The horse bent around the curve in the cliff path, the way you might swing your body around a pole. The pair of them—silver horse, silver man—tore away into the sunshine.
Iris wanted to call after him. She wanted to shout My husband is a traitor, your trusted Fischer is a traitor, Burgess too, maybe Davenport, who knows.
But she didn’t. Her husband might betray secrets, but loyalty was the stuff of Iris’s bones.
Ruth
July 1952
Moscow
When I open my eyes, the curtains stand open to a bright northern summer morning, and the chaise longue is so immaculate, you’d never guess a two-hundred-pound man slept upon its cushions. The other thing immaculate is Fox himself. He’s bathed and shaved and stands now in his American sport coat and slacks as bright as a new damn penny. Even his breath is sweet, though his voice is a little too stiff, in my opinion.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart. Car arrives in half an hour.”
“Go to hell,” I mutter and spring out of bed.
Thirty-three minutes later, he ushers me into the back seat of the same car that drove us here from the airport the previous evening. I can’t say I shine, as instructed, but at least the hurry and bother have distracted me from my anxiety. I cross one leg over the other and watch the hotel spurt away. Fox, ever thorough, riled up the sheets and punched the pillows before we left, to make it look like a newlywed couple had spent the night in them, but a knot tightens around my stomach anyway. I hate the idea of some chambermaid reporting back on our sheets and the cleanliness of the bathroom. I hate the way you can never be alone.
I hate that this reunion with my sister is as unnatural as my union with Fox, and it means about as much.
I’m surprised when the car swerves out of traffic and pulls up at an apartment building across from a large park, because the building seems old and shabby, the kind of place that was once the kind of smart, elegant residence where smart, elegant people lived, but has now fallen into neglect. Shouldn’t the Digbys be living in style, as heroes of a grateful Soviet republic?
Mr. Kedrov travels with us in the passenger seat, next to the driver. During the drive, he occasionally turned to us and reminded us of things we’d already been told, like—Now, remember family name is Dubinin, to protect privacy! And—Car will be waiting for you outside at two o’clock! He now springs out, while Fox opens my door with his usual dispatch. Once I’m free, he keeps his fingers wound with mine, as if he’s worried I might bolt at the last minute. Or possibly just to keep up the act of a tender pair of newlyweds—who knows? We step inside the lobby. There’s no doorman on duty, no porter. Mr. Kedrov proceeds to the elevators and presses a button. He rolls back and forth from his toes to his heels and chuckles at the closed metal doors of the elevator, which looks as if it was added years after the original construction. He mumbles something about the Dubinins having moved in a few months ago, when an apartment became available, because of the expected new arrival.
“Is that so? Where were they living before that?” Fox asks, in the manner of a man making conversation.
“When they first arrived, we found them beautiful housing in resort, not far from city. They learned Russian language and sent boys to Soviet school. Is quieter there,” he adds, frowning, and jabs the elevator call button a few more times.
I think I see a sheen of sweat at Kedrov’s temple. Maybe Fox notices it too. I dig my fingers into Fox’s hand and absorb the whip tension of his body alongside mine.
At last the elevator doors open with a jerk and a clang. The morning sunshine happens to be pouring through the lobby windows and door, which makes the cab seem darker than it really is. Kedrov motions us both inside. Fox urges me first, a perfect pantomime of old-fashioned courtesy. But Kedrov doesn’t join us in the elevator. He stands by the door and holds it open with his hand until we’ve both turned, then he reaches inside and presses one of the numbers on the panel. They’re Cyrillic, of course, so I can’t tell which one it is, although I know the Digbys—the Dubinins, I remind myself—live on the fourth floor. He says, “Apartment 412, they are expecting you!” before he releases the door.
We jolt upward. Fox takes my hand—I don’t know if he’s acting on habit by now, or whether he wants to comfort me. Either way, I feel comforted. How much harder it would be to face her alone! Especially with Digby by her side, and their children, and an additional child crammed inside her womb, about to enter the world at any moment. I wonder why Kedrov didn’t come up with us, keep an ear on things, and I remember there’s no need. The Digbys’ apartment must contain more microphones than a Hollywood sound stage.