The Diplomat's Wife

by Pam Jenoff

  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. “Hello?” I call, rubbing my eyes. There is no response. I stand and make my way unsteadily to the kitchen, splashing 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 space 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 classified documents that I am not cleared to see. Nonsense. I risked my life. I have the right. Simon would not have classified documents 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 document 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 document 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 documents, 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 glasses, 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, hearin
g 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 mass 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, wishing 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 passed? 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 assignment, 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 passionate 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 glass, 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 cocks 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 assumed 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 w
ith 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. “Hello, 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 assessing my political views for the communists. “But we knew you would never work for us willingly,” he adds.