The Diplomat's Wife Part 12

The D.M. looks at Simon. "In Krakow? I thought the resistance was in Warsaw."

"There was a resistance movement in Krakow, too," Simon replies. "I remember reading about it in a cable. Smaller, not as significant." His words stab at me.

"Go on," the D.M. says.

"I worked as a messenger for the resistance, traveling the countryside and gathering information and weapons." Staring out the window, I tell them about the bombing of the Warszawa Cafe, how the resistance was decimated in the aftermath. I do not tell them about my friendship with Emma or how I killed Kommandant Richwalder to save her, nor about Jacob. "And so after the cafe bombing, most of the resistance leadership was killed or arrested, like me. But Andek was neither, and he told me he was going over the border to Slovakia to connect with partisans there."

When I finish, I look up. Simon stares at me, stunned. The D.M. turns to him. "You had no idea?"

He shakes his head. "We ran a background check for security purposes when she started working here, of course. But it's difficult to get information. All of the papers were destroyed during the war."

"Why didn't you say anything?" the D.M. asks me.

"I was afraid," I reply truthfully. "I came here on someone else's visa. I thought I might be sent back. Plus, I spent a long time in a n.a.z.i camp." I omit the prison, fearful of raising more questions. "I was trying to forget that part of my life."

"You're very brave," the D.M. observes. "You should be honored for what you did. And I'm sure our war crimes office would like to talk to you at some point to debrief. But right now we have more pressing matters to contend with. I'm sure I don't have to tell you again how important it is that we get the cipher from Marcelitis."

"No, sir, I understand."

"And it seems that the only hope of doing so is getting to Andek." He pauses. "Will you help us?"

I hesitate, uncertain how I can be of use. "I'll do whatever I can."

"Sir," Simon interjects. "What do you have in mind? Do you have an idea of how we can somehow reach Andek from here?"

The D.M. shakes his head. "I'm afraid that's impossible. We don't know of any secure phone or telegraph line to reach the man. And there's no time to send a courier back and forth. No, I think our only hope is to have Marta speak with him face-to-face."

Simon stares at the D.M., mouth agape. "Surely you aren't suggesting..."

I look from Simon to the D.M., then back again. "I don't understand."

The D.M. sits down in the chair beside mine. "I am asking if you will go to Prague to speak with Andek directly."

I am too surprised to react. For a second I wonder if the D.M. has misspoken. "Me?" I ask finally. "You want me to go to Prague?"

"Sir, with all due respect..." Simon splutters. I have never heard him sound so upset, much less in front of his boss. "You can't possibly be serious."

The D.M. crosses the room toward Simon. "I'm deadly serious, Gold. Andek is our only link to Marcelitis, and Marta is the only one who can get to Andek."

"But she isn't a spy, for G.o.d's sake! She's not even a diplomat. She's a secretary."

"She's a former member of an insurgent group." I have never heard the resistance referred to as this before. "She has experience with covert operations, firearms. Frankly, she's more qualified than most men."

Amid my confusion, pride rises in me. I had fought alongside Alek, Jacob and the other men. I am glad not to have to hide it any longer. But Simon is not placated. "She's my wife. We have a small child and-"

"What is it that you would want me to do?" I interrupt, curious.

The D.M. walks quickly back toward me. "We need you to go to Prague. We can create some sort of cover for your trip, say that you are there for meetings at the emba.s.sy. We have some very good people on the ground there who can help you find Andek."

"And then what? If I find him, I mean."

"Ask him to let you speak with Marcelitis. Don't explain too much to Andek alone-we don't have the intel on him to know if he can be trusted. Instead, use your history with him to gain his trust so he introduces you to Marcelitis. I'll give you something written from the foreign minister formally asking for the cipher."

"Is that all, sir?" I ask.

"What do you mean, is that all?"

"I mean, what are we offering Marcelitis in exchange for giving us the cipher?" I can feel Simon's stunned glare. A secretary questioning the D.M. on policy is unthinkable.

The D.M. pauses, as though the idea had not occurred to him. "a.s.surances, I suppose. That Britain is behind them and that we won't allow the Soviets to roll over Czechoslovakia."

I take a deep breath, emboldened by the role he is asking me to play. "That won't be enough, sir."

"What do you mean? Why?"

"Once, before the war, the Czech people believed in the West. We all did. But the West looked on while the Germans took the Sudetenland, then Prague. People have been bitten by empty promises before, and from what I understand, Marcelitis is especially distrustful. If he is to be persuaded to give us the cipher, we will need something concrete."

The D.M. paces back and forth, stroking his goatee. "That's a fair point. We would have to put together some sort of package, provide something as a measure of good faith. I'll start working on the needed clearances right away and then-"

"This is madness!" Simon explodes. I turn toward him, stunned by the sharpness of his tone toward the D.M. His cheeks have turned bright red with anger. "You are proposing to send my wife back to Eastern Europe to a country that might fall to the Soviets at any minute? For G.o.d's sake, she almost died there just three years ago!"

"We have no reason to think that anything is going to happen imminently with the Czech government. The coalition ministers are resisting resignation and that alone will keep the communists occupied for weeks. Even if they are successful, it will be months until they can form a new government. Nothing will happen before the elections next June."

"How long?" I ask. "I mean, if I agree to go, how long would I need to be gone?"

"A few days," the D.M. replies quickly. "A week at most. Less if you are able to find Andek and get to Marcelitis quickly."

"Marta, you can't be seriously considering this," Simon interjects.

I turn to the D.M. "Sir, may we have a moment in private?"

"Certainly, though I'm afraid I must ask you to be brief. I need to get over to the minister's office right away, and they're going to want an answer on how we plan to handle the situation." He walks out of the room and closes the door behind him.

I turn to Simon, who stares at me from the far side of his desk for several seconds. "The resistance," he says slowly, his voice a mixture of anger, hurt and disbelief. "You could have told me, Marta."

"I wanted to," I reply, thinking guiltily of all of the other things he still does not know. "But it was such a painful part of my past. I was afraid."

Simon crosses the room and drops down in front of my chair on one knee to face me at eye level. "Marta, this idea of the D.M.'s is madness. Please tell me you aren't seriously considering it."

I do not answer but study Simon's face. This is the most interest he has shown in me since we have been married, I realize. For a moment I wonder if he is simply jealous that I can contribute something here that he cannot. But the concern in his eyes is genuine. Something tugs inside me. For so long, he has seemed to see right through me. Is it possible that he might actually miss me if I was gone?

I stand up and walk to the window, considering the D.M.'s request. Prague. Eastern Europe. Inwardly, I wince. That part of the world was home to me once. But now that I am safe in London, it seems dark and desolate, the place of a thousand painful memories and broken dreams. How can I possibly go back? Across the park, I can see the edge of the Parliament building. I faulted the British for doing nothing the last time, during the war. How can I now do the same? I turn back. "Simon, if I am really the only one who can help..."

"What about our daughter?" he demands, gesturing to the picture that sits on the corner of his desk.

I turn to gaze at the image of Rachel taken in the garden last spring. The idea of leaving her, even for a few days, is almost inconceivable. "I am thinking of her. Simon, Rachel is fortunate enough to be growing up in a safe place. For now. But I know firsthand how quickly things can change. You've said yourself that the communist threat is as real and dangerous as the n.a.z.is...."

"Rachel is safe." Simon walks toward me, placing his arms on my shoulders. His hands seem almost foreign. Simon seldom touches me. Now he is reaching out, attempting to get me to listen to him. I look from his hands to his beseeching expression, then back again. Even now, his touch is not affection, I realize sadly, but a tool of persuasion. "Rachel will always be safe here."

"Maybe." But I am thinking not only of Rachel. In my mind I see Emma and Lukasz, the orphaned rabbi's son she cared for during the war. She had taken him with her when she fled and was surely raising him as her own, along with the child she was expecting when I last saw her. They are likely still somewhere in Eastern Europe while I am living here. What are their lives like? Guilt washes over me. "I have to try, Simon." I look into his eyes, pleading for him to understand. "I can't stand by and do nothing. It's just a quick trip, a few days at most. I'm sorry," I add.

He pulls back his hands as though burned. The concern disappears and the earlier anger reappears in his eyes. "So am I," he replies coldly. Before I can speak further, he turns and walks from the room.

"Simon, wait..." I start after him, then stop again. He is upset, I know, at being defied. But this is not his decision to make.

A second later, the D.M. appears in the doorway. "I saw your husband leave..."

"He's not happy with my choice."

"Does that mean you'll go?" I hesitate, then nod. The D.M. crosses the room. "That's wonderful news."

"On one condition. I have a young daughter. I cannot afford to be away from her longer than a week."

"That won't be a problem. All we need you to do is speak to Andek, get him to put you in touch with Marcelitis, get the cipher. That should take a day or two at most."

"What if he won't give it to me?"

"He'll give it to you. He has to. While you and Simon were talking, I made some calls. A package is being put together for you to take. It contains our key contacts in certain Eastern European countries, information that is valuable to Marcelitis's work. We're also going to offer him sizable funds placed in a Swiss bank account that will finance his operations for some time. But he gets none of this unless he gives you the cipher. Once you've obtained it, we'll have someone standing by to extract you."

"Extract?" I repeat. The word makes it sound as though it will be difficult to leave.

"It's just an expression," he replies quickly. A strange expression crosses the D.M.'s face, then disappears again so quickly I wonder if I might have imagined it. "So we are agreed?" he presses.

I swallow, forcing down my uneasiness. "Yes."

"Excellent. You should take the rest of the day off and go home to prepare for the trip. I'll finalize all of the arrangements when I return and send further details through Simon later this evening." Simon. I remember his angry expression before he stormed from the office. "A car will come for you at six o'clock in the morning," he adds.

Tomorrow morning. I had not imagined it being so soon. But the sooner I go, the sooner I will be home again. "I'll be ready."

"Thank you, Marta," he says solemnly. "We owe you more than you know." Then I watch as he turns and walks out of the office, wondering if I have just made the biggest mistake of my life.

CHAPTER 15.

I tiptoe down the creaky wood stairs and across the darkened parlor. The house is still except for the ticking of the clock above the mantelpiece. Five-fifty, it reads, ten minutes until I am scheduled to depart. I walk to the front window and peer out into the deserted predawn street. The smell of roast beef from last night's dinner hangs in the air.

I turn and look up the stairs, fighting the urge to check on Rachel once more. Earlier I stood in the doorway to her bedroom listening to her light, even breathing, punctuated by nonsensical babble as she dreamed. I crept to her crib and looked down, guilt washing over me. How could I leave her? I will be back in a few days, I told myself. She will not even know that I am gone. And someday when she's old enough, I will be able to tell her what I did and why. I reached down and kissed her, inhaling deeply to trap her powdery scent and take it with me.

Forcing my thoughts away from Rachel, I walk to my small suitcase that sits by the door. Uncertain what to bring, I packed two changes of clothing and a few toiletries. I pick up my purse, which sits on top of the suitcase, opening it and checking that the papers I tucked into the lining are still there. Simon gave them to me last night when he returned from work. "From the D.M.," he said coldly as he handed the envelope to me in the kitchen.

I took the envelope uncertainly. Was I supposed to open it? "Simon, please. I know you're upset about my going, but I really need your help."

I watched his face as he considered my words, his expression softening. "This contains a list of key contacts for Marcelitis, if he agrees to help us," he explained. "Foreign nationals who work for us, in Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Poland and Germany."

"They really agreed to give him this?"

"You said we had to give him something real to win his trust. This is as real as it gets. Using this list, Marcelitis will be able to forge contacts throughout the region, strengthen his network. I don't have to tell you how valuable this information is, what certain of our enemies would do to get their hands on it." I nodded, speechless. I had no idea that I would be carrying such important information.

"There's also a wire number to a Swiss bank account containing half a million dollars. We could just take that and run away ourselves," he added. For a second, I wondered if he was serious. "Of course, he doesn't get any of this until he gives you the cipher."

"Of course." I held up the envelope. "May I?" He nodded. Inside was a letter addressed to someone named Uncle George, talking about a vacation. "I don't understand."

"The list is in code," Simon explained.

"Will Marcelitis know the code?"

Simon shook his head. "No, he'll need to go to the emba.s.sy and meet with our intelligence officer, George Lindt, who will provide him with the key. That will ensure that he'll cooperate with us." I wondered if Marcelitis would trust us enough to do that. "And this is from me." He pulled from his pocket a small pistol.

I recoiled. "I-I don't know..." I began.

"Don't tell me that you don't know how to use it." Simon cut me off, and I could tell from his tone he was thinking of my newly discovered past with the resistance, wondering what else he did not know.

But my hesitation was sincere. The last time I held a gun was the night I shot the Kommandant. "I-I can't take that."

"I doubt you'll need it," Simon replied. "But it would make me feel better." I took the gun from him. It was, I supposed, Simon's way of showing concern. "I still wish you'd reconsider," he added.

"Simon, we've been through this. You know why I'm going, why I can't back out now." I took a step toward him, wanting to make him understand. But before I could say more, he turned and walked upstairs.

I look up the darkened stairway now, wishing he would come down and say goodbye. I could tell from his shallow breathing as I dressed that he was only pretending to be asleep. He is really upset, I realize. But is he only worried about my safety? Part of me still wonders if he is jealous that I can help in a way that he cannot.

Taking one last look around the house, I pick up my suitcase, then open the front door and step out onto the porch. I shiver, drawing my coat more tightly around me against the crisp, late-autumn air. Bare tree branches sc.r.a.pe against the front of the house, blown by the wind. The paint is peeling around the door frame, I notice. I had meant to take care of that before the weather turned cold.

Behind me, a floorboard creaks. I turn to find Simon silhouetted in the doorway, a bathrobe over his pajamas. "Simon..."

"You forgot these." He holds out a pair of gray wool gloves. "It's liable to be much colder there."

"Of course. Thank you." I take the gloves, touched by his concern. I had nearly forgotten how much more bitter the Eastern Europe winters could be, how swiftly and soon the snows came. Suddenly the magnitude of where I am going threatens to overwhelm me. "Simon, I..."

"When Delia gets here today, I'll explain that you were called away unexpectedly for a week or so to care for a sick relative of mine," he offers. I can hear the anxiety in his voice. My departure, even for a few days, is unsettling to him, a shift in the immovable routine of his daily life. In my absence, there is a child for him to consider, arrangements to be made. "I'm thinking an aunt in Yorkshire would be best."

I nod. Delia knows I have no family of my own. I hate lying to her, though. Yesterday, when I returned home from the office to find her baking cookies with a jubilantly flour-covered Rachel, I desperately wanted to tell her about my trip. But sharing such cla.s.sified information was out of the question, even with Delia. "I'm sure she'll offer to stay and care for Rachel while I'm gone."

Behind me, I hear the rumble of a car engine, growing louder. I turn to see a black sedan pulling up in front of the house. "Time to go," Simon says.

I face him once more, needing him to understand. "Simon, I..."

He raises his hand. "Time to go," he repeats. He bends down and kisses me stiffly on the lips. "See you soon. Be careful."

"Goodbye." I turn and walk slowly down the porch steps and through the gate. A man in a dark suit whom I do not recognize stands by the open rear door of the car. "h.e.l.lo," I say as I climb into the car. The man does not answer but takes my suitcase and closes the door behind me. I look out the window at the porch, hoping to see Simon. But he has disappeared back inside and the house is dark once more.

The car pulls away from the curb, then turns right from our street onto Hampstead High Street. Suddenly I realize that I have no idea where I am going. I tap on the darkened gla.s.s that separates the back of the sedan from the front. The driver opens it. "Ma'am?" he says, not turning around.