What could he do but nod? Arguing would achieve nothing. No words he could give in any language could create trust where it had been broken. Even when he had not been the one to do the breaking. “Shall I leave now, sir? Or wait until the crowd has dispersed?”
“I have a feeling they’ll not be going anywhere for quite some time. But they don’t seem to have found the back entrance yet.”
“Very well.” Zivon saluted. Pivoted.
“Just a moment. I’ve a packet put together to take with you.”
Zivon turned long enough to take the file of papers—all of which, he suspected, were already classified as unimportant. Never would Hall let it be said that Zivon had been entrusted with anything critical after his loyalties had been called into question. If he were truly here for some subversive purpose, then the best plan would be to keep him busy with trivial matters until the extent of his actions had been discovered. Or at least that’s what he would have done in Hall’s place.
Just as well. Trivial meant easy to decode, which meant he would be left with plenty of spare time. Something he would apparently need, since it seemed all his plans would be crumbling again. He strode from the office, down the corridor, toward the stairs. At the ground floor, his feet halted. Everything in him said he should go downstairs and see if Lily was in by chance. But she wouldn’t be, not this early in the day. And even if she were, her father would no doubt reinstate his rules to keep him distant now.
Captain Blackwell would be right to do so. His sweet Lily should have no part of this.
His chest ached. He may never step foot in this building again. He may be forced even from England. Forced to say good-bye to the only woman who had ever inspired passion in his heart. But at least he had known her. Known the beauty of this love. Just as he had the satisfaction of knowing that he’d done what he came here to do. He’d convinced Hall to take seriously the threat of mutiny in the German ranks—and to be prepared to use it. He couldn’t control the how, and, if the war ended, he couldn’t guarantee that Western forces would come to the aid of the White Army.
But that which was within his power he had done. The rest was up to God.
He pushed out into the sunshine that felt as dark as midnight. God had done nothing to save his family. How was he to believe He would save him? Or Russia? What if it was, for some reason Zivon couldn’t fathom, His will that the Bolsheviks remain in power? How was he to accept that?
He strode back along the same route he’d taken to get here, not relaxing any when he was out of earshot of the shouting reporters. Nor when he neared his building minutes later. His hands had curled into fists at his sides.
“Zivon! Wait up, my son.”
Zivon paused at the familiar voice with its Russian cadence. He turned, unable to drum up a smile for Father Smirnov, who was walking with Fyodor Suvorov. He looked from one to the other. “The two of you ought not to be seen with me just now.”
His priest’s bushy brows arched. “You think we will abandon our own in his time of greatest need? Rubbish.”
“Especially when it may be partially my fault.” Fyodor moved to his side, his expression earnest. And apologetic. “A reporter came to the embassy yesterday to ask about you. We told them very little, but he insisted he had spoken with other Russians who confirmed the story and gave him photographic proof. He described this couple to Konstantin and me, and it seems my cousin recognized the woman’s description.”
Zivon frowned. “A couple? Who are they?”
Fyodor shrugged. “The woman had come in several weeks ago, asking about you. She said she had been betrothed to Evgeni.”
“What?” Zivon shook his head. “My brother was unattached.”
“A lie, then—this did not occur to Konstantin at the time. He . . .” Fyodor winced. “He had me get your address to give to her. It was right when you began attending Mass. My cousin didn’t say at the time why he needed it; I assumed he only meant to follow up with you.”
Zivon traced the time back—and realization struck. That would have been near the time of the first intrusion. Quite possibly the gaggle of women swarming the place had held her off for a bit, but with the return of quiet, she had no doubt seized her chance. “What did she look like?”
“Pretty. Young—perhaps twenty or twenty-one. Blond hair, curly, but wide-set dark eyes. Very Russian-looking, they both agreed. You know what I mean. She spoke no English, so far as anyone recalled, though the reporter said she knew French.”
They paused at the corner near his flat, and Zivon let his gaze wander as the words settled. He hadn’t met such a woman here, he was certain. The lack of English would guarantee that he remembered her, if nothing else did.
He glanced along the row of shops across from him. Mrs. Hamilton’s bookshop, which he had gone in several times. A grocer, by far the busiest of the stores. A yarn shop, outside of which young women regularly sat, knitting stockings and scarves for soldiers.
A blonde had been among them several times. A blonde with curly hair and dark eyes. She’d struck him because she’d not looked quite Western, but he’d told himself it was just his imagination, overrun as he’d been by the matushkas and babushkas at the time.
Apparently, he should have trusted his instincts.
A strong hand landed on Zivon’s shoulder and squeezed. “You are not in this alone, my son.”
Zivon shook his head. “I’m afraid I am, Father. You should all cease any questioning on my behalf at once. The last thing anyone needs is to be dragged into the inquiry against me.”
The hand didn’t move. “We do not fear this woman—or whoever she serves. The Lord will plead your cause, Zivon. Trust in Him. Be still and know that He has this, even this, in His hand.”
Zivon kept his gaze straight ahead. “I feel the need to confess, Father—I do not. I do not know this. I have been reciting it day after day for months, but the truth is . . . I cannot trust. Because He lets His children taste defeat all the time. He let Israel be carried away into captivity time and again. He let them be dispersed all around the world, reviled and scorned. He let a party gain power in Russia that has stated outright its goals of eliminating the need for Him.”
The priest just chuckled. “And there, my friend, is their foolishness. We can never eliminate the need for Him.”
“But you yourself said He may not seek His vengeance for such arrogance in our lifetime.”
“This is true. But we also know that under the cloud of persecution, His truth shines all the brighter. We know that it was in captivity that His people called on Him again. We can trust that His promises are always true, because they have always been true. He is still God. And when He leads us through the valley of shadows, we can know it is so that we are made into sons and daughters of light, capable of redeeming these evil days for Him.”
Zivon’s gaze fell to the ground. He wanted to both shrug away from Smirnov and cling to him. Because the days were indeed evil. But he was none too certain he had any light left in him to redeem anything for the Lord. “I thank you for your support, Father. Fyodor. But please—do not endanger yourselves or your families for my sake.” He drew himself up and stepped away. “I have made my choices, and my conscience is clear. I will accept whatever consequences come, be they from friends or enemies.”