“Nifty. It’s Beauchamp’s sailboat, isn’t it?”
Iris fills in a shadow with tiny crosshatches. “Not bad, for a Philistine.”
“You used to hate sailing.”
“Oh, I don’t mind so much as I used to.”
“I guess it depends on who’s sailing the boat, then.”
Iris makes a small smile. The morning is cool and so extraordinarily clear, she can almost see the coast of France. But she hasn’t stopped here to see France. She’s stopped because this is her favorite spot, where the cliffs jut out a bit and the soft turf invites you to sit, and where she kissed Philip Beauchamp for the first time. Of course, Ruth doesn’t know that. Ruth doesn’t know a lot of things. In the pram, Gregory starts to stir. Ruth climbs to her feet and adjusts his blanket. She’s transformed into this obsessively attentive auntie—making up for lost time, Iris supposes.
“It’s a pickle, isn’t it?” Ruth asks.
“What’s a pickle?”
“Your husband. Beauchamp. And don’t play dumb on me or anything. I’m not an idiot. You and Beauchamp—the two of you—I know he’s Claire’s father.”
Iris lays her charcoal back in the tin. “Ruthie,” she says.
Ruth turns to face her sister. Hands on hips. “It’s just like you, not to think things through. Everything’s done by the heart, with you.”
“And you, everything by the head.”
“So maybe we’re perfect for each other.”
Iris tries to smile back.
“The kids will be fine,” Ruth says. “You know that, don’t you? They have each other. Even that Marina kid, she’ll come around.”
“And now you’re an expert on children?”
“Well, they have you for a mother, the lucky tramps.” Ruth shades her eyes and nods to the cottage. “And that terrific Beauchamp of yours. Arriving any minute to start up a round of cricket or something, I’ll bet. They’ll be fine. The question is you. Will you be fine, Iris Macallister?”
Iris studies the sketchbook in her lap. The sailboat is not quite right. It’s supposed to be a surprise for Philip, and also a little joke between them—how he loves that schooner more than he loves her. But Iris isn’t a born sailor. She hates the sea. How can you draw a sailboat if you don’t have some intuitive grasp of the physics of sailing? Anyway, sailboats remind her of that disastrous expedition to the Isle of Wight. Sasha, drunk and angry. She had almost forgotten how terrible he used to be, because he became a different man in Moscow. He became this sober, loving husband and father, and all along Iris had betrayed him—coldly, without mercy—photographing his papers and harvesting his memory and taking his children out for walks in the park, during which she would drop her bundles of photographs and coded reports into a hollow tree, say, or that ice cream vendor in Gorky Park. Then, after Burgess tipped her off—never realizing he was tipping her off, poor old thing—the most coldhearted manipulation of all.
Even now, when she thinks of that terrifying year—boxed in, trapped, exposure possible any minute—that final cache of vital information lying hidden in the apartment, month after month—unable to communicate to Fox and Philip except by their old, prearranged signals—her audacious plan, Sasha’s unknowing cooperation—Gregory growing at last in her womb, thank God, praying she wouldn’t miscarry, praying they wouldn’t catch her first—guilt, worry, desperation—she has to shake herself to understand she’s still alive. The children are alive. She has won her terrible gamble. She has this beautiful new baby, and she has Philip, and Ruth.
And Sasha has nothing.
“We have to assume he’s alive,” Iris says. “One of the labor camps, maybe.”
Ruth drops to the grass next to her and pulls the sketchbook away. “Don’t you feel guilty for a minute. Not a single goddamn second. He brought it on himself, and even if he did the right thing in the end—well, he’s only bought salvation for his own soul, maybe. It’s not nearly enough to make up for what he’s done to you. And the kids.”
“I know all that. You don’t need to worry about me. It’s just sorrow, that’s all.”
“You have room in your heart for that?”
“He’s their father.”
On cue, Gregory makes a series of desperate sobs that culminates in a howl. Ruth climbs to her feet and lifts him out of the pram to cradle him against her shoulder. Iris stares not at her son, but at the ring on her sister’s left hand, a plain gold band. She first noticed it a week or so ago. She didn’t say anything to Ruth, but she mentioned it to Philip. Why don’t you ask her? he said reasonably, and Iris recoiled. If she wants to tell me, she’ll tell me, she said, and Philip rolled his eyes just a bit and told her she was supposed to be a spy, for God’s sake.
Iris decides to speak up. “What about Sumner?”
Ruth whirls to face her. “Have you heard anything?”
Her blue, terrified eyes tell Iris everything she wants to know. She breathes out a zephyr of relief and considers whether she should tell Ruth what she knows, or whether such a tender fact would only make things harder for her sister if—well, Iris refuses to consider the If. There’s always hope, isn’t there?
“No,” she says. “But Philip’s in close contact with the Americans. He’ll give us any news, the instant he gets it.”
Ruth turns away to face the sea. Over the edge of her shoulder, Gregory’s red face stares amazed at Iris. She rises from the grass and comes to stand next to her sister, who vibrates with energy or emotion or something, Iris isn’t exactly sure what. Like a dam struggling to hold fast against a weight of mighty floodwater. Gregory’s clean, puppy scent gathers them together.
“You didn’t have to do it,” Ruth says. “You could have let Digby defect on his own. Washed your hands of him. You knew by then what the bastards were capable of. You could have stayed behind and married Beauchamp. You were already pregnant—you had the boys—you had every reason to stay safe in England.”
“Wouldn’t you have done the same, though?”
“God, no. Take the children and walk straight into the jaws of the lion? When I had a fellow like Beauchamp madly in love with me? You’re crazy.”
Iris runs her index finger along the perfect crest of Gregory’s ear. “Ruth, I spent most of my life just trying to be safe. Trying to hide from what scared me. Letting other people control what happened to me. Then I realized the idea of safety itself is just a delusion. Life is risky. And hiding isn’t living.”
Gregory starts to drowse against Ruth’s shoulder. His little head bobbles and rests against the soft green knit of Ruth’s cardigan. His eyes lose focus. There’s some connection between these two—the kind of atomic bond that would set most new mothers buzzing with jealousy, but instead gives Iris the same feeling she used to get when the priest at St. Barnabas laid his hand on the children’s heads and said Christ’s blessing be upon you.
Iris continues, “I remember sitting there by Philip’s bed, day after day, not sure if he would live or die. I thought about what Sumner told me, about a mole right inside the American intelligence service, right near the top, and operatives and agents were dying because of him. I thought about how I had stood by Sasha so stupidly all those years, telling myself that he was only following his ideals. I realized I was culpable, just as if I’d pulled the trigger that nearly killed Philip.”
“Good old Fox,” Ruth murmurs.
“Anyway, I went back to Sumner and told him I would do it—I would convince Sasha to defect—but I knew he wouldn’t turn on the Soviets. I would have to do it myself.”
“I’ll bet Fox loved that.”
“He was skeptical. But I won him over. I said it was the last thing anyone would expect. I said I was invisible to them, just some silent woman pushing a baby in a pram. And I was right.” Iris touches Gregory’s cheek. “Mummy did it, didn’t she? She found the bad man.”
“Sitting there in Washington all along. The fox guarding the henhouse.”