Peredelkino: May 1956
Voytek did not know how to take the news. Regret was part of it, relief another part—and the sum a wish that she’d said goodbye.
“I gave her a note for Troy. Must have been a couple of years ago,” Burgess was saying. “You know, just on the off chance.”
“Off chance of what? Her getting out? Her reaching London? Her surviving?”
“No, the off chance of her bumping into Troy.”
“Bump? I didn’t even know they’d met.”
“Oh yes. Didn’t I tell you? She used to talk about him. She did a couple of years undercover in London during the war. Met him then. They were … well, you know …”
“I don’t know anything. You’re saying they were lovers? When?”
“In ‘44, I think. They met a few weeks before Moscow pulled her out.”
“You knew her there too? I thought you met her here?”
“Good Lord, no. One Russian spy knowing another? Only if there was a purpose and in this case there was none. No, I met her here. I’m certain I told you—she managed some of my de-brief. I think our masters thought she had a handle on London … or something.”
“Yes, you did tell me that. How could you not tell me about her and Troy?”
“Dunno. I suppose it’s not the kind of relationship that’s ever interested me. You know … men … women … women … men. Even the gossip’s second rate.”
“Suddenly I feel as though I’m part of a conspiracy.”
“Well … we both are, aren’t we? It’s called Russia.”
“I meant one I didn’t know about. Not a Soviet conspiracy … they’re ten a penny … a divine one. The gods playing games with us.”
She fell silent. Burgess had a high tolerance of silence, but this one had gone on far too long.
“Tell me,” he said
“I was musing. Pointlessly.”
“On what?”
“Where is Troy? Where is Tosca? Will she ever find him?”