“Louis, I felt helpless too. Edward was my umbrella, and when it rained and he wasn’t there to protect me, I almost drowned.”
They slept.
They made love again, slowly and tenderly now, the fire banked, the flame slower, more exquisite.
It was almost perfect. Almost. Because there was a question Mary wanted to ask, and she knew she dared not: Did you have a wife and children, Louis?
The moment she asked that question, she knew everything between them would be over forever. Louis would never forgive her for doubting him. Damn Mike Slade, she thought. Damn him.
Louis was watching her. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing, darling.”
What were you doing in that dark side street when those men tried to kidnap me, Louis?
They dined that evening on the outdoor terrace, and Louis ordered Cemurata, the strawberry liqueur made in the nearby mountains.
Saturday they went on a tram to a mountain peak. When they returned, they swam in the indoor pool, made love in the private sauna, and played bridge with a geriatric German couple on their honeymoon.
In the evening they drove to Eintrul, a rustic restaurant in the mountains, where they had dinner in a large room that had an open fireplace with a roaring fire. There were wooden chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and hunting trophies on the wall over the fireplace. The room was lit by candlelight, and through the windows they could look at the snow-covered hills outside. A perfect setting, with the perfect companion.
And finally, too soon, it was time to leave.
Time to go back to the real world, Mary thought. And what was the real world? A place of threats and kidnapping and horrible graffiti written on her office walls.
The drive back was pleasant and easy. The sexual tension on the drive up had given way to an easy, relaxed feeling of togetherness. Louis was so comfortable to be with.
As they neared the outskirts of Bucharest, they drove by fields of sunflowers, their faces moving toward the sun.
That’s me, Mary thought happily. I’m finally moving into the sunlight.
Beth and Tim were eagerly awaiting their mother’s return.
“Are you going to marry Louis?” Beth asked.
Mary was taken aback. They had put into words what she had not dared allow herself to think.
“Well—are you?”
“I don’t know,” she said carefully. “Would you mind if I did?”
“He’s not Daddy,” Beth answered slowly, “but Tim and I took a vote. We like him.”
“So do I,” Mary replied happily. “So do I.”
There were a dozen red roses with a note: “Thank you for you.”
She read the card. And wondered if he had sent flowers to Renée. And wondered if there had been a Renée and two daughters. And hated herself for it. Why would Mike Slade make up a terrible lie like that? There was no way she could ever check it. And at that moment, Eddie Maltz, the political consular and CIA agent, walked into her office.
“You’re looking fit, Madam Ambassador. Have a good weekend?”
“Yes, thank you.”
They spent some time discussing a colonel who had approached Maltz about defecting.
“He’d be a valuable asset for us. He’ll be bringing some useful information with him. I’m sending a black cable out tonight, but I wanted you to be prepared to receive some heat from Ionescu.”
“Thank you, Mr. Maltz.”
He rose to leave.
On a sudden impulse, Mary said, “Wait. I—I wonder if I could ask you for a favor?”
“Certainly.”
She found it unexpectedly awkward to continue. “It’s—personal and confidential.”
“Sounds like our motto,” Maltz smiled.
“I need some information on a Dr. Louis Desforges. Have you heard of him?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s attached to the French embassy. What would you like to know about him?”
This was going to be even more difficult than she had imagined. It was a betrayal. “I—I’d like to know whether Dr. Desforges was once married and had two children. Do you think you could find out?”
“Will twenty-four hours be soon enough?” Maltz asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
Please forgive me, Louis.
A short time later, Mike Slade walked into Mary’s office. “Morning.”