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 G.o.d..."

"Not quite," a m.u.f.fled 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, a.s.suming 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-"

"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 m.u.f.fled 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 princ.i.p.ally a masculine name in many countries, so people who haven't met me often a.s.sume that I am a man. I never corrected the a.s.sumption 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."

"I work on Eastern European affairs for the British Foreign Office," I say quickly.

Her head snaps in my direction. "Are you an intelligence agent, too?"

"I'm a secretary, actually."

"I don't understand..."

"My government sent me to Prague to try to find you because I know your a.s.sociate, Marek Andek. We used to work together for the resistance in Poland during the war."

"Andek is a good man," Jan says. "Or was. I heard about his arrest."

"Have you learned anything further?"

"Unfortunately, no. But things aren't looking too good for any of our men who were arrested in Prague before the coup. Andek is either dead or on his way to a Soviet prison." My stomach twists as I think of Emma. How will she survive on her own with the children? "What is it your government wants from me?"

I swallow, forcing myself to concentrate. "Our intelligence work has been compromised of late by a major leak somewhere in the British government. Recently, we came into possession of a list that may identify those individuals who are secretly working for the Soviets. But we can't break the code."

"So you've come for the cipher?" she says. I nod. "Even a.s.suming that I have it, what makes you think I will give it to you?"

"We're prepared to pay you half a million dollars. The money is already in a Swiss bank account."

Jan tosses her ponytail. "There are a dozen countries willing to pay twice that for the cipher. It's not about the money."

"The British government, and the Americans, too, want to offer support to you and your organization in fighting the communists," Paul says. "They have promised-"

Jan cuts him off. "Respectfully, we have very little faith in anything the Western governments promise. Their promises didn't keep the Germans out of the Sudetenland, or out of Prague or even Poland," she adds.

"I know," I reply quietly. "I was there, too. I remember what happened. But this is different."

She narrows her eyes. "Really? How?"

"They sent me to give you this." I pull the papers out of my bag and slide them across the table. Jan takes the papers and holds them close to the candlelight. "That letter is actually a list of some of our key contacts in this region, contacts who can-"

"I know what it is." Her eyes widen as she scans the first page. "How do I get the code?"

"You are supposed to contact a man called Lindt at our emba.s.sy in Prague. He'll provide you with the code once I've sent word that you've given us the cipher. Of course, if Prague is too difficult with everything that has happened, I can try to get a contact elsewhere."

"I can manage Prague," Jan replies quickly, folding the letter and tucking it into her blouse.

"Does that mean we have a deal?" Paul asks.

I hold my breath as Jan looks from the papers to Paul, then back again. "Yes, but I have to go get the cipher," she replies slowly. "That's going to take a few hours."

"Do you want us to go with you?" I ask.

Jan shakes her head. "I can move faster on my own, attract less attention." She stands up. "Wait here." Before either of us can respond, she walks to the cellar ladder, then climbs up it and disappears.

Paul and I look at each other nervously. "Do you think we can trust her?" I ask.

"I think we don't have a choice. Anyway, she still needs the information from the emba.s.sy to decode the list and she can't get that until we green-light it."

I nod, remembering the pa.s.sion in Jan's eyes as she talked about fighting the communists. "We can trust her."

Paul nods. "I agree. I think she's amazing." Hearing the admiration in his voice, I cannot help but feel a small stab of jealousy. I wish that I was amazing, too, instead of some girl Paul always has to rescue.

There is a noise at the top of the ladder and a second later Jan reappears. "All set. You can wait here while I go for the cipher. You'll be safe, and I've asked Herr Meierhof to send down some food."

"Okay," Paul replies, but his tone is uneasy. "We need to think about getting out of Berlin, though, before anyone discovers what happened at the police station."

"We all need to be out of the country by daybreak," Jan agrees. "If I can get some new papers for both of you, there's a possibility you can take the early-morning flight to Vienna. Meanwhile, both of you need to stay here, out of sight." She takes the candle and walks to one of the wine racks and pushes it aside easily, revealing a door. I notice for the first time that the bottles on that rack are empty. Jan opens the door and I follow her through into another, smaller brick room. It is bare, except for a narrow mattress on the floor. "I'm sorry the accommodations aren't more hospitable," she says to me in a low voice. "But at least you can stay together."

"But we aren't together," I protest quickly. "I mean, I'm married."

"To someone else?" Jan sounds surprised. "Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that the way the two of you are together, I mean, the way you look at each other...well, never mind, then. My mistake."

Paul comes into the room. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," I reply, feeling my cheeks redden.

"Then I'm off," Jan says, handing me the candle. "I'll be back before dawn to take you to the airport. Help yourself to a bottle of wine if you feel like it. Anything except the 1922 Chateau Rothschild. It's worth a fortune. Herr Meierhof would kill me. Have a good night, you two." Her tone makes me wonder if she still thinks there is something between Paul and me.

She walks out of the room, and a few second later I hear the cellar door close. Paul turns to me. "You did it. Congratulations."

"We did it," I correct him, setting the candle on the ground beside the mattress.

"Okay," he agrees. "But let's hold off on the celebration until we're out of Berlin."

Before I can answer, there is a banging noise from the front room. I wonder if something is wrong and Jan has returned. "Wait here," Paul says. A minute later he reappears, carrying two steaming plates heaped with meat and noodles. "These came down in the dumbwaiter. Hungry?"

"No, but you go ahead." Paul shrugs, then sets the plates down on the floor and drops to the mattress. I sit down beside him, watching him eat.

"You should try this," he says between bites. "It's really good. World-famous cuisine from the Meierhof. When are you going to have the chance to try this again?"

"Fine," I relent. He stabs a piece of meat and covers it in sauce. Then he brings the fork to my mouth, cupping his other hand beneath it to catch any drips of sauce. As I take the meat from the fork, our eyes lock. Then I pull away, swallowing. "Delicious," I say, my voice cracking.

"Do you want more?" I shake my head. He finishes eating, then carries the two plates, his empty and mine untouched, to the table in the front room. "It's hard, isn't it?" Paul asks abruptly as he reenters the room.

My heart skips a beat. "What is?"

He sits down on the mattress beside me once more. "Being back in Germany, after all that you went through here. It must be difficult."

"Lots of things are," I reply evenly. Paul looks away. Neither of us speak for several seconds.

"Do you want to play?" Paul asks finally, drawing a deck of cards from his bag. "We might as well kill some time."

I hesitate. "I don't know too many games. Gin is my best. I used to play it with my grandmother, Feige, when I was a child." I see her stout fingers shuffling the deck of cards, her brown eyes glinting with antic.i.p.ation as she arranged her hand.

"That's funny, so did I." Paul shuffles the cards. "Play gin with my grandmother, I mean. She would always let me win."

"Not mine. She was really good and she always played for real. But every time she beat me, she would say, 'Someone will love you very much.'"

"Really?" Paul begins to deal the cards. "What did she mean?"

"There's some old saying, 'lucky in cards, unlucky in love.' Or maybe I have it backward. But the point is that if you are a bad card player, you are supposed to be lucky in love." Lucky in love. Someone will love you very much. Bubbe Feige's words echo in my head as I arrange my hand of cards. Had she been right? Simon loves me in his own way, I know. But "lucky" would have been finding Paul years ago, before it was too late.