Our Woman in Moscow

by Beatriz Williams

  I fold my arms and look around me. I assumed the mess was the result of a drunken rage, Digby coming apart because of guilt while his wife struggled in the throes of labor. But now the scattered papers and open drawers suggest a different story. Digby’s drunken binge speaks of another kind of despair.

  Kip stands before me in the tiny room, wearing his drawn, pale face. He needs me to do something. He needs me to hold myself together. He needs me to take charge of this disaster.

  “I’ll tell you what. If you can do your best to tidy things up in the living room, I’ll tidy things up in here. Then we’ll put your father in bed for some rest and go visit your mother and your baby brother in the hospital, all right?”

  For a second, I imagine he might hug me. Instead, he takes a deep breath, nods, and leaves the room. I light myself a cigarette and start to work. An hour later, I’ve put everything in order, more or less, but I haven’t found anything you might call incriminating.

  On the other hand, if the KGB’s searched the place, they’ve probably already found it.

  Somehow Digby manages to wash himself up and stumble into the bedroom. I follow him inside. The scene reminds me of one of those photo spreads in Life magazine after a hurricane or a tornado or something. Clothes strewn everywhere. Lamps overturned. Pocketbooks emptied. The bed itself isn’t fit for sleep—the blankets and sheets have been stripped, the mattress ripped open.

  “What in the hell have you done?”

  He doesn’t answer, just wraps himself in a blanket on the floor and closes his eyes. I bend down next to him and shake his shoulder.

  “For God’s sake, you have a son! A new baby! What about Iris?”

  “Go to hell,” he mumbles.

  I stand up again and give him a kick in the derrière—not hard, just enough to stub my toe. “Have it your way. I’m taking the kids to the hospital now. In the meantime, I suggest you act like a grown-up for once in your life and do the right thing.”

  “Go to hell,” he says again, more clearly.

  I don’t have any idea how I manage to pack three children into a taxi and return to the hospital. Thank God Kip speaks decent Russian. Every moment I look over my shoulder for a KGB tail, for some sign that we’re being watched or followed, or about to be arrested. Then I close my eyes and pray they aren’t onto Fox. That he knows his—what do they call it again?—his tradecraft well enough to find his way back to me.

  We’re blown, I keep thinking. It’s over.

  But if the KGB has already searched the Digbys’ apartment—searched it yesterday—why haven’t they arrested us yet?

  We reach the hospital. I pay the taxi and herd the kids onto the sidewalk and through the doors, where Kedrov paces the entrance hall. For an instant, I think he might die of relief. Then his face turns stern.

  “Where have you been, Mrs. Fox? We have been looking everywhere for you!”

  “Me? I went to pick up my nephews and niece at their apartment so they could meet their new brother. What’s wrong with that?”

  “You should have stayed here. You are not familiar with Moscow and Russian language.”

  “But you’d disappeared! What else was I to do?”

  “I was called away to attend to some small matter, for which I apologize.” He seems to be struggling not to lose his temper. The agitation rolls off him in waves, and I wonder what he’s afraid of. He looks back over the four of us and says sharply, “Where is Mr. Fox?”

  I lie smoothly. “He’s gone back to the hotel to rest. It was a long night, as you can imagine. Now, do you mind? The children haven’t yet met their new brother, and I’m eager to see how my sister’s doing after her ordeal. You know she had a terrible, terrible time, while you were off attending to your little matter.”

  Kedrov flushes and stutters. Claire says, in a small voice, “Is Mama all right?”

  “She’s fine now, darling. It was just very hard work.” I look straight at Kedrov and say fiercely, “That’s why they call it labor, you know.”

  Well, he’s set back on his heels by this assertion of moral authority, which just goes to show that there’s humanity in everybody. He leads us back to the reception area and speaks to the nurse at the desk and, a moment later, ushers us down the hall to Iris’s room, led by the nurse. The nurse opens the door. Iris lies in her bed, propped up by pillows, looking remarkably more cheerful than I left her a few hours ago. She holds the baby in her arms. A man rises from the chair next to the bed.

  And I’ll be damned, but it’s Sumner Fox.

  Lyudmila

  July 1952

  Moscow

  Lyudmila’s waiting for Vashnikov when he crashes into his office at a quarter past nine. He’s so startled, he drops the cigarette he was lighting and leans down, swearing, to pick it up from the floor.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing with my operation?” she demands.

  He stands up again and looks innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You sent men to search Digby’s apartment yesterday, while he was at the hospital attending his wife’s labor.”

  Vashnikov walks to his desk, sets down his briefcase and cigarette, and hangs up his coat. “Where did you hear this?”

  “It doesn’t matter where I heard it. You wish to sabotage my operation, and for what? For what possible purpose would you let the man know he was under suspicion? Unless you wanted him to know it?”

  Vashnikov sits back in his chair and smokes his cigarette, though she notices his hand trembles a little as he puts it to his mouth. “That’s ridiculous. If I’d wanted to warn him, I would have done so in a more sensible manner.”

  “Then you were trying to find something. What did you find?”

  He spreads his hands. “Nothing.”

  “So you admit you sent the men?”

  “I admit nothing. But whether his apartment has been searched or not, I am absolutely certain that nothing exists to implicate Mr. Digby as this phantom mole of yours. Your entire operation is a farce, Ivanova.”

  “Oh? Kedrov tells me he was given orders to cease surveillance until further notice. Whose orders? And why?”

  “Mine. I’ve encountered unanswerable evidence that Mr. and Mrs. Fox are, as they claim, an ordinary married couple of decidedly amorous inclination.”

  “What business do you have listening to surveillance recordings of my operation?”

  “Why, I was called over by the specialists themselves to have a listen. You should endeavor to exert better control over your subordinates, Ivanova. This is basic KGB training.”

  Lyudmila stares at him a moment. He stares back with his dark, piggy eyes. But he’s not unmoved. The tip of his nose turns an even brighter shade of red than usual, and his fingers flick the cigarette spasmodically above the brass ashtray on the corner of his desk. Lyudmila remembers—not altogether inconsequentially—what a terrible lover he was. Even in a convenient and merely physical transaction, the man should have some regard for his partner’s pleasure, and he had none. After a couple of meetings, she rebuffed him. It simply wasn’t worth the trouble of taking your clothes off, to sleep with a man like that.

  “Tell me something, Comrade Vashnikov,” she says, in a pleasant voice, “wasn’t it you who put together that ring in Rome, during the thirties? You sent in ROSEBUD to recruit and handle agents.”

  For an instant, he looks stricken. “Yes. What of it?”

  “You were the one who gave ROSEBUD permission to recruit HAMPTON. Now, ordinarily a handler is not supposed to sleep with her agent, but for some reason you allowed ROSEBUD and HAMPTON to develop a sexual relationship alongside the professional one.”

  Vashnikov shrugs. “It was a stroke of genius, actually. It was the perfect way to run HAMPTON. He was young and sexually inexperienced, he lacked confidence. She gave him what he needed, and in return, he gave her everything she asked for, and more. He was our most productive agent in Italy. He wanted to impress her, you see.”

/>   “But then he outgrew her. He met Mrs. Digby, married her, had children with her.”

  “ROSEBUD is a professional,” Vashnikov says. “She made adjustments. She ran him effectively, even after his marriage.”

  “They resumed their sexual relationship in Zurich, however.”

  Vashnikov lights another cigarette from the stub of the first. “You are remarkably well informed, Ivanova. Have you been up late reading files again? I can think of far more interesting nocturnal pursuits.”

  “Don’t be vulgar, Vashnikov. I ask this question because it seems to me that the relationship between ROSEBUD and HAMPTON went well beyond the objective, professional association we prefer to see between agent and handler, and perhaps that is the root of our present trouble.”

  “What does that mean? Are you saying I made a mistake, Ivanova?”

  “I am simply saying that HAMPTON’s loyalty is a matter of vital importance to your career, isn’t it? You would hate for this protegé of yours to be proved a traitor. You would hate, for example, to realize that some vital piece of information you might have slipped in his ear—the identity, say, of some important American asset—is now in the hands of a spy. Is that the case, Vashnikov? Has HAMPTON laid his fingers on the most important name of all?”

  “He isn’t a traitor.”

  “Then we shall discover this fact in the course of my carefully planned operation. For your sake, Vashnikov, I hope he isn’t. This escapade won’t look good at the tribunal.” She leans forward and puts her two hands on the desk. “Nor the fact that HAMPTON’s change of loyalty seems to have occurred at the exact same time you arranged for his defection.”

  “This is pure fantasy. I’m surprised at you, Comrade.”

  She straightens and adjusts the arms of her gray jacket. “And Vashnikov? Any pair of professionals can engage in sexual intercourse together for the satisfaction of whoever may be listening. This is basic KGB training.”

  The Orlovsky matter has taken longer than she expected. For one thing, SALT was not at his station—some operation he was involved in. Then the girl and her grandparents were away visiting a cousin or something. They only arrived back home late Sunday night. So it was not until Monday noon that SALT had the girl Donna Anna Orlovskaya in his custody, and—in the manner of Italians, Lyudmila supposed—she proved extremely difficult. She said they had no right to detain her—she would lodge a complaint with the United Nations. She wouldn’t do as they asked. If they put her on the phone with Papa, she would pretend to be somebody else. They couldn’t make her do anything! They couldn’t make Papa do anything! Lyudmila telephoned SALT from a secure line—She’s been watching too many American movies. You have to show her that this is real life, not a movie. Then she hung up the telephone and thought that this Donna Anna Orlovskaya sounded a lot like Marina.

  But today—Wednesday—there’s a fresh cable waiting for her in the stack on her desk, already decoded in the cipher room. It arrived at four o’clock in the morning from her operative in Rome.

  ORLOVSKY CONFIRMS SUMNER FOX OPERATIVE AMERICAN INTELLIGENCE IN MOSCOW TO EXECUTE PLANNED EXTRACTION HAMPTON FAMILY FOLLOWING BIRTH HAMPTON BABY STOP CLAIMS HE KNOWS NOTHING MORE STOP AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS APPLY FURTHER MEASURES STOP

  Lyudmila taps her pencil against her lip and smiles. Then she composes an answer.

  APPLY FURTHER MEASURES STOP

  Iris

  September 1948

  Dorset, England

  About an hour before dawn, Philip nudged her awake. He was a military man, so he always sensed the approach of sunrise, and Iris slept deeply because she trusted him to know exactly when to wake her.

  By now, four weeks into the affair, they had established a comfortable habit. Philip would kiss her forehead and say something like Rise and shine, my beauty—to which Iris just snuggled a little deeper. So he’d tickle her and she’d laugh and roll on his chest and press some kisses on his face. The room would be dark still—his face just shadow. She would kiss them all, shadow eyes and shadow nose and shadow chin—precious shadow scars—kiss lower—he’d sigh and take hold of her hips—well. Afterward, they had time enough to lie for a few decadent minutes, skin against skin, stunned and panting, before Iris would crawl from his arms and out of the stately bed, across the worn rug to the bathroom—gather her clothes—steal downstairs hand in hand so Philip could walk her back to Honeysuckle Cottage while the first green streaks colored the eastern sky.

  Sometimes, as they walked back to the cottage, Iris thought about the reverse—the night she had first walked to Highcliffe from Honeysuckle Cottage, the courage it had required of her. The strangeness of walking to a man’s house with the fixed intention of committing adultery with him. In the end, it was easy. Philip had made it seem perfectly natural to climb the stairs to his grand-shabby bedroom, hand in hand—almost ordained. But there was more to their affair than bed. Philip came down to the cottage every day. He led the children to the stables where they took turns riding the three ponies. They had picnics and walks by the sea, sometimes swimming when the sun was warm enough. Just yesterday they’d all gone sailing in Philip’s schooner—a glorious sun-filled afternoon—even Aunt Vivian laughed her head off. Philip had pointed out all the battleships and the French coast in the distance, had shown the children how to make proper knots, had caught a few fish that Mrs. Betts fried for dinner. When Iris had tucked the boys into bed, sunburned and exhausted, Jack looked at her earnestly and asked if Mr. Beauchamp could please stay with them in Honeysuckle Cottage instead of his big lonely house with all the empty rooms.

  Iris had reported this to Philip last night, as their fingers tangled in the lazy aftermath of intercourse. Philip reflected for a moment or two and said that it was a logical question, and Jack was plainly a bright and sensible lad.

  They didn’t say a word as they made their way down the lane toward Honeysuckle Cottage. They rarely did. Philip’s hand was warm around hers. The nights were turning chillier now, and Iris could see her breath and Philip’s merging in the air. By the time they reached the great elm and ducked behind the trunk to say good-bye, safe from curious childish eyes, the sky was streaked with pink and the sun was inevitable. Philip leaned back against the bark and drew her against him.

  “Vivian’s leaving tomorrow,” she said. “I can’t stay the night anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “I haven’t decided about school yet. It will break their hearts to go back up to London, though, after all this.”

  “You know you can have the cottage as long as you want. The local grammar is excellent.”

  She kissed the tip of his nose. “We’ll talk about it soon, all right? I have to speak to Sasha first. We can’t just go on like this, nothing settled.”

  “Whatever you decide.”

  “You’re so good,” she whispered, “so good to me. I wish I could give you more.”

  “You’ve already given me more than I dared to imagine.”

  “This is so impossible, this sneaking around. We belong together, look at us.”

  “Shh. I’m a patient man. If it takes years, I’ll wait.”

  She said impetuously, “I hope you’ve given me a baby. If we’ve made a baby together then everything will be simple.”

  “Not quite so simple—”

  “Don’t you remember what you said, our first night? You said you would give me whatever I wanted, whatever I wished for, and I told you I wanted another baby, a girl this time, and you said—”

  “I said I couldn’t promise a girl—”

  “—Nature being so fickle, your exact words—”

  “—but I would do my best for you.”

  “Which you certainly have.”

  Philip grinned. On a face like his, the effect was wonderfully fiendish. Iris knew she should go into the house, but she couldn’t bring herself to step away. This was not enough for either of them. There were not enough hours between nine in the evening and five in the morning to talk and laugh an
d read—drink champagne or brandy or cocoa and lie together in Philip’s bed, fingertips waltzing with fingertips—not enough days in the week that Iris could steal over from Honeysuckle Cottage and steal back, a little more happy, a little more in love, a little more herself. Iris couldn’t go back to the old way of doing things any more than she could reoccupy the body of the old Iris. Even now, just thinking about sleeping with Philip—remembering the night before—she turned her lips to his shirt and wriggled her tongue between a pair of buttons. Philip took her by the arms and pushed her sternly away.

  “Enough of that. Sun’s rising. Our time is up.”

  Iris practically danced through the kitchen door, giddy as a new bride, just as the phone started to ring.

  She made a dive and answered it on the second bell.

  “Honeysuckle Cottage,” she said.

  An hour later, she was on the train to London.

  Iris was shocked to see the flat in Oakwood Court. When she’d left it nine weeks ago, every article was in place, every surface shone, the air smelled of lemons and wood. She’d closed the door with a sense of satisfaction and purpose and imagined—as the taxi sped to Victoria Station—some ritual return at the end of August, refreshed and suntanned and ready to tackle life’s challenges.

  Now she banged up the lift in rising panic. Guy Burgess had been so cryptic over the telephone, so smug and English, she couldn’t tell if Sasha had committed some unspeakable criminal act or simply went a little too far at a friend’s party, as he so often did. The door, when she rattled the knob, was unlocked. She pushed it open and stepped into the foyer, where she gasped in horror.