The Diplomat's Wife Part 17

A minute later, I finish my coffee and stand, carrying the empty cup to a nearby trash bin. The train to Din has been listed for platform four. As I start across the station, a phone booth catches my eye. Do I dare call Simon? Renata said communications were down, but at least I can try. Hurriedly I rush to the phone booth and pick up the receiver. "International operator," I request in Czech. A second later, an operator answers in English and I give her the number. The phone rings once, then a second time. Answer, Simon, I think; pick up before the ringing wakes Rachel. "Hallo," Simon's voice, thick with sleep, comes over the line.

"International call," the operator says. "Accept the charges?"

"Yes," Simon replies, instantly awake.

"Simon, it's me."

"Where are you? Are you all right?"

"Yes. Still in Prague. But, Simon, about Marcelitis-"

"We know about the coup. We've been trying to get hold of the emba.s.sy, but the lines have all been down. There was a convoy of diplomats, we were hoping you would be with them. You have to get out. If you can get to Vienna, I can arrange-"

"Simon, there's more." Quickly I tell him about the bald man impersonating Marcelitis on the bridge. "Marcelitis didn't show, but I have an address in Berlin. If I can get there, I still think I can get him to help us."

"Marta, that's crazy! You don't even know where to find him."

"I have an address, on Oranienburger Stra.s.se."

"But you have no support in Berlin. We don't have an extraction plan-"

"I'll be fine, Simon." Suddenly I notice a policeman walking toward the phone booth, looking at me. "I have to go now. Tell Rachel I love her and I'll see her soon." I can still hear Simon talking as I hang up. I look out at the policeman, my heart pounding. A voice comes over the loudspeaker, announcing my train.

I step from the booth. "Excuse me," I say, trying to keep my voice calm as I step around the policeman. I force myself to walk past him slowly, looking straight ahead. A few seconds later I reach the gate and join the queue of pa.s.sengers boarding the train. When I look back, the policeman is in the phone booth, talking.

I board the train and make my way to an empty compartment in one of the second-cla.s.s carriages. It is similar to the train I took from Salzburg, with three worn orange seats on each side of the compartment, facing one another. I sink into the seat closest to the window, then peer out. The policeman is still on the telephone. He had not been looking for me. Relieved, I lean back against the musty seat cus.h.i.+on.

Soon the train begins to move. As we pull away, the door to the compartment bangs open. I jump, thinking of the police. But it is just an elderly man, carrying a small suitcase. From the doorway, he gestures with his head toward the empty row of seats facing me, asking permission to sit. I nod. The man lifts his suitcase to the overhead rack, then takes the seat across from me nearest the door. He looks at me, and for a second I worry that he will try to start a conversation. Czech is close enough to Polish that I can get by, but my accent would never pa.s.s as native. And I cannot afford to stand out, not now. I pull out the newspaper, hoping to discourage him. The man produces his own newspaper and begins to read.

I press my head against the window, too tired to care if it is dirty. My entire body sags with fatigue. Was it really only the day before yesterday that I arrived in Prague? I see the bald man lunging at me, Renata dead in the car. The demonstrators fleeing. The reality of it all crashes down, overwhelming me.

I pick up the newspaper once more, scanning an article about the government. Though the article does not say so, I know that the implications of the coup are much broader than just Czechoslovakia. The country has always been a balancing point between East and West and it is possible that their takeover here might embolden the communists to seek more power elsewhere. I touch my bag, thinking of the papers inside. I have to get to Marcelitis.

Outside, daylight has broken. Hradcany Castle basks in the sunlight, impervious to the plight of the city below. If the state-controlled newspaper is at all correct, the communists will have complete power within days. I look up again at the receding skyline, apologizing silently to the place I have just abandoned.

Soon the city disappears and the landscape grows more rural, the buildings s.p.a.ced fewer and farther between. I look across the compartment. The old man's eyes are closed and he is snoring lightly. I realize then how dry and heavy my own eyes feel. Between my aborted meeting with Marcelitis and fleeing the city, I did not sleep at all the previous night. I blink hard, trying to stay alert. But I feel myself growing sleepier, lulled by the rocking of the train. Just a little nap should be fine. It is still several hours until we reach the border. I close my eyes, my bag clutched tightly in my arms.

I am startled awake by a loud screeching sound. The brakes, I realize groggily. Struggling to clear my head, I look up at the man seated across from me. "Din?"

He shakes his head. "This is Karlova. You still have another two stops."

The station is small, just a single-story building and platform surrounded by trees. Fresh snow has fallen here, covering the ground in white. Pressing my head against the window, I can make out a small group of pa.s.sengers boarding. At the back of the line, a tall man in a brimmed hat and dark trench coat catches my eye. He looks back before boarding the train, and as I catch a glimpse of his pale eyes, terror shoots through me. It is the bald man, the one who impersonated Marcelitis.

For a minute, I sit frozen, unsure what to do. How did he find me? I have to get off the train. Heart pounding, I stand up and walk to the door of the compartment, looking into the corridor. To the left, I see the bald man entering the compartment behind several other pa.s.sengers. I can tell from the way he looks in both directions that he has not seen me. I slip out of the car and turn to the right, keeping my head low. "Excuse me," I say, pus.h.i.+ng by several boarding pa.s.sengers, squeezing past their luggage. I reach the end of the compartment, cross through into the next, trying to get far enough away so that the bald man won't notice me when I step off onto the platform. I look back over my shoulder. I cannot see him anymore, but I am certain that he is not far behind. I reach the dining car, walking as quickly through it as I can without attracting attention. Now, I think, as I reach the end of the car and approach the door. Get off the train now.

The train lurches as it begins to move. My heart sinks as the station begins to recede. I am trapped. I look back over my shoulder, the cold wind blowing against my face. The bald man has entered the dining car. His eyes meet mine. I take a step forward, looking through the door at the snowy ground that flies by quicker now. As the bald man starts across the carriage, I know that I have no choice. I take a deep breath and, clutching my bag, leap from the moving train into the whiteness below.

I hit the snow-covered ground with a soft thud, then roll several times down a steep embankment. I am fine, I realize, except for having the wind knocked out of me. As I stand up, I see another figure fly from the receding train. The bald man has jumped, too. I begin to run away from the tracks, across the field toward a thick pine forest. But the ground is soft here, making it difficult to move quickly. Don't look back, I think, but I cannot help it. The bald man runs down the hill, gaining on me with long strides. My lungs burn as I reach for the forest, fifteen meters, then ten. I have to go faster. I run into the darkness of the pine trees, tumbling blindly through the thick branches. Suddenly, my foot sinks into a hole. Pain rips through my ankle as I fall to the ground. I struggle to pull myself up with my arms again, but my leg folds uselessly under me. I cannot go any farther.

I look up in horror as the bald man reaches the edge of the trees. The gun, I remember, reaching inside my bag and pulling it out. With trembling hands, I c.o.c.k the lever as he descends upon me. I prepare to fire in three, two, one...I squeeze the trigger and a shot cracks through the forest. The bald man stops suddenly less than two meters from me, mouth agape.

A second shot rings out. The bald man falls sideways to the ground. I look at the gun, puzzled. Had I fired again? Behind the spot where he fell, a figure emerges from the trees, holding a pistol larger than mine. It is a man in a long, dark-brown trench coat. A knit hat is pulled low over his forehead so that it almost meets his wide scarf, obscuring his face. The bald man might have had an accomplice, I remember, seeing Renata dead in the car. I sit up, aiming the gun at the second man.

He drops his gun to the ground, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. An accomplice would not, I realize, have shot the bald man. But that doesn't mean he is a friend. "Who are you?" I demand in Czech.

The man shakes his head. He picks up his gun, then walks toward me, taking the pistol from my hand. "Hey!" I cry, but before I can react, he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder effortlessly, then begins to carry me deeper into the forest. I am too surprised to struggle. My mind races. Who is this man? Is he kidnapping me? Clearly he is not working with the bald man, but he could still be after me or the information that I am carrying.

Several hundred meters deeper into the forest, the man sets me down on the ground. I wince as I try to put weight on my ankle, then limp over to a large stone. We are in a clearing of some sort, beside a large rock formation. The man turns away, bending over and putting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. I turn back in the direction from which we came. Should I try to escape while he is not looking? But the path is obscured by the trees, and I know that I would not make it far on my injured ankle.

"Who are you?" I ask again. "Or maybe you could just tell me what you want? My husband is highly placed with the British government, so I'm sure whatever you want can be arranged."

"In English, please," a familiar voice says. I gasp. "You know I'm terrible with languages."

The man turns toward me, and as he does, he pulls the scarf away. "Oh, my G.o.d," I whisper, and in that moment I am certain that it is I, not the bald man, who has died.

There, standing in front of me, is Paul.

"h.e.l.lo, Marta," he says.

"Marta..." a voice calls in the darkness. "Marta, wake up." I open my eyes slowly, blinking. I am lying on the ground. Above me kneels Paul, wearing a worried expression. My mind reels with confusion. Am I in the n.a.z.i prison? No, I quickly realize, noticing the bare tree branches forming a canopy splayed against white sky. Paris, perhaps? No, that happened years ago, before Paul died.

But Paul is here, staring down at me. I do not understand. It must be a dream, I decide. Maybe I hit my head. I close my eyes once more, not wanting to wake up and lose the vision of him. "Marta, no. Open your eyes." Something warm presses against my cheek. I reach up, closing my fingers around it. A hand. Paul's hand. I know then that I am not dreaming. I must have pa.s.sed out.... I snap my eyes open, tightening my grip, terrified that he will disappear. But he is still looking down at me. "That's better." His face breaks into its familiar half smile.

"You're alive," I whisper, clutching his hand tightly against my cheek. Joy rises in me, mingling with disbelief. "I don't understand..."

"I'm alive," he repeats, his eyes not leaving mine. "And I'll explain everything, I promise. But first things first. Are you all right?"

"F-fine," I manage to say, still staring at him.

"You went down hard and I was afraid you'd hurt yourself. Can you stand?" I nod. "Good. There's an army barracks not far from here and someone may have heard the shots. We have to keep moving." He slides his arm behind my back and helps me to my feet. I wince as I try to put weight on my ankle. "You can't walk on that," Paul says. "Not until we can make sure it's not broken." Before I can respond, he scoops me up and begins to carry me again. "There's a shelter close by where we can stop, at least for a bit. Hang on."

I wrap my arms around his neck as he carries me along the b.u.mpy terrain. His familiar scent overwhelms me. Paul is alive. I wonder again if this is real. My head swims with confusion. How did he survive? And what is he doing here? I stare, dumbfounded, at the back of his neck. His hair is longer now, not military, with dark curls kicking up against the edge of his collar.

A few minutes later, we reach a cave. Inside, it is dark and damp. In the distance, water trickles against rocks. Paul sets me down gently on the dirt floor against the wall. "I need to see your ankle." He kneels in front of me and takes off my shoe. I s.h.i.+ver at the touch of his fingers against my bare skin. "It doesn't seem to be broken. Probably just a bad sprain. I'll tape it for you in a minute." He takes a canteen from his belt and unscrews the cap. Filling it with water, he offers it to me. "Here."

I look from his face to the canteen then back again. He looks different somehow. There is a long scar running from his temple to his chin and his nose juts to one side, as though it has been broken. His hair, once jet-black, is flecked with premature gray. And there is a hardness to his face, the boyishness gone. But his blue eyes are unmistakable. Paul is alive! I throw myself forward, sending the capful of water flying as I wrap my arms around him. A sob rips from my throat. "You're really here," I say, burying my head in his neck. I start to cry then, great heaving waves of grief and joy.

He wraps his arm around me, cradling the back of my head tightly. "Marta," he whispers.

I inhale deeply, drinking in his scent. Paul is alive. But where has he been all of this time? I pull away from his embrace, sitting straight up. "Tell me," I say, wiping my eyes. "Tell me everything."

If Paul is surprised by my sudden change in demeanor, he gives no indication. "I was on my way to meet you in London when our plane went down." I nod as the horror of the morning after I'd gone to Kings Cross comes rus.h.i.+ng back to me. "It was terrible. One of the engines exploded and we seemed to fall forever. Then everything went black. I awoke in a military hospital in England weeks later. I'd broken twelve bones, had three surgeries for internal injuries. And I was the lucky one. I was the only person who survived, Marta. All of my guys were gone."

"I know," I reply. "I'm sorry." I reach out and put my hand on top of his. Our eyes lock. Suddenly it is as if we are back in the gardener's shed outside Salzburg, where the rest of the world ceased to exist. But the rest of the world does exist, I remember. Rachel exists. And Simon. I am married now. I have a child. I pull my hand back.

A confused expression crosses Paul's face. He clears his throat. "Anyway, I spent months recovering in a military hospital north of London."

He was so close the whole time, I think. If only I had known. "But why didn't you come..."

He raises his hand to my mouth, silencing me, then brings a finger to his lips. "Shh." He jerks his head toward the entrance of the cave. In the distance, I can hear a rustling noise, voices. He leaps silently to his feet. Then, grabbing me firmly underneath my arms from behind, he slides me farther into the cave, wedging us both into a tiny hiding s.p.a.ce between two rocks. "No matter what happens, don't make a sound." I nod. The voices grow louder. It sounds as though they are standing directly above the cave now. A dog barks. Surely the dog will smell us in here. I tremble, pressing my head against Paul's shoulder. He puts his arm around me, drawing me close.

Outside the cave, the voices fade. I exhale. They are moving away from us. Soon the air is silent once more. I look up at Paul. So he survived the crash after all. All of that pain and grief for nothing. But why hadn't he come for me? And what on earth is he doing here now?

"They've gone," Paul says at last, his voice still a whisper. He pulls away slowly, looks down at me. "That was a close one. We should probably wait here for a while." He unfolds himself from the hiding place and gestures to the open area of the cave. "Why don't you let me tape your ankle?"

I slide over to the spot he indicates and he pulls out a roll of gauze from his rucksack. As he reaches for my ankle, I lean over, catching his hand. "Paul, wait a minute. First I want to know what you are doing here."

He looks up at me evenly. "I could ask you the same thing."

"I asked first."

He hesitates. "When I was recuperating from the crash, a representative from the American intelligence agency came to see me. He told me that I was dead. At least as Paul Mattison, that is."

"I don't understand."

"When the plane crashed, I was injured so badly that no one could identify me. And I wasn't wearing any dog tags." He half smiles. "Seems I had given them to some girl and hadn't bothered to get new ones before the flight." I think guiltily of his dog tags, tucked away in my dresser drawer back home. If only he had been wearing them. Paul continues, "By the time I woke up, everyone had already been told that I was dead. I had no ident.i.ty, which, according to the man from the agency, made me a perfect intelligence operative. So I agreed to stay on and work covertly for our government in Europe and they created a new ident.i.ty for me." He extends his hand. "Michael Stevens. Nice to meet you."

I do not shake his hand but continue staring at him, trying to process all that he has told me. "But that still doesn't explain what you're doing here."

"Look, Marta, the American and British governments have been working closely together to counter the Soviets in Europe, and generally the alliance works pretty well. But we still keep an eye on each other, and recently we've had reason to believe that communist loyalists have infiltrated British intelligence." He pulls a flask from his pocket and holds it out to me. I shake my head, cringing inwardly as he takes a swig. Why has he started drinking again? But I do not know him well enough to ask that, not anymore. "So when your mission to Prague popped up on our radar screen, we were curious," he continues, recapping the flask. "Our government wanted to trail you, see what you were doing."

"And they just happened to pick you for the job?"

He looks away. "When I realized that it was you, I volunteered."

"Oh." A lump forms in my throat. "So have you been following me the entire time?"

"Not exactly. Our intelligence was a little slow, so I was a few days behind you. I got to Prague just as you were leaving, followed you onto the train." So that had been Paul in the station after all. "Which brings me to my question, what are you doing here?"

Now it is my turn to hesitate. After the events of the past few days, I am not sure that anyone, even Paul, can be trusted. "You mean, you haven't figured it out yet?" I ask, stalling for time.

He shakes his head. "I know that it has something to do with Jan Marcelitis and that it's important enough to make someone try to stop you. But that's all I've got."

I can trust him, I decide, looking into his eyes. "You were right about Soviet operatives compromising British intelligence. We've been desperately trying to figure out who they are and stop them. We recently came into possession of at least a partial list, but it's coded and no one has been able to break it."

"So you're trying to persuade Marcelitis to give you the cipher."

I look at him in amazement. "You know about the cipher?"

"Of course. Dichenko's theft of the cipher is hardly a secret, and finding it has recently become the Holy Grail of modern espionage. But no one has been able to find Marcelitis."

"That's why they sent me," I reply. "There was a close a.s.sociate of Marcelitis called Marek Andek whom I know from my resistance work in Krakow. His wife, Emma, was my best friend."

Paul lets out a low whistle. "Isn't Emma the one you told me about when we were in Paris, who spied on the n.a.z.i commander? I thought you said she was married to someone named Jacob."

I nod, surprised that he remembered the details of what I told him so long ago. "She was. Jacob died."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too." I look away, clearing my throat. "Anyhow, it's a long story, but Emma wound up in Prague with Marek. Our government thought I could convince Marek to put us in contact with Marcelitis, then offer Marcelitis information and money in exchange for the cipher."

"Makes sense, though I think they are crazy to send you to Prague alone, especially with everything that is happening. They had to have known. But you said Andek 'was' a close a.s.sociate of Marcelitis. What happened?"

"He was arrested last night. He set up a rendezvous with Marcelitis for me before it happened. But the man who showed up at our meeting claiming to be Marcelitis wasn't really him."

"Who was he?"

I gesture with my head toward the entrance of the cave. "The man we just killed."

"The bald man? Really?" I nod. "Marta, that was Boris Sergiev, a well-known Soviet a.s.sa.s.sin."

"a.s.sa.s.sin?" I repeat with disbelief.

"Yes." a.s.sa.s.sin. A chill shoots through me. Remembering the bald man lunging at me on the railway bridge, raised knife glittering in the moonlight, I am suddenly dizzy. Paul continues, "The police must have gotten Marek to give up the details of your meeting. Sergiev came to meet you expecting to kill Marcelitis and get the cipher."

"Except Emma sent word to Marcelitis first and told him not to come," I interject.

"Right, and when the bald man realized Marcelitis wasn't showing, he must have decided to impersonate Marcelitis to get you to turn over the information. The Soviets weren't messing around when they sent him. You're lucky you weren't killed."

"I know," I reply. "But I still have to get the information to Marcelitis."

Paul c.o.c.ks his head. "How are you going to do that?"

"Emma gave me a location in Berlin where she thinks he might be found."

"And you're planning to go find him?" I nod. "Does anyone in the Foreign Office know?"

"I asked Emma to send word through the emba.s.sy in Prague. And I called the Foreign Office from the train station before we left." I cannot bring myself to say Simon's name to Paul.

"And they were okay with what you were doing?"

"I didn't give them a chance to say one way or the other."

Paul brings his hand to his forehead. "Marta, this is insane! Prague was dangerous enough, but at least you had the emba.s.sy to back you up." Some backup, I think, remembering Renata dead in the car, my desperate flight through the backstreets of Prague. Paul continues, "But trying to travel to Berlin alone to find this man...I mean, Berlin is even more of a powder keg than Prague. There it isn't just some puppet regime-it's the Soviets themselves controlling their sector. And they've made noises about blockading all of Berlin. It could happen anytime now."

"That's exactly why I have to get there right away."

"But how? You're in the woods of northern Czechoslovakia, hundreds of miles from Berlin. You have a sprained ankle. And as soon as the Soviets discover that Sergiev is missing or dead, they're going to come after you, harder than before." I hesitate, trying to think of an answer. "Please let me just get you out of here. I can sneak you over the border to Austria, get you to the emba.s.sy."

"Paul, I'm sorry. But this is something I have to do."

He looks across the cave, not speaking for several seconds. "Okay," he says at last. "But we have to figure out a way to get to Berlin undetected."

"We? You aren't still planning to follow me, are you?"

He shakes his head. "That would be a little difficult, wouldn't it, now that you know I am here? No, I can't follow you anymore. And it doesn't seem that I can stop you from going. So I guess the only thing to do is go with you so I can help you finish this mission and get you safely home."

I stare at him in disbelief. "You're going to help me get to Berlin?"