Our Woman in Moscow(96)

He sighed and took his seat. “Yes, this silly affair of Digby’s. How is he?”

“Sleeping it off. As I’m sure you know, he’s been under tremendous strain lately.”

“Indeed he has. We’re well aware of the toll the service takes, Mrs. Digby, particularly for a man as able and as hardworking as your husband. I confess, I am very fond of Mr. Digby. He’s just the kind of man we need here at the embassy, and under ordinary circumstances, we do look the other way when—incidents of this nature occur. We give the man some leave, a rest cure in the mountains, perhaps.” Mr. West glanced down at the papers before him. “And your husband’s service has been exceptional. Honestly, I can’t think why he wasn’t given some sort of leave after his last assignment. His work during the war was extraordinary, extraordinary. A man wouldn’t be human if he didn’t crack up a bit, after a time like that. We quite understand, Mrs. Digby.”

“But?”

Mr. West steepled his fingers over the papers. “But. The girl’s the trouble, you see. She’s making a real fuss. She’s gone to the papers—we’ve had to pull every string. Every string. The kind of strings we like to keep in reserve, you might say, for incidents of a more diplomatic nature.”

“I see. I don’t suppose you could give me the name of this girl? Her address? I don’t mean her any harm,” Iris added quickly. “Not at all. I sympathize with her entirely. In fact, I thought perhaps a woman’s touch might help, in this case. I can convey my deepest apology, maybe explain the situation, gain her sympathy for what Sasha’s been through—”

He frowned. “This is really quite irregular. Under ordinary circumstances—”

“These are hardly ordinary circumstances, Mr. West.” Iris smiled and made her eyes grow. “I promise you, a woman’s touch is exactly what’s needed here. I can accomplish things in half an hour that all your diplomats couldn’t manage in a week.”

“I daresay.” He sat back in his chair and appraised her. “You understand, officially speaking, my hands are tied.”

“But unofficially?”

Mr. West reached for a pen, scribbled something on a piece of paper, and handed it to Iris.

“Unofficially—Godspeed, Mrs. Digby.”



Guy Burgess waited for her outside on a bench. He was eating something from a small tin, which he tossed in a trash bin when he saw her. Stood, wiped his hands on his trousers, made a courtly bow.

“I ought to slap you,” she said, when she reached him.

“I protest. I’ve been your guardian angel. Sasha’s, anyway. How is the old boy? Awake yet?”

“Was. I cleaned him up and put him back to bed in fresh pajamas. Just what the hell were you two doing last night?”

He made a motion with his hand. “Shall we?”

“Ten minutes, then I have to return home. I’m expecting a guest.”

“Anyone I know?”

She hesitated, but there hardly seemed any point in holding back. “Philip Beauchamp. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Ah. Won’t Sasha be pleased.”

“What have you got to say to me, Mr. Burgess? Some new escapade I haven’t heard about?”

“No, I believe I’ve sworn off your husband, for the time being. He gets me into the most awful trouble.”

“I’d say it’s the other way around.” Iris stopped to cross Oxford Street, taking care to look right instead of left. “It’s about Nedda Fischer, isn’t it? Somebody killed her.”

“Nedda Fischer? Yes, terribly sad business. Awful show. On the streets of London, no less. One simply isn’t safe.”

“Oh, don’t play games with me, Mr. Burgess. I don’t have the time or the patience. I’m an American, remember? We like to play straight. Lay our cards on the table. I know what Sasha was up to, and I know what Nedda Fischer was to him, and I imagine you know, too.”

“Haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”

“No, of course not. You know nothing about nothing. You just happened by Grosvenor Square at the exact moment I wandered out of the US embassy.”

“Careful!” Burgess stuck out his hand just in time to prevent her stepping off the curb in front of a taxi. Iris took a deep breath while the taxi passed. They crossed the street and Burgess took her arm. “Let’s step into Selfridges for a moment, shall we?”

“I said ten minutes—”

Already he was steering her through the revolving doors and into the department store, around the counters with their sparse selections of cosmetics and scarves and haberdashery—clothing still rationed—glancing every so often in a mirror. Iris protested at an escalator, but she couldn’t make a fuss, could she? They swept off the top of the escalator and plunged into Gentlemen’s Furnishings. Iris thought they could hardly have been more conspicuous.

“What I think,” Burgess said softly, examining a silk necktie, “is that poor old Digby needs a little holiday, somewhere quiet. Somewhere he can’t be found. Do you understand me?”

“I understand my husband’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown, if he’s not there already. No thanks to you, I might add.”