The Diplomat's Wife(88)

Schobel scrambles over to where we stand. “I told you we needed more staff while Marcelit—”

“Again, we aren’t talking about that!” Hart explodes.

“Well, I just thought now that she knows, anyway,” Schobel mumbles defensively, as he starts to put the cuff around my wrist.

“Wait a second…” I begin, stalling for time. Paul said to get out of here at the first sign of trouble. For a minute, I consider trying to run. But there is no way I can break away from both of them.

Suddenly, there is a noise in the corridor. “What the…?” Hart says, spinning around.

Paul stands behind him, gun drawn. “Let her go,” he says. Hart’s jaw drops and he hesitates, uncertain what to do. Should I try to break away? Then he reaches for his weapon, swinging it wildly toward Paul. “Don’t!” There is a loud bang and Hart’s grip on my wrist loosens as he drops to the floor, eyes wide.

Paul turns his gun toward Schobel. “Let her go,” he repeats. I can feel the younger policeman trembling, uncertain what to do. “We don’t want to hurt you,” Paul adds, stepping forward. Schobel hesitates for a second, then releases me. “Hands behind your back,” Paul orders, then turns to me. “It took me longer to get in the back door than I expected. Are you all right?” I nod, feeling his eyes on me, making sure. “Cuff him.”

I follow his instructions. “What are we going to do with him?”

“Put him in the cell.”

“Have you been down there yet?”

Paul shakes his head. “I had to come get you first.”

“Thanks,” I reply, embarrassed. I was supposed to help him by distracting the police and instead I delayed him.

“It’s fine,” Paul says, seeming to read my thoughts. “Let’s just go get Marcelitis.”

“So that is why you are here,” Schobel exclaims.

“Quiet,” Paul orders. He takes the policeman by the arm and leads him down the hallway to a staircase. “After you.” Defeated, Schobel starts down the steps, Paul close behind him. “Wait here,” he says to me.

I nod, watching as they disappear into the darkness. The air below has a damp, fetid smell that reminds me uncomfortably of my own time in prison. “Hello?” I hear Paul’s voice. “Is there a light up there?” he calls to me. I feel along the wall until my hand touches a switch. I flick it on, illuminating the cellar below in gray light. Unable to wait any longer, I race down the stairs. The cellar is brick, the back half of the room separated by iron bars. Behind the bars in the far corner, a small figure crouches in a ball on the concrete floor.

“Jan Marcelitis?” Paul asks. The figure does not move. My heart sinks. We are too late. Marcelitis is dead.

Paul pulls on the door to the cell, which is locked. He turns back to Schobel. “Keys?”

Schobel tilts his head downward. “My back pocket.”

I cross to Schobel and pull the keys from his pocket, then toss them to Paul. He opens the door. He crosses the cell, rolls the crouched figure over. “Oh, my God…”

“Not quite,” a muffled voice says in English. As the person I have been looking for across two countries sits up and turns to face us, I cannot help but gasp aloud.

Jan Marcelitis is a woman.





CHAPTER 22




“Jan Marcelitis?” Paul repeats.

The woman nods. “I’m Jan,” she says in accented English. I cannot help but stare. The great Jan Marcelitis is no bigger than me, with a low auburn ponytail and bright green eyes. She looks from Paul to me, then back again. “Who are you?”

“There’s no time to explain now, but I’m American and she’s with the British government and we’re here to get you out. Are you hurt?”

Jan stands up and brushes herself off. “No.” She steps out of the cell, shooting Schobel a withering look. “They hadn’t reached that part yet. I think they were waiting until they took me to headquarters.”

“Good.” Paul turns to Schobel and points to the cell. “You, inside.” Schobel scrambles into the cell.

“You’re leaving him alive?” Jan asks, her voice filled with disbelief.

Paul hesitates. I was wondering the same thing. Schobel saw our faces, would be able to identify us. But I know Paul does not have it in him to kill an unarmed man, not if there is another way. “I don’t know…” he says at last.

Jan turns to Schobel, who has turned pale. “How long until the next shift comes on?”

“N-not until six,” he stammers.

Jan looks at the clock on the wall. A cruel joke to have a clock in jail, I think, following her gaze, remembering my own endless days in prison. “That’s almost eight hours from now, assuming he’s telling the truth.” She walks back into the cell and grabs Schobel, who towers over her by at least a head, hard by the lapels. “You’d better not be lying,” she warns.

“I—I’m not,” Schobel replies. “We came on at ten and each shift is eight hours.”

Jan stares Schobel in the eyes for a second longer. Then she releases him so roughly that he stumbles backward, almost falling. She walks over to Paul. “Give me your gun.”

Paul hesitates. “I don’t think we should—”