I approach the base of the bridge, then pause, shivering as I remember lying on the Kraków railway bridge, the Kommandant’s lifeless body beside me. There was another bridge, too, I remind myself, pushing the image from my mind. Paris. I see the Pont Neuf, remember Paul’s warmth against my back, his arms around me as we gazed at the Eiffel Tower. From the far bank of the river, cathedral bells begin to chime midnight. Forcing the memories from my mind, I scan the length of the deserted bridge. Emma had not said where the rendezvous was to take place, and if I cross, someone might see me. But I cannot risk missing Marcelitis. I step from the safety of the shadows, begin walking low across the bridge. The saints look down solemnly on me, their silhouettes cool white against the night sky.

As I near the center of the bridge, a tall figure emerges from the shadows at the far end and starts toward me. Marcelitis. I walk forward, my heart racing. Just before reaching him, I stop. From all of the stories, I expected someone young and vibrant, like Alek and Jacob had been. But Marcelitis is older, his bald head glowing in the moonlight. “Marta?” I nod. “I’m Jan Marcelitis.” His English is heavily accented.

I study his pale face and bloodshot gray eyes. “Did Marek explain to you why I am here?”

“Yes. Give me the information you have for me. The cipher has been left at a dead drop. Assuming the information you offer is acceptable to me, I will give you the location.” I hesitate. The D.M. said only to give the information to Marcelitis in exchange for the cipher. Can he be relied upon to live up to his end of the bargain? “This is the only way you are going to get the information,” he adds, sensing my uncertainty.

He’s right, of course. I have no other choice. I reach in my bag for the papers, trembling. As I start to pull them out, Marcelitis extends his hand expectantly, his pale, bony fingers creeping out from his coat sleeve. Something gold glows on one of his fingers. A wedding ring. But Alek had said that Marcelitis was not married. Uneasiness rises up inside me. Something is not right. Easy, I think. Alek told me about Marcelitis several years ago. Perhaps he is only recently married. But something still seems wrong. I hesitate, uncertain what to do.

“Mr. Marcelitis,” I begin, shifting my weight, stalling for time. “I understand that we may have a mutual friend….”

“Yes, of course. Marek Andek.”

“Not only him. I understand that you also know another friend of mine, a resistance leader from Kraków during the war?”

“Who are you speaking of?” he asks impatiently. “The police could be here at any time. I really cannot play guessing games.”

“Alek Landesberg.”

“Yes, of course, Alek,” the man replies quickly.

I take a deep breath. “Have you had news of him lately?”

“Just last month,” the man replies. “I saw him in Berlin.”

If this man were really Marcelitis, he would have known that Alek is dead. I look down at the papers in my hand. My heart pounds. “I—I just realized that these are not the right papers,” I say, putting the papers back in my bag. “I have to go back to the hotel to get them….”

“Stop playing games,” the man orders sharply. “Just give me the papers.” He steps toward me and, before I can react, seizes me by both shoulders. I twist, struggling to get away, but the man’s grasp is too strong. He reaches down with one hand to grab my bag. He must not get the papers. Adrenaline shoots through me. Quickly, I lift my left foot and bring it down hard on his instep. The man grunts and jerks back, loosening his grip slightly. I pull away hard, breaking free and leaping backward. The man growls and lunges toward me again. He raises his right hand and I can see that he is clutching something that glints silver in the moonlight. He swings the knife wildly toward me, just missing my shoulder. I step back and he raises the knife, preparing to lunge again. The gun, I remember suddenly, reaching into my bag. But before I can pull it out, he leaps forward. I brace myself and raise my right foot. As he comes at me, I kick him hard in the shin.

“Aah!” the man cries, lifting his leg. But the blow was not serious enough to stop him for long. I have to act now, while he is off balance. I reach out with both hands and push him hard, sending him flying backward onto the ground. Then I turn and begin running toward the end of the bridge.

Behind me, I hear the man scramble to his feet, then start to run after me. Don’t look back, I think as his footsteps grow closer. At the end of the bridge, I turn left, running harder. My lungs feel as though they are about to explode. I make a quick right onto another street. Then I duck into an alley, scanning its length. It is bare, completely exposed, except for a door at the end and a large trash bin. Desperately, I run to the door and pull hard on the handle, but it is locked and refuses to budge. I hear footsteps in the street, growing louder. The bald man, whoever he is, will be here any second. I run to the trash bin and climb over the high edge. Trash bags cushion my landing on the other side. The stench of garbage is overwhelming. I hold my breath for as long as I can, then, when I can stand it no longer, take a shallow breath. A gag rises in the back of my throat. Stifling it, I force myself to burrow deeper into the garbage, pulling one of the bags on top of me.

The man’s footsteps reach the entrance to the alleyway, stop. I lie motionless, my heart pounding. A minute passes, seeming like an eternity. Then, I hear footsteps again, growing fainter as he disappears down the street.

For several seconds, I remain frozen in the trash bin, too afraid to move. My mind races. The man on the bridge was not Marcelitis, but an imposter who wanted the information I am carrying, enough to kill me. But how had he known that I would be there? I think of Marek, who arranged the meeting. Has he betrayed me?

I have to keep going, I realize. The man might try to come back when he cannot find me on the street. And Renata will be waiting. I climb from the trash bin, brushing myself off as well as I can. I creep to the front of the alleyway, then stop, listening. Hearing nothing, I peer out into the deserted street. My skin prickles. Has the man really gone or is he just hiding somewhere, waiting? I take a breath, then step out into the street, half expecting him to leap out and attack me once more. But the street remains silent. Exhaling, I turn in the direction from which I came and begin retracing my steps.

As I walk, I think again about the bald man. Who is he? And what happened to the real Marcelitis? I was not able to make contact with him or obtain the cipher. For a minute I consider abandoning my rendezvous with Renata and going to the bar again, to try to find Marek and ask for his help once more in reaching Marcelitis. But even as I think it, I know that it is impossible. I do not even know if the D.M. would want me to continue my mission under such circumstances. I will go meet Renata. She will know what to do.

When I have backtracked to the river, I follow the directions Renata gave me. Soon I reach Krizovnicka Street and follow it until it intersects with Platnerska. I scan the opposite side of the street. There is an archway, as Renata described, but it appears to be empty. Running from the bald man has made me late, I know. Perhaps Renata was not able to wait for me any longer. As I cross the street, the front bumper of Renata’s Wartburg comes into view and I can hear the engine running. Relieved, I hurry toward the car.

I wave at Renata through the fogged windshield. Then I open the passenger door and climb inside. “Something went wrong,” I pant as I shut the door behind me. “The man who met me wasn’t Marcelitis. It was an imposter and he…” I turn toward the driver’s seat, then stop. Renata lays slumped forward, her head resting on the steering wheel. “Renata?”