Chapters (54)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Ruth
- One
- Lyudmila
- Ruth
- Iris
- Ruth
- Iris
- Ruth
- Iris
- Ruth
- Iris
- Ruth
- Iris
- Two
- Lyudmila
- Ruth
- Iris
- Ruth
- Iris
- Ruth
- Iris
- Lyudmila
- Ruth
- Iris
- Ruth
- Iris
- Ruth
- Lyudmila
- Iris
- Ruth
- Iris
- Three
- Lyudmila
- Ruth
- Lyudmila
- Ruth
- Sasha
- Lyudmila
- Iris
- Ruth
- Four
- Iris
- Author’s Note
- P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
- About the Author
- About the Book
- Q&A with Beatriz Williams
- Reading Group Guide
- Praise for Our Woman in Moscow
- Also by Beatriz Williams
- 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.