Ruth
July 1952
Outside Riga, Latvia
The children want their mother, naturally, but the last thing Iris needs right now is a bunch of kids crawling over her. She sits in the front seat, the passenger side, holding Gregory, while Fox aims the car swiftly down the highway. I’ve crammed myself in back with the other kids. Kip sits squashed against the opposite door, Jack next to him, Claire cuddled up to my side. She motions me down to hear a secret and cups her hands around my ear.
“Daddy’th in the twunk,” she whispers.
“Is he, now? I do hope he’s comfortable in there, poor dear.”
Claire giggles and nestles herself to sleep on my lap. I stare at the back of Fox’s neck and think how lovely it would be to fall asleep like that, in somebody’s lap, so limp and trusting that she doesn’t even stir when I lean diagonally forward and ask Iris how she’s feeling.
“Oh, I’m fine. Just fine.”
I place my fingers against her temple. The skin burns me, but then my fingers are icy cold, so what? I turn to Fox and whisper, “How does she look to you?”
He glances to the side. “Not good.”
I swear and sit back against the cloth cushions. A soft thump occurs somewhere behind me, so at least Digby’s still alive. I wonder if he went in willingly, or if Fox had to force him there by gunpoint or moral persuasion. Outside, the sun bathes the landscape in the golden glow of late afternoon, except it’s almost ten o’clock at night. According to plan, we should be skirting around Riga by now, heading to some remote location on the coast where a small boat will be waiting to take us to safety.
“Who’s in the boat?” I asked earlier, and Fox shook his head. The less I know, the better, remember? In case we’re caught. In case I—a mere amateur at enduring physical discomfort—spill all the beans under interrogation. At all costs, we must protect the small, covert network that directs our affairs—the secrets of which repose in the feverish head of the woman in the front seat.
I place my hand on Claire’s warm, silky head. She’s only three years old, this niece of mine. Her brothers sit next to me—Jack dozing off against the back of the seat, Kip staring out the window, arms crossed. I can’t see his expression, but I know he understands what’s going on. He’s no innocent, this fellow. He’s still wearing his school uniform, because Fox had no way of supplying changes of clothing for everybody. The contents of the dead drop would have been limited to passports and papers and the elements of his own current disguise. And the gun, of course. Fox is relying on speed and surprise, and the KGB identification of the driver of this car, God rest whatever soul he possessed.
It will be all right, I tell myself. In a matter of hours, we’ll be safe on that boat, and Iris will have all the doctors and medicines and rest she needs.
Fox will take care of us. Fox takes care of everybody. There he is now, driving this car confidently along the highway, as if he knows every road in Latvia like the pattern of lines on the palm of his hand. And I expect he does. I expect he memorized that map before he even left New York.
At last, the sun starts to set. The golden light takes on a salmon hue, and the streaking clouds seem to be holding their breath. I think Fox is traveling on secondary roads, which are pitted with holes and bumps and the scars of war. Claire is a dead weight in my lap, and now Jack leans against my shoulder, mouth open and drooling a little on my crisp navy jacket. I turn my head just in time to catch Fox looking at me in the rearview mirror, before his gaze turns back to the road before him.
“How much farther?” I ask softly.
“Not long. We’re getting near the coast.”
“But how many minutes?”
“About twenty.”
Some words come to my lips, but I bite them back.
“How’s Iris?” I say instead.
He glances at her. “Holding strong.”
Which means she’s alive, I guess. Her head leans back against the top of the seat—her eyes are closed. Is her skin flushed, or do the colors of sunset melt on her beautiful skin, that creamy wonder I always admired and often envied? Nobody has a skin like Iris, as flawless as alabaster, not a line or a crease, each emotion ebbing and flowing along its surface. Now it’s perfectly still. The baby lies secure in his swaddle on the seat between them. He doesn’t make a sound. The only noise in the car—apart from the faint rasp of respiration, from my soft questions and Fox’s low replies—comes from the trunk, where Digby rustles and thumps like a man in a fever dream.