The Diplomat's Wife(73)

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.