Our Woman in Moscow(95)

The door opens.

“I wish I could explain,” Fox says.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve got all kinds of pretty explanations ready. What I want to know is how long were you going to keep all this from me? How long before you told me the whole story about yourself?”

“Ruth, for God’s sake. Keep your voice down!”

“I don’t care who’s listening! Hello? Hello?” I cup my hands around my mouth and shout to the framed landscape above the bed. “We’re having an argument, all right? Just like any married couple! Because you’ll never guess! I married a dirty low-down lying bastard! He told me he had a job, a real job with a paycheck, and it turns out he quit! He’s in business for himself!”

Fox takes me by the shoulders and turns me around—not rough, I’ll give him that, but firm enough to hold me in place in front of him so he can say his piece, in a low, calm voice that only makes me madder. “Ruth, listen to me. I’ll make it up to you. I’ve got—I’ve got money you don’t know about. We’ll be all right, okay? I’ve got things lined up, people lined up, as soon as we’re out of Moscow.”

I throw up my hands. “That’s what they all say. Oh, my luck’s about to turn, I’ve got it all planned out, our ship will come in! Well, I’ll tell you what, buster. Until I see that sail coming into harbor, I’m not counting on a red cent from you. Not a red cent.”

“Fine, then!”

“Yes, fine!”

We stand there panting at each other. The cut on his cheekbone has begun to bleed again. I pick up the evening gown I wore to the Bolshoi and blot away the blood. The sunrise blossoms behind the window. I want to cry at the pinks and golds.

“I promise you, everything will work out,” Fox says. “This outfit I’m working with, they know what they’re doing.”

“Oh, they do, do they?”

“Honest to God.”

“Then I guess you’d better start praying right now, Mr. Fox, because if they don’t? You and I are splitsville.”



The worst thing is, I can’t even ask him the real story. Silently we pack our suitcases and wait for six o’clock, when we can call down and order coffee. I like to think they can’t possibly doubt we’re really married now, a fight like that.

The coffee arrives, hot and strong. I smoke cigarette after cigarette. Fox opens a window and I come to stand next to him, so our words float straight out into the cool summer morning.

“So how long has this been going on?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

I prop myself on the windowsill and stick my head out. Fox joins me, a little awkwardly, because his shoulders are almost too wide to fit.

I speak softly. “This business of yours. When did you set it up?”

For some time he leans there silent next to me, heads stuck side by side into the open air. Kremlin across the street. Noise of traffic down below. Truth lies somewhere between us. Will he give it to me?

He turns his mouth to my ear and speaks in an intimate murmur, the way a lover would. “When I got out of the hospital, after the war. Hoover called me in. The Bureau was decrypting Russian diplomatic telegrams and he’d come to realize they had a high-level leak. Who or where, he couldn’t tell. Needed someone to work on his own, outside the agency. Someone who’d spent the last few years in a prison camp on the other side of the world. Told me he wanted us to get an agent in Moscow, right in the heart, root out all the names. Gave me whatever resources I needed.”

I absorb all this along with his warm breath on the side of my face, my neck. Turn my own mouth to his ear.

“Well? Did you find the leak?”

“A lot more than that. But not the man at the top. Not the last name we needed. And a little over a year ago, our Moscow agent dropped all communication. We were sick with worry. Then finally we got a signal. The extraction signal.”

“And here we are. That’s why we’re here. To bring your agent home.”

Fox lowers himself on his elbows and gazes down at the sleepy street below. The rising sun makes his hair sparkle. Bathes the red spires of the Kremlin across the street. I lower myself next to him so our forearms lie against each other. Right hand holds the cigarette, smoke drifting into the delicate light. Fox takes my left hand and squeezes it.

Trust me, he says.





Iris





September 1948

London



Iris took a taxi to the American embassy in Grosvenor Square and gave her name to the receptionist in the lobby. “Mrs. Digby to see Mr. West, please,” she said, dignified yet friendly.

The receptionist’s eyes went round. She lifted the receiver of her telephone. A hushed, hurried conversation took place, and when the receptionist looked up again, Iris could’ve sworn she was forcing back a smile.

“You may go straight up, Mrs. Digby. Fourth floor.”



Mr. West stood up hastily when Iris entered his office. He brushed some crumbs from his tie and held out his hand. “Mrs. Digby. It’s been some time. Welcome.”

“Mr. West. Yes, I’ve been spending the summer in the countryside. Dorset.”

“Do sit.”

“Thank you. I expect you know why I’ve come to see you.”