Back Our Woman in Moscow
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Ruth
  5. One
  6. Lyudmila
  7. Ruth
  8. Iris
  9. Ruth
  10. Iris
  11. Ruth
  12. Iris
  13. Ruth
  14. Iris
  15. Ruth
  16. Iris
  17. Two
  18. Lyudmila
  19. Ruth
  20. Iris
  21. Ruth
  22. Iris
  23. Ruth
  24. Iris
  25. Lyudmila
  26. Ruth
  27. Iris
  28. Ruth
  29. Iris
  30. Ruth
  31. Lyudmila
  32. Iris
  33. Ruth
  34. Iris
  35. Three
  36. Lyudmila
  37. Ruth
  38. Lyudmila
  39. Ruth
  40. Sasha
  41. Lyudmila
  42. Iris
  43. Ruth
  44. Four
  45. Iris
  46. Author’s Note
  47. P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
  48. About the Author
  49. About the Book
  50. Q&A with Beatriz Williams
  51. Reading Group Guide
  52. Praise for Our Woman in Moscow
  53. Also by Beatriz Williams
  54. About the Publisher

But even after four years as a private citizen, more or less, Sasha still kept these residual instincts. His eyes still traveled to the drawers, to the doors, to the rug, and examined them—not even consciously—for disturbance. He couldn’t remember what, exactly, had told him all was not as he’d left it. He just knew. He told the children to wait in the living room as he went through the house, finishing at last in his own office, which he knew to be clean—there couldn’t possibly be anything there to interest the KGB, and yet still he felt this terror as he took out his key and opened all the drawers and felt along the horizontal panel where, in another desk in another city in another lifetime, he had once cut a small hole on a false bottom to form a cavity, and in this cavity he would keep his papers and his one-time pad for coding and his Minox camera.

Of course, this was a different desk, in a different city, in a different lifetime, and the thought of carving a hole hadn’t even crossed his mind, until now. Until his hand felt along the top of the middle drawer—right where the false bottom in his old desk drawer used to be—and encountered a square opening into a cavity that contained something peculiar.

A small electronic device he recognized as a one-way radio receiver.

DESPITE RANSACKING THE ENTIRE apartment in a kind of delirious tantrum, like a child, he hadn’t found anything else. He had only this device that might have come from anywhere—he told himself—might have been left by a previous owner. Did he believe himself? He couldn’t say. He didn’t want to think about what it meant and who might have used it and for how long, and there was only one way to keep himself from thinking too much. He went to the liquor cabinet in which Iris kept a bottle of hospitable vodka in case of guests and he poured himself a glass, and when that was finished he went down to the liquor store around the corner and bought another bottle of vodka, and he had not stopped drinking until that bottle was empty and so was his head.