“For God’s sake, you have a son! A new baby! What about Iris?”
“Go to hell,” he mumbles.
I stand up again and give him a kick in the derrière—not hard, just enough to stub my toe. “Have it your way. I’m taking the kids to the hospital now. In the meantime, I suggest you act like a grown-up for once in your life and do the right thing.”
“Go to hell,” he says again, more clearly.
I don’t have any idea how I manage to pack three children into a taxi and return to the hospital. Thank God Kip speaks decent Russian. Every moment I look over my shoulder for a KGB tail, for some sign that we’re being watched or followed, or about to be arrested. Then I close my eyes and pray they aren’t onto Fox. That he knows his—what do they call it again?—his tradecraft well enough to find his way back to me.
We’re blown, I keep thinking. It’s over.
But if the KGB has already searched the Digbys’ apartment—searched it yesterday—why haven’t they arrested us yet?
We reach the hospital. I pay the taxi and herd the kids onto the sidewalk and through the doors, where Kedrov paces the entrance hall. For an instant, I think he might die of relief. Then his face turns stern.
“Where have you been, Mrs. Fox? We have been looking everywhere for you!”
“Me? I went to pick up my nephews and niece at their apartment so they could meet their new brother. What’s wrong with that?”
“You should have stayed here. You are not familiar with Moscow and Russian language.”
“But you’d disappeared! What else was I to do?”
“I was called away to attend to some small matter, for which I apologize.” He seems to be struggling not to lose his temper. The agitation rolls off him in waves, and I wonder what he’s afraid of. He looks back over the four of us and says sharply, “Where is Mr. Fox?”
I lie smoothly. “He’s gone back to the hotel to rest. It was a long night, as you can imagine. Now, do you mind? The children haven’t yet met their new brother, and I’m eager to see how my sister’s doing after her ordeal. You know she had a terrible, terrible time, while you were off attending to your little matter.”
Kedrov flushes and stutters. Claire says, in a small voice, “Is Mama all right?”
“She’s fine now, darling. It was just very hard work.” I look straight at Kedrov and say fiercely, “That’s why they call it labor, you know.”
Well, he’s set back on his heels by this assertion of moral authority, which just goes to show that there’s humanity in everybody. He leads us back to the reception area and speaks to the nurse at the desk and, a moment later, ushers us down the hall to Iris’s room, led by the nurse. The nurse opens the door. Iris lies in her bed, propped up by pillows, looking remarkably more cheerful than I left her a few hours ago. She holds the baby in her arms. A man rises from the chair next to the bed.
And I’ll be damned, but it’s Sumner Fox.
Lyudmila
July 1952
Moscow
Lyudmila’s waiting for Vashnikov when he crashes into his office at a quarter past nine. He’s so startled, he drops the cigarette he was lighting and leans down, swearing, to pick it up from the floor.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing with my operation?” she demands.
He stands up again and looks innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You sent men to search Digby’s apartment yesterday, while he was at the hospital attending his wife’s labor.”
Vashnikov walks to his desk, sets down his briefcase and cigarette, and hangs up his coat. “Where did you hear this?”
“It doesn’t matter where I heard it. You wish to sabotage my operation, and for what? For what possible purpose would you let the man know he was under suspicion? Unless you wanted him to know it?”
Vashnikov sits back in his chair and smokes his cigarette, though she notices his hand trembles a little as he puts it to his mouth. “That’s ridiculous. If I’d wanted to warn him, I would have done so in a more sensible manner.”
“Then you were trying to find something. What did you find?”
He spreads his hands. “Nothing.”
“So you admit you sent the men?”
“I admit nothing. But whether his apartment has been searched or not, I am absolutely certain that nothing exists to implicate Mr. Digby as this phantom mole of yours. Your entire operation is a farce, Ivanova.”
“Oh? Kedrov tells me he was given orders to cease surveillance until further notice. Whose orders? And why?”
“Mine. I’ve encountered unanswerable evidence that Mr. and Mrs. Fox are, as they claim, an ordinary married couple of decidedly amorous inclination.”
“What business do you have listening to surveillance recordings of my operation?”
“Why, I was called over by the specialists themselves to have a listen. You should endeavor to exert better control over your subordinates, Ivanova. This is basic KGB training.”
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.”