Inside the drawer sits a thick stack of papers. I lift the top few and rifle through them. What am I looking for? I wonder. Love notes, receipts from presents or hotels? But everything here appears to be work-related. This is ridiculous, I think. Why am I doing this? But I continue skimming through the papers. The first few pages are department cables. For a second, I hesitate. Perhaps there are classified documents that I am not cleared to see. Nonsense. I risked my life. I have the right. Simon would not have classified documents stuck in a desk drawer, anyway. Or at least I do not think so. I look down at the cables. They are nothing I have not seen in the office, but I am surprised to find them shoved inside the desk in no particular order. Simon always files papers alphabetically in folders and then by date order within, in the metal cabinet that sits behind his desk.

Farther down the stack, my thumb brushes against something thicker than the rest of the papers. I pull out a manila folder. Inside is a sheet of paper, listing dates, times, destinations. A travel itinerary with today’s date. The name at the top of the itinerary is Dmitri Borskin. Probably just the travel plans of a visiting dignitary, I think, scanning the page. Someone who was attending the dinner. Simon must have been confirming his travel plans. I close the folder. The phone call about the flight from Luton makes sense now, I think, suddenly feeling very silly. I look down at the broken lock. I will have to think of something to tell Simon.

I replace the file and start to close the drawer. Then, still curious, I pick up the papers once more and thumb farther down in the stack. More cables. Suddenly, a piece of paper, yellow, and smaller than the others, catches my eye. I pull it from the stack. It appears to be a telegram of some sort. The document is written in Russian.

I stare at the piece of paper, my heart pounding. Simon does not read Russian. What could he possibly be doing with this? I scan the paper, trying to recall the Cyrillic alphabet I learned from my grandmother as a child. I make out a name: Marek Andek. The telegram is dated November 26, 1947. That was the date I arrived in Prague and first met with Marek. The day before he was arrested. My hand trembling now, I lift up the next document in the stack, another telegram in Russian. This one is dated a day later. It contains the name Jan Marcelitis, gives her address in Berlin.

I set the stack of papers down and sink into the chair, my legs weak. Someone was sending telegrams, revealing information in Russian about Marek and Jan. But who? And why does Simon have them? Perhaps it is part of the investigation into the leak. But why hadn’t Simon mentioned them to me? I pick up the stack of documents, scanning more quickly now, looking for an explanation.

My hand touches the manila folder and I pull it out once more, rereading the itinerary. Dmitri Borskin. A flight from Luton Airport to Moscow tonight at eight. That must have been what the call was about. Did Borskin have something to do with the telegrams? The words on the page begin to blur. I set down the folder and rub my eyes beneath my glasses, trying to focus. As I pick up the folder once more, my hand brushes against something hard on the bottom. I turn it over. Taped to the back of the folder is a brown envelope. Curious, I pry the envelope away from the folder. Leave it alone, a voice inside me says. But I’ve gone too far to turn back now. I open the envelope, trying to undo the seal gently so I can close it again. A piece of paper falls out and flutters to the floor. It is a photograph, I realize as I bend and pick it up, with something handwritten on the back in Russian. I scan the Cyrillic letters, sounding it out. Dmitri Borskin, the name reads. Then, turning over the photograph, I freeze.

The face that looks up at me is Simon’s.

I stare at the photograph, my mind whirling. There must be some mistake. The man in the photograph is younger, his hair and mustache thick, but the eyes are unmistakable. Heat rises in my neck. Are Simon and Dmitri Borskin the same person? Why does he have a Russian alias? My mind turns back to the telegrams I have just found, referencing my meeting with Marek, Marcelitis’s address in Berlin. Simon was the leak, I surmise, dread and disbelief rising in me.

I pick up the itinerary again. Borskin is scheduled to fly to Moscow tonight. Simon must be fleeing the country. Still clutching the paper in my hand, I race from the study to our bedroom, the ground seeming to wobble beneath me. I throw open Simon’s armoire, half expecting his clothes to be gone. But his suits hang neatly, all present except for the dinner jacket he was wearing when he left. I lean against the armoire, relieved. Simon’s things are still here. There must be some sort of mistake. I scan the itinerary once more. It clearly indicates that Borksin is leaving for Russia tonight. A box at the bottom of the page catches my eye. Number of travelers: three.

Simon is leaving, and he is not traveling alone. Rachel, I think. My blood runs cold. Dropping the piece of paper, I start toward the baby’s room. “Rachel?” I call into the darkness as I run into the nursery. There is no response. Even before I reach into the crib, my hands closing around the emptiness, I know that my daughter is gone.

CHAPTER 27

For several seconds I stand in the middle of the nursery, too stunned to move. “Rachel?” I call out, hoping in vain that perhaps she managed to crawl from her crib and is hiding somewhere. There is no response. Simon has taken Rachel; I am sure of it. But how? He left the house alone. But he could have come back after I fell asleep. Surely I would have heard him, though, if he came in and took Rachel. I’m usually such a light sleeper, hearing Rachel every time she makes a sound and hopping up to check on her. I fell asleep so quickly on the couch, though, and I was so groggy when I woke up.

The chocolates. I remember then Simon giving me the box, his insistence that I try one. He must have drugged me so he could get Rachel out of the house. What did he put in them? Instinctively, I lean forward and put my fingers down my throat, vomiting a gooey brown mass onto the hardwood floor. Then I stand up unsteadily, the room spinning. How much of the drug has entered my system already? I race to the toilet and turn on the cold tap. Cupping my hands, I gulp several mouthfuls of water to flush the rest of the drug from my system. Suddenly, I heave again, this time just making it to the toilet.

A few seconds later, I straighten, wiping my mouth. My vision is a bit clearer now. Racing back down the hallway, I grab the itinerary from the floor. The flight leaves at eight, just an hour from now. I have to find them.

Clinging to the railing for support, I make my way down the stairs. I race into the kitchen and grab the phone. I have to call someone, but who? If Simon is a traitor, then there is no telling who at the Foreign Office can be trusted. And the police will not interfere with diplomatic matters, even if they believe me. For a second, I consider calling Delia and Charles. But they live in the wrong direction, and it would take them at least half an hour to get here, longer still to reach the airport.

Something white on the countertop catches my eye. I look down. It is a tablet of paper, the phone number I had taken down earlier scrawled across the top sheet. The number the operator had given me. Paul’s number.

Hurriedly, I pick up the receiver and dial the number. “Lakenheath Air Base,” a man’s voice—not Paul’s—answers.

The room starts to slide from beneath me once more. “Paul Mattison,” I say. Clutching the edge of the counter, I force myself to focus on the window above the sink.