“Father Smirnov.” Mama grinned. “And I just transferred his telephone number into my book this morning. I recall it, if I can use your phone, Blinker.”
“Of course. I’ll take you up. Lily?”
She surveyed the spread of photographs. “More than enough to keep me occupied here for a while, sir.”
While they were gone, she went over each image, making notes on separate sheets of paper as to what was added into—or where something was blotted out of—each one, clipping the paper to the images. The further she got, the more confident she grew.
Nearly every one was altered in some way. The story these enemies of his had told—they were fiction, without doubt. And she could prove it, which was the important thing. There were even a few that clearly used the same original photo of him, pasted onto another image and re-photographed.
Whoever had done it had been careless, though, or in a hurry. There were places where she could see bubbles or spots that indicated a glare on the original pieces. Shadows underneath the imposed images.
Hall never would have let her get away with such sloppy work. And frankly, she was surprised that the reporters who had received these hadn’t noticed the inconsistencies. Some of them were obvious.
She was nearly finished by the time she heard footsteps approaching. They’d been gone quite a while, but the number of voices told her why. Father Smirnov had joined them. And so, apparently, had Daddy.
Mama took the priest directly to the Russian newspaper clipping. He accepted it with a smile. “This will only take me a minute. Shall I write a translation?”
Lily motioned him to the paper and pen she’d been using. “Help yourself.”
“The sender provided a translation,” Hall added. “But I’m not much inclined to trust its accuracy.”
“I should think not.” Lily turned back to the photos. “Especially given how inaccurate all of these are. Shall I talk you through them, sir?”
“Please.”
By the time she’d gone over everything she’d found, even Daddy looked convinced that Zivon was anything but a Bolshevik out to undermine capitalism and imperialism. And certainly there was no evidence that he’d had anything to do with Alyona’s death.
“But sadly, I don’t believe this alone will convince the brass.” Hall sighed, bracing himself against the table. “Not with the embarrassment that the article has given them, and given that you’re biased in his favor, Lily. They’ll want the original photos these were made from.”
“Zivon’s album.” How, though, were they to get that?
“This article agrees with those findings.” Setting down his pen, Father Smirnov held out his handwritten page. “It mentions a Marin who is part of the Bolshevik party. But the translation they provided changed one key word—the rank of this brother. Zivon was a kapitan. This is about a lieutenant. Zivon Marin is not a Bolshevik—Evgeni Marin was.”
“Not was.” At the new voice, they all turned to face the door. Zivon stood there, his hat in his hands and his face emptier and darker than she’d ever seen it. “Is. It seems my brother is alive, Admiral. And that he is responsible for all of this.”
Chaos erupted as questions were asked and answered, information volunteered, theories hypothesized. Lily kept her gaze, however, on Zivon. He didn’t budge from his place just inside the door, didn’t relax, didn’t for a moment enter in to become a part of this group determined to help him.
Didn’t show anyone for a moment how shattered his heart must be.
But she saw it. She saw it in every move he didn’t make, every smile that didn’t touch his lips. Every tone that stayed steady instead of rising or falling with emotion. “Zivon.” His name was a breath, surely not even heard above Daddy and Hall’s animated talk.
But Zivon heard. He looked her way, eyes shuttered.
She rounded the table to stand before him. “He wouldn’t have shown up now for no reason. What does he want?”
If possible, his eyes went even blanker. “The photograph. The one I gave to you. I do not know why, but it must somehow be linked to the German officers.”
Her hand slid into her pocket. Her camera was there, as always. But alongside it rested the snapshot. She’d taken to carrying it too, so that she’d always have a piece of Zivon’s heart with her.
Yet, for all the times she’d carried it with her, she hadn’t looked at it much. The lad in the photo wasn’t quite the Zivon she knew and loved. Surely she would have noticed something odd about it, though, wouldn’t she have?
But it was just two boys standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. The only thing on the back was a few age-browned words that must be the date. Nothing else. Nothing.
She flipped it back over. And the light from her lamp caught something strange on the front. Black against black, but glinting. “Hold on.” She held it under the lamp and tilted it this way and that.
Words. Tiny, barely legible against the shadows in the image, certainly not without a light directly above them.
“Names.” Even that didn’t bring Zivon’s voice out of its monotone. “But the names we already have.”
“We do. But clearly they don’t.”
“And they will kill to get them.” Zivon’s hand covered the photo, pressed it to the table. “Leave it here, milaya. Do not carry it anymore. Do not—do not even act as though you know me. Do not try to defend me. Just . . . make me a copy of this, perhaps. Without the words. Blot them out, or put false ones on. I will give it to Evgeni in a week, when he has said we will meet.”
He stepped away, bowing to the room at large, which quieted Hall and Daddy in time for him to address them. “That will give me time to make arrangements. I thank you all for what you are trying to do, but I will not be responsible for anyone else suffering because of me. I will leave England.”
“No!” It burst from her lips. “You can’t just leave. You can’t let them win!”
“They will not win. Not at what matters most to them. These German officers will remain safe, and their rebellion will move forward. But I . . .” He shook his head. “I will reap the consequences for what my family has done. And I will apologize, Admiral, for not thinking clearly when he turned up at my flat today. I should have followed him. But I . . .”
“Don’t fret about that, Marin. We’ll find him. We’ll stop him. And we’ll clear your name. I’m not about to let England lose you.”
The admiral’s determination ought to have encouraged her. But if she’d become convinced of anything, it was that Zivon Marin was the admiral’s match in nearly every way.
And Zivon Marin had absolutely no hope in his eyes. Whatever his brother had threatened, he was clearly convinced that leaving was the only recourse.
She couldn’t think he was right. And yet, if so . . . did she dare to go with him?
26
TUESDAY, 30 JULY 1918
The fire raged around him, above him, below him, within him. Evgeni watched the flames dance, watching for the snake that would turn into a princess. Sometimes he could glimpse her—the girl through the flames. Her hair was a brilliant gold, her eyes a startling brown. Her brows pulled always together into a frown as she reached for him.