Evgeni was likely dead. Zhenya dead, the information so carefully concealed in Zivon’s album burned up or blown away. All because of the Bolsheviks.
His gaze moved as far as it could over the city, toward the embassy. He hadn’t dared to visit again, not now that he knew Fyodor Suvorov could be around. But the conversation he’d overheard in the park eleven days ago kept coming back to him. The diplomats were still working for Russia too. Were trying to convince the Americans to join the White Army’s fight.
But he knew they weren’t having luck yet. Much as the Europeans considered the United States to have limitless resources, it wasn’t true. Especially when one considered that their greatest resource—their people—weren’t terribly sympathetic to the czarist cause, what with their love of democracy. Perhaps they viewed the soviets as morally superior.
They shouldn’t, though. They wouldn’t, if they realized that socialist “freedom” involved killing anyone who held a different view. That was no freedom. That was the worst form of tyranny—the kind that lied about what it was.
Could he help them see that, somehow?
Be still, and know that I am God.
The familiar echo made him huff out a breath, curl his fingers into his palm around his ring. Why did you create this mind in me, Lord, if you don’t mean me to use it?
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.
Yes—and he prayed the Lord would hurry. Because he was mighty eager to see what it would look like. Maybe He would use the Americans or the British. Maybe He would simply smite the socialists with His fist. Maybe—
A flash of red-gold caught his eye. Someone moving toward the OB. Someone he recognized even from up here on the roof. She was in her nursing uniform but with her kerchief removed from her head, allowing that flash. As he watched, Lily rounded the building, aimed for the back.
Curious. Visitors never went to the back. And what would she be doing here? Her father was out of the office all day, hence why Clarke was fielding the questions from his colleagues. Zivon meandered around the roof’s raised edge, slowly enough that he’d look casual. But quickly enough that he could verify if she did indeed go inside.
He could just barely see her from up here. But he did. He saw her pause to speak to Hall. Saw Hall hand her something. Saw her nod. Then the admiral climbed into his automobile, and Lily disappeared into the OB’s back door.
Zivon eased back a step, mind clicking through it all. All the times he’d seen her here or near here when she had no reason to be. All the times Hall had mentioned having a photography expert.
The conclusion was logical. Undeniable. The only surprise, really, was that he hadn’t put it together sooner. Because having seen for himself her skill with retouching and developing photos, how could he think anyone but Lily Blackwell would be Admiral Hall’s unnamed expert?
His lips turned up. She, then, was the one Hall had shown that photograph to. And if anyone the world over could divine its purposes, it was Lily. She could see the beauty, the purpose in anything.
Lunchtime was over. Zivon turned toward the stairwell along with the others, touching a hand to his pocket as he went. Margot De Wilde had given him an invitation to her wedding that morning and mentioned that Lily had agreed to photograph the event for her. Camden had raised those sardonic brows of his and asked him if he intended to ask to escort her officially.
Three hours ago, he hadn’t really had an answer. Much as he liked Lily, courting an English girl seemed no wiser now than it had a month ago. But somehow, realizing her role here . . . well, she wasn’t just an English girl. She was an intelligence worker, as surely as he was. Maybe it shouldn’t, but that fact changed something. Made him realize they had more in common than he’d dared to think.
When next he saw Captain Blackwell, he would indeed ask for permission to escort her to the wedding. And from there . . .
Well, there were still too many variables for him to know for sure what would happen. But it was worth exploring, without doubt.
12
SUNDAY, 19 MAY 1918
The sigh seemed to build in Lily’s very toes before it worked its way up and out of her mouth. She’d snuck away after church and let herself into her workroom at the OB so she could go through another drawer in her filing cabinet. She still hadn’t found any other instances of those two German officers’ faces. But she’d awoken that morning convinced she had seen them before, somewhere.
Or maybe she’d dreamed it up in her desperation to prove to the admiral that Zivon was trustworthy.
She glanced at her watch and winced. She’d promised Ivy she’d be home by three o’clock to start getting ready for the wedding. Already four minutes late, and she hadn’t even left yet. But really, how long could it possibly take to slip into her gown and put up her hair?
Then again, she wanted to look her best. Today would mark the first time any gentleman had taken her to something without a parent or sister tagging along. That surely deserved some extra time spent primping.
Especially given that it wasn’t just any man. It was Zivon. He would notice the extra care, just as he noticed everything else. And maybe . . . maybe he would show her another layer to the matryoshka doll tonight. One in which he’d look at her as something more than just friend.
Well, regardless of his reaction, she needed to be on her way. Since it was likely to be a late night and she couldn’t exactly bow out early if she meant to photograph the entire De Wilde-Elton wedding, she’d already alerted both Ara at Charing Cross and the admiral here that she wouldn’t be in tomorrow.
But she wouldn’t want to laze away the whole day, would she? After a moment of pursed-lipped staring at the fresh pile of film that had apparently been delivered for her yesterday, she scooped half the stack into her bag to process at home. Mama might be suspicious if she disappeared out of the house for hours, but she’d think nothing of her vanishing into her own darkroom at home.
Satisfied, she opened the door—and squealed.
The admiral jumped a bit too and chuckled as he lowered the hand he’d apparently just lifted to knock. “So you really are here. Mr. Pearce said he thought he’d seen you, but I didn’t quite believe it. Oughtn’t you to be getting ready for the wedding?”
She slid the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “I ought, yes. I was just on my way home—and am already later than I meant to be. Ivy will be champing at the bit, eager as she is to help me get ready.” She smiled, though it faded back to neutral when she saw he had a manila envelope in his hands. “Did you need something?”
He blinked. Regarded her for a long moment. And then backed up to let her out of the doorway, shaking his head. “Nothing that can’t wait until Tuesday, I’m certain. Let’s just enjoy the evening, shall we? After all, it isn’t every day that we get to witness the nuptials of two of our own.”
Another day, she might have pressed him. Today, however, she tended to agree. They fell into step beside each other and set a quick pace down the corridor, toward the stairs. “Was the photograph I sent up on Friday all right?” She’d spent painstaking hours working on taking an aerial photograph of one of their new Royal Air Force aerodromes and making it look a great deal busier—and fuller of planes—than it really was. Major Camden had even spent several hours at her side, advising her on where to insert tiny, blurred people, how to arrange the fictional planes, and so forth. She’d been rather proud of the result, which she had to think was being leaked even now to the German Luftstreitkräfte.