“If it’s too much for you, you can put it aside for someone else, you know.” The note in De Wilde’s voice said she knew well that by phrasing it like that, she was making it an issue of pride.
Much like his colleagues had done in Russia, this group greatly enjoyed poking fun at one another. He stepped into the room and cleared his throat. “Pardon me. I heard mention of alphabets. I could perhaps be of service?”
Not everyone was in for the day yet, but those who were all came to a sudden halt, five sets of eyes upon him.
His fingers curled into his palm. Why did he feel as though he ought to apologize? This was, after all, why Hall had hired him, wasn’t it? He pulled out a smile. “I do not mean to be forward. But I studied linguistics at university. I am fluent in nine languages and able to translate several more with the aid of a lexicon. I am likely to know any alphabets we have intercepted.”
That use of we was calculated. It would, with a bit of luck, remind them that even before he came here, he’d been an ally. Doing this same work, on the same side.
Camden stood with a grin. “And the Lord provides. Here, sit. See if you can make sense of it, Ziv.”
Ziv. He blinked at the nickname but moved toward the chair. On Camden’s desk a few papers rested, including a hastily drawn Vigenère table with the Latin alphabet filled in. It had, apparently, produced nothing but gibberish when applied to the message also sitting there.
He sat, looking first at the encrypted message. The length of the words, the frequency of certain repetitions of letters, the patterns of language. Borrowing Camden’s slide rule, he flipped over the paper with the table on it and drew his own. One with thirty-three letters instead of English’s twenty-six. Into this he put the Cyrillic alphabet and then applied to the message the new pattern it created.
It required only a few minutes to realize he’d selected the correct alphabet. Words definitely began appearing, though they weren’t the most familiar. “Not Russian—but Bulgarian, without doubt. Shall I . . . ?”
“You had better.” This from one of the other codebreakers—Adcock, who smiled at him genuinely for the first time in Zivon’s three weeks here. “If you leave it to Camden, he’ll make a mess of it.”
A ball of paper sailed through the air, striking Adcock in the shoulder. “You aren’t exactly fluent in Bulgarian yourself, there, Ad. And I make no pretense of being the best codebreaker. I’m a pilot. That is why, if you’ll recall, I’m useful to you.”
Adcock snorted and sent the missile back to Camden. “Well, from what I hear, Old Ziv goes beyond most of us. You were the czar’s best, weren’t you?”
Zivon shook his head and stood again, gathering the papers. “That was Popov—my superior, head of the division.” But Popov had trained him. And then trained him to take over, though the Revolution put a halt to all those plans.
Camden took his chair again, brows arched with challenge. “That’s not the story the admiral tells. For that matter, it’s not the story that giant hunk of ruby on your finger tells.”
Of its own accord, Zivon’s gaze flicked to the ring he was inadvertently flashing as he clutched the papers.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you for the story about that, Marin.” Adcock leaned back in his chair, clearly not minding a bit of distraction so early in the day. “Family heirloom? Gift? It must be of sentimental value for you to have kept it during your escape rather than pawning it.”
The very thought of pawning it made something hot boil up in his veins. The anger wasn’t aimed at the codebreaker, who he knew was only teasing, but at the situation that had forced him into a position where it could even be an option. “I could never.”
Camden’s grin was every bit as teasing and mocking as Adcock’s had been. “Because . . . ?”
Zivon sighed. He hadn’t intentionally decided to keep his past a secret from these new colleagues—he’d simply fallen into it. But just as he’d shared his running with Clarke that morning, perhaps it was time to offer more of himself here too. “It was a gift from Czar Nicholas. Before the Revolution. Popov had told him of my work. To show his appreciation for my service, the czar invited me to dine at the palace and presented this to me as a token of his esteem.”
“There, see? I knew it had to be something like that.” Leaning an elbow onto his desk, Camden let his smile relax into something purely friendly. Or mostly, anyway. “As Adcock said—the best. Unless he gave every cryptographer a ring in thanks?”
How long had it been since he’d had the leisure of bantering like this with colleagues who understood him? Too long. He grinned back. “No. Or if he did, they did not wear them to the office.”
Adcock laughed. “If the king gave me a ring, you can bet I’d never take it off either. And you know, now that you mention it, perhaps DID can put a bug in his ear, what do you say? Royal-issued rings for all of us! That would shut up all those old biddies who berate us for having desk jobs.”
“I doubt it.” De Wilde stood as she spoke, crossing to the secretary’s desk where they put their handwritten decrypts in a basket to be typed up.
“Speaking of rings.” Adcock narrowed his eyes at her. “When’s this wedding of yours, De Wilde? We’re all invited, aren’t we?”
Never in his life had Zivon met a young woman like this one, who looked downright irritated at mention of her upcoming nuptials. “The nineteenth of May. Yes, everyone will be invited. And now can we get back to work, or would you like to help me pick out the pattern for my gown too?”
“Careful, De Wilde. You’ll have everyone thinking you’re reluctant to wed Elton if you keep up that attitude.” Camden reached over to snag another encoded piece of paper from the waiting stack of them.
“Don’t be an idiot.” De Wilde fetched a new message, too, and returned to her desk. “If you want to talk weddings, talk about your own.”
“Can’t. We can’t set anything in stone until Ara’s father gets back from Mexico.”
Zivon moved toward the door, rather eager to get to work himself. Though he didn’t mind when Adcock shot him a parting smile, along with, “I heard what you said to that bank clerk yesterday. Good one, old boy!”
Apparently Blackwell had already made good on his promise to share the story. Zivon smiled back and slipped across the corridor without another word.
He would always be Russian. Never really be English. But for the first time, the thought of staying here didn’t feel entirely like a sacrifice. Not if he could find a place like this one.
5
Evgeni sank onto a bench across the street from the church, not sure he could move another step if he had to. Every muscle and joint ached. Well, no. Some screamed, especially his ribs. Ache was far too benign a word for his ribs.
From somewhere in the distance, a boom sounded, making Evgeni wince. It seemed he’d arrived in Paris just in time for the Germans to unveil a new siege gun, one so massive that it had put the whole city into a panic. Every twenty-odd minutes, a new shell crashed down, and they could never tell where it would strike. It made for a restlessness, a slick of fear always under everyone’s feet.