Well, not theirs. Not his. Zivon surged back to his feet and slipped Zhenya’s papers back into their hiding place. He had sacrificed his right to return to Russia when he came here as he’d done. He would stay here, knowing his people wouldn’t understand his decisions, knowing he would be branded a traitor, a turncoat.
He would accept that. He would accept it for them.
But he wouldn’t accept that he’d lost his brother. Or his chance to help end this war. He slipped Batya’s watch into his pocket, along with his key, and strode back out into the morning.
He’d telephoned the Russian embassy last Wednesday afternoon, near closing time, when all but the last straggler would have been gone for the day. Claiming employment that kept him busy during normal hours—true enough—he requested an early audience with Konstantin Nabokov and had been granted one today.
Nabokov had been in India and then reassigned here to London during the entirety of Zivon’s career, so he’d never met the man, which was the only reason he dared to come with his false papers. There was a chance the ambassador would recognize his real name and wonder what he was about, suspect his motives, but he wouldn’t recognize him by face, anyway.
A passel of schoolchildren were knotted up on the corner ahead, laughing, two of the girls singing and swinging their hands, clapping, snapping, palm to palm. His nostrils flared, faint Russian words filling his ears. How many times had Alyona crouched down beside her little sisters and taught another song with its silly claps and swings? Too many to count.
But never again. Her sisters and brothers would have no one to teach them such lighthearted songs now.
The self-accusation burned him to the quick, even as he noted the books slipping from a boy’s hand. The precarious-looking buckle on their strap. The puddle under the lad’s arm. Zivon burst into motion, managing to get close enough that he could send his umbrella—something he’d learned never to leave home without in London—into the space between books and water, just as the strap gave way and sent them tumbling.
The child looked down, blinked at the umbrella, and then grinned up at him. “Thanks, mister! You’re fast.”
Zivon grinned back and scooped up the books. “Anything for the sake of a book.”
Something his brother had always teased him about. Zivon helped the lad secure the strap around them again and was soon on his way, lips twitching up as thoughts of books and Evgeni reminded him of their trip to Paris when they were adolescents. When Batya had forbidden them from visiting again the bookshop near their hotel, it being owned by a Jew. When he’d convinced Zhenya to sneak out with him for one more perusal of the shelves.
How his brother had scoffed! Sneaking to a bookshop. But, always the rebel, he’d agreed.
Zivon picked up his pace. Remember where it is, Zhenya. Perhaps, if he willed it with strength enough, the words would find his brother wherever he was. Inspire him to go, find the place they’d agreed to rendezvous in Paris if they were separated. Receive the envelope Zivon had left for him. Find it. Find me. Find me even before I can find you.
He would—he could. Evgeni was resourceful, capable. If he was alive, if he was well . . .
The embassy loomed before him, the familiar Russian flag flapping in the wind, breathing bittersweet peace into his spirit. That flag had been removed from all the poles in Moscow, in St. Petersburg, all over Russia. The fact that it still flew here—that only abroad did the Russia he knew still exist—convinced him this plan was a good one.
These were his people. They would help. They must.
Though the building would be bustling in an hour, it was quiet now. He presented his false passport to a man who checked the name against a list he carried and nodded him inside. A wiry young man—the secretary who had set up the appointment for him—met him moments later and showed him upstairs to Nabokov’s office.
No time to be nervous. No time to second-guess. Zivon simply pasted on a smile, held out a hand to shake, and let his words happily turn to Russian. “Good morning, sir. I thank you heartily for meeting with me so early.”
The ambassador smiled. He looked to be in his mid-forties, his hair perfectly groomed and his mustache neatly trimmed. “Early is better for me today anyway, as I have plans later for Good Friday.”
That gave Zivon pause, made his brows draw together. It was not Orthodox Easter yet; they had another month until their celebrations.
Nabokov chuckled. “I know, I know. Surprise I get all the time. I attend Anglican services.”
Odd. Especially since the embassy supported the Orthodox church in London, so far as he had been able to glean. But he hadn’t time to dig into that now. “I pray you have a beautiful weekend, then, celebrating the sacrifice and resurrection of our Lord.”
“Thank you. Please, sit.” Nabokov motioned to a chair across from his own. “You are newly arrived in England, I’m told? Did you flee the unrest at home?”
Zivon nodded. “It became . . . necessary.”
“I can imagine.” His face solemn, the ambassador shook his head. “We diplomats are at a loss as to how to help from where we are, so we just keep doing our jobs, assisting our people here however we can. The unrest will settle soon, surely. Order will be restored, those soviets put back in their place.”
Spoken like a man who hadn’t seen the riots, hadn’t had to slink around the edges of any mobs. “I pray you’re right.” Zivon leaned forward, not having to fake the plea on his face. “I fled with my brother, and our train derailed in France. We were separated, taken to different hospitals. It’s my hope that you can perhaps get in contact with your counterpart in Paris and help me locate him. I had no luck while I was there, and no funds to stay and search. I had to get here to accept a position, you see.”
“Hmm.” Frowning, Nabokov drew forward a piece of paper and a pen. “You were traveling by train through France? A bit dangerous, wasn’t it? Why did you not go by sea?”
“With the U-boats?” Zivon shook his head. “All options offered danger. We took the one we could best manage.”
“Well. What is your brother’s name? We will certainly do what we can to find him—or any record of him.”
Of his body, he meant, if he were dead. Zivon’s throat went dry, and he had to swallow before he could speak. “Dmitri Filiminov.” That was the name on Evgeni’s passport. “But he did not have identification on him. It was in his bag, which I have.”
Nabokov let out a slow breath. “That does complicate matters, to be sure. But I know Maklakov will be happy to help however he can. I’ll dispatch a message to him today. Just leave your direction with my secretary, and we’ll let you know whatever we discover.”
A wrinkle, that. The flat Hall let for him was in his real name, not the one on this second passport. He put on a smile, though, standing as the ambassador did. “I do not know how long I will be in my current room.” Also true. The Admiralty had promised him a house eventually, though he didn’t imagine it would come before a response from the embassy in Paris. “I will stop back once or twice a week, though, if that will do. And perhaps find a way to repay your kindness.”
“Nonsense.” But Nabokov smiled. “This is our purpose. Though we are a tight-knit community here in London. I’m certain if you wish to extend the kindness to our fellow Russians, an opportunity will present itself. They can give you information on the church at the front desk, if you’d like.”