The Diplomat's Wife Part 23

"You're welcome. You've saved my life twice. It seemed the least I could do."

He does not answer but closes his eyes. I study his face, wondering if he remembers our conversation about Rachel. I consider mentioning it again, then decide against it. Instead, I reach down and pick up the photograph. "I wanted to ask you about this. I found it in your pocket when I was looking for more gauze."

Paul half opens his eyes. "Oh, that's a girl I had a fling with in Paris."

"Very funny. I remember having this taken. But how do you still have it? I mean, with the crash and all..."

"Would you believe they found that on me when I was rescued? I was unconscious, practically naked, no identification whatsoever. Seems that was the only thing that made it."

"But how...?"

"Medic told me I was holding it. Clenching it so hard they could barely pry it from my hand." He looks away. "I guess I must have been looking at it when the plane went down."

A lump forms in my throat. "And all this time..."

"I've carried it with me. Figured it was my lucky charm, the reason I survived." His voice is strong and clear. "I know I'm crazy. It's two years later and I'm still carrying a torch for a girl who's with someone else." I wonder again whether he remembers our conversation from the previous night, if he understands that I married Simon because of Rachel. He continues, "I mean, I'm shot and lying in the bottom of a ship with no doctors, no painkillers..."

"We'll be in England soon."

"I know, but that's the crazy part. I don't care that we're in this boat or even much mind the pain. I don't want to get to England. Being here with you is enough. It's all I want. I mean, last night when I was delirious, I thought maybe finding you again was a dream. But finding out it's real...this is the best morning of my life."

My heart pounds. "I feel the same way."

"You do?"

"Yes, except for the part about not caring whether you get to a hospital."

His expression turns serious. "But when we get to England..."

I lower my hand to my lips. "Shh. Don't say it. I just want to be with you right now." He pulls me down and kisses me with such strength I almost forget he is wounded. A few seconds later, I break away. "You need to rest."

He nods. "I know. I wish I wasn't so injured so that I could, I mean we could..."

"Make love again?" I ask.

"Yes."

I do not answer. Lying next to Paul, I desperately wish the same thing. It would be wrong, I know. Betraying my marriage once had been bad enough, but somehow I could justify it as unexpected, the heat of the moment. Letting it happen a second time, intending it, seems worse somehow. But in a few hours we will reach England, be torn apart by real life. My mind races. I cannot wait to hold Rachel. England means married life, though, going back to Simon. And then Paul will be gone again.

Above us, the horn sounds and the rocking grows heavier. "We're almost there," Paul mumbles.

"Yes." We should sneak off the boat as soon as it docks. But looking at Paul's pale face, I know that will be impossible. He cannot make it up the stairs. For a minute, I consider going for help, but I am too afraid to leave him alone. We will have to wait here until the ship is unloaded and we are discovered. "Just rest," I whisper to him. "Hang in there. It's almost over." He does not respond.

A few minutes later, the boat b.u.mps against something hard. Above come voices and footsteps, growing louder. I hear the door at the top of the stairs open with a creak, someone descending the stairs. A flashlight shines down inside the hull. Taking a deep breath, I stand up. "h.e.l.lo?" I call, raising my hands.

The flashlight swings around, illuminating me. "What the...?" a man's voice exclaims in English.

I shield my eyes, unaccustomed to the bright light. "Can you help us, please?" I can make out two men in uniforms making their way toward us through the boxes. English Customs officers, I realize with relief.

"Stowaways!" the second man exclaims.

"Please," I say. "My name is Marta Gold and I'm from the Foreign Office. And this man is Michael Stevens with the American government. Call his emba.s.sy. But first call an ambulance. He's been shot and he needs medical attention at once."

The men look skeptically from me to Paul, then back again. "Don't move," one of the men says, then turns to the other. "Radio in to headquarters to check out their story. And send for an ambulance."

"Please hurry," I add. The second man turns and scrambles back through the boxes and up the stairs. I drop to my knees beside Paul once more. "It's all right, darling." I squeeze his hand. "We've made it and we're going to get you some help."

Paul shivers, eyes still closed. I bring my other hand to his forehead. He is very cold now-a fact that scares me more than the fever had. He mumbles something. I lean my head close to his. "What is it?"

"A-about what you said before..." His voice trails off.

I shake him lightly. "Paul, wake up."

"Mmm," he mumbles.

"You were asking me about something I said," I remind him gently. "What was it?"

"I-I can't remember," he replies.

"Just rest. You need your strength."

The second man reappears at the top of the steps. "It's all true," he says, breathing hard. "Someone anonymously wired a message saying that there would be two stowaways aboard, a man and woman, British and American. They didn't say anything about an injury." Jan, I think. She tried to help by sending a message, but of course she hadn't known about Paul being shot at the port. He turns to me. "The ambulances are coming now."

Ambulances, plural. "I don't need medical attention," I say.

A minute later, I hear sirens in the distance, followed by more footsteps and voices overhead. Several medics race down the stairwell past the guards and come to Paul's side. "Ma'am, if you would step aside so we can treat him," one says. Reluctantly, I stand up and take a few steps back. "What happened?" the medic asks as he kneels.

"He was shot," I reply.

"Any idea what kind of weapon?"

I shake my head. "East German. Soviet, maybe. Beyond that I don't know."

He looks up at me. "How long ago?"

I realize that I have completely lost track of time. "Yesterday, I think." The medic's eyes widen. Turning back to Paul, he lifts Paul's shirt and examines the wound, not speaking for several seconds. Finally, I can stand it no longer. "How is he?" I demand.

The medic looks up at me, his expression grave. "Are you family?"

"Yes," I reply quickly. "I mean no. He doesn't have any family. I-I'm a close friend."

"He's seriously wounded and he's going to need surgery immediately." He turns to the other medics. "Let's get him out of here." As they lift Paul, he cries out in pain. I follow them as they carry him up the stairs.

Outside on the dock, I blink, adjusting my eyes to the daylight. The sky is a blanket of thick, gray clouds, and light, misting rain is falling. The brackish salt air fills my lungs, replacing the dank, dusty air from the hull of the ship. I walk quickly to Paul's side as the medics place him on a stretcher. "Paul," I whisper. He does not respond.

"We have to keep moving," one of the medic says. I clutch Paul's hand tightly, walking beside the stretcher as they wheel him from the deck, past several other ships, to one of the two ambulances waiting at the base of the dock.

The medic opens the back doors of the ambulance, then turns to me. "We have a second ambulance for you."

"I'm fine. I don't need medical attention."

"Yes, you do, but there's no time to quarrel about it. You have to let him go." I open my mouth to reply, then close it again. Arguing will only delay Paul's care. I release his hand and the medics lift the stretcher into the ambulance, closing the doors quickly behind them. Then, as the ambulance drives away, I fall to the ground, sobbing.

CHAPTER 25.

"Marta," a voice calls in the darkness. Paul. Are we still in Germany? "Marta," the voice says again. My heart sinks. The accent is British. It is not Paul.

A hand touches my arm, shakes me. Reluctantly, I open my eyes. Simon stands above me, brow furrowed.

"Simon," I whisper. Simon, not Paul. I wonder if I am lying in our bed at home, if finding Paul alive and being reunited with him was just a dream. Tears fill my eyes.

"Darling." Simon touches my cheek, mistaking my tears for happiness. "You're home now. Safe."

But I am not home, I realize, looking around the sterile, unfamiliar room. Suddenly I remember huddling with Paul in the bottom of the ship. "Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital. We received a message at the Foreign Office the day before you arrived that you were coming back by ship, and then Customs reported finding two stowaways aboard the Bremen." I picture the medics wheeling Paul away, the ambulance door closing. Where is he now? Is he all right? Simon continues, "You managed to tell them who you were and ask them to contact the Foreign Office. But then you became hysterical and refused to let the medics treat you, so they had to give you a sedative. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I reply, sitting up. "How long was I asleep?"

"Just overnight. You were suffering from severe exhaustion and dehydration, but the doctor says you're fine otherwise."

I swallow. "We ran out of water and..." I take a deep breath, wondering how much Simon knows about Paul. "The man they found in the boat with me. How is he?"

"I don't know," Simon replies. "He was in pretty bad shape when they found you two. Shot, I believe, losing a great deal of blood."

I try to keep my voice calm. "Did they say who he was?"

"Apparently an American intelligence operative. Michael something-or-other."

He called Paul by his a.s.sumed cover ident.i.ty, I note with relief. He does not know that the man on the ship is the same man I was engaged to before we were married. "Can I see him? To thank him, I mean."

"Impossible, I'm afraid. They transferred him to a military hospital for surgery." My stomach twists. "Would you like me to find out how he's doing?"

"Please." I struggle to keep my voice even. Then I notice a vase of fresh-cut flowers on the nightstand. "Did you bring those?"

"I wish I could take credit, but those are from the D.M. He sends his tremendous grat.i.tude and congratulations on a job well done."

I look back at him. "The mission was a success?"

Simon nods. "The medics found the cipher on you when they brought you in and turned it over to me. It's being used to decode the list as we speak. Marcelitis has already been in touch with the emba.s.sy and is helping us to identify key contacts throughout Eastern Europe. And the Americans are very excited to work with us on this, too." He pauses, c.o.c.king his head. "How did you and that Michael fellow meet up anyway?"

In a prison in Salzburg, I think. "It's a long story," I say aloud. "Would you mind if we talked about it later?"

"Of course, you must still be exhausted. There will be plenty of time for debriefing once you've been home and had a chance to rest."

Home. "Where's Rachel? How is she?"

"She's with Delia and doing just fine."

"Delia," I repeat slowly. "Does she know?"

Simon shakes his head. "Only that you are in the hospital. She thinks you took ill while tending to my aunt." I wince inwardly at the lie, further compounded. "Anyway, Rachel is fine," he continues. "She'll be very excited to see you, I'm sure. She's invited to a birthday party this weekend."

I gaze out the window, across the road at the rolling fields, blanketed in thick fog. Children's birthday parties. Two days ago I was running from the police in Berlin. With Paul. It seems like another lifetime. In my mind's eye, his face grows fainter, like a dream. Then I look back up at Simon. "When can I go home?"

I settle against the sofa cushion and adjust the blanket that is draped over my legs. Then I pick up the still-warm cup of tea Delia brought me and look out the window. Outside Delia and Rachel play with a ball on the front lawn. As if she knows she is being watched, Rachel looks back over her shoulder and smiles widely at me. Even from this distance, I can see the flash of white where a new baby tooth has started to come in. I missed that while I was away. Swallowing my guilt, I wave and blow her a kiss.

I lean back once more, looking across the room to the fire that burns brightly in the fireplace. It has been nearly three weeks since I woke up in the hospital. Simon was right-there was nothing wrong with me other than a little dehydration, and I was discharged the following day. I could have gone back to work almost immediately, but Simon insisted that I take a few weeks off to rest and recover. At first I resisted, thinking of Jan and the others, the promises we made to help them. "You've done your part," Simon said. "Let others pick up the baton." So reluctantly, I agreed to a brief sabbatical. Delia still came every day, again at Simon's insistence, to keep me company and help care for Rachel. But I spend almost all of my time playing with Rachel or watching her. She seems completely unaffected by my absence, which bothers me a bit in a selfish way. She does not understand how close I came to not making it home. I will go back to work in time, but I know that I will never leave her like that again.

A few minutes later, I watch as Delia scoops up Rachel and carries her into the house. Rachel pouts, her tiny upper lip quivering. "What's wrong, darling?" I ask as Delia brings her over to me.

"She didn't want to come in." Delia answers for Rachel who, still bundled, points out the window. "She was hoping that Sammie would come out and play with her after he returns from nursery." Sammie, the little boy across the street, is almost three. I look at Rachel in amazement. Can she really have a crush at her age? Delia continues, "But the sun is going down and it's getting colder. She needs a bath before bed."

I smile. Delia keeps Rachel's schedule with the efficiency of a general. "You can play outside again tomorrow," I say to Rachel. "Maybe Mama will even join you. Now, give me a kiss."

Delia lowers Rachel and I kiss her cold cheek, inhaling the smell of fresh earth in her dark, curly hair. In the kitchen, the telephone rings. Delia looks over her shoulder. "I should get that." I know she worries about Charles, home alone all day with only Ruff for company.

"Here," I say, taking Rachel from Delia. "I'll hold her." Rachel settles against my chest, babbling.

"h.e.l.lo?" I hear Delia say in the other room as I unb.u.t.ton Rachel's coat. "h.e.l.lo?" There is silence followed by a click. A moment later, she reappears in the doorway.

"No one there?" I ask. She nods. "Strange."

"It happened once yesterday, as well," she says as she crosses the room to me. "I meant to tell you."

I shrug. "Probably just a wrong number. If it happens again, I'll call the phone company."

"Bath for you, young miss," Delia says to Rachel, taking her from me and carrying her to the stairs. "There's a roast in the oven," she calls over her shoulder. "I'll fix you a plate after I put her down."

I start to reply that it is not necessary, but Delia disappears up the stairs, talking to Rachel. I look back at the fire, still seeing my daughter's face. She reminds me more of Paul than ever since I came home. Suddenly I see him as the medics carried him away from me on the dock, face pale, eyes closed. A few days ago, Simon told me in an offhand way that he had news of the American. "He made it through the surgery and is recovering at one of the military hospitals." I was barely able to contain my relief. "He's to be shipped back to the States as soon as he's well enough to travel," Simon added. I wondered if this last part was true. Paul told me that he never goes back to America; he will surely head out on his next mission as soon as he is well enough. My heart ached at the thought of him leaving England. "If you'd like to send a note to offer your good wishes, I have the address of the hospital," Simon offered.

"I'm sure the Foreign Office has thanked him sufficiently," I replied. What would I say? That since coming back from Germany, I have thought of him every waking moment? That when I do sleep, I see him endlessly in my dreams? The truth is unspeakable. And to say less would feel like a lie. No, I decided, a note from me would just hurt him more by reminding him of everything that could never be.

The phone rings in the kitchen, jarring me from my thoughts. "I'll get it," I call to Delia, standing. There is a second ring as I cross the parlor to the kitchen. I pick up the receiver. "h.e.l.lo?" I say. There is no response. I think then of the two earlier calls Delia had mentioned. "h.e.l.lo?" A wrong number perhaps, or a bad connection? But I can hear breathing on the other end of the phone. There is something familiar about the sound, the way the caller inhales, breath seeming to catch and hold for a second. My heart skips a beat. "Paul?" I whisper.

"I'm an idiot," he says remorsefully. "Calling like I'm a twelve-year-old boy with a crush."

At the sound of his voice, strong and deep, warmth rises in me. I swallow, forcing myself to breathe. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," he replies quickly. "I called earlier but someone else answered so I hung up."