The Riddle of the Suite

Elena watched him from the balcony, Marcus swimming laps in the infinity pool that seemed to spill into the Aegean. His strokes were rhythmic, precise—everything about Marcus had always been precise, including his betrayals.

Three days ago, she'd found the receipt. A jewelry store in Athens. Not her birthday. Not their anniversary. Elena, who'd spent twenty years as a corporate spy for competitors, knew surveillance when she saw it. She'd followed him yesterday, running through cobblestone alleys in uncomfortable sandals, her heart hammering like it hadn't since their courtship.

He'd met a woman at a café near the Plaka. Young. Beautiful. They'd talked for hours. Elena had watched from behind a newspaper, her spinach and fida pie turning to ash in her mouth.

Now Marcus emerged from the pool, water streaming off his athletic body. He caught sight of her and smiled—that boyish, genuine smile that had undone her at twenty-two. That smile was the problem. The way he still looked at her sometimes, with actual tenderness. If he were simply cruel, this would be easier. If he didn't still touch her with such reverence in bed, as if she were the only woman he'd ever loved.

What was the riddle? Which Marcus was real?

She remembered the Great Sphinx of Giza they'd visited on their honeymoon. The creature with the human head, lion body, ox legs, and eagle wings—four aspects, one being. Maybe all marriages were sphinxes. Maybe everyone was four different people, and love was simply deciding which version to believe at breakfast.

"Elena?" He was at the balcony doors now, towel around his waist. "You're thinking again. I can see it from here."

"Just tired," she said.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I want to show you something. Something special."

She almost laughed. Tomorrow was their anniversary. Was that when he'd confess? Present the jewelry to the other woman? Or was he planning something for her?

"Okay," Elena said. "Tomorrow."

She'd find out then. She'd stay for dinner, drink the wine, let him make love to her if he wanted. She'd play her part perfectly, because the spy's first rule was never to show your hand until you knew whose game you were actually playing.

And in the meantime, she'd let herself keep wondering which version of them was true. That was the only riddle that mattered.