The Diplomat's Wife

by Pam Jenoff

  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 identity, 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 identity 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 associate of Marcelitis called Marek Andek whom I know from my resistance work in Kraków. 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 Nazi 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 associate 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 assassin.”

  “Assassin?” I repeat with disbelief.

  “Yes.” Assassin. 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 cocks 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 embassy 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 embassy 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 embassy.”

  “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?”

  “Yes. It’s self-interest, really. Your getting to Marcelitis is good for American interests, as well.” He sounds as though he is trying to convince himself. “And I can report back fully on your activities,” he adds.

  I do not respond.
He’s trying to protect me, I understand, studying his face. Part of me is glad. Finding Paul again, seeing he is alive, is like standing near a warm fire in winter. I am not ready to go out into the cold again. At the same time, I am hesitant. This is my mission. I do not need him rescuing me, not again. But he’s right. I need his help. “Fine,” I relent. “So what now?”

  “First, let me finish taping your ankle.” His hand is warm against my skin as he wraps the bandage several times around my ankle, securing the end and fitting my shoe back over my toes. “Can you walk?”

  I stand up, take a painful step. “Yes, it feels much better now,” I lie.

  “Okay, but you still shouldn’t use it too much.” He comes to my side, then takes my arm and puts it around his shoulder. “There’s a village on the edge of the forest,” he says as we make our way slowly from the cave. “We need to get there and find some transportation.”

  Neither of us speak as Paul leads me through the forest. Only the branches beneath our feet break the silence. As we walk, I stare at Paul, fearful that if I look away he will disappear. Soon, the trees begin to thin and I see footprints where others have walked, smell smoke from a nearby chimney. We reach a path that leads us to the outskirts of a village. Paul stops at the end of a tall hedge. “What are we doing?” I whisper.

  “Shh.” He stops at a break in the in the hedge, gesturing toward it with his hand. “In there.”

  “You want me to hide in the bushes?” He nods. I step into the hedge. “This better be good.”

  “Wait here,” he says, disappearing around the corner before I can respond. Anxiety rises in me. I do not want to be separated from him again, even for a few minutes. I stare out from the bushes at the empty street. My mind struggles to reconcile all that has happened. Paul is here. Alive. But this is not two years ago. This is not Salzburg or Paris. You have Rachel, I remind myself. And Simon.

  Paul reappears, pushing a two-wheeled vehicle of some sort. As he gets closer, I step from the bushes. I look from him to the bike, then back again. “Really? A motorcycle?”

  “Don’t worry, I used to ride all the time back home.”

  “But…”

  “Look, do you want to get to Berlin or don’t you? We can’t take the train again and we don’t have a car. This is the best way.”

  I can’t argue with his logic. “Where did you get it?”

  “I borrowed it from a farmhouse down the road. I suspect the farmer will be very pleased to find the money I left, which is about three times what this thing is worth.”

  Like the boat in Salzburg, I cannot help but think. I take a step toward the bike, then stop. “Paul, there’s something I have to tell you. I’m married now.”

  “I know.”

  I stare at him, surprised. “You do? But how?”

  “American intelligence,” he replies stiffly. “Once we found out about your mission, we made it a point to learn all about you.”

  “Oh.” I had hoped he knew because he cared enough to check. “I just wanted to let you know, in case you were helping me, well, because…”

  “I’m helping you because it’s good for my country. That’s all.” He clears his throat. “Though I couldn’t believe your husband would let you go on such a dangerous mission,” he adds.

  “He didn’t let me go,” I retort. “I insisted. It was my choice.”

  He looks over his shoulder. “We need to go.”

  I touch the seat of the motorcycle. “Does it run?”

  “We’re about to find out. I didn’t want to start it back in town for fear of attracting attention.” He straddles the bike and steps on the kickstand. The engine splutters then revs noisily to life. “Come on.” He pats the seat behind him. “There’s no sidecar, like in the movies. You’ll just have to hold on tight. Now hurry, before someone hears us.” I hike up my skirt and straddle the bike clumsily. Paul reaches back and hands me a helmet. “Put this on.” When I have the strap fastened under my chin, he takes my hands and places them around his midsection. I tighten my grip, feeling his torso beneath his coat. As we start to move, I lean forward, resting my cheek on the smooth, cool expanse of his back, trying not to think, grateful for the excuse to be this close to him once more.

  CHAPTER 21

  I lift my cheek from Paul’s back, looking up as he slows the motorcycle, then pulls over to the side of the road. We have been on back roads like this for hours, single lanes winding through rolling, snow-covered hills. Except for the occasional house or car passing in the opposite direction, we have seen no one. “What’s wrong?” I ask now, straightening.

  He puts one foot on the ground, then turns to face me. “Nothing. We’re just outside Berlin, but it’s only six and I’d like it to be a little darker before we make our way into the city. Hungry?” I nod. I have not eaten anything since the roll in my Prague hotel room the previous day. “We passed a pub a few miles back, so I thought we’d stop and get something to eat.”

  Paul turns the bike around and begins to drive slowly in the direction from which we came. He stopped the bike only once before, pulling off the road before the Czech-German border to bypass the official crossing. My heart pounded as we walked the bike through the woods, branches crackling beneath our feet, expecting that we would be apprehended at any moment. I was so terrified that I barely noticed the throbbing pain in my ankle. But thirty minutes later, we emerged on the German side of the border, pushing the bike up to the road and riding away once more.

  For hours as we have ridden, I have clung to Paul, sheltering myself from the wind behind his broad torso. The questions and disbelief keep rising up, threatening to overwhelm me. I have grieved Paul’s death for years, the loss immutably woven into the tapestry of my life. How could I have woken and breathed each day, not knowing that he was out there somewhere, alive? How is it possible that he is here again, in this most improbable of times and places? But I push the thoughts down, reveling in the chance to be close to him again, fearful that at any moment the mirage will disappear.

  We pull up in front of a small tavern, smoke rising from the chimney. Paul helps me off the bike, his hand lingering longer than is necessary on my shoulder. I shiver, my reaction to his touch even stronger than it was years ago. “Sorry,” he mumbles, pulling back. I nod and start for the door. He follows closely, a half step behind, as if he is afraid that I will disappear.

  Inside, a dozen or so tables fill the small room, empty except for one where a small group of men in hunting garb are gathered. “I’ll be right back,” I say, spotting a sign for the water closet. When I return, Paul is seated at a table in the corner, close to the fireplace but as far from the hunters as possible. Two mugs of dark beer sit before him.

  “I ordered us some food, too.”

  “But how? You don’t speak German.”

  He winks. “I’ve picked up a thing or two these past few years.” He hands me a mug, then raises the other. “A toast,” he proposes.

  “To what? The success of our mission?”

  “No,” he replies quickly. “That’s bad luck. One of the guys in my unit, a replacement for a man we lost at Bastogne, toasted the unit on our last night in Paris. And look what happened.” A shadow crosses his eyes.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “To your happiness,” he says instead.

  Happiness. Happiness would have been finding you years ago, I want to say. Instead, I touch my mug to his, then swallow the rich, dark beer. “Thank you. But what about your happiness?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know what that means anymore really. I mean, I’m fine. I’m not going to wallow in self-pity.” He winks. “Seems some girl in Salzburg taught me better. It’s a miracle I’m alive, and I’ve got my work. But happiness? I left that behind on a September morning in Paris about two years ago.”

  Suddenly it feels as if a hand is squeezing hard around my heart. If I meant so much to you, why didn’t you come for me? But before I can speak, a stout woman appears and sets
down two large bowls in front of us. The food is simple peasant fare: a hearty beef stew, thick hunks of bread. When the waitress has gone again, I look at Paul, hesitating. Perhaps, I realize, the answer is not one I want to hear.

  A loud burst of laughter erupts from the table of hunters, jarring me from my thoughts. A chill runs up my spine. In my desperation to get across the border, I had almost forgotten where I was going. I am in Germany, and not just passing through, as I had with Renata after arriving at the airport in Munich. This time, I am going to Berlin, which had been the very heart of Nazi power. I study the hunters, wondering where they had been during the war. Had they fought for Germany, killed Jews in the camps?

  “So what’s the plan?” Paul asks. I look back at him, his question a welcome distraction. “Once we get into Berlin, I mean.”

  I hesitate. In my hurry to flee Prague, I hadn’t thought much about it. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Go to Oranienburger Strasse, try to find Marcelitis’s apartment, persuade him to talk to us.”

  “You know that Oranienburger Strasse is in east Berlin?” I nod. I know from my work at the Foreign Office that the sector is controlled by the Soviets. “And if he’s not there?” Paul asks. “Or if it’s not even his apartment? Or what if he is there but won’t talk to you?”

  “I don’t know,” I repeat. My frustration rises. “Why are you giving me a hard time?”

  “Because I want to ask you one more time to reconsider. You’re a diplomat’s wife, Marta, not a goddamned spy.” I turn away, too stung to respond. There is a harshness to Paul’s voice I have never heard before. “I know you did some incredibly brave things during the war. But things are different now. You have a daughter.” So do you, I think, wishing I could tell Paul the truth about Rachel. But I cannot, not now. “You need to consider your safety, for her sake. Once we get into Berlin, there’s no turning back. We might not even be able to get out if the Russians make good on their threat to blockade the city. Why don’t you let me go for you instead?”