Kip looks up. “When Dad brought us home from school yesterday, someone had been inside the apartment.”
“Like a burglar?”
“I guess. But he didn’t steal anything. I couldn’t tell, but Dad knew. Dad went into his office to make sure his things were all there. I thought he looked scared. And then he came out again and that’s when he went down to the shops and came back with the vodka.”
As I listen to this spare account, and stare into my nephew’s serious dark blue eyes, I feel as if I’m looking at one of those trick drawings. You know the ones I mean. You think it’s a profile of an old man, say, but then someone says, Don’t you see the beautiful young woman in the old-fashioned dress? And the man’s big nose becomes a bustle or something, and the curls of his beard become her tumbling hair, and even though the drawing hasn’t changed—the strokes of pen remain exactly the same—you realize it’s a different picture altogether than the one you saw first.
I fold my arms and look around me. I assumed the mess was the result of a drunken rage, Digby coming apart because of guilt while his wife struggled in the throes of labor. But now the scattered papers and open drawers suggest a different story. Digby’s drunken binge speaks of another kind of despair.
Kip stands before me in the tiny room, wearing his drawn, pale face. He needs me to do something. He needs me to hold myself together. He needs me to take charge of this disaster.
“I’ll tell you what. If you can do your best to tidy things up in the living room, I’ll tidy things up in here. Then we’ll put your father in bed for some rest and go visit your mother and your baby brother in the hospital, all right?”
For a second, I imagine he might hug me. Instead, he takes a deep breath, nods, and leaves the room. I light myself a cigarette and start to work. An hour later, I’ve put everything in order, more or less, but I haven’t found anything you might call incriminating.
On the other hand, if the KGB’s searched the place, they’ve probably already found it.
Somehow Digby manages to wash himself up and stumble into the bedroom. I follow him inside. The scene reminds me of one of those photo spreads in Life magazine after a hurricane or a tornado or something. Clothes strewn everywhere. Lamps overturned. Pocketbooks emptied. The bed itself isn’t fit for sleep—the blankets and sheets have been stripped, the mattress ripped open.
“What in the hell have you done?”
He doesn’t answer, just wraps himself in a blanket on the floor and closes his eyes. I bend down next to him and shake his shoulder.
“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.”