Fox catches his breath. Our tent grows stuffy. I throw back the covers, suck in some oxygen, and moan, “Oh! Oh! Yes, oh God!”

Under the blankets again, I roll him over and bite his neck, so he shouts out the name of his Savior. Then I whisper in his ear, “I’m right, aren’t I? She’s the one who wants out. Which raises the question.”

“What question?” he gasps.

Stuffy again. I sit up and straddle him—tear the buttons off his crisp white formal shirt—oh, yes I do—because I want him off guard, you see—I want him to act and sound like a man making ferocious love to his wife—I want him to let slip something he’d never slip otherwise. His pale hair bristles against the white sheets. His hands find my hips. His eyes shut tight against the sight of Ruth Macallister wearing nothing but her creamy satin slip.

“God, yes, yes! More!” I howl. I roll him on top of me—not an easy feat, he weighs a ton—and draw the covers back up.

“What’s in it for you?” I whisper. “Why all this trouble for a housewife and her kids?”

“Not now!” he hisses back.

“Yes, now! Or I’ll—”

And I guess I’ll never know whether he does what he does next for my sake, for himself, or for the United States of America. Does it matter? He starts with a kiss, a real one. I kiss him back—why not? Down below, he’s just as formidable as you might expect, an advantage he wields so tenderly, so patiently, I fly a little out of my mind at one point and possibly confess a few things you shouldn’t confess to any man, even in bed. Afterward, he carries the caviar into the bedroom and feeds it to me in tiny spoonfuls. Allows me a little vodka to wash it down. Before we sleep, we do it all over again, and I imagine we leave those invisible listeners in no doubt of one thing, anyway, the authenticity of our connection, which might perhaps save our lives—who knows?

AT FIVE IN THE morning, the telephone rings. Fox untangles himself and answers it grimly. He returns with the news that Iris went into labor in the middle of the night and was taken to the Botkin Hospital in central Moscow, where she’s now calling for me.

Iris

AUGUST 1948

Dorset, England

The men had concocted a plan to sail to the Isle of Wight and meet some friend of Burgess’s who was throwing a sunset party right by the water. Aunt Vivian and Iris were invited; the children had to stay home with Mrs. Betts—it was that kind of party. What sailboat? Iris wanted to know. Not to worry, Burgess assured her, he’d already chartered one from a chap in Bournemouth who would sail it for them, too.