Our Woman in Moscow(89)
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.