“Mr. and Mrs. Fox!” he exclaims, in supple English. He steps forward and holds out his hand. We perform the rituals. “My name is Yvgeny Kedrov, of Soviet Foreign Office. On behalf of Soviet people, I welcome you to Moscow.”
I mumble some thanks and noises of gratitude, although I’m frankly distracted by the gigantic classical statue next to me, one of four holding up the walls. I don’t object on principle to the mere strips of marble fabric protecting the modesty of these figures—on the contrary, I am all in favor of the human form—but the fellow’s scarcely swathed stone privates hover just above my head.
I realize Mr. Kedrov is attempting to address me.
“Your journey, was it comfortable?” he inquires.
“Charming.”
“Yes, thank you,” Fox says. “But I’m afraid my wife is exhausted. I don’t suppose we could rest for an hour or two before we start all our engagements?”
“Yes, of course. Your room is prepared. We have taken liberty of providing some refreshment for you. Won’t you follow me, please?”
It seems odd to head straight up to a hotel room without checking in, but Fox falls right in step behind Mr. Kedrov and pulls me with him. Behind us, the men carry our suitcases discreetly to the service elevator, where—Fox has already warned me—they’ll be carefully searched and repacked before being brought to our room. I hope they hurry. My dress is damp with sweat, and I can’t wait to change clothes.
Now, I haven’t asked who’s paying for our accommodation—the Soviet taxpayer, the US taxpayer, or we Foxes ourselves—but the bill will surely be monstrous. Kedrov leads us into a suite of parlor and bedroom and opulent bath. The balcony offers a view right over the red turrets of the Kremlin itself, by which I presume they mean to remind us to behave ourselves. I allow Fox to take the full force of Kedrov’s observations and instructions while I wander through the rooms, test the wide, voluptuous bed, examine the wardrobes. I return to Fox and loop my arm through his. I tell him this place reminds me of Paris. （Paris happens to be our code for I need to speak to you alone.）
Instantly Fox’s face takes on an expression of deep concern. “Darling, you look awfully tired. Do you need to lie down?”
I nod, the way I imagine a sweet, exhausted wife would nod, and Kedrov takes the hint and bustles away, but not before bringing the tea service to our attention. He waves his arm to the table before the sofa, where an enamel tray offers teapot and curving, elegant cups and plates stacked with pastry. After he leaves, Fox extracts his arm from mine, motions to his ear then to the four corners of the room, and says, “How are you feeling, darling?”
“Like I could use a nice bath and a rest.”
“Some tea?”
“That would be lovely. I’ll pour so you can have a look around. Where are those bellboys with our luggage?”
“Elevator must be slow,” says Fox. He starts to move around the room, examining walls and objects and windows. I sit on the sofa but I don’t pour any tea. I stare at the pot and the cups and the creamer. Instead of the delicate pale roses and leaves of an English tea service, they’re painted in vivid lapis with gold rims.
I wonder what kind of tea service Iris has. I wonder what she looks like now. I wonder what she’ll say to me, whether she still hates me, whether she wrote that letter in ink or bile. For the first time, I consider why Iris would reach out to me, of all people, when she needed help. What on earth made her think I would answer the summons? Yet I did.
Fox arrives back into the room.
“Something the matter?” he says softly.
I shake my head. He approaches me, anyway, and sits on the sofa by my side. The springs gasp and settle. He takes one of my hands and folds it between his own, and he speaks in a low, husky lover’s whisper, so the microphones won’t pick up his words.
“Don’t be afraid. I won’t fail you, Ruth.”
I swallow back a laugh. Sumner Fox, fail me? That thought hasn’t crossed my mind in days. The man can speak a dozen languages, for God’s sake. He survived a Japanese prison camp.
But I nod anyway. It’s easier than telling him what I’m really afraid of.
He says, a little louder, “Let me pour you some tea, sweetheart.”
We have dinner downstairs with a couple of undersecretaries from the American embassy whose unenviable job it was to smooth out the diplomatic details of our visit. I can’t be certain whether they’re in the know—initiated, to use the jargon—although I suspect not, because they talk without irony about facilitating understanding between the two countries at this sensitive time and so on. Lay it on thick. Even assuming the KGB is listening in, they seem awfully earnest. Everyone except Fox drinks too much. We part in the lobby at one in the morning. When they disappear into the revolving door, Fox leads me by the hand to the elevator, as if he isn’t sure I can find it on my own.