“Anyway, Marek sent me to tell you that he’s arranged a meeting with Marcelitis. You are to be at the Charles Bridge tonight at midnight. He said that once again you are to come alone.”

My heart leaps. Marek has arranged the meeting. I will see Marcelitis tonight and then I can go home. I look at Emma. “What about you?” I ask. “I mean, will I see you again?”

Emma hesitates. “I won’t be at the meeting tonight, if that’s what you’re asking. And after that you’ll be gone, and God only knows what will be. I certainly never expected to see you again. So I think this is goodbye for now.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “I want to thank you again for what you did for me in Kraków. You saved my life.”

I put my arm around her shoulder. “You know, don’t you, that you don’t have to stay here? I can arrange papers for you and the children to come to London.”

Emma wipes her eyes. “Thank you, but no. This is our home now. I’m married to Marek and I’ve taken vows, Marta. Vows that I will not break again.”

Seeing the guilt in her eyes, I know she is speaking of her betrayal of Jacob with the Kommandant. “It’s not your fault that Jacob’s gone, Emma.”

“I tell myself that every night,” Emma replies softly. “But it doesn’t change what happened, what I did. I’ve made my place here now, Marta. This is where I belong.” She stands up. “Lukasz, Jake,” she calls across the playground to the boys, who trot obediently toward her. Then she turns back to me. “I must go now.”

I stand up, and Emma reaches over and hugs me gently. “Goodbye and God bless you.” I open my mouth, but before I can speak, Emma turns and walks away.

An hour later, I walk through the door to my hotel room. Closing and locking the door behind me, I cross the room and sink heavily onto the bed, which creaks in protest. It is not yet two o’clock in the afternoon, more than ten hours until I see Marcelitis. I don’t want to risk going out for another walk and running into more trouble with the police. And Renata said before dropping me off last night that she would stop by this afternoon to see how my meeting went; I want to be here when she arrives.

My stomach rumbles and I pull the second roll I purchased that morning from my bag. As I eat, I try to process all that I have learned. Emma is here, married to Marek. Jacob is dead. This last thought hits me heavily again and I feel the pain anew. I picture the last time I saw Jacob, walking into the Nazi café carrying the satchel, a determined look on his face. He insisted on planting the bomb himself, saying that he did not trust any of the underlings to do it properly, that it was more important for Alek and Marek to survive and go on leading the resistance. But the device went off earlier than expected, blowing Jacob through the front window of the café like a rag doll. Alek leapt from the shadows and picked up Jacob’s motionless body from the pavement, hauling him from the bomb site before the police arrived. Somehow he survived his injuries. But for what? I wonder now. To die in the mountains a few short months later? At least he was reunited with Emma, was with her in the end.

I pop the last bite of roll in my mouth, then brush the crumbs from my blouse. I sink back onto the lone, hard pillow. There doesn’t seem to be much else to do but nap to pass the time. I close my eyes, imagining that I am home, reading Rachel a bedtime story in her toy-filled room.

A loud bang jars me awake. I sit up as another crash comes from outside the window. Jumping to my feet, I cross the room and peer out through the curtains. At first I can see nothing, but then, pressing my forehead against the glass, I can just make out a small group of people, clustered on the pavement in front of the hotel. More protesters? I wonder. Though I cannot make out what they are saying, their voices are loud and angry. Glass shatters. In the distance, I hear sirens growing louder. Run, I want to shout to the people on the street below. Run before it is too late.

Letting the curtain drop, I force myself to step away from the window. I cannot get involved and risk jeopardizing my mission. I look at the clock on the dresser. Five-fifteen. I had not realized I’d slept for so long. I expected Renata to have been here by now. I look around the room uncertainly. A bath, I decide. I walk to the water closet and turn on the tap.

When the tub is nearly full, I turn off the hot water and undress. I put one foot into the steaming water gingerly, then lower myself in slowly, feeling my skin go red. I lay my head against the back edge of the tub and stare up at the ceiling, thinking of Emma once more. She seems so much older and sadder now. How had I appeared? I had always felt so gawky and adolescent compared to her. Now I want her to see me as mature and poised. She seemed surprised when I told her I was married with a family. In her eyes, I would always be a child. Perhaps I should have told her about Paul.

Paul. His face appears suddenly in my mind. I inhale, caught off guard by the image. I have seldom allowed myself to think of him since marrying Simon. The memories still creep in occasionally, of course, prompted by certain days on the calendar, like the anniversary of his death, a picture of Paris in a magazine, a driving rain on the roof that reminds me of our night together in Salzburg. Most days the memories are fuzzy, an out-of-focus photograph or half-remembered dream. But now Paul’s face appears so vividly before me, it seems that if I lifted my hand from the bathwater, I could actually touch him. My insides ache.

Enough. I shake my head, clearing the image. I cannot afford to think of him, not now. What is wrong with me? It is the stress of the mission, of all I have learned. I rub my eyes with wet fists. It is better that I did not tell Emma about Paul, I decide. We are not the friends we were years ago. And some secrets should be kept buried in the past.

A banging sound comes from outside the bathroom. I sit up quickly, sending water splashing over the edge of the tub. Is it the crowd on the street again? No, the sound comes again, louder and more persistent from the hallway. Someone is knocking on the door. Renata. “One minute,” I call. I stand up and step out of the tub, nearly slipping on the now-wet floor. Steadying myself, I reach for a towel, drying and dressing hurriedly. The knocking comes again as I cross the room. “Coming!” I cry, unlocking the door. I reach for the doorknob, then hesitate. “Who is it?”

“Renata.” The familiar voice comes through the door, low and urgent. “Open up, dammit.”

I open the door. Renata pushes past me into the room. She looks back out into the hallway, then closes the door and locks it. “Renata,” I say, “good news. I’m scheduled to meet—” I stop, noticing that her hair is disheveled and she is breathing hard. “What is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

“You mean you haven’t heard?” I shake my head. Renata looks around the room, as though someone else might be here. Then she pulls a small transistor radio from her bag and turns it on. The announcer speaks very rapidly in Czech, making it difficult to understand him through the static.

“What is he saying?” I ask.

Renata turns the volume lower. “The police have announced the discovery of a so-called plot by several cabinet ministers to conspire with the West against our great nation,” she says, her voice just above a whisper. “The ministers have been forced to resign. The communists have seized power.”

Uneasiness rises in me. “But surely Benes—” I begin.

“Shh!” Renata jerks her head to one side, reminding me the room could be bugged. “The president is weak. He’ll never stand, not without the army or the police behind him.”

I lower my voice. “But I don’t understand. The deputy minister told me nothing would happen here, not until the spring elections.”

Renata smiles wryly. “That’s Western intelligence for you. Either he didn’t know, which is possible, or he lied.”