The Diplomat's Wife(86)

“Marta, don’t. If we had shown up earlier we would be in jail with Marcelitis. You can’t second-guess these things.”

I look away. “I know. It’s just that I really thought if I came to Berlin…” My eyes begin to burn. “Who the hell did I think I was?” I blink several times, but it is too late. Tears spill onto my cheeks.

“Hey.” Paul leans over and takes my chin in his hand, wiping my cheeks gently. Our eyes lock. He is, I see then, exactly the same man I have always known.

I straighten. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be emotional.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry, too.” He pulls his hand back, then hesitates. “There is one thing. I probably shouldn’t even tell you this…”

“What is it?”

“The man in the bookstore said that Marcelitis was taken away in a city police car, not state.” I tilt my head, not understanding. “That means they’re probably keeping him in the local jail overnight before handing him over to Soviet intelligence in the morning.”

“But he’s still in prison, so what good does that do…?” I trail off, staring at him. “Are you saying we can get to Marcelitis in jail?”

Paul hesitates. “I don’t even know why I’m saying this to you, Marta. A few hours ago I was telling you to go home and give up. And I still think that you should.” He taps his jacket pocket. “But seeing the papers on Marcelitis’s operations, well, I understand now why it is so important.”

“So you’re saying we can try to help him?”

Paul shakes his head. “Not we. Me. I can try, but I won’t have you a part of this. It’s too dangerous.”

“You’re not going without me. This is my mission.”

“Marta, be reasonable. You would be risking your life, even more than you already have. Think of your daughter.” I bite my lip, resisting the urge once more to tell Paul that Rachel is his. “Anyway,” Paul adds, smiling, “rescuing people from prison is what I do best, remember?”

I am not amused. “What’s your plan?”

Paul looks upward, thinking. “I’m sure there’s a back way into the police station. The local stations tend to be small, so hopefully there’s only one or two policemen on duty. If I can get in and overpower the guard without anyone else hearing, we have a chance.”

A chance. “You need a decoy,” I reply. Paul cocks his head. “I can go into the police station, claim I lost my passport. Flirt.” A wrinkle of displeasure forms on his brow. “That way any other policemen will be distracted while you are in the holding area.” Paul opens his mouth, but before he can speak, I continue. “Come on. I’m right and you know it. You need my help.”

“I don’t know…” Paul begins. “I mean, what if something goes wrong?”

“Then I’m just another woman in a police station. I can walk right back out the front door. But it could make a huge difference in your being able to get to Marcelitis.”

I watch Paul’s face as he searches for another argument. “Okay,” he concedes. “But at the first hint of any trouble, I want you to get out of there and go to…” He stops, unable to finish the sentence. I know that he wants to be able to tell me to go to the embassy. Suddenly I am reminded of playing tag with the other children in my village as a child. There was always home base, a safe place that one could run to and not be caught. But we are behind Soviet lines, completely alone. There is no home base here. “Well, just get out of there, okay?”

“Agreed. When are we going to do this?”

I follow his gaze to the clock over the bar. It is almost nine o’clock. “Soon, I think. The night shift should come on around ten and hopefully they’ll be on a skeleton crew after that.”

An hour later we stand in a doorway around the corner from the police station. It is a drab, one-story concrete structure, no larger than a corner grocery store. “There’s the shift change,” Paul whispers as three policemen exit the station. Their voices fade as they walk away from us down the street. “You’ll go in the front door,” Paul instructs, pointing. “There should be just one guard at the desk. Talk slowly. I’ll go around to the back and find the holding cell. It’s probably in the basement.”

“What if the back door is locked?”

“I’ll get in,” Paul says, his face resolute. “There’s always a way.”

I wonder then about the work he has been doing since surviving the crash, the things he must have seen. “How long do you need me to stall?”

“Fifteen minutes at least. Twenty would be ideal. Any longer and Marcelitis is either not there or dead.”

A shiver runs up my spine. I hadn’t considered the possibility that we might be too late. “You don’t think…”

He shakes his head. “That they would kill him here? Highly unlikely.” I start to walk out of the doorway but Paul grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me back. “Marta, wait.” I turn back. His eyes search mine and for a second I wonder if he might try to kiss me again. “I want to say, I mean, in case something happens…” He falters.

I look up, fighting the urge to touch his cheek. “Let’s just get this done.”