle into the station.

I step from the washroom, inhaling deeply to clear my nostrils with the scent of freshly brewing coffee. Then I start toward the departure board to read the listings that have begun to appear. Across the station, I spot two policemen. One holds a German shepherd on a leash. I freeze. Easy, I tell myself. The city is under martial law. There are going to be police. But my heart pounds harder as I force myself to continue walking, looking up at the departure board as though I am any other traveler. There is an express train to Berlin at six-forty-five, though I do not dare take it. A second train, fifteen minutes later, will go to Din, a town I recognize from my drive to Prague with Renata as being close to the German border. I will take that one, I decide. I walk to the ticket counter, using most of the money Renata gave me to purchase a ticket, round trip so as not to arouse suspicion. Then I make my way to one of the now-open kiosks, buy a newspaper and a coffee. I sit down at a table and open the newspaper, pretending to read. Peering out over the top of the paper, I see that the policemen have gone.

Relaxing slightly, I look across the station. It has grown crowded now, travelers rus.h.i.+ng in all directions toward the trains. My eyes lock on a tall man in a dark trench coat, crossing the station. There is something about his awkward gait, his dark curly hair, that reminds me of Paul. I stand up to get a better look, nearly spilling my coffee. But the man disappears into the crowd. I stare after him. Suddenly I am not in Prague at all but at Kings Cross, waiting for Paul, watching the disembarking crowds in vain. Then, noticing the woman at the next table looking up at me, I sit down again. I pushed thoughts of Paul away for so long. Why am I seeing ghosts now? It must be because I am back on the continent again, I decide. Or because I was just talking about him to Emma.