SOMEHOW DIGBY MANAGES TO wash himself up and stumble into the bedroom. I follow him inside. The scene reminds me of one of those photo spreads in Life magazine after a hurricane or a tornado or something. Clothes strewn everywhere. Lamps overturned. Pocketbooks emptied. The bed itself isn’t fit for sleep—the blankets and sheets have been stripped, the mattress ripped open.

“What in the hell have you done?”

He doesn’t answer, just wraps himself in a blanket on the floor and closes his eyes. I bend down next to him and shake his shoulder.

“For God’s sake, you have a son! A new baby! What about Iris?”

“Go to hell,” he mumbles.

I stand up again and give him a kick in the derrière—not hard, just enough to stub my toe. “Have it your way. I’m taking the kids to the hospital now. In the meantime, I suggest you act like a grown-up for once in your life and do the right thing.”

“Go to hell,” he says again, more clearly.

I DON’T HAVE ANY idea how I manage to pack three children into a taxi and return to the hospital. Thank God Kip speaks decent Russian. Every moment I look over my shoulder for a KGB tail, for some sign that we’re being watched or followed, or about to be arrested. Then I close my eyes and pray they aren’t onto Fox. That he knows his—what do they call it again?—his tradecraft well enough to find his way back to me.

We’re blown, I keep thinking. It’s over.

But if the KGB has already searched the Digbys’ apartment—searched it yesterday—why haven’t they arrested us yet?

We reach the hospital. I pay the taxi and herd the kids onto the sidewalk and through the doors, where Kedrov paces the entrance hall. For an instant, I think he might die of relief. Then his face turns stern.

“Where have you been, Mrs. Fox? We have been looking everywhere for you!”

“Me? I went to pick up my nephews and niece at their apartment so they could meet their new brother. What’s wrong with that?”

“You should have stayed here. You are not familiar with Moscow and Russian language.”

“But you’d disappeared! What else was I to do?”

“I was called away to attend to some small matter, for which I apologize.” He seems to be struggling not to lose his temper. The agitation rolls off him in waves, and I wonder what he’s afraid of. He looks back over the four of us and says sharply, “Where is Mr. Fox?”