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.”
“This is pure fantasy. I’m surprised at you, Comrade.”
She straightens and adjusts the arms of her gray jacket. “And Vashnikov? Any pair of professionals can engage in sexual intercourse together for the satisfaction of whoever may be listening. This is basic KGB training.”
The Orlovsky matter has taken longer than she expected. For one thing, SALT was not at his station—some operation he was involved in. Then the girl and her grandparents were away visiting a cousin or something. They only arrived back home late Sunday night. So it was not until Monday noon that SALT had the girl Donna Anna Orlovskaya in his custody, and—in the manner of Italians, Lyudmila supposed—she proved extremely difficult. She said they had no right to detain her—she would lodge a complaint with the United Nations. She wouldn’t do as they asked. If they put her on the phone with Papa, she would pretend to be somebody else. They couldn’t make her do anything! They couldn’t make Papa do anything! Lyudmila telephoned SALT from a secure line—She’s been watching too many American movies. You have to show her that this is real life, not a movie. Then she hung up the telephone and thought that this Donna Anna Orlovskaya sounded a lot like Marina.
But today—Wednesday—there’s a fresh cable waiting for her in the stack on her desk, already decoded in the cipher room. It arrived at four o’clock in the morning from her operative in Rome.
ORLOVSKY CONFIRMS SUMNER FOX OPERATIVE AMERICAN INTELLIGENCE IN MOSCOW TO EXECUTE PLANNED EXTRACTION HAMPTON FAMILY FOLLOWING BIRTH HAMPTON BABY STOP CLAIMS HE KNOWS NOTHING MORE STOP AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS APPLY FURTHER MEASURES STOP
Lyudmila taps her pencil against her lip and smiles. Then she composes an answer.
APPLY FURTHER MEASURES STOP
Iris
September 1948
Dorset, England
About an hour before dawn, Philip nudged her awake. He was a military man, so he always sensed the approach of sunrise, and Iris slept deeply because she trusted him to know exactly when to wake her.
By now, four weeks into the affair, they had established a comfortable habit. Philip would kiss her forehead and say something like Rise and shine, my beauty—to which Iris just snuggled a little deeper. So he’d tickle her and she’d laugh and roll on his chest and press some kisses on his face. The room would be dark still—his face just shadow. She would kiss them all, shadow eyes and shadow nose and shadow chin—precious shadow scars—kiss lower—he’d sigh and take hold of her hips—well. Afterward, they had time enough to lie for a few decadent minutes, skin against skin, stunned and panting, before Iris would crawl from his arms and out of the stately bed, across the worn rug to the bathroom—gather her clothes—steal downstairs hand in hand so Philip could walk her back to Honeysuckle Cottage while the first green streaks colored the eastern sky.
Sometimes, as they walked back to the cottage, Iris thought about the reverse—the night she had first walked to Highcliffe from Honeysuckle Cottage, the courage it had required of her. The strangeness of walking to a man’s house with the fixed intention of committing adultery with him. In the end, it was easy. Philip had made it seem perfectly natural to climb the stairs to his grand-shabby bedroom, hand in hand—almost ordained. But there was more to their affair than bed. Philip came down to the cottage every day. He led the children to the stables where they took turns riding the three ponies. They had picnics and walks by the sea, sometimes swimming when the sun was warm enough. Just yesterday they’d all gone sailing in Philip’s schooner—a glorious sun-filled afternoon—even Aunt Vivian laughed her head off. Philip had pointed out all the battleships and the French coast in the distance, had shown the children how to make proper knots, had caught a few fish that Mrs. Betts fried for dinner. When Iris had tucked the boys into bed, sunburned and exhausted, Jack looked at her earnestly and asked if Mr. Beauchamp could please stay with them in Honeysuckle Cottage instead of his big lonely house with all the empty rooms.