Colonel Y’s second report to Kuba concluded:
I explained to Bukansky that the verdict of the September 18th court could be set aside by a further hearing. He then openly threatened to behave at the press conference after the Roginova trial in such a way as would convince the Western press that the September verdict was totally justifiable.
In view of the negative attitudes expressed by patient Bukansky, it will be necessary to discover further arguments which might cause him to modify his presently recalcitrant position.
She knew from her husband’s face that there was trouble. He came into the apartment and stood at the kitchen door, his topcoat still on, his hands deep in his pockets. The Ukrainian maid smiled with her steel teeth and offered tea. He shook his head and looked toward Carole. “Get your coat,” he said. “I feel like a walk.”
She moved past him into the hall and nodded. “Okay.” It was normal procedure among the foreign community to leave the apartment if something important had to be discussed. Slipping into her coat as he watched her, Carole was suddenly, painfully reminded of the way Letsukov used to watch her while she dressed.
They left the apartment and descended in the elevator. Whether or not the lifts were bugged was a matter of some debate among the Moscow foreign community. Nobody took the risk.
They remained silent as they walked through the compound gates, past the militiaman on guard duty and turned along the street.
It was a cool summer evening. The Moscow crowds flowed past them on their interminable foraging expeditions. This month a sudden shortage of electric light bulbs had struck the city. Last month it had been key blanks, tap washers, Washbasin plugs and combs. Sometimes the shortage would end with a massive delivery from some state enterprise beyond the Urals and the shelves would be full of the sought-after items for a few weeks. Then, equally mysteriously, every comb or light bulb or washbasin plug or key blank in Moscow would seem to disappear overnight.
Carole watched the faces hurrying past: young and old, middle-aged factory workers and clerks, all with that stolid, determined look. They had only quarreled once, Letsukov and herself, when she had said how sorry she felt for Moscow women. Alex had seemed unable to distinguish sympathy from condescension. And yet sympathy was what she felt. Like most of the foreign community she had come to love those Russians she had met casually in restaurants or, with more difficulty, in their homes. Perhaps it was her own part-Slav origins, but she found she responded totally to the rambling talk, the excess of vodka, the songs, the desperate determination, almost always successful, to have a good time. And yet these were the same people who pushed and struggled in the queues, who bumped hard against you in the street without apparently noticing and certainly without apology.
She glanced again at Tom. His face was set and angry. She had no idea what he wanted to talk about. Some piece of office back-stabbing perhaps? She didn’t imagine it concerned her. Since she no longer saw Alex she had lost that edge of guilt.
The crowd thinned as they reached the edge of the park. Still walking he turned his head toward her. “Sometime last week the French pulled out a low-grade Soviet defector from their embassy in Paris,” he said. “French Intelligence had been dancing with him for a month or so trying to up the ante.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that they were trying to get him to bring over some better material when he came.”
“Were they successful?”
“No.”
They walked in silence for a few moments. The huge Rossiya Hotel rose above them.
“Most of his stuff was not much more than useful gossip,” Tom Yates said.
“Except…”
“Except a couple of items for us to look into. One of them reached my desk this afternoon.”
“I’m listening.”
“KGB here in Moscow,” he said slowly, “are working on a contact in the U.S. Embassy here.”
“Jesus,” she said. “Is that possible?”
“I don’t know. I’ll tell you how French Intelligence gave it to us. A Russian bureaucrat, not more than fairly senior, is reported to be having a torrid affair with one of our embassy wives.”
She looked at him wordlessly.
“KGB got onto it some time ago and ordered the bureaucrat to develop her as a contact.”
They walked on in silence.
“Are you that embassy wife, Carole?”
He had spoken flatly, looking not at her but into the faces of the Muscovites that flowed past them.
She breathed in the cool air. “We’re a big establishment, Tom. There are a lot of wives.”
He nodded. “But the Russian bureaucrat in question works for the Ministry of Nationalities.”
She knew already the report referred to her before that final confirmation. It was two months ago that Letsukov had made it clear they should part. And now of course she knew why. They stopped by the Rossiya Gardens.
“I’m going to be absolutely straight with you, Tom,” she said. “Up until a couple of months ago I had been meeting Alex Letsukov. That last time he told me he did not wish to continue. It was, although I didn’t know it then, his way of keeping the KGB off our backs.”
“You goddam bitch,” he said softly. “Do you want to kill me? In the job I mean?”
“I didn’t think enough of that aspect of it. For that I’m deeply sorry.”
“There are other aspects as well for God’s sake.”
“Of course there are.”
“Those are the ones you’re not sorry for. Is that it?”
“I’m sorry we have to talk here out in the open.”
“We live in Moscow. Or didn’t you notice?”
She shrugged. “What do you want to do, Tom?”
“I want to bat you all the way from here to the apartment.”
“Would that help?”
“It’d help me.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Look, Tom, I know what I’ve done. It’s out in the open now. Tell me what you want.”
“I want a divorce,” he said. “And I want you to get on the next plane out to New York.”
She saw the world close in around her. “I won’t do that, Tom. Give me a few days.”
“So you can get yourself and me deeper in it?”
“I want to see him just once more, yes.”
“I want you out of here, do you understand me? Harriet’s getting onto UPDK for an exit visa first thing tomorrow morning.”
He realized what he had said. “I had to tell her,” he grunted. “So that the travel arrangements could be made.”
“You told her the whole story?”
He shrugged.
“You told her about the divorce?”
“Why not?”
“Before you told me?”
“Let’s walk,” he said.
They turned and walked along Razina Ulitza. She felt a bubble of laughter rising inside her. She knew it was inappropriate, even cruel, given the fact that she had put his career in jeopardy. But the thought of Harriet with her steel-rim glasses and tweedy earnestness made it difficult to keep the bubble from bursting.
“You’ve been cheating too, Tom, haven’t you? With Harriet?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Our Ukrainian maid doesn’t turn hospital corners, Tom.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I know you’ve been sleeping with Harriet, Tom.”
“Once,” he said shortly. “While you were out getting laid.”
“More than once. But now we know where we stand.”
He walked on, hands in his coat pockets, head down.
“Do you really want this divorce? Or does Harriet?”