"Cats, dogs, it doesn't matter. Growing up on the farm we had every animal you could imagine. But during the war..." He shudders. "You wouldn't believe what I saw. All kinds of animals left on their own to starve or be killed."

"I know," I say, remembering the packs of scrawny dogs that roamed the outskirts of Krakow during the war, searching through piles of garbage. There were stories of people killing them for food. Outside, in the pa.s.sageway, I stop. "So what are we going to do?" The darkened street is nearly deserted and the few remaining pa.s.sersby walk quickly with their coats drawn, heads down. I look sideways through the front window of the bookstore. A thin, balding man stands behind the counter, hunched over a ledger. His eyes flick upward, peering out behind wire gla.s.ses. Then, meeting my gaze, he looks downward once more. I gesture toward the bookstore with my head. "Maybe he saw something."

Paul shakes his head. "Even a.s.suming he's not too scared to talk to us, what's he going to say? That he saw the police take a man away? And asking will only draw attention to us."

"I think we've already drawn attention," I reply, remembering the ransacked apartment. "It's worth a try."

"I'll go check," Paul relents. "Wait here." He looks both ways out of the pa.s.sageway, then walks into the bookstore. A look of alarm crosses the bookseller's face as Paul enters the store. Then, as Paul speaks to him, the man seems to relax slightly, saying something and pointing out the window to the right. A minute later, Paul walks out of the store. "Let's get out of here." He leads me around the corner. As we walk, our steps fall into a natural, easy rhythm, Paul's shortening to match my own. It is as if nothing has changed, as if we had walked the streets of Paris together yesterday, and the years between simply did not exist.

I follow Paul down another block to a cafe. As we enter, I look up at him, puzzled. "We need to blend in," he explains. Inside the atmosphere is surprisingly festive, a respite from the dreary street outside. Tiny Christmas lights and sprigs of fir tree adorn the bar and windows, decorating the otherwise plain room. People crowd the bar, drinking and talking merrily. In the distance, piano music plays. What had this cafe been like during the war? Had it been frequented by the n.a.z.is, like the one we blew up in Krakow? Perhaps it had been a meeting place for the resistance. Or maybe just a cafe, like it is now, where ordinary Berliners came to escape their troubles for a while.

Paul ushers me through the crowd to a table in the back of the cafe. "Wait here," he says, disappearing into the crowd once more. I sit down numbly. A minute later, Paul returns with two cups of coffee, handing me one. "So what did the bookseller say?" I ask, cupping my hands around the warmth as he sits down.

"Pretty much what we expected. Marcelitis was arrested less than an hour before we arrived." He pulls the flask from his pocket, pouring some of the liquor into his coffee.

This time I cannot help myself. "You're drinking again," I observe, struggling to keep my voice even.

"Yes." He does not offer an explanation but picks up the coffee and takes a large gulp, defiant.

I hesitate, wanting to say more. The accident, everything that happened, seems to have changed him so. But it isn't my place. I am not sure I even know him anymore. I take a sip of my own coffee, hot and bitter. "Do you really think his arrest has something to do with us?" I ask instead.

"Seems a little coincidental, don't you think? I mean Marcelitis managed to elude the Soviets for years. Sergiev must have told someone that you were headed to Berlin before he came after you."

"But that doesn't explain how they found out Marcelitis's location and made it to him before we did," I reply.

"True. You got Marcelitis's address from your friend Emma, right?"

I nod. "But she would never have given up that information." As I say this, an uneasy feeling rises up in me. Emma would have broken and talked to save her children. Had the police come after her again?

"Who else?"

"I told Simon over the phone." At the sound of my husband's name, Paul looks as though he has been slapped. "But I called from the train station, so I doubt anyone was listening in on the call," I continue quickly. "And I had Emma send word through the emba.s.sy. I don't know if she gave them the address, though." My head throbs. "Anyway, it doesn't matter now. Marcelitis is gone." Defeat washes over me. "Dammit. If we hadn't stopped to eat or-"

"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 h.e.l.l 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 c.o.c.ks his head. "I can go into the police station, claim I lost my pa.s.sport. 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 emba.s.sy. 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 bas.e.m.e.nt."

"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."

He nods. "Be careful."

I cross the street hurriedly. At the door of the police station, I pause and turn back. Paul has disappeared from the alleyway. I take a deep breath, then open the door. Inside, there are two desks, set about a meter apart. A heavyset policeman sits behind the desk to my right, reading a newspaper. "Ja?" he says, not looking up.

"G-guten abend," I stammer.

At the sound of my voice, he lifts his head. Taking me in from bottom to top, his expression changes. "Guten abend, fraulein. How can I help?"

I summon my most distressed expression. "I was on my way to visit my aunt when I realized my pa.s.sport was gone."

"Lost or stolen?"

I hesitate. "Stolen, I think. My money is gone, too."

"You'll need to fill out a report," the officer says. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a form.

I approach the desk slowly, stalling for time. "I'm Lola," I say softly as I sit down. "What's your name?"

He gestures to the name on the breast pocket of his uniform. "Sergeant Schobel."

"No, I mean your first name," I press.

Schobel hesitates, and for a moment I wonder if I have gone too far. "Joseph," he replies.

"Joseph, it's nice to meet you. Do you have a pen I can use?" As he hands me the pen, I brush my fingers against his, lingering for just a second. He pulls his hand back and quickly begins shuffling the papers on the desk.

I look down at the form, feeling queasy from the effort of flirting with Schobel. Is this what it felt like for Emma, I wonder, having to be close to the Kommandant? Concentrate, I tell myself. Out of the corner of my eye, I look up. Schobel has picked up his newspaper and begun to read once more, but I can see him taking small furtive peeks at the top of my blouse. On the rear wall, I notice the outline of a wall hanging that has been removed. A swastika, I realize, suddenly nauseous.

Forcing myself to breathe, I turn back to the form. A minute later I look up again. Behind the desks, there is a doorway leading to a corridor. That must be the way to the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs. But I do not see any sign of Paul. I look down at the form again, pretending to write. Suddenly, there are footsteps in the corridor and another officer, older than the first and also heavyset, appears in the doorway. "What's going on, Schobel?" he asks.

I freeze, pen suspended midair. I was not prepared for a second policeman. "Young lady was on her way to visit her aunt and had her pa.s.sport stolen," Schobel replies.

"You're having her fill out a report?" asks the older man, whose name tag reads Hart. Schobel nods. "Good. I'm going to check on things downstairs." He turns and begins walking toward the staircase.

Oh G.o.d. If Hart goes downstairs now, he will surely catch Paul. I jump to my feet. "Excuse me..." I call after him.

He turns back, clearly annoyed. "Yes?"

I take a step toward him, pretending to read his name tag. "Officer...Hart, is it?" He nods impatiently. "Well, I wanted to ask you and Officer Schobel what I should do now that I have lost my pa.s.sport and money." I speak as slowly as I can, stalling for time.

"Officer Schobel will be able to provide any a.s.sistance you need. Now, if you'll excuse-"

"But I wanted to ask both of you. I mean..." I stop as something moves behind Hart in the corridor. I recognize the flash of Paul's brown coat before it disappears again. I have to keep Hart talking. "I mean, that is..." I falter. Noticing my distraction, Hart spins around. But the hallway is empty.

"Fraulein, I really must ask you to sit down and let Officer Schobel a.s.sist you."

If I sit down, Hart will go downstairs and discover Paul. "But surely with your experience..." I press, stalling for time.

Hart draws his eyebrows so closely together they look like a single knot of hair. "What street does your aunt live on?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your aunt, the one you came to visit in Berlin. What is her street address?"

I hesitate, trying desperately to come up with an answer. "Number seven, Ringlerstra.s.se," I reply, coming up with the name of the only street I remember pa.s.sing on our way over to the police station, then adding a house number.

Watching Hart's eyes go wide with recognition, I know that I have made some kind of a mistake. "That's quite impossible, fraulein. The houses on Ringlerstra.s.se have been completely uninhabitable since the last bombing raids during the war." He grabs me roughly by the wrist. "Now, what are you doing here?"

Panic shoots through me. "I-I don't understand," I stammer. "I already told you I lost my pa.s.sport and..."

"A likely story," Hart says, cutting me off. "Why are you really here?"

Schobel stands up. "Perhaps she is here because of the visitor."

"We're not supposed to talk about that," Hart replies quickly.

"I-I don't know anything about a visitor," I offer.

"Maybe you did and maybe you didn't, but you do now. We can't let you go." He turns to Schobel. "Arrest her."

"You're arresting me? But I've done nothing wrong!"

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, embarra.s.sed. 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. "h.e.l.lo?" 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?"