The Diplomat's Wife(107)

“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.