“A calculated risk.” She’d been so certain they could use him to their advantage. Not sway him—she wasn’t that optimistic. The man was clearly a czarist, through and through. But they could use him. Feed him a bit of false information and let him send it to the Whites he was clearly in league with.
Grinding out his cigarette, Volkov blew out a last stream of smoke and stood. “Go to France. Rendezvous with the younger Marin. We will supply you with what funds we can. Find this Prussian again, first and foremost. And then make sure the elder Marin is not a risk. We haven’t the resources to hunt down every enemy who escapes our borders, but we must know how he got our messages. And make sure he doesn’t foil our plans with the Prussian.”
She snapped into a salute. “Yes, Comrade.” And then she spun for the door. She would see the purser, get whatever cash they gave her. But her feet itched to run from the building, into the still-snowy street. Straight to the telegraph office.
Her words to Evgeni would be few. Find your brother if you can. I am coming. But he would read affection in the lines, just as he read it in her every kiss.
She’d soon have the Marins in hand.
Lily tucked herself into a corner of the back garden, where she would hopefully go unnoticed while she fiddled with her camera. She didn’t often bring one out at dinner parties, but when Mama had suggested they adjourn to the garden for their pudding, given the unexpected beauty of the evening, Lily had seized the chance to run up to her room and grab her newest camera—the Kodak No. 1 Autographic Special that her parents had given her for Christmas.
Because as she’d watched Zivon Marin over dinner, her fingers had itched for the device as familiar to them as a paintbrush was to her mother’s. Not because he was particularly handsome, but because he was so . . . studied. Something about him struck her as photographic, as if he were already a still life captured on film. What would he look like when actually put to paper? Would the camera see the same thing her eyes did, or would it not translate into a photograph, where everything was caught in a moment devoid of motion?
No. She’d learned to capture motion—or its story, anyway—with her camera. She would just have to see if she could capture its opposite too. A challenge she’d never taken up before, but one she was determined to meet.
“What are you doing?”
Ivy’s whisper slipped easily into Lily’s concentration as her sister slid up beside her amid the green vines trailing over the garden wall. Ivy for Ivy. Lily had taken plenty of photos of that.
She smiled at her sister without taking her focus from her camera. “I wanted to get a snapshot of the Russian.”
Ivy breathed a laugh. “Why? Just for your collection, or did something catch your eye?”
“Mm.” Lily gauged the light and adjusted the shutter from the Clear setting to the Gray and then moved the knob atop the lens to the corresponding stop for exposure. She glanced up again to make sure no deep shadows had found her subject.
Lovely evening light still shone on their guests, soft and hazy. Marin was standing near the brick wall of the house, talking to that Clarke fellow. No, listening to him, it seemed. He was acting as he’d done over dinner, focusing his entire attention on whomever he was in a conversation with. His hands were clasped behind his back.
Clarke gesticulated as he spoke, his face a work of animation. Providing the perfect contrast to the Russian, who looked as though he could have been sculpted from wax. At least until one met his gaze. The few times she’d done that over the course of the evening, she’d been struck by movement instead of stillness. A mind always at work, that was what those eyes betrayed.
Not surprising, if he was one of Admiral Hall’s codebreakers—not that she would have known that’s what he was, were she not a part of OB40 herself.
Perhaps she could convince him to let her take a photograph of him looking at her too. One to capture the stillness. One to capture the motion it hid.
She adjusted the diaphragm lever and then set the shutter in place.
“He’s handsome, isn’t he?” Ivy’s whisper curled around her.
Lily looked away from the camera to direct arched brows toward her sister. Ivy’s gaze was latched onto their two young guests. “The Russian?” He wasn’t unattractive, but she was surprised at the note of wistfulness in Ivy’s tone.
Her sister glanced back to her, and she laughed. “No, Silly Lily. I mean, not that he isn’t. But I was talking about him. Lieutenant Clarke.”
She blinked at Ivy—at the light in her eyes, the smile on her lips, the way she tilted her head toward their guests. Lily lifted her camera, quickly thumbed the knurled screw all the way to bring the focus in as tight as it would go, and snapped a picture.
Ivy laughed and turned to her again. “What?”
“I had to capture the moment. I do believe this is the first time my sweet baby sister has actually expressed interest in one of the chaps Daddy brought home.”
They’d teased each other plenty over the years, though. About who of the endless parade was the best looking, who had looked overlong at whom. But this time, a pretty blush crept into Ivy’s cheeks, and she looked toward Clarke again. “He is, though, isn’t he? Handsome? And clever. And kind. The way he fussed over Mrs. Goddard when she stumbled . . .”
Lily’s breath had caught when their housekeeper had nearly gone sprawling upon coming in to tell them dinner was ready. But she hadn’t really noticed how Clarke reacted. She’d been more focused on how Marin had managed to move forward seconds before Mrs. Goddard entered, trying to smooth out the bunched rug with his foot, even while he steadied her stumbling form with a quick hand. All while looking as placid as a mountain lake.
How had he known she was about to trip?
A question her sister wouldn’t be able to answer. Lily smiled at Ivy, trying to focus her thoughts on their other guest. “He is all those things. And he was glancing your way quite often over dinner, so I daresay if you give him a bit of encouragement—and let Daddy know of your impressions—he’ll be a regular guest.”
Somehow Ivy’s cheeks went even pinker. “Perhaps. Let’s see how the evening ends, shall we? One never knows when a prince might turn into an ogre.”
With a chuckle, Lily focused on her camera again. If she wanted a shot of Clarke and Marin together, she’d better get it now, before her sister moved away from their quiet corner and stole all the male attention—or the younger men were called over by her parents and the Halls to join their conversation.
She thumbed the knurled screw again to lengthen the focus, checking through the viewfinder to verify that she had it right when she thought it nearly perfect. One more nudge and she was satisfied.
And the light was ideal. Before it—or her subjects—could shift, she trailed her fingers down the cable dangling at the camera’s side and gripped the push-pin. Drew in a deep breath, held her hands steady, and pressed the pin.
The shutter clicked. The film whirred. And a moment was forever captured. It made a smile curl in the corner of her lips.
“Am I allowed to move now?” A grin saturated Ivy’s voice.
Lily grinned back. “Thank you for not getting in the way of the light. Or distracting anyone.”
Her sister gave a mock salute. “Between you and Mama, I have been well trained. But there’s the pudding, so you’d better put the camera away, Lil.”
The back door was indeed opening, a maid laden with a large tray emerging. Their dessert wouldn’t be all that sweet—sugar was all but impossible to come by—but their cook could do wonders with the preserved and canned fruit that her uncle sent from his country estate. Lily folded the camera up and slid the compact rectangle into the pocket of her favorite evening dress . . . which was her favorite because it had pockets large enough to allow her to do that.
“You enjoy photography?”
Lily started at the accented voice, though she was quick to cover it with a smile. It appeared her sister had commandeered Lieutenant Clarke�
��s attention, which must have left Mr. Marin to wander her way. “I do, yes. My mother taught me how to take good photos, develop them, and retouch them, but she’s never latched on to the medium like I did.”
Marin’s returning smile seemed to reach only half brightness, if that. It had need of a flash pistol—something to provide that extra charge of light when circumstances didn’t supply it naturally. “The photographs on the walls inside are perhaps yours?”
“They are.” Lily motioned toward the table where the pudding was being set out, though she led them there at a slow pace. From across the table at dinner, she hadn’t really been able to tell the color of his eyes behind his spectacles. But they were a deep brown, like the chocolate drops she hadn’t tasted in four years.
How very strange that chocolate-drop eyes and a curl to his hair that was defying its pomade—characteristics that should have made him appear boyish—somehow made him seem all the more somber.
“They are stunning. I particularly am fond of the one with sun glinting off an onion dome. It reminds me of home.”
And that, she had to think, was where the sorrow had its roots in him. “It’s the Royal Pavilion in Brighton—it does look rather Russian, doesn’t it? We went there on holiday just a few weeks before the war began.” She felt her smile go crooked. “Ivy’s favorite hat blew off into the sea one day, and Daddy plunged in after it, claiming no navy man would let a few waves steal from his little girl.” Her gaze flicked to her father, who was whispering something to Mama. “I haven’t seen him so lighthearted since.”
“Memories. They are like matryoshka dolls, yes?”
She looked at Mr. Marin again, brows knit. “What kind of dolls?”
He cupped his hands, then brought them closer together. “They . . . nest. Nesting dolls? You know them by this name, perhaps?”
“Oh! Yes, of course.” They’d been wildly popular before the war, when people could still afford to spend ridiculous amounts of money on toys. “Memories are like that, to be sure. As soon as you peek at one, another reveals itself, and then another.”
He nodded. And his eyes churned. And the rest of him stayed so very still, even as he walked beside her.
She had a feeling he was like a matryoshka doll too—a placid exterior that hid layers of secrets and mysteries. And she couldn’t help but wonder what lay beneath this carefully crafted shell.
Perhaps she ought to suggest that the newcomer to their city be invited more often too, along with Clarke. He could surely use the company.
And Lily hadn’t yet gotten a snapshot of him on his own.
4
GOOD FRIDAY, 29 MARCH 1918
Zivon jerked awake, his heart hammering with such force that it felt as if his chest might crack from the pressure. The images still warred in his mind, not fading fast enough as he blinked into the darkness to clear them.
Matushka, broken in the streets of Petrograd. Alyona, crumpled and pale on his doorstep. Evgeni, bleeding and unconscious by the twisted rail that had sent them into chaos.
His eyes hadn’t seen them all, but that reality didn’t keep his mind from tossing its imaginings at him night after dreaded night. It didn’t keep him from picturing the Red soldiers advancing on everyone who mattered, weapons raised, hatred in their eyes.
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.
He sat up, tossing his sweat-soaked sheet aside, and tangled his fist in the bedding. That was a promise from God that he would cling to. Hurry, Lord. Show them the penalty for what they’ve done. Show them what they’ll reap when they deny your very existence.
His pulse was slowing now, finally. A bit. He dragged a breath of cool air into his lungs and swung his legs off the bed. Just enough light came through his window to tell him that dawn wasn’t far off, so he pushed to his feet and walked over to the wavy glass.
There, to the east, the sky was pearly grey instead of deepest blue-black. A new day. Another chance to find Zhenya.
It would begin at the embassy. Today. He only had to wait—he glanced at the pocket watch barely illuminated on the table under the window—ninety-two minutes.
Too much time to spend shuffling about his empty flat. He slipped out of his nightclothes and into his athletic ones. It wouldn’t be the first time in his weeks here he’d resorted to a predawn jog around his neighborhood to calm the frantic beatings of his mind, and he had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last either.
Once the laces on his shoes were tied, he pocketed his keys and slipped as quietly as he could from the building. His mincing steps lasted only as long as he was inside. Once on the sidewalk, he set himself at a pace that soon had sweat running down his face. His legs pumped as they always had, his muscles warmed, and the damp morning air burned his lungs just a bit. Something that hadn’t changed, through it all.
Thank you, Lord God, for this. He sent the words heavenward, like he’d always done. Prayer had long been as intuitive as breathing. Before. Now . . . he still said the words, still remembered the motions as surely as his legs knew how to pound the pavement. But where had the certainty gone? The sure knowledge that God would hear, would answer?
Gone. Swallowed up by the Red tide. His faith as stained as the bloodied streets.
Be still, and know that I am God.
Breath heaved into his lungs, out again. “I am trying, Lord.”
He ran his usual circuit, though he didn’t much enjoy the views of street after street, building after building. He should find a park. Would, eventually. The sun was finally peeking over the buildings as he went back into his own. After a quick bath, he dressed for the day and, for the first time since arriving in London, reached for the passports he’d hidden away under a loose floorboard.
He opened first the one with his photograph, alongside the name Ivan Filiminov. He still didn’t know how Evgeni had procured the false papers so quickly, but he hadn’t had the luxury of questioning it at the time. It had meant salvation, so he had taken it, willing to call it a gift from God.
He slid the passport into his pocket. He only had it still because he’d done the same on the train. Unlike his brother, who had put his own papers into his bag for some reason. Why? Why had he not kept his passport on his person, as he usually did?
Zivon didn’t know. But he suspected it had something to do with the photograph jammed inside it.
Lowering himself to a seat on the edge of his bed, he studied the image yet again. He didn’t know the faces. No names were written on the back either, only the date—2 February 1918. All he could tell for certain was that there were two men, clearly German, given the uniforms. They were talking.
That was all. All he knew. But oh, the questions.
Not just who they were, but why did his brother have this picture? Where did he get it? When?
The water stop. Maybe. Perhaps. Zivon certainly hadn’t noticed it tucked in his passport when they’d boarded the train.
But if so . . . what did that mean? What had Zhenya been up to?
He closed his eyes, closed his brother’s passport. Was he an agent of some kind? It was possible. Evgeni had the charm of a good field agent—and its subsequent ability to sidestep rules. He was exactly the sort whom Intelligence would have recruited to work for them in the field. He’d never seen his brother’s name on any reports, but then, Zivon was Imperial Navy. Evgeni was army. That could account for it.
He spread his fingers over the cover, felt the embossing. Were he and his brother after the same information, not realizing the other was too? Trying to restore order? If so, they would laugh over it someday. When they were reunited. When the Bolsheviks had been shown justice. When Russia was theirs again.
Well, not theirs. Not his. Zivon surged back to his feet and slipped Zhenya’s papers back into their hiding place. He had sacrificed his right to return to Russia when he came here as he’d done. He would stay here, knowing his people wouldn’t understand his decisions, knowing he would be branded a traitor, a turncoat.
H
e would accept that. He would accept it for them.
But he wouldn’t accept that he’d lost his brother. Or his chance to help end this war. He slipped Batya’s watch into his pocket, along with his key, and strode back out into the morning.
He’d telephoned the Russian embassy last Wednesday afternoon, near closing time, when all but the last straggler would have been gone for the day. Claiming employment that kept him busy during normal hours—true enough—he requested an early audience with Konstantin Nabokov and had been granted one today.
Nabokov had been in India and then reassigned here to London during the entirety of Zivon’s career, so he’d never met the man, which was the only reason he dared to come with his false papers. There was a chance the ambassador would recognize his real name and wonder what he was about, suspect his motives, but he wouldn’t recognize him by face, anyway.
A passel of schoolchildren were knotted up on the corner ahead, laughing, two of the girls singing and swinging their hands, clapping, snapping, palm to palm. His nostrils flared, faint Russian words filling his ears. How many times had Alyona crouched down beside her little sisters and taught another song with its silly claps and swings? Too many to count.
But never again. Her sisters and brothers would have no one to teach them such lighthearted songs now.
The self-accusation burned him to the quick, even as he noted the books slipping from a boy’s hand. The precarious-looking buckle on their strap. The puddle under the lad’s arm. Zivon burst into motion, managing to get close enough that he could send his umbrella—something he’d learned never to leave home without in London—into the space between books and water, just as the strap gave way and sent them tumbling.
The child looked down, blinked at the umbrella, and then grinned up at him. “Thanks, mister! You’re fast.”
Zivon grinned back and scooped up the books. “Anything for the sake of a book.”
Something his brother had always teased him about. Zivon helped the lad secure the strap around them again and was soon on his way, lips twitching up as thoughts of books and Evgeni reminded him of their trip to Paris when they were adolescents. When Batya had forbidden them from visiting again the bookshop near their hotel, it being owned by a Jew. When he’d convinced Zhenya to sneak out with him for one more perusal of the shelves.
A Portrait of Loyalty Page 4