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 grassy area. Simon’s desk is dark, institutional 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 assistant’s outburst,” Simon begins after I have closed the door behind me. His assistant 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 Nazis.”

“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 Kraków ghetto with my mother when I was recruited by the resistance,” I begin.

The D.M. looks at Simon. “In Kraków? I thought the resistance was in Warsaw.”

“There was a resistance movement in Kraków, too,” Simon replies. “I remember reading about it in a cable. Smaller, not as significant.” His words stab at me.

“Go on,” the D.M. says.

“I worked as a messenger for the resistance, traveling the countryside and gathering information and weapons.” Staring out the window, I tell them about the bombing of the Warszawa Café, how the resistance was decimated in the aftermath. I do not tell them about my friendship with Emma or how I killed Kommandant Richwalder to save her, nor about Jacob. “And so after the café bombing, most of the resistance leadership was killed or arrested, like me. But Andek was neither, and he told me he was going over the border to Slovakia to connect with partisans there.”

When I finish, I look up. Simon stares at me, stunned. The D.M. turns to him. “You had no idea?”

He shakes his head. “We ran a background check for security purposes when she started working here, of course. But it’s difficult to get information. All of the papers were destroyed during the war.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” the D.M. asks me.

“I was afraid,” I reply truthfully. “I came here on someone else’s visa. I thought I might be sent back. Plus, I spent a long time in a Nazi camp.” I omit the prison, fearful of raising more questions. “I was trying to forget that part of my life.”

“You’re very brave,” the D.M. observes. “You should be honored for what you did. And I’m sure our war crimes office would like to talk to you at some point to debrief. But right now we have more pressing matters to contend with. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you again how important it is that we get the cipher from Marcelitis.”

“No, sir, I understand.”

“And it seems that the only hope of doing so is getting to Andek.” He pauses. “Will you help us?”

I hesitate, uncertain how I can be of use. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Sir,” Simon interjects. “What do you have in mind? Do you have an idea of how we can somehow reach Andek from here?”

The D.M. shakes his head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. We don’t know of any secure phone or telegraph line to reach the man. And there’s no time to send a courier back and forth. No, I think our only hope is to have Marta speak with him face-to-face.”

Simon stares at the D.M., mouth agape. “Surely you aren’t suggesting…”

I look from Simon to the D.M., then back again. “I don’t understand.”

The D.M. sits down in the chair beside mine. “I am asking if you will go to Prague to speak with Andek directly.”

I am too surprised to react. For a second I wonder if the D.M. has misspoken. “Me?” I ask finally. “You want me to go to Prague?”

“Sir, with all due respect…” Simon splutters. I have never heard him sound so upset, much less in front of his boss. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

The D.M. crosses the room toward Simon. “I’m deadly serious, Gold. Andek is our only link to Marcelitis, and Marta is the only one who can get to Andek.”

“But she isn’t a spy, for God’s sake! She’s not even a diplomat. She’s a secretary.”

“She’s a former member of an insurgent group.” I have never heard the resistance referred to as this before. “She has experience with covert operations, firearms. Frankly, she’s more qualified than most men.”

Amid my confusion, pride rises in me. I had fought alongside Alek, Jacob and the other men. I am glad not to have to hide it any longer. But Simon is not placated. “She’s my wife. We have a small child and—”

“What is it that you would want me to do?” I interrupt, curious.

The D.M. walks quickly back toward me. “We need you to go to Prague. We can create some sort of cover for your trip, say that you are there for meetings at the embassy. We have some very good people on the ground there who can help you find Andek.”

“And then what? If I find him, I mean.”

“Ask him to let you speak with Marcelitis. Don’t explain too much to Andek alone—we don’t have the intel on him to know if he can be trusted. Instead, use your history with him to gain his trust so he introduces you to Marcelitis. I’ll give you something written from the foreign minister formally asking for the cipher.”

“Is that all, sir?” I ask.

“What do you mean, is that all?”

“I mean, what are we offering Marcelitis in exchange for giving us the cipher?” I can feel Simon’s stunned glare. A secretary questioning the D.M. on policy is unthinkable.

The D.M. pauses, as though the idea had not occurred to him. “Assurances, I suppose. That Britain is behind them and that we won’t allow the Soviets to roll over Czechoslovakia.”

I take a deep breath, emboldened by the role he is asking me to play. “That won’t be enough, sir.”

“What do you mean? Why?”

“Once, before the war, the Czech people believed in the West. We all did. But the West looked on while the Germans took the Sudetenland, then Prague. People have been bitten by empty promises before, and from what I understand, Marcelitis is especially distrustful. If he is to be persuaded to give us the cipher, we will need something concrete.”

The D.M. paces back and forth, stroking his goatee. “That’s a fair point. We would have to put together some sort of package, provide something as a measure of good faith. I’ll start working on the needed clearances right away and then—”

“This is madness!” Simon explodes. I turn toward him, stunned by the sharpness of his tone toward the D.M. His cheeks have turned bright red with anger. “You are proposing to send my wife back to Eastern Europe to a country that might fall to the Soviets at any minute? For God’s sake, she almost died there just three years ago!”