More time lost. Each and every day one of them had arrived before he left for the morning, and rather than leave again when he did, they instead settled in to chat. Blighted busybodies. Nadya had never much appreciated their sort in her own village, where they’d tried to arrange her marriage to no fewer than five idiot men over the years. And she certainly didn’t appreciate them now, when they’d cost her five precious days.
But finally, they were gone. Even the landlord and his wife were out. She’d watched them leave ten minutes ago.
She gave a smile to the other women on the bench knitting or crocheting—socks for soldiers, she was guessing, given the basket of them by their side. She’d promised Evgeni she would blend in somehow, so his brother didn’t notice her, and this had seemed the safest way. She added the pair of socks she’d completed that morning to their basket and then slipped off toward the building.
She’d better act quickly before the nest of bees came back to buzz. Striding forward with a confidence that would tell passersby she belonged here, she slipped through the front door and up the stairs to the flat Nabokov had told her was Marin’s. Too bad he hadn’t been able to miraculously provide her with a key, but she’d spent a few coins on a set of lockpicks in anticipation of this moment, and it only took her a few anxious minutes to convince the door to give her entrance.
When she swung it open just wide enough to slide through, a silent huff slipped out at what met her eye. It was at least four times the size of the little cupboard she and Evgeni had found to rent. Sunlight poured in from generous windows, and the furniture couldn’t be more than five years old. He had artwork on his walls—the kind that looked expensive—and books on his shelves, their spines a rainbow of unintelligible English words.
From all Evgeni had told her—and from the house in Moscow she’d snooped through with a far bigger sneer—she knew the elder Marin brother had bowed and flattered his way into wealth he had no right to possess in Russia. But what sort of bargain must he have struck with the English to be given such a prime flat here, now? When she knew very well that finding anything in this part of the city was all but impossible?
Well, he would get his just deserts. And she would get to work to make that possible. She slid the deadbolt to make sure no one could surprise her and started her search in his bedroom, which seemed the likeliest place for him to hide Evgeni’s passport.
She looked in every drawer, every pocket of every jacket. She checked under the mattress, examined the seams to see if there was an opening he could have slid it into. Beneath rugs. In the few boxes she found. She jiggled each baseboard to see if any would pull away from the wall. She pulled off and squinted at every cushion and pillow in the flat.
Standing in the center of the living room an hour later, a few choice words were swirling about her mind. It had to be here somewhere. It had to be. She stared for a moment at the oil painting, a snarl curling her lip. She’d promised she’d put everything back the way she found it, but a sudden temptation to take a knife to the canvas nearly overcame her.
Nadya swallowed it down and strode over to the other piece, the photograph. The Eiffel Tower, mocking her. Reminding her of the time already wasted in Paris. Of the German officers somewhere in the French countryside whose names she must discover soon.
Why, why could nothing just go right? She needed this. She needed to succeed in the mission they’d given her. She needed to be able to go home with her head high, having proven to the party that she was a comrade worthy of their esteem. She needed to know that the life she and Evgeni would build together wouldn’t be stripped away on a tyrant’s whim if the Whites regained power.
She needed to prove to herself, her family, her whole village that she’d been right to walk away, to scorn all they’d demanded she accept. That she didn’t need them, she didn’t need a husband, she didn’t need a heartless king or an archaic God to be what she wanted to be.
The next surge of temptation had her arm sweeping back, her gloved hand fisting. She landed it square in the middle of the glass covering the photo, relishing the crackle of every fracture. That was what she thought of the reminder of Paris.
Pivoting, she was ready to give up subtlety elsewhere too and start ripping the place to shreds. But a squeak beneath her foot stayed her.
Just the floorboard. They squeaked, this was nothing abnormal. But it was the one place she hadn’t checked yet.
She dropped to her knees, examining each seam. The noisy one seemed firmly in place, but she didn’t let that hinder her.
She had her reward five minutes later, when she found a short piece of wood near the wall that wasn’t sealed into place as the others were. Smiling, she slid the lockpick into the crack and levered it up.
And there, in the space between the board and the underfloor, was the boon she needed. A Russian passport.
“Yes!” She kept her exclamation quiet but couldn’t deny its utterance, especially when she grabbed it up and saw inside it the name Evgeni had been traveling under. A quiet laugh joined the affirmation. Evgeni’s photograph was gone, but that was no surprise. Zivon had probably needed it to show to the ambassador.
No matter. The rest was here. Nadya pocketed it, put the board back in place, and cast one more satisfied look at the shattered glass over the Eiffel Tower. Yes, Zivon Marin would know someone had been here.
Let him. It didn’t matter. She had what she needed.
She escaped the building without anyone noticing her, hurried to the nearest underground, and forty minutes later made it back to their stifling little room. As she neared, she shot a grin up at their window.
Evgeni was lounging in it, and he smiled down at her too. He had been watching for her. Not that he’d admit as much if she asked. “You’re back early, mon amour,” he called down in French.
She rolled her eyes at the endearment. He’d been taking far too much pleasure in using them since Paul had given them their documentation identifying them as married.
And she didn’t mind nearly as much as she pretended she did.
Rather than call up to him, she simply rushed up the stairs, sidestepping a cluster of babbling children, one of whom stuck her tongue out at her. In some indefinable way, the girl reminded her of her littlest sister.
A surge of affection welled but was chased quickly away by the resentment that had possessed her when she watched Anya fade away. Starving, fevered. All the food of her own Nadya had given her, all the hours she’d spent nursing her instead of pursuing her own dreams—worthless. If there was a God, He was capricious and cruel to snatch away the brightest of them and leave the rest to mourn without ceasing.
She snapped her teeth at the English brat and stormed on by.
Evgeni opened the door for her as she neared. “Is early a good thing?”
A grin stole her lips again. As soon as he closed the door behind her, she pulled out the passport. “Early is a very good thing.”
Eyes flaming bright, he laughed, picked her up, swung her around, and set her on her feet again with an enthusiastic kiss. “I knew you could find it. What was it like? His flat?”
She tossed the passport onto the tiny table. “Too large for one man. He has fine artwork on his walls, books on his shelves, and his kitchen was overflowing with more food than he could possibly eat—probably the work of that gaggle of fools trying to match him with one of their daughters.”