The Diplomat's Wife (29 page)

The man’s footsteps reach the entrance to the alleyway, stop. I lie motionless, my heart pounding. A minute passes, seeming like an eternity. Then, I hear footsteps again, growing fainter as he disappears down the street.

For several seconds, I remain frozen in the trash bin, too afraid to move. My mind races. The man on the bridge was not Marcelitis, but an imposter who wanted the information I am carrying, enough to kill me. But how had he known that I would be there? I think of Marek, who arranged the meeting. Has he betrayed me?

I have to keep going, I realize. The man might try to come back when he cannot find me on the street. And Renata will be waiting. I climb from the trash bin, brushing myself off as well as I can. I creep to the front of the alleyway, then stop, listening. Hearing nothing, I peer out into the deserted street. My skin prickles. Has the man really gone or is he just hiding somewhere, waiting? I take a breath, then step out into the street, half expecting him to leap out and attack me once more. But the street remains silent. Exhaling, I turn in the direction from which I came and begin retracing my steps.

As I walk, I think again about the bald man. Who is he? And what happened to the real Marcelitis? I was not able to make contact with him or obtain the cipher. For a minute I consider abandoning my rendezvous with Renata and going to the bar again, to try to find Marek and ask for his help once more in reaching Marcelitis. But even as I think it, I know that it is impossible. I do not even know if the D.M. would want me to continue my mission under such circumstances. I will go meet Renata. She will know what to do.

When I have backtracked to the river, I follow the directions Renata gave me. Soon I reach Krizovnicka Street and follow it until it intersects with Platnerska. I scan the opposite side of the street. There is an archway, as Renata described, but it appears to be empty. Running from the bald man has made me late, I know. Perhaps Renata was not able to wait for me any longer. As I cross the street, the front bumper of Renata’s Wartburg comes into view and I can hear the engine running. Relieved, I hurry toward the car.

I wave at Renata through the fogged windshield. Then I open the passenger door and climb inside. “Something went wrong,” I pant as I shut the door behind me. “The man who met me wasn’t Marcelitis. It was an imposter and he…” I turn toward the driver’s seat, then stop. Renata lays slumped forward, her head resting on the steering wheel. “Renata?”

Dread rises in me as I reach over and lean her back against the seat. Her eyes are closed and her mouth half open, a fine string of spittle running from one corner of her lips to her chin. I shake her, but there is no response. “Renata?” I lean my head close to her mouth. She is not breathing.

I jump back, staring at Renata’s lifeless body, nauseous. Renata is dead. But how? There is no blood or wound that I can see. I look around the inside of the car. Four lines, each made by a separate finger, run down the condensation on the driver’s-side window. Renata’s fingers, reaching out for help. Otherwise, there is no sign of a struggle or any activity inside the car at all.

I lean over to study Renata once more. Closer now, I can see a small bruise high on her neck, the size of a small coin. At the center of the bruise there is a tiny spot of dried blood. A needle. Someone has killed Renata by injection. I picture the bald man on the bridge, lunging at me with the knife. I am certain Renata’s death is connected to him. Could he have killed Renata before coming to meet me, or did he have an accomplice?

The attacker could still be here, I realize with alarm. I spin around, checking the backseat. I have to get out of here. But he could also be outside, waiting for me. I hesitate, uncertain. I am a sitting duck here in the car, I decide. My chances are better on my feet.

I look at Renata’s lifeless body once more. I should call someone and report her death. But Renata said the police are controlled by the communists; they could well be connected to the very people who have done this. And I do not know anyone at the embassy, or anyone else for that matter, to call. No, I will have to leave her here, at least for now. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, reaching over and touching her cool arm.

I open the car door slowly and stare out into the darkness. The night air has grown thick with fog, making it impossible to see more than a meter in front of me. I listen closely for any sign that the attacker might be nearby. Hearing none, I take a deep breath and creep from the car, closing the door softly behind me. I begin to walk swiftly in the direction of the hotel. But the fog makes everything look different, obscuring the street signs and making foreign the route I had taken just a few minutes earlier.

As I make my way through the streets, my mind whirls. Someone murdered Renata. But there were no real signs of a struggle. How had the attacker been able to get close enough to inject her? Perhaps he (I assume for some reason that Renata was not killed by a woman) hid in the backseat before Renata got into her car. Or maybe it was someone she knew, who had been able to get in the car and close to her without causing alarm. Someone she knew. I stop walking. The image of Marek’s face pops into my mind. I put one hand up against a building for support. It had been nagging at me ever since I fled the bridge: Marek arranged the meeting on the bridge, and it seemed almost certain that whoever killed Renata was somehow linked to that meeting. Had Marek sent someone to kill Renata, or even done it himself? And if Marek was a double agent, then what did that make Emma?

I look down the street, still shrouded in fog. I have to keep moving. But where can I go? Renata, my guide, is dead. No one else at the embassy knows who I am. I will go to the hotel, I decide. It is a risky choice. Whoever attacked me on the bridge might know where I am staying. But if the man wanted to attack me in my hotel room, he could have done so earlier today instead of waiting for me at the bridge. At least there I can change clothes, try to figure out what to do.

Twenty minutes later, I reach the street where the hotel is located. I pause. It is long after curfew and I am filthy from the garbage bin and completely disheveled from my struggles. I cannot walk through the lobby like this without attracting attention. I race around the back of the hotel and into the alley, then pull on the service door. It is locked. My heart pounds. I cannot stay here. I need to get into my room. Suddenly I hear footsteps on the other side of the door. I dive behind a tall stack of cardboard boxes as the door opens. A man leans out into the alley and sets down a bag of trash. I wait until he has gone back inside, then reach out and grab the door before it can shut again. I wait several seconds, then hurry through the door and up the back stairway.

At the top, I look down the hallway. It is empty except for a housekeeping cart that one of the maids left at the far end. I walk quickly down the corridor to my room, unlock the door and step inside. As I close the door, I hear a shuffling sound behind me. Someone is here, I sense, my blood running cold. Quickly, I reach into my bag, pulling out the pistol as I turn.

“Marta, no!” a familiar woman’s voice cries. My arm freezes in midair, the pistol falling from my hands and bouncing on the carpet.

“Emma!” I stare at her. “What are you doing here?” She does not answer but stands, pale and wide-eyed, in the middle of the room. I lean against the door, relieved. “I thought you were…” The events of the past few hours come rushing back. Emma could be the one who betrayed me. “What’s going on?” I demand. I realize that I am speaking loudly and that someone could be listening, but I no longer care. “I went to the bridge like you told me Marek wanted me to do. A man claiming to be Marcelitis showed but it wasn’t him.”

“Good,” Emma says quietly.

I am stunned. “How can you say that? I was nearly killed.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I mean it’s good that Marcelitis didn’t show because he would have been arrested or worse. My message must have made it to him in time.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Oh, Marta…” Suddenly Emma bursts into tears. “Marek’s been arrested!”

My stomach drops. “When? What happened?”

“Earlier today, after I saw you. The police came to the house and said he was under arrest for treason. They beat him in front of me and the children, nearly destroyed our home before taking him away.”

I put my hand on Emma’s shoulder, my suspicions easing. “I’m so sorry.”

Emma continues through her tears, “I figured that his arrest was somehow connected to your meeting with Marcelitis tonight. The timing was too close to be a coincidence. And I knew that if they questioned Marek, he would break and tell them the time and location of the meeting. Marek’s a good man, Marta. But he’s not strong like Alek and Jacob were. Like you. If they found out about the meeting, they would have arrested Marcelitis. So I was able to send word to Marcelitis through certain channels not to come. I wanted to warn you, too, but I couldn’t get out of the house. The police stationed a car out front, and they had threatened to hurt the children if I made trouble. I snuck out as soon as I could, but by the time I came here, you were gone.”

“I understand.” My mind races. So Emma did not betray me, after all. The police must have broken Marek and learned about the meeting. But why had they sent the bald man to impersonate Marcelitis and steal the list, instead of just arresting me? And who killed Renata? Something still doesn’t make sense. I take off my coat, then walk over to the bed and sink down on the edge. “How did you get into my room?”

Emma looks away. “I still remember a few things from the resistance.” I remember then how dangerous Emma’s role had been during the war, sneaking around the Kommandant’s office and apartment, searching for information. And she risked everything tonight to come here and warn me. She has always been much stronger than she looks. “What are you going to do now?” she asks.

I hesitate. If Marek really did break and talk, then the police know that I am here and why. “I have to get out of Prague.”

Emma nods. “I can show you a shortcut to the British embassy. I know it’s late, but perhaps if we explain to the guard—”

“I’m not going to the embassy,” I cut her off firmly. “I still need to get the information to Marcelitis.”

Emma cocks her head, puzzled. “But how? Once he received word of Marek’s arrest, of the security breach, he surely would have fled. He was going to leave the country, anyway, as soon as he met with you. With the coup, the situation has become too dangerous here. Everyone is pulling up stakes.”

“Out of the country, where?”

“My contact didn’t say for certain, but I’m pretty sure he meant back to Berlin. Marcelitis is based there.”

“Do you have his address? Or someone I can contact in Berlin?”

Emma shakes her head. “I don’t. I’m sorry. But Marek did go to Berlin once last winter to see Marcelitis. He told me that Marcelitis lives in central east Berlin above a bookshop. It is right across from a famous synagogue building—Oranienburger Strasse, I think the street was called. I remember because Marek found it strange that a covert operative would live right in the center of town. I pointed out to him that it was just like what the resistance used to do, meeting in the market square cafés in Kraków. The Nazis never thought to look for us right underneath their noses, never imagined that we would be so bold.” I nod, remembering. “But, Marta, why do you ask? I mean, it’s not as if you’re going to go to Berlin and find him, are you?”

I do not answer. Berlin. I turn the idea over in my mind. This is not what I was supposed to do. The D.M. sent me to Prague because I knew Marek. My job was to get to Marcelitis through him and leave. Now Marek is out of the picture. I should just take the information about Marcelitis back to the Foreign Office and let someone else pick up the mission from here. I should return to my safe secretarial job in London, to my daughter. Then I look at Emma, watching me expectantly. She would understand if I just went home. She is a mother, too. But even as I think this, I remember Hans, lying dead on the museum steps, Renata murdered in her car. I cannot quit now. I have no idea how I will get to Berlin, what I will do once I arrive. But I have to try. “I must find Marcelitis,” I reply at last.

“But to go to Berlin, alone? That’s so dangerous.”

“It’s no more dangerous than what you and I have had to do in the past.” Emma does not respond, but cringes as memories of the Kommandant come crashing down upon her. “I can handle it.” I say this as though trying to convince myself, too.

“I would go with you, if I could,” Emma offers.

“I know you would, but you have your boys to think about, and Marek, too. I wish, though, that you would reconsider my offer to come to England to live. It would be safer for all of you there.”

“Thank you,” Emma replies. “Maybe someday. But I can’t leave Marek.”

I start to reply. Then I see the tired sadness in Emma’s eyes. This is her life now. “I understand.”

Emma’s eyes widen. “You do?”

I pause. Time is of the essence. It is not the moment to be sharing confidences. But I do not know if I will ever see Emma again. “Yes. Before I met Simon, there was someone else.” A strange look crosses Emma’s face. “After the war,” I add quickly, so that she will know I do not mean Jacob. I have always wondered if Emma worried about him and me, if she thought there was something between us. “An American soldier named Paul. He saved my life, rescued me out of the Nazi prison, and we fell in love.”

“Marta, that’s wonderful. What happened?”

“We were supposed to meet up in London and be married. But the airplane he was on crashed before he could get there.”

“Oh, no!” I can tell from the pain in her eyes that she is reliving her own loss through mine.

“With Paul, I finally understood real love. What you had with Jacob. It was worth having that, even for only a short time.”

“And your husband?”

“I actually met Simon before Paul died, on the boat coming to England. But it wasn’t until afterward when I started working for him that we became involved.”

“Do you love him?”