I drop my bag onto the bed, then walk into the water closet to relieve myself after the long journey. The sink faucet is rusty and the floor tiles cracked, mold growing where the grout should be. There is a claw-footed bathtub, though, inviting and deep. It reminds me of the wood tub in our house in the village, large and sturdy, that my mother would fill fresh with heated water for each of us every week.

I wash and dry my hands, then return to the main room. Renata said to wait ten minutes, but I walk to the door, eager to find Marek. I peer into the hallway, looking in both directions, then make my way to the unmarked door at the end of the hall. At the bottom of the stairs, as Renata described, is a doorway leading to an alley. Outside, the sun is beginning to set, and it’s colder, too. I draw my coat closer, blinking and trying to adjust my eyes. The alley is narrow, tall brick buildings close on either side. The air is heavy with the smell of garbage. Something rustles by my feet. A rat. Nausea rises up in me. The rats had been everywhere in prison, scratching inside the walls, running across the floor at night. They were as rampant as flies in the ghetto, too. Once, I awoke in bed screaming as one ran across my neck. Mama chased it down, killed it with a broom. But I was too scared to sleep for days.

Someone grabs my arm. “Hey!” I exclaim, jumping.

“Shh!” Renata whispers. Still holding my arm, she leads me through the alleyway to a backstreet. “Be careful,” she adds, gesturing to the slick, wet cobblestones. As we walk, I notice that Renata somehow changed outfits in the few minutes I was upstairs. She is now wearing a short, dark skirt and a pink blouse that dips low to reveal something lacy beneath. Her practical shoes have been replaced with stiletto heels, and she is wearing rouge and bright lipstick. It is as if she is dressed for a night on the town, which, I realize, is exactly the idea, suddenly feeling very frumpy in my wool travel skirt and jacket.

She leads me to a boxy car parked at the corner, so tiny it is almost toylike. The passenger door, its dark paint gouged, groans as Renata opens it for me. I fold myself into the damp car. “We must hurry,” she says loudly as she turns the ignition. “Aunt Sophie will be worried if we are late.”

“Aunt Sophie?” I whisper.

“Talk normally now,” she says in a low voice, and I realize that she is speaking for the benefit of anyone who might be listening.

“I—I am really looking forward to seeing Aunt Sophie after so long,” I improvise as she pulls the car away from the curb. These spy games are very confusing to me.

Renata turns on the radio, which blares a mixture of classical music and static. “Sorry we couldn’t take the embassy sedan tonight. Meet Wartburg, pride of German engineering.” She pats the dashboard. “Careful that your feet don’t fall through the holes in the floor.”

I start to laugh, then, looking down, see that she is serious. “Are we going far?”

Renata pulls the Wartburg to a halt at a traffic light. “Just to a bar in the Nové Mesto. It’s just a little too far to walk in the cold and…” She stops, peering uneasily in the rearview mirror.

I turn around to look behind us. “What’s…?”

“Don’t look,” she whispers, grabbing my arm. I face front quickly, feeling my cheeks burn. As the light turns green, she slams hard on the gas and the car lurches forward. She turns right, then immediately to the left. The wheels skid sideways, sending us careening toward a light post. I grip the seat, bracing myself for the crash I am sure will come. But Renata turns the wheel hard in the other direction, pulling us back into the center of the roadway. A minute later, she slows the car, looking into the rearview mirror once more. “Sorry. There was a suspicious car and I thought we were being followed, but it’s gone.” I cannot help but wonder if perhaps she overreacted. “I didn’t mean to snap at you,” she adds. “But turning around would only arouse suspicion.”

So would a car accident. “I’m sorry,” I reply. “I didn’t know.”

“You haven’t had any training for this, have you?” I shake my head, uneasiness growing inside me. It had all been so last-minute. Simon had been angry, the D.M. rushed. What else do I need to know that they forgot to tell me?

A few minutes later, Renata pulls the car into a small space along the curb on a residential side street. I look out the window in both directions, but do not see a bar. “Here?”

“No, but it is best if we park and walk a few blocks.” I start to open the car door, but she grabs my arm. “Wait a second. You don’t have any crowns, do you?”

I hesitate, then realize she is talking about Czech money. I shake my head. “I meant to exchange some money at the hotel….”

“Here.” She presses some bills and coins into my hand. “Don’t worry,” she says, cutting me off as I start to protest. “I’ll get repaid by the embassy. Let’s go.”

I step out onto the pavement and follow Renata silently through the dark, deserted streets. It begins to drizzle, a light fine mist, and I can feel the curls around my face tightening in response. Renata leads me halfway down the block, stopping in front of an unmarked building. Music and voices rise from below.

“Ready?” Renata asks. I nod, swallowing. The din grows louder as she leads me down a set of stairs and through the door. Inside, the bar is a long brick cellar. Crude wooden benches and tables, seemingly scattered at random angles, are filled mostly with young people, playing cards and talking over large mugs of dark brown beer. Several look up at us across the dim, smoky room, as if they know we do not belong here.

But Renata, not seeming to notice, surveys the room coolly. “There,” she says in a low voice, gesturing slightly with her head toward the back of the bar.

I follow her gaze to a man seated on the end of one of the benches. “I see him.” Marek. In truth, I might not have recognized him if Renata had not pointed him out. Once heavyset, he looks as though he has lost at least thirty pounds. His face, usually clean-shaven, now sports a mustache and goatee. He’s trying to be Alek, I realize with a start. At the sight of him, my breath catches.

“We need to get his attention,” Renata says.

I nod, too nervous to respond. What will his reaction be to seeing me again? But Marek, engrossed in conversation with a gray-haired man beside him, has not looked up since we entered the bar. “How?” I ask a minute later. “I can’t just walk up to him.”

“True,” Renata agrees. “But I can.” She pulls a scrap of paper and pencil out of her bag. She scribbles something I cannot read, then crumples up the paper. “You wait here.” Before I can respond, she strides across the bar, drawing several appreciative stares in her short skirt and heels. I climb onto a bar stool, watching as she passes Marek, brushing against him, just hard enough so that he notices but the others at his table do not. Then, without stopping, she drops the paper into his lap. Marek looks up in surprise, but Renata has already disappeared into the toilet at the back of the bar. I watch, not breathing, as Marek scans the note. He looks up and our eyes meet. He blinks twice behind his glasses, trying to mask his surprise. Then he leans toward the man beside him and whispers something, before making his way slowly toward the front of the bar.

Before reaching me, he stops, staring as though seeing a ghost. “Marta…?”

“Czesc, Marek,” I say in Polish, struggling to keep my voice even.

“What are you…?” He falters. “I mean, we thought that you were…”

“Why don’t you sit down?” I suggest quietly.

He opens his mouth to speak, then, appearing to think better of it, closes it again and climbs onto the bar stool beside me. “Two pilsners, please,” he says to the bartender. Neither of us speak as the bartender pours the beer from the tap. I look over Marek’s shoulder, wondering what has become of Renata. She will not come back during my conversation with Marek, I suspect. She did her job by getting him here; the rest is up to me.