The Diplomat's Wife Part 25

"I had a big lunch with Delia so I'm not hungry. I'll enjoy them later. What's the occasion for the dinner tonight?"

"To honor the outgoing charge d'affaires from Copenhagen. I mentioned it a few days ago."

"Of course," I say. I have no recollection of him mentioning the dinner, but I have been so distracted since coming home. "Not a problem for you to go alone, I take it?"

He shakes his head. "It's a stag dinner, in fact. I'm going to look over some papers and get changed for the evening. I'll see you before I leave."

I watch nervously as he crosses the room and climbs the stairs. Had I disturbed anything in the study that would give any indication that I had been inside? And why were the drawers locked? I think back to the phone conversation I overheard. Seven o'clock tonight, the woman said. And now Simon is going to this dinner...I stand up and walk to the kitchen. On the wall by the icebox hangs the calendar on which Simon writes all of his appointments. I look at the small white square for December 20, today's date. It is blank. The dinner, which Simon claimed to have told me about days ago, is nowhere to be found.

My uneasiness grows. It is probably nothing, I tell myself. He just forgot to write down the dinner. Simon is too meticulous for that, though. I make my way back to the parlor, my mind racing. For a minute, I consider confronting him once more. But what would I say? Whom did I hear you speaking with on the phone while eavesdropping? That I could not snoop because your desk drawers were locked?

A short while later, Simon appears on the stairs, wearing his dinner jacket, hair slicked back.

"Y-you look nice," I say.

"Thank you." He gestures toward the box on the coffee table. "How are the chocolates?"

"I don't know. I still haven't tried them."

"Well, let's have one before I leave, shall we?" I do not answer as he opens the box and holds it out to me. I pick a piece of candy, unwrap the foil and take a bite. The melted chocolate, thick and rich, seemed to stick in my throat. "Delicious," I say, forcing myself to swallow. But I cannot manage the rest of the piece. I close my fist around the rest of the chocolate, then tuck it in a napkin when Simon is not looking.

"I'll have mine after I eat supper," he says, putting it in his pocket. He leans down and kisses my cheek. "I won't be terribly late."

"Have a good time," I say, struggling to keep my voice even. I want to stop him, to demand that he tell me the truth. My heart races as he closes the door behind him, fighting the urge to leap up and run to his study. He will be gone for hours, I tell myself. I need to wait at least thirty minutes or so, to make sure he is really gone, that he doesn't return because he has forgotten something. I lean back, closing my eyes, eager for him to leave once more.

Suddenly, I sit up with a start. I must have fallen asleep, but for how long? My head is strangely heavy, my mouth dry as though I have been asleep for hours. "h.e.l.lo?" I call, rubbing my eyes. There is no response. I stand and make my way unsteadily to the kitchen, splas.h.i.+ng water on my face. Then I walk back across the parlor to the front window. Simon's car is gone.

Shaking my head to clear it, I hurry back up the stairs to Simon's study, more determined than ever to find out what is going on. My eyes lock on a letter opener standing in the pencil cup, the lamplight reflected in its sharp, silvery end. I pick up the opener and turn it over in my hand, considering. If I break the lock, Simon will know I was here. Suddenly I do not care-I need to know the truth about what he is doing, about the woman on the other end of the phone. I wedge the letter opener into the small s.p.a.ce between the top-right drawer and the underside of the desk and turn it sharply. The lock opens with a pop.

Inside the drawer sits a thick stack of papers. I lift the top few and rifle through them. What am I looking for? I wonder. Love notes, receipts from presents or hotels? But everything here appears to be work-related. This is ridiculous, I think. Why am I doing this? But I continue skimming through the papers. The first few pages are department cables. For a second, I hesitate. Perhaps there are cla.s.sified doc.u.ments that I am not cleared to see. Nonsense. I risked my life. I have the right. Simon would not have cla.s.sified doc.u.ments stuck in a desk drawer, anyway. Or at least I do not think so. I look down at the cables. They are nothing I have not seen in the office, but I am surprised to find them shoved inside the desk in no particular order. Simon always files papers alphabetically in folders and then by date order within, in the metal cabinet that sits behind his desk.

Farther down the stack, my thumb brushes against something thicker than the rest of the papers. I pull out a manila folder. Inside is a sheet of paper, listing dates, times, destinations. A travel itinerary with today's date. The name at the top of the itinerary is Dmitri Borskin. Probably just the travel plans of a visiting dignitary, I think, scanning the page. Someone who was attending the dinner. Simon must have been confirming his travel plans. I close the folder. The phone call about the flight from Luton makes sense now, I think, suddenly feeling very silly. I look down at the broken lock. I will have to think of something to tell Simon.

I replace the file and start to close the drawer. Then, still curious, I pick up the papers once more and thumb farther down in the stack. More cables. Suddenly, a piece of paper, yellow, and smaller than the others, catches my eye. I pull it from the stack. It appears to be a telegram of some sort. The doc.u.ment is written in Russian.

I stare at the piece of paper, my heart pounding. Simon does not read Russian. What could he possibly be doing with this? I scan the paper, trying to recall the Cyrillic alphabet I learned from my grandmother as a child. I make out a name: Marek Andek. The telegram is dated November 26, 1947. That was the date I arrived in Prague and first met with Marek. The day before he was arrested. My hand trembling now, I lift up the next doc.u.ment in the stack, another telegram in Russian. This one is dated a day later. It contains the name Jan Marcelitis, gives her address in Berlin.

I set the stack of papers down and sink into the chair, my legs weak. Someone was sending telegrams, revealing information in Russian about Marek and Jan. But who? And why does Simon have them? Perhaps it is part of the investigation into the leak. But why hadn't Simon mentioned them to me? I pick up the stack of doc.u.ments, scanning more quickly now, looking for an explanation.

My hand touches the manila folder and I pull it out once more, rereading the itinerary. Dmitri Borskin. A flight from Luton Airport to Moscow tonight at eight. That must have been what the call was about. Did Borskin have something to do with the telegrams? The words on the page begin to blur. I set down the folder and rub my eyes beneath my gla.s.ses, trying to focus. As I pick up the folder once more, my hand brushes against something hard on the bottom. I turn it over. Taped to the back of the folder is a brown envelope. Curious, I pry the envelope away from the folder. Leave it alone, a voice inside me says. But I've gone too far to turn back now. I open the envelope, trying to undo the seal gently so I can close it again. A piece of paper falls out and flutters to the floor. It is a photograph, I realize as I bend and pick it up, with something handwritten on the back in Russian. I scan the Cyrillic letters, sounding it out. Dmitri Borskin, the name reads. Then, turning over the photograph, I freeze.

The face that looks up at me is Simon's.

I stare at the photograph, my mind whirling. There must be some mistake. The man in the photograph is younger, his hair and mustache thick, but the eyes are unmistakable. Heat rises in my neck. Are Simon and Dmitri Borskin the same person? Why does he have a Russian alias? My mind turns back to the telegrams I have just found, referencing my meeting with Marek, Marcelitis's address in Berlin. Simon was the leak, I surmise, dread and disbelief rising in me.

I pick up the itinerary again. Borskin is scheduled to fly to Moscow tonight. Simon must be fleeing the country. Still clutching the paper in my hand, I race from the study to our bedroom, the ground seeming to wobble beneath me. I throw open Simon's armoire, half expecting his clothes to be gone. But his suits hang neatly, all present except for the dinner jacket he was wearing when he left. I lean against the armoire, relieved. Simon's things are still here. There must be some sort of mistake. I scan the itinerary once more. It clearly indicates that Borksin is leaving for Russia tonight. A box at the bottom of the page catches my eye. Number of travelers: three.

Simon is leaving, and he is not traveling alone. Rachel, I think. My blood runs cold. Dropping the piece of paper, I start toward the baby's room. "Rachel?" I call into the darkness as I run into the nursery. There is no response. Even before I reach into the crib, my hands closing around the emptiness, I know that my daughter is gone.

CHAPTER 27.

For several seconds I stand in the middle of the nursery, too stunned to move. "Rachel?" I call out, hoping in vain that perhaps she managed to crawl from her crib and is hiding somewhere. There is no response. Simon has taken Rachel; I am sure of it. But how? He left the house alone. But he could have come back after I fell asleep. Surely I would have heard him, though, if he came in and took Rachel. I'm usually such a light sleeper, hearing Rachel every time she makes a sound and hopping up to check on her. I fell asleep so quickly on the couch, though, and I was so groggy when I woke up.

The chocolates. I remember then Simon giving me the box, his insistence that I try one. He must have drugged me so he could get Rachel out of the house. What did he put in them? Instinctively, I lean forward and put my fingers down my throat, vomiting a gooey brown ma.s.s onto the hardwood floor. Then I stand up unsteadily, the room spinning. How much of the drug has entered my system already? I race to the toilet and turn on the cold tap. Cupping my hands, I gulp several mouthfuls of water to flush the rest of the drug from my system. Suddenly, I heave again, this time just making it to the toilet.

A few seconds later, I straighten, wiping my mouth. My vision is a bit clearer now. Racing back down the hallway, I grab the itinerary from the floor. The flight leaves at eight, just an hour from now. I have to find them.

Clinging to the railing for support, I make my way down the stairs. I race into the kitchen and grab the phone. I have to call someone, but who? If Simon is a traitor, then there is no telling who at the Foreign Office can be trusted. And the police will not interfere with diplomatic matters, even if they believe me. For a second, I consider calling Delia and Charles. But they live in the wrong direction, and it would take them at least half an hour to get here, longer still to reach the airport.

Something white on the countertop catches my eye. I look down. It is a tablet of paper, the phone number I had taken down earlier scrawled across the top sheet. The number the operator had given me. Paul's number.

Hurriedly, I pick up the receiver and dial the number. "Lakenheath Air Base," a man's voice-not Paul's-answers.

The room starts to slide from beneath me once more. "Paul Mattison," I say. Clutching the edge of the counter, I force myself to focus on the window above the sink.

There is a pause. "There's no one here by that name."

I swear inwardly, trying to remember Paul's alias. "I mean Michael. Michael Stevens."

"I'm sorry, but he's gone for the day."

My panic rises. "I have to find him. It's urgent."

"Who's calling?"

"Tell him this is Marta. It's an emergency and I need him to meet me at Luton Airport right away."

"But..." the man begins.

"An emergency," I repeat, then throw down the phone. I do not know if he will get the message, but I cannot wait any longer. My eyes dart to the clock above the stove. Ten past seven. I race into the foyer and grab my coat and purse. Then I dash through the front door, slamming it closed behind me.

Outside I pause. The cool night air revives me, clearing my head. I have to get to the airport, but how? Simon has taken the car and there is no possibility of getting there by bus or train. I look at the row houses on either side of ours, wis.h.i.+ng I knew our neighbors well enough to ask for help. But the doors of the other houses are closed, shutters drawn tight. A taxi, I think. I sprint down the steps and through the front gate toward Hampstead High Street. But the taxi stand at the corner is deserted. My heart sinks. I look desperately up and down the street. Should I try to hail down a stranger, beg for a ride?

At the far end of the street, I spot a lone taxi, making its way slowly up the road. I wave my hand desperately, willing it to pull over. Finally, it reaches me, veering to the curb. "Luton Airport," I say as I climb into the back.

The driver looks over his shoulder, surprised. "Luton's almost an hour away. I don't know..."

He stops midsentence as I throw a wad of bills over the seat. "Here. Luton Airport, as fast as you can, please. It's an emergency."

The taxi swerves away from the curb, throwing me back against the seat. Faster, I pray, steadying myself with my hand as we race through the streets of North London. How much time has pa.s.sed? My heart pounds. Simon is working for the Russians. I cannot believe it. I had gone into his office looking for evidence that he was an adulterer. Instead I discovered that he is a traitor. Perhaps there is another explanation, I think again. A secret a.s.signment, with a cover so deep he cannot tell anyone, even me. Or perhaps they threatened him, I think suddenly as we reach the motorway. Said they would hurt me or Rachel if he did not cooperate. But even as these ideas run through my head, I know that they cannot possibly be true. No, Simon's betrayal is real. Still, I am flooded with disbelief. He has always been so pa.s.sionate about his work. What could the Russians possibly have offered him to make him to turn against his own country, to take Rachel away?

"Rachel," I whisper aloud, seeing her face. The road seems to stretch endlessly ahead of us. Staring out at pitch darkness on either side of the car, I fight the urge to scream. I look desperately at the clock on the dashboard. Twenty past seven. If the plane takes off, Simon will be beyond the authorities' reach and Rachel will be gone forever. Bile rises up in my throat and I lean my head against the seat in front of me, praying we will make it in time.

Twenty-five minutes later, we pull up in front of Luton Airport and I leap from the taxi. Through the gla.s.s, I can see that the building is dark inside. The parking lot is deserted, except for a lone man lifting a bag from a garbage can. I run to him. "Excuse me. I'm looking for a flight to Moscow this evening."

The man c.o.c.ks his head. "Moscow? We don't fly there. Airport is closed for the night, anyway." My heart sinks. They are not here. Had Simon left the itinerary as a red herring to throw me off his trail? "Unless it's a flight from the private hangar," the man adds.

My breath catches. "Where's that?"

He points behind the building to the right. "But you can't..."

Not listening further, I start to run in the direction he indicated. Behind the airport building is an open field. Commercial planes stand idly in a row. To the right, far in the distance, I see another building, hear a low whirring noise. I begin to run toward the building, my lungs burning. As I draw closer, I can make out a single plane on the tarmac, smaller than the commercial ones. A man walks around the side of the plane and starts up the open stairs. At the top, he turns to look back. I recognize Simon's silhouette in the doorway. I run faster. They have not left yet. But the propellers are starting to spin now, ready to go. He starts inside the plane.

"Simon!" I yell over the noise of the engine as I near. He does not hear me. "Simon!" He turns back. At the sight of me, his jaw drops. I can see him thinking that I should have eaten the chocolates, that I should be unconscious on the floor. "Where's Rachel?" I demand, racing up the stairs.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says patiently, as though talking to a child. "Rachel was at home with you." His voice is so sincere that for a second I almost believe him. Then his eyes dart toward the entrance of the plane.

"Rachel?" I call, starting up the steps.

As I try to push past him, he grabs my arm roughly. "You shouldn't have come here," he growls, his expression turning to rage.

Who is this man with the harsh face, the foreign, angry eyes? His fingers dig into my arm like a vise. For a moment, I consider playing dumb, stalling for time. But I cannot contain myself. "I know, Dmitri. I know everything." His eyes widen. Anger flares inside me. He had been so arrogant, so certain I would never find out. He had not even bothered to destroy the evidence. "I know that you are working for the Soviets."

He opens his mouth to start to deny my accusations. Then, looking over my shoulder at the deserted tarmac, he shrugs. "I'm a communist, Marta." There is a hint of pride in his voice.

I stare at him, disbelieving. I had a.s.sumed that the communists had somehow persuaded Simon to spy. It had not occurred to me that he might be one of them. "For how long?"

"Years before I met you. Since college, in fact."

Before he met me. Before we were married. I am flooded with disbelief. "But why? You were so insistent that I come to work for you, that I help you with your work..." My mind reels back to the day I heard Marek's name in the meeting. "You needed me to find Marcelitis," I say slowly, realizing aloud. He does not respond. I remember Simon's anger at my going to Prague, his concern. It had all been an act. "You needed me to get the cipher. But you gave the cipher to the department..." Even as I say this, I know that it was a lie, too. I lunge toward him, reaching for his jacket. "Where's the cipher, Simon?"

He holds me off easily with one hand, his grip stronger than I've ever known it to be. "The cipher is going back to Moscow where it belongs," he informs me coldly. "And it is just a matter of time before Marcelitis is taken from the picture altogether." He pushes me away hard.

I stumble, grabbing the railing to avoid falling down the stairs. You have to catch Jan first, I want to say. I am glad that I had not told him Jan was a woman. "But how did you know that I knew Marek, that I would volunteer to go?" I ask instead. "You knew, didn't you? About my work with the resistance, my contacts?" Simon does not answer. "But how?"

There is a noise behind Simon. "h.e.l.lo, Marta," a familiar voice says. My heart stops. A woman appears in the door of the plane, and at the sight of her brown hair and full figure, I gasp.

There, in the door of the plane, stands Dava.

I stare at her, not breathing. I remember the clover scent on Simon's coat last night, the woman's voice on the phone. It does not seem possible. Dava who nursed me back to health in Salzburg. Dava who told me to go to England. "Dava?" I manage to say at last. She does not reply but looks back at me unblinkingly.

"When Dava found you at Salzburg, we knew you were perfect," Simon says. The Soviets must have planted operatives in the displaced persons camps to look for refugees to work for their cause. Simon continues, "She knew that you had been a political prisoner so we did some checking. Your experience, your connections, made you a natural." I suddenly remember the conversations about the war Dava and I had sitting on the terrace at the palace. It had never occurred to me that she was a.s.sessing my political views for the communists. "But we knew you would never work for us willingly," he adds.

"So you found a way to bring me to England and meet me," I say slowly, thinking aloud. "But I didn't plan on coming to England. I didn't even have a visa until Rose..." I stop, the awful truth dawning on me slowly. I turn to Dava. "You killed Rose."

She looks down. "It was the only way."

"Dava," Simon says, his voice cautioning. "That's enough."

I remember meeting Simon on the s.h.i.+p, his job offer. "But I was engaged to Paul, so I could not have possibly..." A rock seems to hit me in the stomach, knocking me backward. "The crash wasn't an accident, was it?" Dava turns away. Neither of them answers. I lean against the stairway railing for support. The newspaper headline, announcing the plane crash, appears suddenly in my mind. "All of those men, gone." Murdered. "You knew that once Paul was gone I would have no choice but to come to work for you," I say.

He nods. "The fact that you were pregnant and I could marry you to keep a closer eye on things was a bonus."

I stare at him in disbelief. "You knew about Rachel?"

"That she wasn't mine, you mean? Yes. I can add. I didn't care, though. Having a wife and daughter added to my cover, gave me an air of respectability at the Foreign Office I would not otherwise have had as that odd bachelor chap everyone suspected might be h.o.m.os.e.xual. And Rachel will continue to give me that same credibility in Moscow."

"No!" I cry. Breaking free of his grip, I run up the steps of the plane and push past Dava.

Inside, the plane is a smaller version of the one I took to Munich, a single column of seats, three deep, along each side. Rachel sits on the floor of the aisle. I run to her, touching her head, making sure she is all right. Seeing me, she smiles. "Ma..."

"Yes, darling, it's Mama." Hurriedly, I pick her up. I turn toward the doorway, but Simon and Dava are blocking my way. "Sit down, Marta," Simon orders.

"But..."

"You're coming with us. I hadn't planned it this way. But you've interfered, complicated things like you always do. You know too much. And I can't leave a body behind on the tarmac." The chocolates, I remember. He wasn't just trying to drug me but to kill me. Thank goodness I had only taken a bite.

"But, Dmitri," Dava interjects. "You don't mean...?" I can hear the surprise and conflict in her voice. After all that she has done, can she really be concerned about killing me?

"He already tried to kill me once," I inform her. I turn to Simon, whose eyes have gone wide. "I know the chocolates were poisoned."

"You never said anything about killing Marta," Dava says.

He turns to her angrily. "It's none of your business."

"But I didn't think..."

The plane is going to take off soon, I think, while the two of them continue to argue. For a second I consider racing into the c.o.c.kpit, pleading with the pilot for help. But he is surely working with the communists, too. I have to get out. There is a small gap between Simon's back and the door frame. Clutching Rachel, I charge at it. "Oh, no you don't," Simon says, grabbing me and pulling us back.

Suddenly there is a noise at the door of the plane and Simon jerks backward. Standing behind Simon, grasping him in a chokehold, is Paul.

Paul! Relief floods through me. So he received my message after all. But then I see Simon reach for his waistband. "Watch out!" I yell as he yanks a knife from his belt. Rachel, hearing my distress, begins to cry. Paul pulls Simon backward out the door of the plane, away from the baby and me. Struggling violently for control of the knife, they tumble down the stairs of the airplane, landing in a heap at the bottom, Simon on top of Paul. Paul tries to get up, but Simon punches him, knocking him back to the ground. Paul is still weak from surgery. He cannot possibly overpower Simon now. Holding Rachel close to me, I start down the stairs.

Behind me there is a clicking sound. "Not so fast," Dava says. I turn to see her pointing a gun at me. "Sit down."

"Dava," I say slowly. But her face is a stony mask now, her loyalties clear. As I stare at the gun, panic rises in me. I have to get Rachel out of the line of fire. "Don't do this, Dava," I say slowly, raising my hand. "We're friends. You saved my life."

"I know," Dava replies. "And I don't want to kill you. But he told me that in Moscow we can be together as a family, and you're getting in the way of that."

Suddenly I understand. "You love Simon, don't you?" I ask, trying to make my voice gentle. Rachel, her sobs subsiding, watches Dava and me with interest. Out of the corner of my eye, I look through the door of the plane. Simon and Paul are still fighting on the ground, but I know that Paul cannot last much longer. I have to get out of here before Simon comes back. But Dava's gun is still trained on Rachel and me. "How long have you felt this way?"

"Forever," she replies sadly. "Years. Well before I met you. I knew Dmitri in Moscow before the war. I was going to have his baby once, too. But he made me get rid of it, said it would interfere with our work." Her face hardens. "And I can't have any more children now because of that." I remember speculating with Rose about Dava's past, how she had seemed so sad and resolute when I talked about starting a new life.

"Now sit."

I drop to the first seat on the right, still holding Rachel, who has grabbed a fistful of my hair. Dava comes toward me, picks up the seat belt to tie me up. As she leans over me, her head turns slightly away for a second. Taking a deep breath, I knee her in the stomach. She flies backward to the floor of the plane with a grunt, still clutching the gun. Quickly, I stand up. Then, looking at Rachel, I hesitate. I do not want to let go of her, even for a second, but I have no choice. Reluctantly, I pull my hair from her fingers and set her down in the seat. I lunge toward Dava as she tries to sit up, landing on top of her, trying to pry her fingers from the gun. But she clings tightly to it, struggling to raise it above her head. Keep it close, I think, wrapping my hand tightly around hers, forcing her arm down. If the gun is between us, she cannot shoot Rachel. Suddenly a shot rings out. We both freeze. Then Dava rolls back away from me, her arm limp. Blood appears on her chest. "Dava..." I pull back, staring at her. Even though she betrayed me, I cannot help but feel her pain. But there is no time to linger. I race back to Rachel and pick her up. If she was upset by the gunshot, she gives no indication. I carry her to the door of the plane. Paul lies motionless on the ground below. Dread rises in me. Simon turns from Paul and starts back up the stairs of the plane.

"Is she dead?" he asks, his voice devoid of emotion.

"She loved you," I say.