Our Woman in Moscow(64)

Here was a pleasant, light-filled room with French doors opening to a wide stone terrace and the lawn, on which several cricket matches might be played simultaneously, if you didn’t mind hurdling the odd hedge or flowerbed. The friend or two was really five or six, dressed for the country, but Iris’s gaze went straight to the blond woman in the lean, daring trousers and silk blouse, smoking a cigarette, caressing a damp gin and tonic in the other hand. She was the woman at the Desboroughs’ party, the one talking with Philip and Sasha in the library—Iris recognized her at once—recognized also, like a puzzle piece falling into place, she was the woman in the snapshot that Sasha kept in his desk drawer, a perfect match, except her hair was now a different color.



Philip walked them home around eleven o’clock. The other guests had left after an hour or two, and still there was no sign of Sasha, so Philip had persuaded Vivian and Iris to stay for dinner—roast chicken grown on the home farm—eat all you want, no ration book—plenty of wine to wash it down. Aunt Vivian did most of the talking. She and Philip got on like a mansion on fire. At half past ten Philip had glanced at the clock and suggested that perhaps Sasha had taken a later train and gone straight to the cottage?

“Oh, the poor man,” said Aunt Vivian. “I’d forgotten all about him.”

So now they tramped back down the lane, through the fragrant meadow that smelled of hay and wildflowers. Tonight the moon was new and invisible, but the stars were bountiful here in the country and they dusted the tips of the grass with silver. Iris listened to Aunt Vivian chatter with Philip. She was flirting shamelessly—probably planned to sleep with him, if only for revenge on her husband. The starlight glinted on his silver hair. His profile was pristine. He looked noble and wise, like a sage. His footsteps made no sound on the dirt.

They reached the cottage. Mrs. Betts had been looking after the children. She seemed surprised to see Philip—gave her report with many a nervous glance and then retired to her room. There was no sign of Sasha.

“I wouldn’t worry.” Aunt Vivian yawned. “I expect he went out with a friend or two.”

“That’s why I’m worried.” Iris turned to Philip. “Before you leave, I was hoping to have a word with you?”

“Certainly.”

Aunt Vivian gave Iris a wise look. “I guess that’s my cue, then. Good night, chums. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Philip laughed and said he imagined that left a wide range of possibilities.

When Aunt Vivian’s footsteps creaked up the stairs, Iris turned to Philip. “She’s so outrageous. I apologize.”

“Not at all. I worship your American characters. Shall we step outside? It’s a rare evening out there.”

He knew the cottage better than she did—guided her through the darkened sunroom to the French doors—knew the trick of opening the sticky middle one. The doors led straight onto the grass and a gentle salt breeze coming off the Channel.

“Come along. We won’t be overheard,” Philip said.

Iris glanced down the lane, where Sasha would be arriving if he were going to arrive. Nothing stirred. She walked on next to Philip, across the grass toward the sea cliffs.

“You’re right, it’s a beautiful evening. It’s a beautiful place—magical—I can’t thank you enough.”

He made a diffident English noise. Some seagulls squawked out of the darkness.

“I wanted to ask you about Miss Fischer,” Iris said.

“Nedda? What about her?”

“I found her photograph in Sasha’s desk.”

He stopped and said, Ah.

“She had brown hair instead of blond, and she was wearing a uniform. But it was definitely her. You can’t mistake her face.”

“No, you can’t.” Philip resumed walking. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t even know what to ask. But I thought—since she’s a friend of yours—I don’t know. Maybe you know how they might have known each other.”

Philip motioned to the left and Iris saw a stone bench, hardly visible in the starlight. She sat and he sat next to her, stretching out his legs with a sigh. “Of course you should ask your husband,” he said.

“I know. But he’s not around, is he? And I’m asking you instead.”

“You see, I don’t know how to answer you.”

“Then allow me to guess, and if I’m right, you can nod or something.”

“That seems fair.”

“I think Sasha may have been involved in some sort of intelligence operations during the war, when we were in Zurich, and Miss Fischer was a contact of his.”

“You’re very clever.”

“I’d have to be stupid not to figure that out.”

“Then why do you ask me?”

“Maybe I’m just wondering if you did the same thing.”

“And I suppose I’ve just confirmed your suspicions?”

“No,” she said, “I realized when you told me about the house being used for intelligence. I didn’t think you’d let them take over the family estate unless they gave you a piece of the action.”

He started to laugh. “How I love you Americans.”

The air smelled of night blossoms, of jasmine and the nearby sea. The wind sifted through the boxwoods. Iris put her face in her hands.