Her gaze caught his the moment he came into view, and she lifted the paper. “Have you read the news this morning?”
Zivon shook his head. Most mornings he still tried to do so before he came to work, but he’d run an extra mile today and hadn’t had the time.
She thrust the newsprint at him. “DID wants to see you straightaway. Look on page three. I’d suggest still walking while you look, though.”
Everything in him went cold, even before he opened the paper. This wasn’t about the search for those two German officers, it wasn’t about his suggestions on how to meet a mutiny if it came, it wasn’t about the czar’s execution.
No. This would rather be linked to whoever had been breaking into his apartment, searching for he knew not what. This would be about him. The shoe he’d been waiting for months to drop.
His enemies catching him up.
He waited until they were through the door before unfolding the paper and flipping to the third page, his eyes adjusting to the interior light as he walked. He skimmed over the first headings, which didn’t seem to be anything of relevance. Then caught his breath when he spotted the one halfway down the page. BOLSHEVIK SPY INFILTRATES BRITISH MILITARY.
Impossible. How? Who? He would know another Russian if one were here—even if their English were perfect, this was his life’s work. He would recognize nuance in language, in intonation, in behavior. The patterns that would be wrong, the idioms.
His gaze ate up the words. Not another Russian at all. Him. This article was all about him, the Russian linguist hired by the Admiralty. Except the article made it sound as though he’d had the French and English bidding for his “linguistics” services and had gone wherever they offered him the most money.
His feet came to a halt halfway up the first flight of stairs. He lifted his eyes to De Wilde’s. “Does he believe this rubbish? That I am in league with the Bolsheviks? That I conspired with them to kill my own fiancée so I would have a plausible excuse for leaving Russia and coming here?”
He could scarcely see through the haze of fury. Was it not enough that they had killed her? Must they now accuse him of the crime?
Because it was them. He knew it was them. It wasn’t enough that the soviets had forced him from his home. Now they would seek to ruin him here, everywhere, by claiming he was the very thing he hated, the very thing that they knew he’d be working against.
The thing the British government would distrust.
De Wilde didn’t nod, didn’t shake her head, didn’t even shrug. She just held his gaze for a long moment with that ageless look of hers. And then she said, “DID will see the truth. But that doesn’t mean he can always convince others of it. You’ll have to help him with that part. Give him the evidence people will demand.”
Evidence? How was he to provide evidence of anything other than the story he’d already shared? He’d come here with nothing but a ruby ring and a photograph he’d already turned over. Everything else had been lost to him. He had no proof but his word, and if that was called into question . . .
Clarke clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Chin up, old boy. It’s a bunch of rot—sensationalism, nothing more. The next big offensive and everyone will forget it again.”
Zivon jerked his head in a nod and skimmed the rest of the article. Whoever wrote it claimed to have an anonymous source for the information—a source that had presented “irrefutable proof” of his underhanded plot and his association with top-level Bolsheviks.
He was a bit surprised they hadn’t tossed in a few accusations of being in league with the Central Powers for good measure.
Be still, and know that I am God.
Zivon pulled in a breath that did little to calm him and refolded the newspaper. He couldn’t quite manage a smile, even for his friend or colleague. But he could appreciate that they still flanked him on the stairs. They hadn’t abandoned him—at least not yet.
At his floor, Zivon bade Clarke a low farewell and continued into the corridor with De Wilde. It was no more abuzz than usual. No one pointed or stared. But he felt conspicuous as he aimed himself for Hall’s office rather than the room in which he usually worked, De Wilde peeling off at her door with a nod that he took for support.
Camden took her place at his side. “Don’t let it bother you, Ziv. They lambasted me for months, accusing me of every crime under the sun. Between the admiral and the truth, it’ll all be put to rest.”
“I appreciate your support.” He did. But still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a bit different from the accusations Camden had faced. He’d been an English subject with a known record, whereas no one really knew Zivon. Not really. He could have lied about everything, and how would they know? Which meant, how could he prove he hadn’t?
When he neared the admiral’s office, he found Hall waiting for him at the door, face grim. He ushered him in and then clicked the door shut. “It’s bad,” he said without preamble. “I’ve contacts at the newspaper—not good enough ones, apparently, to keep them from printing this entirely, but they agreed to show me the material they received. Some of it I’d already seen, other parts I hadn’t. I would show you now, but they didn’t leave it with me.”
Zivon stood before the desk, not taking a seat since his superior didn’t. He kept his back straight and his hands clasped behind him. “May I at least know what this supposed evidence is, sir? Because I assure you, it cannot be true. Not if it is trying to prove me associated with the Bolsheviks.”
Hall leaned against his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “Photographs. Newspaper articles in Russian. All of which claim you are here under false pretenses, which then, of course, would beg the question of why.” He waved a hand toward the window. “Half of the reporters out there are opposed to socialism and insist your presence here is part of a dastardly plot to undermine order. The other half are in favor of it and claim you’re a disgrace to the cause, a murderer who may have started on the correct side but who has clearly been corrupted by capitalism.”
“No friends either way, I see.”
Hall smirked. “Enmity sells more newspapers than amity.” His lips turned down again. “It’s like this, Marin. I’ve already asked my questions, and I believe you’re exactly who you say you are. But I have those I answer to who are not keen on this division receiving attention from the press, and we’ve had more of it lately than we should have. I’ve already fielded calls that demand an official investigation.”
Zivon forced a swallow down his dry throat. “You will have trouble finding out anything. Communicating with Russia is difficult these days.”
“And the government currently in power isn’t exactly forthcoming about answering anyone’s questions. But the truth can always be discovered, given time and energy enough.”
He held himself still. But the world rocked around him. How could he have faith in that, when truth had played no part in what had befallen him lately? The truth hadn’t saved Alyona. It hadn’t saved Evgeni. The truth hadn’t kept his parents alive. The truth hadn’t gained him freedom from his enemies. “Until then?”
“Until then . . .” Hall sighed. “You ought to lie low for a bit. Stay at home. I’ll send work for you to do via Lieutenant Clarke. But it would be best if the press doesn’t see you here. For now.”