His pulse skidded, thudded, slowed again. “Of course.”
Hall’s lips twitched. “Though that lasted only a few minutes. When she then launched into a detailed defense of you and why it was utterly illogical for you to come here with nefarious goals, one could practically see his resistance crumbling. Especially when Effie joined in. Partly to poke at her husband, I think—she’s still a bit angry over the deception—but whatever her motivations, they had the desired effect.”
Hope sprang so quickly it left him breathless. And, frankly, terrified that it would just be ripped away again. “Did it?”
“Mm.” Hall moved to the painting next. “Blackwell has granted that she may speak to you—in public, so long as others are around. He didn’t relent yet on the walks in the park, but I believe you will be getting another invitation to dinner sometime soon.”
All of which was of the utmost interest to him. But he still wasn’t certain why Hall had taken the time to deliver this news personally, during a downpour. “This is most welcome news indeed, sir. But I must ask—were you convinced by her arguments?”
For a long moment, Hall continued to study the landscape. Then he pivoted, gaze just as steady on Zivon. “My people have not been idle. Pearce did indeed follow that chap who’d been following you. Found his home, his workplace. There was nothing immediately suspicious, so he had his sisters set up a watch and dig deeper. They gave their report yesterday.”
Zivon clasped his hands behind his back to keep them still. The man had been there several more times, trailing him, hiding from him—or thinking he was. He’d seen Pearce again too, clearly keeping an eye on the other fellow, not on Zivon. “If I may guess—he has socialist ties?”
Hall jerked his head in a nod. “Attended a convention for the Allied socialists in the past and even bought a ticket for the upcoming one. He was overheard in a pub the other night complaining about a fellow called Kerensky, a Trudovik—you know him, perhaps?”
“Of him.” The ousted head of the defeated Trudovik party. As much an enemy of the Bolsheviks, in some ways, as Zivon was.
“Right. The man was complaining that Kerensky was to be allowed a seat at the convention, though Russia is no longer an ally and his party no longer in power.” Hall moved three steps closer. “More, we intercepted a telegram for him some ten or so days ago, ordering him to desist following you. It came from Paris.”
Zivon frowned. “But I have seen him just two days ago.”
The admiral grinned. “The instructions may have been misdelivered. I plan to bring him in for questioning soon and would prefer to apprehend him while he’s about this questionable business rather than at work or the pub. I will advise you on the day this is planned so you can lead him to the place where I will have people waiting.”
“Of course. Thank you.” It wasn’t exactly a full statement of trust, but it was something, wasn’t it, to be brought in on this plan?
Hall cleared his throat. “The fact that he is connected to the socialists, who are clearly concerned with you, lends credence to all you’ve told me. But then there’s this.” He reached into his overcoat and pulled out a manila envelope.
Regarding it much as he would a serpent, Zivon reached for it carefully, bracing himself for whatever strike might come upon opening it.
His breath balled up in his chest when he pulled out the photograph. Him and Evgeni, both in uniform. The one taken at Christmas, the last time they were both home. He didn’t know why the image would alarm the admiral, but he did know what it meant for him. “This—this is from my album. The one I lost—the one I had those intercepted messages stored in.”
Hall didn’t seem quite so excited. “It could be another print.”
“No. No, the corner has the same fold. And see, on the back is my handwriting, with the date.” But when he flipped it over, his words died on his tongue. His wasn’t the only handwriting. More words were scrawled in a feminine hand. In English.
. . . by the company . . .
He frowned. “What is this?”
“That would be the question. We received another photograph that had ‘You will know a man . . .’ on the back. Combined with this, I expect a third one to arrive finishing out the phrase. Probably ‘You will know a man by the company he keeps.’”
And why would his brother be bad company? Zivon lowered the image, shaking his head. “I do not understand. Have your people in Paris had any luck searching for him yet? Evgeni?”
“We found a hospital that had treated him after the train accident.” He said it so matter-of-factly, as if it were no great thing that he’d discovered this and then not mentioned it until now. “They said he was stable but not well when he left. We have found no evidence of him since. Aside from . . .”
Something about the tone of voice had Zivon reaching for a chair at his table, pulling it out. Sitting.
Hall sighed. “A police officer we spoke to recognized the photograph you gave me. He said . . . he said he thought he’d seen him at the church that was shelled on Good Friday. Being carried off. He remembered solely because he bears a resemblance to this officer’s son, and it gave him quite a fright, despite the fact that the son is in the army, not in Paris.”
Zivon’s eyelids sank down. Be still, and know that I am God.
A soft hand came to rest on his shoulder. “I am sorry, Marin. He was the only family you had left?”
He could only nod. Once. It was all the movement he could summon. Be still. Be still.
The hand squeezed, then retreated. “I wish we’d found something more encouraging. As it is, I have my people instead looking for whoever sent that telegram to Godfrey Higgins—the chap who’s been following you. It seemed a better use of my resources.”
“Yes. Of course.” Zivon’s voice sounded as he felt—tight and gruff.
“I’ll let myself out.”
Zivon held his seat, kept his eyes closed. Tried to obey that voice in his spirit. But his mind wouldn’t still, wouldn’t stop spinning. All he could think was that his brother had only been at that church because of him. He’d have thought to find him there. And it was close to the rendezvous.
All his fault. Yet another death of someone dear to him that lay squarely on his shoulders.
His fault—and theirs. The whole reason they’d fled Russia. The Bolsheviks.
He leaned forward until he could rest his head in his hands. He could see it now, hear it in his own thoughts. The hatred Lily had pointed out to him.
He could see it. But for the life of him, he didn’t know how to fight it.
18
TUESDAY, 11 JUNE 1918
I think that’s it. We’re ready to go.”
Evgeni looked at the passport Paul had just delivered. Yet another one with his face but not his name. This time he was posing as a Frenchman. And, much to his amusement and delight, Nadya was apparently now his wife.
She’d scowled when Paul had delivered the identifications with their matching last names, but she hadn’t argued. Much. How could she, when it was the only way they’d likely be able to rent a single room once they arrived in England? Not that Paul had looked particularly happy with the arrangement either, but Paul wouldn’t be his problem for much longer.