She didn’t shake her head or pull away or do any other logical thing. No, she sighed. And she rested her whole hand there, over all his worst secrets that she didn’t even know existed. “Not even God?”
“Of course I . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence. It would be a lie, much as he wished it weren’t. He let his eyes fall shut, to close out the image of her earnest face. “I want to. I try to. But He has taken everything, Lily. Everything. My parents. My brother. My career, my home, my future.”
She didn’t react to his liberty-taking with her name. Except that when she spoke, her voice seemed a few degrees warmer. “No. Not that. As long as you have breath, you have a future. One only He can see.”
Zivon could catch glimpses of it too. Logical conclusions to the patterns in play. Cause and effect. Actions and reactions. He just couldn’t foresee the surprises. Evgeni vanishing, likely dead. The introduction to a friend like Clarke, who shared so many interests.
Lily Blackwell, who could see beauty in a world he swore had been emptied of it.
The footsteps of the Russians had faded away, the ambassador and his cousin clearly not wanting to be overheard either. But new ones approached from the opposite direction—familiar ones. Ivy and Clarke would double back to join them soon.
He covered Lily’s hand with his. “Thank you. For reminding me of that. And . . . and for calling me by name. Your parents may not approve, but it has the sound of music to my ears.”
Her smile had the look of sunshine. “Then I shall continue to use it—as you may use mine. If you like.”
He let her pull her hand away, given the approaching steps. But he smiled in return. “I like this very much.”
Ivy and Clarke’s laughter intruded then, and they rejoined them for the walk back to Curzon Street. He and Clarke parted ways soon after. Usually they kept each other company on the tube ride home, but he knew Clarke was meeting a cousin who was in London on leave tonight.
Which was why Zivon had that encrypted message and the photograph in his pocket. He’d been planning on dropping by the embassy again as they were closing. And because it was his plan, his feet took that familiar path.
But as twilight spread its wings over the city and he looked up at the building’s proud façade, he paused. If you don’t trust your friends . . .
He sighed. This game he was playing had seemed the wisest course. The only course. The only way to move the pieces on the board. This was what his division in Moscow had always done. Decide what information to give, what to retain, what to do with it.
But this wasn’t Moscow. He was no longer the second in command of the codebreaking division, a man of vital importance to the entire intelligence operation.
Be still, and know that I am God.
If Zivon sent this message to Maklakov, deliberately undermining the allies he’d decided to join, the ones he hoped to serve out the war beside . . . If he deceived them, even though it was for the greater good, then how could he possibly expect their trust in return?
The ruby ring rested heavily against his knuckle. He wanted to help his people. His country. His czar. But the how surely mattered. And was this the kind of man he wanted to be? The kind who would look only at the ends and not question the means?
He pivoted on his heel and strode away from the embassy. He didn’t know how to untangle the web he’d already created there. But he could make different decisions moving forward. Better ones. He set his course for the Old Building, somehow not surprised when he spotted Admiral Hall just exiting as Zivon drew near.
“Admiral! Could I be spared one moment of your time?”
Though his driver already had the rear door open for him, Hall steered himself away from the car. He wore, as always, an easy smile. “Marin. What can I do for you?”
“It is, I think, the other way round.” Who do you trust? The answer couldn’t be no one. He’d chosen this ally. This life. It was time to act accordingly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph. “My brother had this in his passport. I have been trying these weeks to determine why. Who the men are. But I have not the resources—or, perhaps, the ability—to answer those questions. Perhaps you will have better luck.”
Hall took the photo, studying it with that blinking gaze of his. When he looked up, Zivon could read nothing in his eyes. “Curious indeed. What do you know of your brother’s alliances? His role in the war?”
They were questions Zivon would have asked anyone else. Still, they made his shoulders edge back. “He was a lieutenant in the army. Well respected. Certainly not the sort to collaborate with Germans, if that is what you mean. But . . .” He deflated a bit. “To be truthful, I do not know much about his activities in recent years. We have scarcely seen each other since the war. It had crossed my mind that perhaps he had been an intelligence officer for the army.”
“Perhaps.” Hall flipped it over, frowning at writing on the back. “What does this say?”
“Second day of February of this year. That is all.”
The admiral’s gaze went distant for a moment. “Hmm. You all were out of the war by then.”
“This is true. But many of us still saw the Germans as a threat. I know my colleagues and I continued to do our work as we had always done. We were surely not the only ones.”
“Hmm.” Hall tapped the photograph against his gloved palm. “I’ll see what I can discover. Have my photography expert take a look. If I learn anything of interest, I’ll certainly let you know.”
That was more than he likely deserved, after keeping it hidden so long. Zivon gave a short bow. “Forgive me for not turning it over more quickly.”
“Heaven knows you’ve had enough else to worry over. Have you heard anything yet from your brother?”
How could it ache each and every time he thought of his brother’s silence? Zivon shook his head. “I have posted several letters to our rendezvous. And I have asked the ambassador to have his Parisian counterpart look for him. Nothing.”
Hall slid the photo into his jacket pocket. “I’ll have my people look too. No offense to Maklakov and Nabokov”—he flashed a smile—“but I daresay my agents will be able to turn him up far more quickly than they can.”
Zivon shouldn’t have been surprised that Hall knew the ambassadors. It seemed he knew everyone. Which was no reason to be nervous . . . not when they were allies. “Thank you, Admiral. I cannot adequately express my gratitude.”
“If you have a photo of him, that would help.”
Zivon nodded. It would require destroying Evgeni’s false passport, but that was the only picture he had, now that his album was gone. “I will bring one tomorrow.”
And pray he’d just done the right thing.
10
FRIDAY, 19 APRIL 1918
Lily jumped at the knock on the door, looking up from her retouching desk at the OB for the first time in . . . she didn’t even know. The crick in her neck said it had been quite a while. Sometimes it took a ridiculous amount of time to get her changes to look natural. Real.
“Come in.” She had nothing light-sensitive out at the moment, just her scalpel and a slew of photographs she’d pulled as possibilities for her latest creation. The admiral had asked her to take an image of an officer on a horse, alone in a field, and put a crowd of Austrian soldiers around him. She had no idea why, but it had proven quite a challenge to integrate so many new figures without making it look clearly fake.