The Diplomat's Wife(58)

“Of course.” I held up the envelope. “May I?” He nodded. Inside was a letter addressed to someone named Uncle George, talking about a vacation. “I don’t understand.”

“The list is in code,” Simon explained.

“Will Marcelitis know the code?”

Simon shook his head. “No, he’ll need to go to the embassy and meet with our intelligence officer, George Lindt, who will provide him with the key. That will ensure that he’ll cooperate with us.” I wondered if Marcelitis would trust us enough to do that. “And this is from me.” He pulled from his pocket a small pistol.

I recoiled. “I—I don’t know…” I began.

“Don’t tell me that you don’t know how to use it.” Simon cut me off, and I could tell from his tone he was thinking of my newly discovered past with the resistance, wondering what else he did not know.

But my hesitation was sincere. The last time I held a gun was the night I shot the Kommandant. “I—I can’t take that.”

“I doubt you’ll need it,” Simon replied. “But it would make me feel better.” I took the gun from him. It was, I supposed, Simon’s way of showing concern. “I still wish you’d reconsider,” he added.

“Simon, we’ve been through this. You know why I’m going, why I can’t back out now.” I took a step toward him, wanting to make him understand. But before I could say more, he turned and walked upstairs.

I look up the darkened stairway now, wishing he would come down and say goodbye. I could tell from his shallow breathing as I dressed that he was only pretending to be asleep. He is really upset, I realize. But is he only worried about my safety? Part of me still wonders if he is jealous that I can help in a way that he cannot.

Taking one last look around the house, I pick up my suitcase, then open the front door and step out onto the porch. I shiver, drawing my coat more tightly around me against the crisp, late-autumn air. Bare tree branches scrape against the front of the house, blown by the wind. The paint is peeling around the door frame, I notice. I had meant to take care of that before the weather turned cold.

Behind me, a floorboard creaks. I turn to find Simon silhouetted in the doorway, a bathrobe over his pajamas. “Simon…”

“You forgot these.” He holds out a pair of gray wool gloves. “It’s liable to be much colder there.”

“Of course. Thank you.” I take the gloves, touched by his concern. I had nearly forgotten how much more bitter the Eastern Europe winters could be, how swiftly and soon the snows came. Suddenly the magnitude of where I am going threatens to overwhelm me. “Simon, I…”

“When Delia gets here today, I’ll explain that you were called away unexpectedly for a week or so to care for a sick relative of mine,” he offers. I can hear the anxiety in his voice. My departure, even for a few days, is unsettling to him, a shift in the immovable routine of his daily life. In my absence, there is a child for him to consider, arrangements to be made. “I’m thinking an aunt in Yorkshire would be best.”

I nod. Delia knows I have no family of my own. I hate lying to her, though. Yesterday, when I returned home from the office to find her baking cookies with a jubilantly flour-covered Rachel, I desperately wanted to tell her about my trip. But sharing such classified information was out of the question, even with Delia. “I’m sure she’ll offer to stay and care for Rachel while I’m gone.”

Behind me, I hear the rumble of a car engine, growing louder. I turn to see a black sedan pulling up in front of the house. “Time to go,” Simon says.

I face him once more, needing him to understand. “Simon, I…”

He raises his hand. “Time to go,” he repeats. He bends down and kisses me stiffly on the lips. “See you soon. Be careful.”

“Goodbye.” I turn and walk slowly down the porch steps and through the gate. A man in a dark suit whom I do not recognize stands by the open rear door of the car. “Hello,” I say as I climb into the car. The man does not answer but takes my suitcase and closes the door behind me. I look out the window at the porch, hoping to see Simon. But he has disappeared back inside and the house is dark once more.

The car pulls away from the curb, then turns right from our street onto Hampstead High Street. Suddenly I realize that I have no idea where I am going. I tap on the darkened glass that separates the back of the sedan from the front. The driver opens it. “Ma’am?” he says, not turning around.

I lean forward. “Where are we going?”

“Northholt Air Base.” He closes the glass again before I can ask anything further.

An airport. I am flying to Prague. I sit back once more, digesting this information as the streets of north London disappear outside the car windows. I do not know why I am surprised, except that there had not been time to consider how I was going to get there at all. It makes sense; given the urgency of my mission, a slow ferry and train journey would have been out of the question.

We pass by the industrial warehouses on the outskirts of the city. Then the buildings disappear and the roadside grows empty and dark. I have only been north of London once before. Simon took me on a day trip shortly after we were married to show me Cambridge, where he had been a student. We took the train then, and as we rode through the flat grasslands that seemed to stretch endlessly to the horizon, Simon explained to me that those were the fens of East Anglia. I imagine the countryside that way now, though I cannot see beyond the edge of the roadway.