How, though, to make Hall take note? To make him believe without seeing it himself? Or, better still, intercepting it himself?
Zivon let the thought settle. That could be the answer, couldn’t it? If Room 40 intercepted a message, decrypted it . . . that would be half the battle, anyway. Hall would at least believe the message itself. Then Zivon would only have to convince him of how the Allies ought to react to it.
He lifted his pen, thoughts swirling like a barynya. Round and round, faster and faster. He could almost hear the music that accompanied the dance. Only, instead of notes plucked from a string, they were words. Possibilities. Plans. Patterns.
He scribbled down a few options. He could try to re-create the message itself and send it. . . . But no, how would he send it as if it were from the Germans? That would be difficult. He could take a different tack, though. He could present the same basic information but from a different perspective.
His gaze drifted to the newspaper article. A French perspective, perhaps. As if from a French officer who had heard the rumors of mutiny among the Germans and feared his own troops might soon do the same. That if one group or another caught wind of such unrest among their counterparts on the other side, everyone would simply lay down their weapons and refuse to fight.
Yes, that could work. He scratched out his first lines of notes and jotted those down instead, in French. If only he’d thought of this sooner, while still in France. He could have encrypted it and sent it himself.
Now it was a bit trickier. It had to originate in France—the codebreakers would know if it didn’t. But perhaps those embassy connections could be convinced to help. He could send it first to Maklakov from the embassy here, in a code that he knew for a fact Room 40 hadn’t cracked yet. And request that he then send it back in a code they could break.
It may take some effort to convince Nabokov to trust him to that degree, especially as Ivan Filiminov. But it was his best option, unless he could somehow get his hands on their wireless himself.
The alarm clock he’d set on the table trilled. Zivon reached to turn it off, sighing at the half-finished state of his work. He would finish the encryption tomorrow. Heaven knew he’d have plenty of time between when the nightmares woke him and it was time to report to the OB. Perhaps he’d have time enough to visit the embassy again.
He stood and shuffled his papers back together. The newspaper could stay out, but the others would go under the floorboard with the fake passports. After that was secured, he had just enough time to tidy up before Clarke was due.
His new friend knocked exactly when he’d said he would. Zivon opened the door with a smile. “Hello. Come in. I need only one moment more.”
Clarke stepped inside with a grin that turned into lifted brows. “I say, old boy. Rather stark place you’ve got here, isn’t it?”
Zivon hurried to the window and jammed it closed. “The admiral let it for me, with what furnishings you see. I have not yet had the opportunity to make it my own.”
With a chuckle, Clarke leaned against the wall. “To be honest, my place isn’t much better. Just more cluttered with what my mother would deem rubbish if she saw it.”
After locking the window, Zivon grabbed his hat and shrugged into his jacket, then met Clarke with a smile. “Ready.”
“Excellent.”
They said nothing more until they were on the street, walking to the tube station. But given the smile that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in the corners of Clarke’s lips, Zivon could guess about what his friend was thinking. Or rather, about whom. “You and the younger Miss Blackwell seemed to enjoy your walk yesterday.”
Clarke shot him a look not dissimilar from the one Evgeni had sent him twelve years ago, when Zivon had teased him about having a crush on Tatiana from across the street. “I might say the same about you and the elder Miss Blackwell. Or at least . . .” The smile flipped into a frown. “I didn’t force you to give attention to her against your will, did I? I didn’t mean to monopolize Miss Ivy’s attention. Not that Miss Blackwell isn’t a lovely young lady too, of course, but if I’ve—”
Zivon’s laugh cut him off. “You worry needlessly, my friend.”
Relief as obvious as the rain clouds washed over Clarke’s face. “Oh good. That’s neat and tidy, then, isn’t it? If you prefer her and I her sister?”
From Clarke’s point of view, it certainly would be. If he intended to court Miss Ivy, then no doubt it would be most convenient if Zivon were simultaneously occupying the attentions of her sister. But Zivon knew well his hesitation showed in his every movement, not to mention on his face.
Clarke sighed. “I thought you liked her.”
“I do. Very much. It is not that at all.” He focused his gaze on the sidewalk ahead, trying to rid his mind of her shining hair, that sunshine-and-clouds knowledge in her eyes. The utter sincerity in her voice as she promised to pray for Evgeni.
How to explain to this new friend all the reasons that now was not a good time to seek an involvement with a young woman? A young English woman?
For a long moment, the only sounds were those of the city. Then Zivon sighed. “I would not have any idea how to go about such a thing.”
“Oh, come now.” Chuckling, Clarke gave his shoulder a little shove. “It can’t be that different here than it was in Russia, can it? You like a girl, you spend time with her, maybe write her a note now and then or bring her a small gift. Before the war, I’d have said chocolates, but these days . . .”
Zivon slid his hand into his pocket, where his watch ticked steadily on. Time, ever moving. Ever escaping him. Running out. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple. At least in theory, as long as the girl likes you too and her parents approve. Surely you had a sweetheart at some point in Russia.”
Shooting his friend a quick glance, Zivon shrugged. “That was different.”
“Aha!” Laughing as if he’d just won a victory, Clarke leapt a step ahead and then half turned to face him, pointing his finger. “I knew it. Why else would you hesitate? You’ve still got a girl in Russia. What’s her name? Is she pretty? I bet you’re saving up to send for her.”
Zivon’s fingers tightened around the watch, until he could feel not only the ticks but also the continual movement of the gears. “No, Alyona is not waiting for me.” He should say why—and would have, had it not been a day to focus on joy instead of sorrow. But that could wait for another day, another conversation. “And it was quite different with her. We had known each other forever.” Since she was born, anyway, and he was seven. His thoughts hiccupped a bit. Lily Blackwell was the same age Alyona had been. He hadn’t paused to realize it before.
“Ah. That does rather eliminate the necessity for the getting-to-know-you stage. What happened? Opposite sides of the Revolution?”
“Her family had no reason to take sides. They simply kept their heads down, as I imagine they will continue to do.” He was the one who’d had a target on his back. Because of his job, because of the favor of the czar . . . and because he’d foolishly tried to speak reason to people who had no desire to hear it. Who’d claimed he was the unreasonable one.
Maybe they were right. Maybe it had been madness to think he could prevail against such a maelstrom.