Our Woman in Moscow(106)

Vashnikov’s face is gray and shiny, the face of a sick man. He even smells like a sick man—like sour sweat. “They’ve disappeared,” he croaks.

Lyudmila doesn’t need to ask who’s disappeared. “Of course they have. Mr. Fox is an American intelligence officer, as I warned you, and Mrs. Fox is his accomplice. I am going to hazard a guess, Vashnikov. I’m going to speculate that Mr. Fox has overpowered your driver, has assumed his identity, and has taken away HAMPTON and his children in a KGB car, which will not be questioned at any checkpoint or border in the Soviet Union.”

“How do you know this?”

“Call it intuition, perhaps.”

He stares at her. “You’ve planned this, haven’t you? You’ve counted on it.”

“Just because it’s all unfolded as I said it would doesn’t mean I’ve planned it. The only thing I’ve counted on is your incompetence, Vashnikov. Or is it your desire to protect your own hide, perhaps? Because it seems you did find a few items at the Digbys’ apartment, after all.”

Vashnikov pauses in the act of lighting a cigarette. “How do you know this?”

“Does it matter? I found out. It wasn’t hard, Vashnikov. Your people have no loyalty to you at all—it’s a pity. A one-time pad for coding, a Minox camera? All very incriminating. If only you’d found some papers, too. If only you knew just how deeply HAMPTON has betrayed us. You must be desperate, eh? Desperate to find a way to cover this up, instead of simply admitting your mistake and stretching your utmost nerve to discover where HAMPTON has gone and bring him to justice.”

Vashnikov is quivering like a jelly. He puts his unlit cigarette and his lighter on the desk before him. His mouth flops open and closed like a fish gasping for water.

“I thought so,” says Lyudmila. “Very well. I will clean up your mess for you, never fear. It so happens I know precisely where HAMPTON is going, and with whom. I’m headed there shortly myself, to lead the interrogation and extract whatever information he’s taking back to his handlers. We’ll discover just how much damage has been done by your prize defector, Vashnikov, just how many valuable assets have been compromised by your stupidity, and if you’re lucky, Comrade Stalin will never know just how spectacular a failure you are. But please remember one thing, as you go about your business.”

“Yes, Comrade Ivanova?” Vashnikov says meekly.

She leans forward and whispers, “I know.”



Minutes later, Lyudmila returns to her office and tells Anna Dubrovskaya that she’s been called away to attend to an emergency. She will communicate regularly to receive any messages. In the meantime, she will need Dubrovskaya to go immediately to Lyudmila’s apartment and wait there for Marina, whom Dubrovskaya will look after with the strictest possible eye until Lyudmila’s return.





Ruth





July 1952

Outside Riga, Latvia



The children want their mother, naturally, but the last thing Iris needs right now is a bunch of kids crawling over her. She sits in the front seat, the passenger side, holding Gregory, while Fox aims the car swiftly down the highway. I’ve crammed myself in back with the other kids. Kip sits squashed against the opposite door, Jack next to him, Claire cuddled up to my side. She motions me down to hear a secret and cups her hands around my ear.

“Daddy’th in the twunk,” she whispers.

“Is he, now? I do hope he’s comfortable in there, poor dear.”

Claire giggles and nestles herself to sleep on my lap. I stare at the back of Fox’s neck and think how lovely it would be to fall asleep like that, in somebody’s lap, so limp and trusting that she doesn’t even stir when I lean diagonally forward and ask Iris how she’s feeling.

“Oh, I’m fine. Just fine.”

I place my fingers against her temple. The skin burns me, but then my fingers are icy cold, so what? I turn to Fox and whisper, “How does she look to you?”

He glances to the side. “Not good.”

I swear and sit back against the cloth cushions. A soft thump occurs somewhere behind me, so at least Digby’s still alive. I wonder if he went in willingly, or if Fox had to force him there by gunpoint or moral persuasion. Outside, the sun bathes the landscape in the golden glow of late afternoon, except it’s almost ten o’clock at night. According to plan, we should be skirting around Riga by now, heading to some remote location on the coast where a small boat will be waiting to take us to safety.

“Who’s in the boat?” I asked earlier, and Fox shook his head. The less I know, the better, remember? In case we’re caught. In case I—a mere amateur at enduring physical discomfort—spill all the beans under interrogation. At all costs, we must protect the small, covert network that directs our affairs—the secrets of which repose in the feverish head of the woman in the front seat.

I place my hand on Claire’s warm, silky head. She’s only three years old, this niece of mine. Her brothers sit next to me—Jack dozing off against the back of the seat, Kip staring out the window, arms crossed. I can’t see his expression, but I know he understands what’s going on. He’s no innocent, this fellow. He’s still wearing his school uniform, because Fox had no way of supplying changes of clothing for everybody. The contents of the dead drop would have been limited to passports and papers and the elements of his own current disguise. And the gun, of course. Fox is relying on speed and surprise, and the KGB identification of the driver of this car, God rest whatever soul he possessed.