The Diplomat's Wife(79)

I wrap my arms around his neck as he carries me along the bumpy terrain. His familiar scent overwhelms me. Paul is alive. I wonder again if this is real. My head swims with confusion. How did he survive? And what is he doing here? I stare, dumbfounded, at the back of his neck. His hair is longer now, not military, with dark curls kicking up against the edge of his collar.

A few minutes later, we reach a cave. Inside, it is dark and damp. In the distance, water trickles against rocks. Paul sets me down gently on the dirt floor against the wall. “I need to see your ankle.” He kneels in front of me and takes off my shoe. I shiver at the touch of his fingers against my bare skin. “It doesn’t seem to be broken. Probably just a bad sprain. I’ll tape it for you in a minute.” He takes a canteen from his belt and unscrews the cap. Filling it with water, he offers it to me. “Here.”

I look from his face to the canteen then back again. He looks different somehow. There is a long scar running from his temple to his chin and his nose juts to one side, as though it has been broken. His hair, once jet-black, is flecked with premature gray. And there is a hardness to his face, the boyishness gone. But his blue eyes are unmistakable. Paul is alive! I throw myself forward, sending the capful of water flying as I wrap my arms around him. A sob rips from my throat. “You’re really here,” I say, burying my head in his neck. I start to cry then, great heaving waves of grief and joy.

He wraps his arm around me, cradling the back of my head tightly. “Marta,” he whispers.

I inhale deeply, drinking in his scent. Paul is alive. But where has he been all of this time? I pull away from his embrace, sitting straight up. “Tell me,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Tell me everything.”

If Paul is surprised by my sudden change in demeanor, he gives no indication. “I was on my way to meet you in London when our plane went down.” I nod as the horror of the morning after I’d gone to Kings Cross comes rushing back to me. “It was terrible. One of the engines exploded and we seemed to fall forever. Then everything went black. I awoke in a military hospital in England weeks later. I’d broken twelve bones, had three surgeries for internal injuries. And I was the lucky one. I was the only person who survived, Marta. All of my guys were gone.”

“I know,” I reply. “I’m sorry.” I reach out and put my hand on top of his. Our eyes lock. Suddenly it is as if we are back in the gardener’s shed outside Salzburg, where the rest of the world ceased to exist. But the rest of the world does exist, I remember. Rachel exists. And Simon. I am married now. I have a child. I pull my hand back.

A confused expression crosses Paul’s face. He clears his throat. “Anyway, I spent months recovering in a military hospital north of London.”

He was so close the whole time, I think. If only I had known. “But why didn’t you come…”

He raises his hand to my mouth, silencing me, then brings a finger to his lips. “Shh.” He jerks his head toward the entrance of the cave. In the distance, I can hear a rustling noise, voices. He leaps silently to his feet. Then, grabbing me firmly underneath my arms from behind, he slides me farther into the cave, wedging us both into a tiny hiding space between two rocks. “No matter what happens, don’t make a sound.” I nod. The voices grow louder. It sounds as though they are standing directly above the cave now. A dog barks. Surely the dog will smell us in here. I tremble, pressing my head against Paul’s shoulder. He puts his arm around me, drawing me close.

Outside the cave, the voices fade. I exhale. They are moving away from us. Soon the air is silent once more. I look up at Paul. So he survived the crash after all. All of that pain and grief for nothing. But why hadn’t he come for me? And what on earth is he doing here now?

“They’ve gone,” Paul says at last, his voice still a whisper. He pulls away slowly, looks down at me. “That was a close one. We should probably wait here for a while.” He unfolds himself from the hiding place and gestures to the open area of the cave. “Why don’t you let me tape your ankle?”

I slide over to the spot he indicates and he pulls out a roll of gauze from his rucksack. As he reaches for my ankle, I lean over, catching his hand. “Paul, wait a minute. First I want to know what you are doing here.”

He looks up at me evenly. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I asked first.”

He hesitates. “When I was recuperating from the crash, a representative from the American intelligence agency came to see me. He told me that I was dead. At least as Paul Mattison, that is.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When the plane crashed, I was injured so badly that no one could identify me. And I wasn’t wearing any dog tags.” He half smiles. “Seems I had given them to some girl and hadn’t bothered to get new ones before the flight.” I think guiltily of his dog tags, tucked away in my dresser drawer back home. If only he had been wearing them. Paul continues, “By the time I woke up, everyone had already been told that I was dead. I had no identity, which, according to the man from the agency, made me a perfect intelligence operative. So I agreed to stay on and work covertly for our government in Europe and they created a new identity for me.” He extends his hand. “Michael Stevens. Nice to meet you.”

I do not shake his hand but continue staring at him, trying to process all that he has told me. “But that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”