Our Woman in Moscow(118)

Iris continues, “I remember sitting there by Philip’s bed, day after day, not sure if he would live or die. I thought about what Sumner told me, about a mole right inside the American intelligence service, right near the top, and operatives and agents were dying because of him. I thought about how I had stood by Sasha so stupidly all those years, telling myself that he was only following his ideals. I realized I was culpable, just as if I’d pulled the trigger that nearly killed Philip.”

“Good old Fox,” Ruth murmurs.

“Anyway, I went back to Sumner and told him I would do it—I would convince Sasha to defect—but I knew he wouldn’t turn on the Soviets. I would have to do it myself.”

“I’ll bet Fox loved that.”

“He was skeptical. But I won him over. I said it was the last thing anyone would expect. I said I was invisible to them, just some silent woman pushing a baby in a pram. And I was right.” Iris touches Gregory’s cheek. “Mummy did it, didn’t she? She found the bad man.”

“Sitting there in Washington all along. The fox guarding the henhouse.”

“Well, they haven’t caught him yet. Still on the lam, the last I heard.”

“They’ll catch him. I’ll bet the FBI has never hunted a man down so ferociously. Dogs after a rat. Of course, his wife claims she never knew a thing.”

“And I’m sure everyone believes her, too,” Iris says grimly.

“Except Fox. I guess you taught him a thing or two about housewives.”

The breeze picks up a little, lifting the ends of Iris’s hair. She’s about to suggest they put Gregory back in the pram, head back to the house, when Ruth speaks up, a little raspy—

“What if they never find him?”

“Fox? Oh, darling, they’ll find him—he’ll turn up—he’s indestructible—”

“No, I mean Sasha. I mean your husband.” Ruth turns her head and looks at Iris over the tuft of Gregory’s pale hair. “Or was it all an act?”

“It wasn’t an act. Not completely.” Iris pauses. “Anyway, he sacrificed himself for us, didn’t he? In the end, he loved us more than them.”

“Then what about Beauchamp?”

Iris stares at a fishing smack, all by itself on the choppy Channel, beating off the leeward shore. In the liquid morning air, she can see every detail—the pure white sail against the blue water, the fisherman untangling his net in the stern.

“He’s the best man I’ve ever known,” she says.



They put Gregory back in the pram, but instead of heading back to the house, they walk along the cliff path, talking for once. The ice—not broken, maybe, but cracked in a few places. Iris gathers her resolve and brings up Fox.

“You know he’s been in love with you for years,” Iris says. “Since he first started investigating you.”

Ruth’s voice registers disbelief. “Did he tell you that?”

“He didn’t have to. I just knew. Also, Fox was the one who suggested that extraction signal. That I send you a postcard when we were ready to leave.”

Ruth stares at the ground as she walks. The tip of her nose is bright pink. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. They’ve got him now. They won’t let him go.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. He has more value alive than dead. Propaganda. Or a spy exchange—they do that all the time. They only really execute their own people.” Iris glances sideways. “The best thing is to keep busy until there’s news. You’ll be headed back to New York soon, won’t you? You have your modeling business to run.”

“Actually.” Ruth kicks away a stone. “I got a cable the other day. It seems this new model of mine—name of Barbara Kingsley, you’d love her—she’s become such good friends with my dear old boss, helping him manage and all in my absence, she’s thinking she might do better behind the scenes than inside them.”

“Oh? How do you feel about that?”

Ruth squints at some object in the meadow. “I’m thinking I don’t know what I feel about anything anymore. Say, speak of the devil.”

“The devil?”

“Beauchamp.”

Iris turns her head. Philip angles toward them with the long, purposeful strides of a man who has serious news to communicate. Iris’s heart drops into her stomach. Beside her, Ruth stops and puts a hand on the edge of the pram.

“What is it?” Iris calls out, when he’s within earshot.

Ruth stands silent and colorless as Philip approaches. When he reaches them, she says in a harsh voice, “Is it Fox? Is he dead?”

Philip glances at Iris and hands Ruth the telegram in his hand. She snatches it and turns away to read it.

“Oh, Christ,” she whispers.

“What’s happened?” Iris says.

Philip stares at the side of Ruth’s cheek. “They’ve found him in Berlin. Dumped on a side street.”

“Oh, God.”

Iris reaches for Ruth’s shoulder. Ruth turns beneath her hand. Her eyes are wild, her skin flushed. She speaks in a hoarse whisper. “But he’s alive. He’s alive.”

“Alive!” Iris exclaims. “Philip, what—”

“The Americans are flying out a medical team from Northolt at ten thirty.”