“I have already found it. Thank you.” Zivon nodded and held his smile in place as he hurried back out to the street. He wanted to meet the other Russians. Make a place for himself in the congregation, find ways to help. Let Russian and Greek spill from his tongue alongside the prayers.
He wanted it—but he couldn’t risk it, not yet. First, he’d do what he could to help all of Russia. To end the war. Then he’d let himself indulge the need for community. Once it was safe to be Zivon Marin among them.
As he walked, he tucked the Filiminov passport deep into an inner pocket and pulled forward the identification Hall had provided for him. The one that had his real name, with that odd designation—British Admiralty. He flashed it as always at the OB, and the guards nodded him through. One even smiled. A bit.
A bit. The sigh worked its way out as he turned to the stairs. In Moscow, he’d been greeted every morning with respect and eagerness. In Moscow, people sought his opinions, his knowledge, his insight. In Moscow . . .
His fingers slipped into his pocket, where they could feel the ticking of Batya’s watch. He wasn’t in Moscow. Would likely never be in Moscow again. What he needed was a way to find his new place here.
“Good day to you, Marin!”
A familiar voice brought Zivon to a halt on the first step, and he turned with a smile to see Clarke. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”
A crooked smile greeted him. “As I said last night, old boy, Clarke is quite sufficient—or even Theo, if you prefer.”
Zivon inclined his head. “Of course. Thank you.”
Clarke came up beside him and motioned him onward. “I say, I think I may have spotted you this morning outside my flat.” Clarke lifted golden brows. “Assuming you run like a stallion bent on breaking a record at the tracks.”
A chuckle welled up in his throat. Unexpected, and all the sweeter for it. “I would not say that. But I do jog, yes. And I was out this morning. It could have been me you saw.”
Clarke laughed too and clapped a hand to Zivon’s shoulder. “That wasn’t a jog, Marin, at least not by my definition. Have you been a runner long?”
Though Zivon lifted his shoulders in a shrug, he wasn’t quite sure why. He knew the answer and had no problem giving it . . . except, perhaps, because it meant revealing a piece of himself, and he’d been in a mindset this morning to protect rather than reveal. He shook that off. “Ever since I was a boy, yes. My brother, he was the true sportsman, like our father. A fist-fighter.”
Clarke let out a little breath that bespoke surprise. “You mean, a boxer?”
Zivon tilted his head from side to side. “Similar, but in Russia we do not use gloves. Just fists.”
“Well. I’m much keener on running, personally. Or at least I used to be, before that nasty bout of pneumonia landed me behind a desk.”
Though he had no particular trouble keeping up with the English words this morning, Zivon couldn’t help but note tone more than syllables, the accompanying gestures more than sounds. Running was not just something this man preferred over fighting. Zivon smiled. “You are a runner too?”
Clarke’s blue gaze went a bit distant. “I’d hoped to make the Olympics in 1912. Nearly did. Lost the qualifier by this much.” He stretched out his hands and sighed out a laugh. He shrugged—though not the same sort of shrug Zivon had just given. This one said, Some things we can never change.
“I am impressed. I never competed.”
“Those days are certainly over for me.” Clarke thumped a fist to his chest. “I haven’t the fortitude anymore, since I fell ill. Though I have been trying to get back to it a bit.”
They reached the first landing, and Zivon cast a look over at his companion. Clarke was probably younger than he was by a few years. Not by much, but he’d guess him to be closer to Evgeni’s age than his own, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven. And though their stories weren’t exactly the same, they had enough in common that last night had been quite pleasant, even without the added bonus of two lovely young ladies to admire and hosts who were experts at setting them at ease.
He was also grateful for an opportunity to get to know his new superior a bit better. He didn’t think one shared dinner would make Hall trust him, take his advice. But it couldn’t hurt.
Right this moment, though, even more than those grand goals, he just wanted—no, needed—a friend. “I would like my routine to be more regular as well. Perhaps we could run together certain mornings each week?”
Clarke’s eyes lit up. “That would be just the thing. Accountability, you know. Perhaps we could work out the details over lunch today? If the weather’s fine, I’ll be up on the roof at one o’clock.”
Zivon nodded. “Perfect. I will look forward to it.”
“Ah, good. Just the chaps I was hoping to catch.”
They both looked up, spotting Captain Blackwell coming down the stairs, a smile on his face. Zivon had a feeling he wasn’t alone in the question of why the captain was looking for them both, though of course they merely said their respective good mornings and waited for the older man to explain himself.
“I’ve come with another invitation for each of you. I just received word that my brother and his wife won’t make it to Town as planned today, so we’ve two seats open for Easter dinner on Sunday. I thought, given that neither of you have people in London, you might like to join us. It’s a shame to spend a holiday alone.”
Zivon exchanged a glance with Clarke—who had told him on their shared tube ride home last night that Blackwell never invited the same young men to dinner more than once. What did this mean, that he was doing so now? For both of them, no less?
Perhaps it was simple Christian charity, not wanting them to be alone for the holiday, as he said. And if so, Zivon hadn’t the heart to tell him that he hadn’t been planning on celebrating until next month. What harm could there possibly be in observing his Lord’s resurrection now too? He nodded. “It would be my honor.”
“And pleasure,” Clarke added. “How good of you to think of us, Captain. I would certainly be delighted to join you.”
“And I.”
“Excellent.” Blackwell clapped them each on a shoulder and continued down the stairs. “I’ll let you both know of the time after I’ve verified it with Effie.”
For a long moment after he’d gone, Zivon and Clarke just stared at each other. Then they smiled, chuckled, and Zivon peeled off toward his door. “I will see you at lunch.”
His heart had never been quite so light as he passed into the corridor that housed the intelligence hub. Perhaps that was why he found himself following the voices toward Room 40 instead of his own desk across the hall.
“I think it must be another alphabet entirely.” It was De Wilde’s voice. He hadn’t yet learned them all, but it was certainly no trouble to recognize that of the sole female cryptographer.
And the words another alphabet drew him like a moth to flame.
He recognized the grumble too—Phillip Camden, one of the few of his new colleagues who always greeted him with an easy smile instead of polite distrust. “How in blazes am I supposed to decode something in a whole different alphabet? And how the devil can I know which one?”