Paul dabbed at his nose. “You worry too much.”
If he said anything else so stupid, Nadya would have to punch him too. “You do not know this man. You do not know all our purposes. Why do you assume this is anything less than life or death? And if so grave, why do you go off without our input and authorize something that could endanger the entire mission?”
A bit of fight finally sparked in Paul’s eyes. “Perhaps because I don’t know your mission!”
“It’s simple. And we need to stay focused on it.” She held Paul’s gaze just long enough to convey her opinion of his methods. And then looked to Evgeni. “We find the names of the Germans trying to start a mutiny, and we kill them before they can. We keep this war going in Europe as long as we can, to keep the Westerners out of Russia longer. On this we can all agree. Right?”
Evgeni nodded.
Paul lowered his bloodstained hands. “That’s what this is about? What does his brother have to do with it?”
A beat of silence. Then Evgeni sighed. “Because if he has my passport—which I believe he does—then he has the names.”
And he had knowledge of it even before that, so he was likely to piece together what he had. Nadya wetted a towel and handed it to Paul. Perhaps they should have told him sooner, rather than just expecting his blind help. But they hadn’t been given permission to read anyone else in on the mission.
A mission that he could have seriously hindered now because of his ignorance. She motioned to the bag he’d dropped when Evgeni punched him. “You have more photographs in there?”
Paul nodded and, with a wary glance at Evgeni, reached for the bag. “Are you going to tell me why these are necessary? Or just let me guess about that too?”
When he set the satchel on the table, Nadya flipped it open. She drew out the first of the images, smiling at seeing exactly what she’d instructed Paul’s photographer friend to create. It may not be quite as incriminating as the first one they’d produced. But it would tell a story. A continuing story. “Also simple,” she said.
Evgeni didn’t look quite as cheerful as he pulled out a chair and sat. “That’s right. We’re convincing the authorities in England that Zivon is one of us. Which will mean, to their way of thinking—”
“He’s not one of them.” Paul smiled and pulled out the second chair. “I believe I’m beginning to understand.”
17
FRIDAY, 7 JUNE 1918
There. Lily held the magnifying glass over the image, finally happy that everything was blended properly. For a moment, she could take satisfaction simply in a job well done. At least until the questions started tapping away at her heart again.
What would this one be used for? All she’d been asked to do was remove someone from the background—probably one of Hall’s agents. This was, in all likelihood, one of those cases where she was helping preserve someone’s secrecy. The photo would be slipped into a file somewhere, replacing an original, perhaps. Or fed to an enemy. Something good. Helpful.
Right?
Blustering out a sigh, Lily swung around to put the magnifying glass away and knocked her elbow, for the twelfth time in the last two and a half weeks, into the table against the wall. Her “Ouch!” turned to a growl. And maybe a frustration-relieving slap to the offending piece of furniture’s top.
This was not working. Her home darkroom was fine for a few rolls of film at a time, or working for an hour here or there. But not until she’d tried to move all of her equipment from the OB in here did she realize how small it was. She had prints in the drying rack, prints clipped to lines above, prints stacked on every possible surface. She had furniture pushed this way and that to try to accommodate the new additions.
As a result, she barely had room to turn around, much less accomplish anything.
And she meant to relay that to Daddy and Blinker this evening, when the admiral and his family came over to dine with them.
“Lilian.” Mama’s voice was accompanied by a light knock on the door. “Ivy is home. You had better go upstairs to prepare for dinner.”
“Yes, Mama.” They’d established a peace . . . of sorts. All conversations were civil. They put on smiling faces whenever anyone else was around. Mama hadn’t made a peep when Daddy announced that Lily’s resignation had been refused and all the supplies from the OB were carted to the house.
But never would her mother actually step foot in here. And every time she addressed her, it was Lilian. Never Lily anymore. She was still a conscientious, responsible mother.
Just no longer a friend.
Lily stood, switching off heaters and lights and what fans she no longer needed. She had to slide sideways to make her way to the door, and by the time she opened it, Mama had vanished. Another sigh slipped out.
She missed her friend.
As she neared her bedroom, her brows drew together at the scraping noises coming from Ivy’s. What in the world was her sister moving around now? She’d just rearranged everything last week, though no doubt that meant she’d found issue with something.
Smiling, Lily slipped into her room and went straight to the spot on the floor by their shared wall. Once the noise stopped on Ivy’s side, she lifted a knuckle. Tap, tap-a-tap.
“Oh! You’re here!” Instead of an answering tap, footsteps moved toward the hall, and a moment later Ivy entered Lily’s room, closing the door behind her. From the conspiratorial smile on her face, Lily knew there’d be a letter in her pocket. “Secret delivery.”
Lily patted the cushion next to her. She’d known her sister would be a willing partner in this most innocent of crimes, but she’d underestimated Ivy’s enthusiasm. “Did you and Clarke have a good walk?”
Ivy managed somehow to both smile dreamily and sigh sympathetically. “We did. It was a positively perfect afternoon. The only thing that could have improved it would have been had you and Zivon been there.”
Lily could hardly argue with that.
“But enough of that. Here.” From her pocket Ivy pulled an envelope with Lily written on the front in that elegant script she’d grown increasingly familiar with since the wedding. “Oh! No, wait.” Rather than hand it over, she held it high, away from Lily’s reaching hands. “It’s my turn.”
“Ivy.” She tried to inject into her voice the same censure that Mama could achieve with no effort. “Just give it to me.”
Apparently she failed, because her sister laughed and shook her head. “Nope. You know the cost of my cooperation. Now, settle down and let me serenade you with the sweet music of your beloved’s words.”
Though she rolled her eyes, it was largely for show. “Fine. But no dramatics.”
“No input from the audience, please.” Ivy cleared her throat, sent Lily the look that she probably used on her students to keep them in line, and said, “‘My sweetest milaya . . .’”
Lily groaned at her ridiculous attempt at a Russian accent. “Stop.”
“I can’t. I’ve barely started. Ahem. ‘You have no idea how dim the days have grown, without the light of your presence awaiting me at day’s end.’ No, wait.” Ivy screwed up her face. “I can do that better. Your presence. P-resence.” Her attempt to swallow the R in the same way that Zivon would have done made Lily giggle.