The Diplomat's Wife(89)
“Just give it to me.” Jan reaches over impatiently and grabs the gun from Paul’s waistband, then strides back into the cell. “On your knees,” she orders.
“Please…” Schobel begs.
“Wait, I don’t think…” Paul begins, but Jan holds up her hand, silencing him. I open my mouth to try to help, then close it again. I was in prison once. I understand Jan’s fury.
“On your knees,” Jan repeats, walking behind Schobel. Slowly, Schobel kneels and closes his eyes. I look away, bracing myself for the gunshot. Instead, there is a dull thud, followed by a muffled sound. I turn back toward the cell. Schobel lies slumped on the floor, eyes closed. She really killed him, I think. Then, taking a step closer, I can see that he breathes easily, as though sleeping.
“I clocked him pretty hard,” Jan says, walking out of the cell and locking the door. She shoves the keys into her pocket. “He won’t wake up until the next shift arrives.” She hands the gun back to Paul. “Now, let’s get out of here.”
Wordlessly, Paul and I follow Jan up the stairs and through the police station. Upstairs, Hart lies motionless on the floor, arms splayed above his head, his lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. He is the second person to die today because of my mission. And he was not out to get us like the bald man; he was just caught in the wrong place.
“We need to hide the body,” Jan says. I look over at Paul. He is staring at Hart and I can tell from the way that his mouth twists that he shares my guilt, that this killing did not come easily to him. “In the basement cell,” Jan suggests.
I shudder inwardly, imagining Schobel trapped with the body of his dead colleague all night. “Do we have the time to do that?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Jan concedes, then turns to Paul. “Help me move him behind the desk.” I look away as they drag Hart’s body from view.
Outside, the street is deserted. “Follow me,” Jan says. “And quietly, we’re breaking curfew.” She leads us swiftly through the backstreets, not making a sound. Her auburn ponytail bobs like a beacon in the darkness. Paul follows behind me, so closely I wonder if Jan will think we are a couple. I fight the urge to reach for his hand.
A few minutes later Jan stops in front of a large restaurant. A brightly lit sign above the front door bears the name Meierhof. Paul and I exchange puzzled looks. Surely we aren’t going in here. But Jan leads us around the side of the building and opens a cellar door, gesturing with a nod of her head that we should go inside. We climb down the ladder into a dark cellar. Jan follows, closing the door above her.
“Here we are,” she says, lighting a match and taking it to a small stub of a candle that sits on a table. Thousands of bottles, stacked on top of one another, line the brick walls on all sides, climbing to the high ceiling.
“A wine cellar?” Paul asks disbelievingly, looking up.
“Not just any wine cellar,” Jan replies. “This is the Meierhof wine cellar. Meierhof has been one of Berlin’s finest restaurants for more than a century. It has one of the most extensive wine cellars in the world.”
Paul whistles. “I’ll say!”
“And the cellar’s construction is incredibly stable. Not a single bottle of wine was broken during all of the bombing raids of the war. The Meierhof family let people take shelter here during the raids.”
German people, I think. They were the enemy then. “They were just ordinary people,” Jan adds, seeming to read my thoughts. “Trying to survive the war. The Meierhofs were only saving civilian lives. They would have done the same for either side. And now they are staunch anticommunists, which is why they allow us to use the cellar in emergencies.”
“Won’t the waiters be coming down here for wine?” I ask.
Jan shakes her head. “There is a smaller wine closet up by the kitchen with more than enough for the evening. These are just the reserves.” She points to a small door on the back wall. “And if a customer has an unusual wine request, Herr Meierhof himself will send a note down in the dumbwaiter and we’ll send the bottle up. We won’t be disturbed.” She gestures to the table. “So why don’t we sit down and you can tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”
I hesitate, looking at Paul. I have imagined meeting Marcelitis for days and now that we are actually here, I am not sure what to say. “I’m Michael Stevens,” he begins, using his alias. “I’m an American intelligence agent. Marta here works for the British government.” I notice that he does not say my last name.
Jan shakes Paul’s hand, then mine. “It’s good to meet you. My name is Jan Marcelitis.”
“We know,” I reply. “You’re the reason we’re here.”
“We were a little surprised, though,” Paul adds. “We thought that Jan Marcelitis…”
“Was a man?” Jan finishes for him, then smiles. “It’s a common mistake. The confusion started long ago. You see, Jan is principally a masculine name in many countries, so people who haven’t met me often assume that I am a man. I never corrected the assumption because it helps me to keep a low profile in my work. Now why are you here? Who sent you?” Jan’s expression turns businesslike once more.
“Sent Marta, actually,” Paul replies. “I’m just along for the ride.”