A Portrait of Loyalty

by Roseanna M. White

  He’d reported as ordered to the embassy, ready to lay all of his cards, metaphorical and physical, on the table. He’d brought both of the fake passports, his own and Evgeni’s, now without his brother’s photo; the English identification papers Admiral Hall had supplied to him; and an abbreviated but truthful version of the events that had led him here.

  Nabokov hadn’t looked particularly impressed. If anything, he looked more dubious when Zivon finished than when he took his seat.

  “You are clearly overreacting,” he had said only ten minutes ago. “The soviets, they will be dealt with soon enough, I am certain. I am sorry, of course, for their violence against your betrothed, but to flee here, to work for the British?” A doleful shake of the head. “I fear you will regret that hasty decision when order is restored in Russia and you are no longer welcome home. You know well everyone will view you as a turncoat.”

  Zivon had bristled at the word hasty. He had stayed in Russia as long as he could. So long that Alyona had paid the price. He had weighed every possible decision and each path before he decided on this one, and he’d made the decision not for himself but for his people. His country. His czar.

  Who was Nabokov, who hadn’t even stepped foot on Russian soil in a decade, to judge him? To tell him whether he had overreacted? He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen the fighting, the mobs, the chaos. Hadn’t had to wonder whether the Bolsheviks would be better or worse than the Trudoviks who had first seized power from the czar.

  Worse. So much worse.

  But Zivon oughtn’t to have let his frustration with the ambassador cloud his perception. He should have noted both of the men following him immediately, not just the obvious one.

  His hand tightened around the handle of his briefcase. He didn’t like carrying all this with him to the OB, but he hadn’t the time to go home first. But what if his new shadows meant to mug him? The thought of being without all his identification, without the few remaining scraps of his former life, didn’t bear thinking about.

  Perhaps he should have spent less time running as a lad and more time learning how to fight, like Evgeni. Though in this particular situation, the one could serve him as well as the other, he supposed.

  Something bubbled up in his veins, spilled over.

  No. He wasn’t going to run. Not from anyone. He’d had enough of that. And so, rather than continuing toward the OB, he seized the cover that a passing band of secretaries offered and ducked into an alley. It had been a tight knot of women, and their distance between him and his pursuers was such that they would have completely blocked their view of him for three and a half seconds. All he needed to vanish.

  Though there’d be no question where he vanished to, so he sprinted to the end of the alley, zigged this way and zagged that until, five minutes later, he smirked upon emerging back onto the main street and spotting the less skilled of the followers striding down a cross street, shaking his head. And the more skilled standing with hands on his hips, staring at the OB.

  It wouldn’t look odd to anyone, given the Naval Reserves uniform he wore. Zivon switched his briefcase to his left hand—just in case the fellow got wily and he did need to put to use his years of scrapping with Evgeni—and moved up behind him. Not slowly, not stealthily. At the pace of every other pedestrian out here, so that his footfalls wouldn’t sound abnormal.

  When he’d drawn even with him, he said, “I do not believe we have been properly introduced. Though I saw you at the wedding yesterday.”

  The fellow jumped, spun. And grinned. “Well, this is a first.” At Zivon’s lifted brow, he added, “No one’s ever outfoxed me when I’m tailing them. If you ever tire of the codebreaking nonsense, tell Hall to refer you to V. We could use you.”

  Zivon had no idea who V was and what use they could have for him. But he had to admit that the fellow’s demeanor eased a bit of his uncertainty. “Hall told you to follow me, I presume?”

  “Might have done.” The fellow held out a hand. “Barclay Pearce. That was clever, using that passel of girls as a cover. But where’d you go in the alley? I didn’t see anywhere to hide, but you couldn’t have reached the end before I got there.”

  Later, he would probably find it odd that his tail wanted to have a conversation on his failed pursuit. At the moment, that was the least shocking of the events that had transpired in the last twenty-four hours. “I could, actually. Sprinting is not my preferred pace, but I practice it to increase my endurance for long distances.”

  “Runner. That’s right. Well.” Pearce motioned him onward, toward the OB. “Hall’s going to be livid with me, but at least I have a good excuse.” He nodded toward where the other man had gone. “I trust you noticed that bloke too, then.”

  “In seconds.”

  “Quite sloppy. Definitely not one of ours. Tell you what—you go and let Hall know you caught on to me, and I’ll pick up his trail and see who else had the same idea. Deal?”

  As if it were his call? But given the choice, that was exactly what Zivon would have recommended. “Deal.”

  A few minutes later, he was past the guards and jogging up the stairs toward his floor. Given the time, he ought to hurry to his desk and get to work.

  Given the circumstances, he hurried instead to Hall’s office. The door was closed, but voices came from within, so the admiral hadn’t taken the morning off, despite the late night. Zivon settled in a chair outside the room to wait.

  He could see the threads unraveling. But until he knew what had tugged at them, he couldn’t plan how to stop it. Not when another tug could simply loosen another thread while he was at work on the first. He must discover the source, the root.

  After a minute, he opened his briefcase, pulled out Evgeni’s passport. His brother was gone. He must accept that. Were he alive, even if injured, he would have found a way to get in touch by now. Silence in this case must mean the worst. Evgeni was gone, and someone was still at work against him. He was alone. Utterly alone.

  His fingers traced the familiar contours of the passport, opened it even though Evgeni’s face was no longer there to stare back at him. If Hall dismissed him, would he at least return that? It was the only image he had of him.

  He hadn’t bothered flipping through the rest of the pages before. There were no stamps to remind him of places they’d gone together, not in this one. Other than taking out the too-large photo of the German officers, he’d not examined the pages too closely.

  Which meant he hadn’t noticed before how two at the back were stuck together. Now he pried them apart. And his breath caught when another piece of paper slipped into his hands.

  Another photograph. This one he knew—he had a matching one in the missing album. Him and Evgeni, on that one trip to Paris. Standing together, the Eiffel Tower stretching out of the frame behind them. They looked so young. So happy, with their arms slung about each other’s shoulders. Oh, Zhenya . . . I am so sorry. So sorry I failed you.

  Hall’s office door opened. Zivon slid the passport back into the case and snapped it closed. The picture he slipped instead into his pocket. It helped, somehow, to feel his brother there.

  Hall stepped out with another navy man, who quickly saluted and went on his way. When the admiral’s gaze flicked to Zivon, his brows knit. “Marin. What can I do for you?”

  Zivon stood. “Maybe I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  They entered, the door clicking shut. But though Zivon put his briefcase on a chair, he couldn’t bring himself to sit. “I met Barclay Pearce this morning—much to his surprise.”

  Hall halted halfway to his desk and spun on him. “I beg your pardon?”

  Zivon kept himself calm. Still. “Have I done something to make you question me, sir?”

  The admiral leaned against the edge of his desk. “And why would you think that?”

  “Because you have someone following me. Captain Blackwell has suddenly forbidden me from seeing his daughter again. And even at the wedding last night, your g
ait hitched each time you approached me. All very odd, since nothing I have done has changed.” He unclasped his hands from their habitual resting place behind him, spread them wide, palms up. “I have given you all the information I have. All that I know, even what I cannot prove. What has happened to make you doubt me?”

  DID folded his arms over his chest. “I never said I doubted you.”

  “You did, Admiral.” But he could see from the look on the man’s face that he wasn’t going to talk about why. Not with him, anyway. He gathered a breath, held it for a long moment. “There was another man following me too. Your Mr. Pearce said he intended to find out who he is, as he is not one of yours. I imagine he will report to you. I would greatly appreciate it if I could be informed as well. If it is the Bolsheviks . . .”

  That, at least, brought him bolt upright. “Someone else?”

  “Someone who had, I think, not much practice at tailing people.” Though Zivon wanted to raise his chin, he lowered it instead. “What would you have me do, sir? Work as usual? Or has your faith in me shrunk such that I am not trusted to do that?”

  “For heaven’s sake, man. If I decide to sack you, you won’t have to ask. In the meantime, get to work.” He strode to the door, yanked the door open, and barked at the secretary, “The moment Pearce shows up, I want to see him. No joking with anyone, no dillydallying outside with V, nothing. Am I clear?”

  Zivon vacated the office and hurried to his desk. But he didn’t find the admiral’s reaction encouraging. Hall was alarmed at the news that someone else had been about the task he’d assigned Mr. Pearce.

  Which meant that Zivon had more enemies in London than his superior had thought.

  Lily stared at the photo on the drying rack, not quite able to believe what her eyes told her. The roll of film—one of the ones she’d brought home yesterday—had come from an agent on the Continent, she knew. Strictly routine work, which was why she’d decided to do it this morning after Mama had refused to so much as look at her over the breakfast table.

  She couldn’t decide which was worse: the silence she was being greeted with, or the shouting that she’d heard between her parents for an hour after she’d gone to bed. She couldn’t ever recall her parents arguing like that. And because of her.

  She’d thought this familiar, thoughtless work would soothe her. Help her forget all the questions the night had raised, all the uncertainty. All the wondering about whether this job of hers that had caused such strife between her parents was really worthwhile.

  Oh, how wrong she’d been.

  Though it had been over five years since she’d seen her childhood friend, she had no difficulty recognizing Johanna’s lovely face. Her blond hair was coiffed to perfection, her blue eyes—grey in the photo, of course—smiling.

  Smiling at a man in a German uniform, whose arm her hand was tucked into.

  They were one of half a dozen couples caught in the image, at some sort of event in Berlin. Lily had no idea what it was. She didn’t need to. All she needed to know was that it was Johanna, in Germany, looking happy on the arm of a soldier. Proving even from hundreds of miles away that nothing was simple, and that Lily’s judgment couldn’t be trusted.

  She gathered the photos from the two rolls she’d finished and slid them into her bag, along with the undeveloped film. It would be lunchtime at the OB, which meant she wouldn’t likely run into anyone she knew.

  Just as she wanted it. She couldn’t bear to look at any of them right now. Not given the note she’d written upon rising that morning, telling the admiral of her intent to resign.

  The house was quiet. Ivy was at the school, the maid must be upstairs somewhere, Eaton was polishing the silver. She could have just slipped out. Would have, a week ago. Today she slid to the drawing room door and peeked in.

  Mama sat at her easel, moving her brush over a canvas with furious strokes. The light was all wrong in the room. Clouds had rolled in sometime while Lily was in her darkroom. Usually, that’s when Euphemia Blackwell would pack up her paints and shift to another task—a preliminary sketch, perhaps, or a composition study in pastels or watercolors, while she sorted through how best to achieve what she wanted in her actual oil painting.

  “Mama?”

  No response.

  Taking a deep breath, she edged into the room. “Mama, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I . . . I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing you—which is, of course, exactly what I did by trying to spare you. I see that now. But I want you to know . . .” She gripped her bag and wished her mother would just turn around and look at her. Scold her. Yell at her. “I’m going to the OB now. I had some film I brought home that is theirs. I’m returning it, along with my resignation.”

  “Why?”

  Lily blinked. Mama’s voice was so flat. Lifeless. “Why what?”

  Still she didn’t turn, just continued to lay down angry strokes of red on the canvas. “Why are you resigning? If it’s because I’m upset, then don’t. I won’t have the entire Intelligence Division blaming that on me too.”

  “It isn’t. It’s—you were right, I think. This isn’t what my art should be used for.” Her throat went tight, stopping any other words.

  Usually, Mama would have lured more out of her with a well-placed question. Usually, she would have come over and wrapped her arms around her.

  Now she didn’t even slow in her work. Lily swallowed down the emotion and turned. “I shouldn’t be gone long.”

  Silence followed her out, through the familiar neighborhoods, all the way to the Old Building. Because it was her habit, she went in the back. But up the stairs, not down. It wouldn’t matter if anyone recognized her. Zivon had apparently seen her anyway, had put it all together.

  Zivon. Daddy had forbidden her from seeking him out, made her promise she would report directly home and not meet him and Clarke and Ivy in the park. That no more invitations would be issued. That she wouldn’t try to find him here.

  She’d never considered herself particularly rebellious. But the more she thought of his new list of rules, the more she found herself looking for Zivon’s familiar smooth stride in the corridors and hoping, praying she’d run into him now. When she’d have every legitimate excuse for doing so. When Daddy could say nothing in argument.

  She had to see him again, tell him she didn’t hold his inadvertent secret-spilling against him. It hadn’t been his fault. He hadn’t realized Mama didn’t know. And more, she should have. Lily never should have kept such a secret in the first place. But even more, she had to tell him how sorry she was for all the pain he was suffering. She had to tell him . . .

  But he was nowhere in sight as she made her way to the admiral’s office. The secretary wasn’t at her desk outside it, so she tapped on the door, expecting silence in reply. He surely had a lunch meeting with some lord of this or that. She would just slip in and leave the film for him, along with her note.

  “Enter.”

  Her hand, already halfway to the door, paused. Hung suspended for a long moment. This hadn’t been her plan at all.

  Don’t be a coward, Lily. Rolling back her shoulders, she opened the door and stepped inside.

  Hall glanced up. Gave her the barest echo of a smile, and then looked back down at whatever papers were on his desk. “I thought you meant to take the day off.”

  Lily cleared her throat. “I needed to bring these back to you. The film I developed this morning. And what I didn’t get a chance to do.”

  When she set the bag down on the corner of his massive desk, DID regarded her solemnly, taking in everything with one of his blinks, it seemed. “And why, pray tell, are you giving the undeveloped rolls to me? Do them tomorrow if you haven’t the time today.”

  A shake of the head was all she could manage for a moment. It was tempting to just reach into her bag, pull out the letter, and hand it over. But he deserved more than that. “I won’t be coming in tomorrow, sir. My mother was quite upset to learn about my involvement here, and�
�no. It isn’t her fault.” She squeezed her eyes shut to block out that knowing face of his. “The truth is, Admiral, I can’t keep doing this. Not knowing the cost. I can’t live with the idea that my work was the cause of death last night. Death of my neighbors, innocent women and children. And so I’ve come today to offer my resignation.”

  There. She’d said it. She opened her eyes again, not sure what to expect.

  Hall rose halfway out of his chair, leaning forward onto his desk. “I decline to accept it.”

  He—what? “But—”

  “There are no buts, Lilian Blackwell. You may not wear a uniform, but you are an employee of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and as such, your comings and goings are not yours to decide. You will not resign just because you had a bad night. You will keep fighting this war in the way God and king have asked of you. Do I make myself clear?”

  Digging her hands into the back of the chair across from his desk, she shook her head. “But I can’t, sir. I can’t live with myself, knowing—”

  “Knowing what?” He straightened the rest of the way, eyes flashing. “That you obeyed the command of your superior officer? Or do you think I too ought to be so guilt-ridden that I should resign?”

  Lily opened her mouth, though she wasn’t certain how to reply. Of course she didn’t think he should resign, but that was different. Wasn’t it?

  He lifted a brow. “Or perhaps you think you know better than I how to run this division? Do you know all the inner workings of the High Command? Are you fit to decide how and when to use the intelligence that comes across this desk?”

  She tried to swallow, though it did nothing to ease her throat. She could only shake her head again.

  “I thought not.” He rounded the desk, and though he wasn’t more than a few inches taller than she was, it felt as though he towered over her. “We make difficult choices here every day. What information we can act on, what we cannot. And yes, people die, Lilian. People die because of the information we act on or file away. This is the burden of intelligence, but it is not a burden that you have the right to feel guilty over.”