"I'm proud of you, Marta," Delia remarked once. "For having moved on so bravely with your life after, well, the American boy..."

"Mmm," I had replied vaguely. Of course, I had not really moved on. Simon's company was pleasant enough. He talked pa.s.sionately about international politics, told fabulous stories of his travels in Eastern Europe as a student that reminded me of my childhood home. Our dates were a welcome distraction, an escape from the long evenings at Delia's, haunted by my memories of Paul. And I was grateful to Simon, of course, for my job. But sometimes as he squired me to dinners and parties, I felt guilty. Was I misleading him? Simon knew about my engagement to Paul and my recent loss, though, and still seemed eager to court me. I had not thought of it as more, though, and so I was quite stunned when, just four weeks after he first asked me out, Simon proposed marriage.

It was on a day trip to Brighton as we strolled along the promenade by the sea that Simon turned to me and pulled a small velvet box from his pocket. "I know we've only been seeing each other for a short time. But I'm very fond of you, Marta, and I think we can have a fine life together."

I did not answer right away but gazed out across the Channel. Considering his tepid proposal, I could not help but think of Paul, dropping to one knee on the rain-soaked Paris street, eyes burning, as he asked me to marry him. I had not considered marrying anyone else. Simon was not Paul. I could never love him in that way. But Paul was gone. I looked back at Simon, who had taken the ring from the box and was holding it out toward me. He was not unattractive, and I knew from the other secretaries that, as one of the only single men in the department, he was considered quite a good prospect, if something of an enigma. He liked me, and he would not be unkind. "Fine," I said, realizing too late that mine was not the most gracious of responses. "I mean, I would love to marry you."

We were married in a small ceremony in Delia's parlor the following week by a rabbi Simon knew. Neither of us seemed to want a long engagement, or a big wedding. Simon was an only child and his parents had both died, his mother at a young age of cancer and his father of a heart attack shortly after Simon had left for college. I, of course, had no family. So the wedding consisted of Delia and Charles on my side, a few colleagues on his. Simon was unable to get away from work for a honeymoon just then, but he promised me a trip somewhere grand over the winter holiday.

But the honeymoon never took place. A few weeks after we were married, the nausea I felt in the park that day worsened, often making it difficult for me to get to work in the mornings. The doctor Simon insisted I see confirmed my unspoken suspicion: I was pregnant. Seven months later, I gave birth to a baby girl, Rachel.

Voices at the conference room table pull me from my thoughts. The D.M. has indicated that we will conclude for the day, and now the men at the table are standing, shuffling papers as they speak to one another. Inwardly, I groan. I had hoped that the meeting would have finished in one sitting, even if it meant working a bit late. But now the meeting will resume tomorrow morning. I do not relish the prospect of staying awake through a second day of the D.M.'s droning.

As I stand, I try to catch Simon's eyes again. Perhaps I can find an excuse to skip the morning session tomorrow, plead an excess of correspondence to type. But he is engaged in conversation with one of the men across the table and does not meet my gaze. I will ask him tonight, if he does not get home too late. I take my notebook and walk from the conference room toward the elevator, press the down b.u.t.ton. Simon and a few of the men enter the corridor behind me, still debating a point about Hungary. The elevator door opens and I step inside, but the men do not follow. As the doors close, I look in Simon's direction one more time. He does not notice, but remains engrossed in conversation.

What happened to that man who courted me so attentively? I muse as the elevator descends to the third floor. At the end of the hall, I push open the door of the office, entering the small reception area where my desk sits. To the left, another closed door leads to Simon's office. He seemed so pleased the day I accepted his proposal. But things changed quickly after we married. I set down my notepad and pick up my bag from behind the desk. Putting on my coat, I make my way to the elevator once more.

I cross the lobby and step out onto the street, joining the stream of government workers headed to the buses at Trafalgar Square. It is nearly dark and the damp air has a biting chill, more winter than autumn now. A few minutes later, I board the bus, still thinking about Simon. It is not that he is unkind. He is unfailingly pleasant, and on the rare occasions when I ask him to do something around the house or go somewhere with Rachel and me, he readily obliges. But the rest of the time, he lives in his own world, spending long hours at the office, holing up in his study at night.

Sometimes, I reflect, as the bus makes its way slowly through the traffic-clogged city streets, I almost wish for the occasional temper or spat, some reaction to my presence. But that would take more energy than he cares to give. Outwardly he appears an attentive husband, holding my arm and listening. Once at a department social function, I overheard him refer to me as his "dear wife" with a tilt of his head that suggested affection. But the moment we walk through the front door of the house, all signs of interest disappear. It is as if he likes the idea of having a wife, as if I was simply something to be acquired, like a fine car or painting.

Fifty minutes later, I step off the bus at Hampstead High Street, drawing the neck of my coat closed against the wind. Making my way past the closing shops, I turn onto a residential street lined with tall row houses. Ours is second from the end on the right. From a distance it looks like the others, wide windows, a tidy front lawn. Only as one draws closer are the differences apparent: the way the left porch column seems to slump in defeat, the cracks that run up the steps. Simon, who inherited the house from his parents and lived here on his own for more than fifteen years, does not seem to notice the decay. In the early months of our marriage, I tried to improve upon the appearance of the house, tending to the garden and planting flowers, painting the peeling front door a fresh white. But as I grew larger with my pregnancy, I was not able to do as much, and after Rachel was born, I was too busy to care.

Perhaps I would have done more if Simon had seemed to notice. I walk up the porch steps and pick up a toy ball that lies near the front door, carry it inside. A savory aroma fills the air. "h.e.l.lo?"

Delia walks into the foyer, wiping her hands on an ap.r.o.n. "h.e.l.lo," she whispers, kissing me on the cheek, then gesturing upward to indicate that Rachel is sleeping. "I only just put her down."

"Are you cooking?"

She laughs quietly. "Me? No, Charles sent over shepherd's pie. I was just heating that up for you."

"Thank you," I reply, meaning it. When I announced I was going back to work at the Foreign Office a few months after the baby was born, Delia immediately offered to watch her. I worried that caring for Rachel might be too much, but Delia persisted and we agreed to try the arrangement. It works beautifully-Delia loves being with Rachel and can hardly bring herself to leave at the end of each day. And the baby adores Delia, as well. Sometimes watching the two of them together, I am overwhelmed by sadness that Rachel would never know my parents, who died so many miles away. "You don't have to warm all of the food, though," I add, taking off my coat. "I expect Simon to be late this evening."

Delia's lips purse and a furrow creases her brow. Though too polite to say anything, she is well aware of Simon's late hours working, how little time he spends at home. "I'll leave him a plate in the icebox, then. Shall I stay with you while you eat?"

I shake my head. "That's not necessary." I enjoy Delia's company, but I know that she is eager to get home to Charles.

When she has gone, I walk into the kitchen. It is s.p.a.cious, constructed with marble countertops and oak cabinets that had been the finest on offer in their day. But the appliances are old now, the faucets and handles worn. I fix myself a plate, then carry it to the parlor. The house, I think, not for the first time, had once been grand: a large parlor and dining room for entertaining, high ceilings, elegant, detailed molding. But the furniture is faded and worn, the wood floors creak with age.

As I sit down on the sofa, a framed photograph on the mantel over the fireplace catches my eye. It is a picture of Rachel, playing by the pond on the heath last spring. Rachel, I think, my insides warming. Rachel Hannah Gold. Before the baby was born, I hesitated. I wanted to name her after Rose. But the Jewish tradition was to name after someone who had a long, healthy life, and Rose had not. So we named her Rachel and honored the memory of my mother, Hada.s.sah, with Rachel's middle name.

It was Simon who had suggested using the same first letter in English and making her Hebrew name, Rivka, the same as Rose's. Simon is Jewish, too, at least in name. Twice yearly, we dress up and make our way to the synagogue, nodding at the faces we recognize only from the previous year. The grand, formal synagogue could not be more different from our own tiny shul back in the village. I miss the weekly ritual of going to synagogue, the warmth of being surrounded by people whom I had known my whole life. But for Simon, the obligatory semiannual pilgrimage is enough. Once I tried to bring some warmth into the house by preparing Shabbat dinner. Simon watched with an unfamiliar eye as I lit the candles, cut the challah that I had baked from scratch. He politely ate dinner, then excused himself to his study.

I swallow a mouthful of potatoes, still looking at Rachel's photograph. I had hoped that, once Rachel was born, Simon might become more present at home. He makes small outward gestures, placing her picture on his desk and dutifully joining us on a family outing each Sunday to the park or the zoo. But beyond that he is as indifferent to her as he is to me. When he does hold her, it is gingerly and at arm's length, as if childhood is contagious, a disease not to be caught.

Indeed, he did not even seem to notice how quickly Rachel arrived after our marriage. "Premature!" Delia exclaimed when she came to visit us at the hospital, sounding as though she meant it. I studied Simon's face as he held up the tiny baby for Delia to see. Did he suspect anything? But Simon seemed to accept Rachel's early arrival without question. The respectability that family brought was good for his career.

I finish eating, bring my plate to the kitchen sink. As I wash, I look at the clock. It is not yet eight, which means Simon won't be home for at least an hour. Loneliness rises in me. My days are busy, but it is always this quiet evening hour that is the hardest. I put the kettle on for tea. What did I expect? I ask myself a few minutes later as I carry a cup and saucer back into the parlor, walking slowly so as not to spill. I should be grateful to have a nice home, a husband who comes home each night. I had imagined marriage as something more, though. Intimate looks across a crowded room, shared jokes whispered in the darkness at night. Would marriage to Paul have been any different? I push the thought quickly away. It is not fair, I know, to compare everyday life with Simon to a fantasy frozen in time. And there is no point in thinking about what I cannot have, in making my marriage seem even more pallid by comparison. But it is too late. A dull ache rises in my stomach as I imagine driving across America in a convertible beside Paul, seeing the world and laughing. Marriage to Paul would not have been like this.

Sitting down on the sofa once more, I force my thoughts back to Simon. I know that I should not take his behavior personally. Simon is distant from everyone. He has no family, other than some cousins he's mentioned scattered throughout the north. And he speaks little of his parents. Their wedding photograph, a grainy sepia image that sits on the mantelpiece, is the only reminder of them. There is a trunk, Simon once said, of their belongings in the attic. When I pressed him, he promised to show it to me one day. I want to go through the trunk, to see if there are any family mementos I can pa.s.s on to Rachel, since I have none of my own to give her.

I also quickly discovered once we were married that Simon has no friends. The whirlwind of dates and social occasions I experienced during our courtship quickly disappeared after the wedding. Except for the occasional obligatory departmental function, we seldom go out. In the beginning, I considered trying to make friends of my own. But how? Our neighbors, used to Simon's long-standing reclusiveness, keep their distance. The other secretaries, unmarried women without husbands or children, eye me warily, resentful, I suspect, of my audacity in daring to have a husband and a job. And Delia lives on the other side of London, too far away for short visits. So I spend my evenings rattling around the creaky old house, until I am unable to read or listen to the radio any longer.

Is it really so much better when Simon is here? The weekend nights, when we have dinner together, are not unpleasant. Simon will update me on some of the meetings I have not attended at work and I will share stories about Rachel. Last weekend, when I told him how she played in the bath, we actually laughed. But those moments are fleeting, pale imitations of what I had thought a marriage to be. And afterward, he retreats quickly to his study. Simon and I are like young children I have seen in the park sitting beside each other in the sandbox but playing alone, not interacting. Two people living separate lives in the same s.p.a.ce.

When the clock above the mantelpiece reads nine, I carry my empty teacup back into the kitchen. Upstairs, I tiptoe past Simon's study, pausing in the door of Rachel's room. I fight the urge to go to her and pick her up, settling instead for listening to her quiet, even breathing for several minutes. I walk to our bedroom, then into the toilet to wash and change. I study my reflection in the mirror over the sink. Have I changed so from the woman Simon wanted to court and marry? My jawline has softened a bit and I see a couple of hairs that have turned prematurely gray, a trait I inherited from my mother. I know, too, that my figure is a bit fuller than it once was, owing to a few pounds that lingered after my pregnancy. Perhaps if I lost those...but even as I think it, I know that it will not make a difference in gaining Simon's attention.

Do I care? I consider the question as I climb into bed and turn out the light. Things have been this way for so long. And it is not as if I have ever felt pa.s.sionately about Simon, not in the way I did with Paul. In the early days of our marriage, his lack of interest came almost as a relief, matching my own ambivalence. But his near-constant disinterest bruises my ego, and inside, I ache for affection.

My thoughts are interrupted by noise from below. The front door opening, I realize. Simon is home. I hear him walk into the kitchen, open the icebox door and close it again. Then there are footsteps on the stairs. I sit up. I do not dare to hope for physical attention; our lovemaking is perfunctory and scheduled, thirty minutes on Sat.u.r.day nights after we've finished dinner and he has had two gin and tonics. But perhaps he will tell me about his day, and then I can ask him about skipping the morning meeting tomorrow. Then I hear him open the study door and close it again behind him. My heart sinks and I lay back down, closing my eyes and willing myself to sleep.

The next morning at eight-twenty-five, I pick up my notepad and make my way back down the hall to the conference room. Most of the secretaries are already seated, the men cl.u.s.tered around the table, talking. The diplomats' conversations, I know, are cordial, professional. But below the surface there is fierce compet.i.tion and politics. Who has the most relevant information? Whose point of view will hold most sway with the D.M.? We should all be focused on a common goal, but the disputes are petty, the games personal.

The D.M. enters the room and the men quickly take their seats. "Let's move on to Bucharest," he begins, as though we had only taken a short break and not adjourned for the evening. Looking down at my blank notepad, I realize I wrote down nothing of the discussion yesterday regarding Hungary. I scan my memory, trying to remember what was said, but it is useless. I should pay attention, I know. Simon will want me to prepare a memorandum.

Instead, I look out the window across the conference room where the morning sun shines brightly through the bare tree branches. Delia will take Rachel to the park today. Having Delia to watch Rachel made it easier for me to return to work, a decision that had been a source of disagreement between me and Simon. At first, he flatly refused. "None of the other diplomats' wives work. And now with the baby, it would be unheard of."

"But my work is important to me. Remember how much you said you needed me, back when we first met?" Simon did not answer, but ultimately he relented, as I knew he would. The truth was, we needed the money. Simon's family had been wealthy, the kind of money, Delia told me once, that had been handed down for generations, rather than earned. But Simon's father lost nearly everything in the stock market crashes, leaving Simon with only the house and a little money for its upkeep or the small fortune to heat it in winter. Simon's government salary had barely been enough to keep the house going when he was a bachelor, I discovered soon after we were married; it would not stretch to support a wife and child. So I continued working at the Foreign Office, though many days like this one, I wished I was home playing with Rachel.

Of course, part of me still wants to work, still believes in what we are trying to do. But that part is getting harder to find anymore. All of my days at the Foreign Office are much like this one, taking notes in endless meetings, then typing up the notes afterward or preparing correspondence that Simon dictates. No one ever seems to actually do anything but talk. Watching the bureaucracy, it is easy to understand how Hitler was able to walk over Europe while the West dithered. Meanwhile, the countries of Eastern Europe keep falling: Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary. Simon keeps a map of Europe over his desk and puts a red pin on each country as it falls. I know he shares my frustration at our inability to stop it.

My thoughts are interrupted by a banging sound. I look up as the door to the conference room swings open. The D.M. stops speaking and all heads in the room snap toward the door. The briefing is cla.s.sified. Everyone who is allowed to be here is already present and interruptions are nonexistent. A young man I recognize as one of the office messengers pauses in the doorway. "My apologies," he mumbles, then walks directly to the head of the table, looking neither right nor left. He hands a piece of paper to the D.M. "Urgent from the minister's office."

The D.M. scans the paper, pressing his lips together tightly. "Send word back I'll be there within the hour." The messenger nods and flees the room as quickly as he came. The D.M. turns back to the men gathered at the table. "I'm afraid I'm going to need to terminate the general meeting. Intelligence princ.i.p.als stay, please." There is a shuffling of chairs as about half the men at the table stand and leave the room, their secretaries in tow. The remaining half, including Simon, move closer to the head of the table. When the door has closed again, the D.M. addresses the remaining group. "Bad news, I'm afraid. One of our foreign nationals has been killed."

A low murmur ripples across the table. "Where, sir?" one of the men asks.

"St. Petersburg. He was supposed to meet his contact but he never showed. He was found dead in his apartment, supposedly of a heart attack. It's the third one in six months."

"Fourth, if you count Tersky," Simon replies. I remember hearing the name before, a contact in Odessa who had survived an attack meant to kill him, but which instead left him in a permanent coma.

"I don't think we can avoid the truth any longer. We have an internal leak. Someone is tipping off the Russians, providing them with names of our contacts and their meetings. We need to find him. Until we do, our intelligence operations are hobbled."

"What about the list, sir?" one of the men asks. Though I hadn't heard it discussed in the meetings before, Simon mentioned a list that had been intercepted by our station in Vienna last month that was believed to contain the names of those working for the Russians.

The D.M. shakes his head. "So far no one has been able to break the code. The cryptographers are working on it, but they say it will take time. Time that we don't have."

"We need to get our hands on the cipher," Simon remarks. Heads around the table bob in agreement.

"I agree, but how? None of our contacts in Moscow are well placed enough to access it, and even if they were we would have to a.s.sume that their ident.i.ties have been compromised."

"What about Jan Marcelitis?" a voice at the end of the table asks. All heads turn in the direction of Roger Smith, the youngest of the intelligence officers. Jan Marcelitis. A ripple runs through the room. I cannot help but shiver. Alek and Jacob used to speak of Marcelitis with near-reverence for his work crossing enemy lines to get information to the Allies, and I heard of him again soon after arriving at the Foreign Office. Yet despite all of the talk, no one seems to have ever met or seen Marcelitis. Conversations about him are always mired in legend and myth, the stories as implausible as they are contradictory: He took on a whole unit of the SS single-handedly during the war. He is really American. He is really a communist. Recently I'd heard that Marcelitis had grown distrustful of the West during the war and now worked independently fostering gra.s.sroots opposition to the communists. Smith continues, "I mean, isn't it true that when Dichenko disappeared from Soviet intelligence a few weeks ago, one of the ciphers went with him, headed west? Surely he was taking it to Marcelitis."

"That's a rumor," one of the other men replies. "Dichenko is in all likelihood at the bottom of the Moscow River and the cipher-if he ever took one-is with him."

The younger man shakes his head. "I heard that someone saw him in Riga not two weeks ago on his way to see Marcelitis."

"Saw Marcelitis where?" a voice farther down the table asks. "We have no idea where to find him."

"He's like a ghost," the D.M. agrees. Around the table, heads nod. The communist authorities in various countries have long sought to arrest him, as had the Gestapo before them. As a result, Marcelitis operates from behind the scenes, not keeping a permanent address or residing in one country for very long. I remember Alek saying once that Marcelitis was able to do what he did so well because he had no ties, no wife or family to keep him in one place.

"I've heard that Marcelitis may be on the ground in Prague," Roger replies. "It would make sense with everything that is going on there." Czechoslovakia, I knew from past meetings, had managed to resist Soviet domination, its government a delicate balance of communists and noncommunists. But the situation there had grown increasingly unstable, the communist interior minister, backed by the police, trying to force out government ministers with pro-Western leanings. There was talk of a possible coup.

"But even if Marcelitis is there, and has the cipher Dichenko stole, that doesn't mean he'll cooperate," Simon adds.

"Perhaps," the D.M. concedes. "But we have to try. Marcelitis is our best, make that our only option, for getting the cipher." He looks down at his charge d'affaires, seated immediately to his left. "Johnson, who are our contacts in Prague, the ones who may be able to access Marcelitis?"

Johnson rustles through his notes. "There aren't many. Karol Hvany, for one..."

A voice comes from farther down the table. "I'm sorry, sir, but Hvany was arrested a few weeks ago."

Johnson continues reading. "Demaniuk, the fellow from the countryside."

"We have reason to believe he's been compromised," Simon replies.

The D.M. takes the paper from Johnson and scans it. "And Stefan Bak died six months ago." He throws down the paper. "d.a.m.n! There has to be someone." A few of the men at the table exchange furtive glances, surprised at the D.M.'s uncharacteristic outburst.

Johnson picks up the paper from the table and scans it once more. "There is one other possibility. Fellow named Marek Andek."

Marek Andek. Suddenly it is as if someone kicked me in the stomach, knocking the wind from me. Marek Andek. I repeat the name in my head, wondering if I heard him correctly.

"What do we know about Andek?" the D.M. asks. My heart seems to stop for a second and then beat again very rapidly. Marek was one of the resistance leaders, second in command under Alek.

"Not much," Johnson replies. "Except that he is a civil servant and loosely affiliated to the opposition leadership. Andek is known to have gone to Berlin to see Marcelitis a few months ago. Problem is, we don't have anyone who knows him."

"I do," I blurt out. All heads snap in my direction.

"Excuse me?" Johnson asks, his voice a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. "Did you say something?"

I take a deep breath. "Y-yes, I said that I know Marek Andek."

CHAPTER 14.

The room is completely silent. I look down, desperately wishing that the floor would open and swallow me whole. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Simon's stunned expression. Secretaries do not ever speak in meetings. To do so in here, where the D.M. is present, is unthinkable.

"You know Andek?" the D.M. repeats incredulously.

I hesitate, wondering if I should recant, say that my outburst was a mistake. But it is too late to stop. "Y-yes," I reply, my voice trembling. A murmur ripples through the room.

"Marta," Simon warns in a low voice, then stands up to face the D.M. "Sir, I am terribly sorry for this interruption. My a.s.sistant seems to have forgotten herself." His a.s.sistant, not his wife. "There is no way she knows this man. I'm sure there's some mistake." I open my mouth to say that there is no mistake. Then, seeing Simon's furious expression, I close it again.

The D.M. looks from Simon to me, then back. "Very well." He turns to the table. "Keep looking for contacts in Prague who..." I sit motionless, unable to hear him over the ringing in my ears. Marek's fat face and squinty eyes appear in my mind. I never liked Marek. He was boorish, with none of Alek's charm or Jacob's wit. I last saw Marek at a cabin outside Krakow that had served as one of our hideaways, the day after the resistance had bombed the Warszawa Cafe. He was going over the border to Slovakia, he said, to try to make contact with other resistance groups. Watching him as he stood in the door of the cabin clutching his rucksack, I was flooded with disbelief. He was the only one capable of leading our group now-how could he possibly be leaving? Alek never would have abandoned us if he had lived. But Marek fled, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves. Within days, the remainder of the resistance had disintegrated.

It is the same Marek Andek, I am certain. He must have survived the border crossing and the war, then somehow linked up with Marcelitis. Had he seen or heard from Emma and Jacob? Digging my nails into my palms, I force myself to concentrate on the meeting once more. The D.M. is making some concluding remarks, ending much sooner than I had antic.i.p.ated. Does the abrupt conclusion have to do with the message from the minister's office? Or with my outburst?

When the meeting ends, I slip quickly from the room, not wanting to face Simon. He is usually so calm and even-tempered, I reflect as I make my way down the corridor. But decorum and appearances, his place in the department, mean everything to him. No wonder he was furious. I stop at the ladies' toilet. As I wash my hands at the sink, I berate myself inwardly. I should not have spoken out like that. I have never told Simon about my work with the resistance. I had to tell him the truth about my coming to England on Rose's visa so that he could straighten out the paperwork when applying for my residency and our marriage license. Beyond that all he knows is that I was liberated from the camps. Why hadn't I said anything? In the beginning, I feared that the truth would be too much, that Simon would not want me working for him for fear that my past would come to light and taint him. And later, when we were married and it seemed that I should have told him already, the not telling became a bigger problem than the secret itself. More recently, it had simply become a part of my distant past that I seldom considered, something that no longer mattered. Until today.

When I return to the office, Simon is standing in front of my desk, arms crossed. "What were you thinking?" he says. Alarmed, I take two steps back, trying to get as far away from him as I can in the tiny, windowless reception area. "Are you trying to ruin my career?"

Fear rises in me. I have never seen him this angry. "Simon, I'm so sorry," I begin. "I didn't mean..."

"You cannot go forgetting your place, embarra.s.sing me, just because you're my wife." His nostrils flare. "Especially because you're my wife. And what makes you think you know this person? I am sure that there is more than one Marek Andek in all of Eastern Europe!"

"But..." I hesitate. I am sure it is the same man, but I cannot tell Simon this without explaining my entire past.

"Why do you think you know Marek Andek?" he demands.

"That is something I would like to know myself," a voice from behind Simon says. We spin around to find the D.M. standing in the doorway.

"Sir," Simon says, surprise replacing anger in his voice. I, too, am taken aback. It is the first time I have ever known the D.M. to come to Simon's office.

The D.M. looks over his shoulder into the hallway, then back into the room. "Perhaps we should go into your office to talk."

He is looking at both of us, I realize. I pick up a notepad and follow the two men into Simon's office. It is about three-by-four meters, more than twice the size of the reception area, with a wide window looking down on a gra.s.sy area. Simon's desk is dark, inst.i.tutional wood, and completely bare except for a picture of Rachel in the upper left-hand corner. Aside from a large map of Europe, only his Cambridge diploma and a few certificates of recognition from various government officials hang on the walls.

"Sir, I apologize again for my a.s.sistant's outburst," Simon begins after I have closed the door behind me. His a.s.sistant again. "I was just telling Marta that just because she knew a man called Andek in Poland, there's no reason to think that this is the same one she knew."

The D.M. turns to me. "What do you think?"

I swallow, unaccustomed to the question. "I think he may be."

"But that's impossible," Simon interjects. "For one thing, Andek is Czech, not Polish."

"Actually, he's not," the D.M. replies. "Our intelligence reflects that he fled Poland during the war."

I nod. "He told me he was going south over the border the last time I saw him."

The D.M. crosses the room, drawing close to me. "Describe him."

"About this tall." I raise my hand above my head. "Brown hair. And he has a scar here." I move my hand in a semicircle under my right eye, recalling the wound he received when a bomb he was building detonated accidentally. "Jewish," I add. "He was a member of the resistance against the n.a.z.is."

"And how do you know that?" Simon demands.

I turn, meeting his eyes. "Because I was a member of the resistance, too."

There is silence for several seconds. "The resistance?" Simon repeats slowly, disbelieving. I nod.

The D.M. pulls out one of the two chairs in front of Simon's desk. "Tell us everything."

I sit down, then take a deep breath. "I was living in the Krakow ghetto with my mother when I was recruited by the resistance," I begin.