Lily groaned at her ridiculous attempt at a Russian accent. “Stop.”
“I can’t. I’ve barely started. Ahem. ‘You have no idea how dim the days have grown, without the light of your presence awaiting me at day’s end.’ No, wait.” Ivy screwed up her face. “I can do that better. Your presence. P-resence.” Her attempt to swallow the R in the same way that Zivon would have done made Lily giggle.
“Ivy.”
“Oh, fine, I’ll drop the accent.” She straightened the page. “‘But it has had an effect I never dreamed. The more I am without you, the more alone I feel, and the more the older grief comes upon me. You are right that it is a tragedy I have not fully grieved. To be honest, I am not certain I know how. Whenever I think of it, think of her, think of all the similar stories my colleagues in Russia no doubt have, I am overcome. I find myself crying out, as the psalmist did, for the Lord to fight against those who fight against me. I have been clinging these months to God’s command to be still and trust Him. I am clinging, Lily. But I could see no beauty left in the world. Not until I met you.’ Aww!” Ivy paused to slap a hand to her heart. “That is the sweetest thing in the world!”
Lily picked up one of the extra pillows and hugged it.
“Well.” Ivy laughed a bit as she scanned the next section. “This is not quite as sweet as I was thinking, though you might still think so. He says, ‘You have shown me the beauty in a thousand silent moments. A feather on the breeze. Sun breaking through the clouds. The way a child studies a flower. Moments I never saw before, much less appreciated, are now quiet reminders that God is there. That He has created a world of beauty, and that His will is for us to live in it. Live in this land of the living. Every time you pause to lift your camera, I know it is because you saw something beautiful that I would have walked by without a second glance. And I cannot tell you the difference that has made in my life.’”
Lily drew her lip between her teeth. Much sweeter indeed than praising her own beauty, which was probably what Ivy had assumed he was going to do. She knew her face paled in comparison to others’. But God’s world—that was an endless feast of the truest beauty.
Ivy scooted to her usual place beside her and nestled in. “There are only a few lines left. Here we go. ‘But I have been remembering not only the way you draw out your camera and find the beauty in the world. I remember too the way you looked at me and saw something far different. You saw an ugliness that you named hatred. That, my sweet one, has scarcely left my mind. I have tried to deny it. I have tried to excuse it. I have sworn to God and myself that I will make it right. But in all truth, I know only this: I am weak, and I am afraid. I fear what else I do not see, that you would. I fear the man I will become if you are not shining your light into my soul. How could I have come so quickly to need you so much? I do not know. But you have become for me the proof that God does indeed bring beauty from ashes.’”
Slowly, reverently it looked like, Ivy lowered the page. “Well.” Her voice was a mere murmur after her reading. “We knew he was a man of depth.”
“Mm.” He was more than that. He was a man who deserved to have someone fighting beside him. She pushed to her feet. “Help me get ready, would you? I intend to pounce on Blinker and Daddy the moment the Halls arrive.”
Ivy all but flew to the dressing table and brandished the brush as though it were Arthur’s Excalibur. “At your service, lady fair! We will wage a war of smiles and curls. And we will emerge victorious.”
Laughing, Lily settled on the stool. How could they possibly lose, with Ivy on her side?
SATURDAY, 8 JUNE 1918
Zivon folded the newspaper and checked his watch. He still had an hour before he was due at the office for his half day. Usually he’d have gone for a run with Clarke this morning, but the rain was coming down in earnest, rumbles of thunder punctuating the deluge. Not a day for running.
Nor a day for visitors. So why was there a knock at his door?
Zivon pushed to his feet. Probably a neighbor needing to borrow something. Or lend him something. Mrs. Hamilton, the landlord’s wife, often stopped by with a new armful of books from her secondhand shop. When she’d discovered that he liked to read but had none of his collection with him, she’d taken to acting as a lending library.
He swung open the door, blinking at the last person he’d expected to see. “Admiral?”
Hall lifted his brows. “May I?”
“Ah. Yes, of course. Apologies.” Zivon stepped aside and held the door wide. He gave his flat a quick glance, never more glad that Batya had drilled military precision and neatness into him while Matushka had him conjugating Latin verbs. The place finally looked lived in, but tidy.
The admiral’s gaze went unerringly to the walls, which boasted the Blackwell ladies’ artwork still. He’d half expected the captain to demand their return, but thus far he hadn’t spoken to Zivon again at all since the day after the air raid. Executing an about-face that allowed the admiral to take in the entire flat with that all-seeing gaze of his, Hall soon faced him again.
Much as Zivon wanted to ask his superior what he was doing here, he opted for holding his peace.
He didn’t have long to wait. Hall wasn’t one for wasting time. “Dilly told me what a help you were yesterday. We’ve been trying for a year to crack that code.”
Ah. He had expected Hall to mention his assistance at some point, yes. He just hadn’t thought it would warrant a house call. Zivon inclined his head. “It was my pleasure to assist, sir. We had, in Moscow, a codebook for that one.”
“Even so. You didn’t have to share your knowledge. And it is remarkable that you remember it.”
Zivon smiled. It was the code he had considered keeping to himself, so he could use it with the diplomats in Paris. But in light of the suspicions around him, he’d decided that withholding even the slightest information was not in his best interest. Was not honorable. “I admit it took me a while to piece it together again.”
The admiral’s blink looked amused. “Yes, an entire day. But that is not the only reason I’ve come.”
Zivon’s muscles stiffened. Was this it, then? Had he come to boot him to the curb? “Thanks for your help, old boy, but you’re too big a risk”?
Hall cleared his throat, turned, paced to look at the Eiffel Tower picture, as if this were just a social visit. “Mrs. Hall and I dined with the Blackwells last night. Lily—this is one of hers, correct?”
“It is, yes.” Zivon had spent countless hours over the last weeks staring at it. Studying it. Imagining Lily standing there at the base, in the same place Zivon had once stood, looking up in the way she loved best—through the eye of her camera. He imagined standing there with her in a year or two, when the war was over. Her hand in his. He imagined standing there in a decade, directing a child’s gaze upward and saying, “You know your mother’s photo of this? It was one of the first things she ever gave me.”
Sentimental fool, that’s what Evgeni would call him. But he’d say it with a smile and a teasing elbow in the ribs.
Hall nodded. “You have quite a champion in that young lady. You’d have been properly impressed with the arguments she presented in your favor last night, I think. Her photography equipment is, as a matter of fact, being moved back to the OB as we speak.”
Pulse kicking up as if he were halfway through a sprint, Zivon straightened. “The captain has permitted this?”
His guest chuckled. “By the time she finished explaining how her work is hindered by not having access to her archives, he was offering to transport it all back himself—with the stipulation that she promise to avoid you, of course.”
His pulse skidded, thudded, slowed again. “Of course.”
Hall’s lips twitched. “Though that lasted only a few minutes. When she then launched into a detailed defense of you and why it was utterly illogical for you to come here with nefarious goals, one could practically see his resistance crumbling. Especially when Effie joined in. Partly to poke at her hus
band, I think—she’s still a bit angry over the deception—but whatever her motivations, they had the desired effect.”
Hope sprang so quickly it left him breathless. And, frankly, terrified that it would just be ripped away again. “Did it?”
“Mm.” Hall moved to the painting next. “Blackwell has granted that she may speak to you—in public, so long as others are around. He didn’t relent yet on the walks in the park, but I believe you will be getting another invitation to dinner sometime soon.”
All of which was of the utmost interest to him. But he still wasn’t certain why Hall had taken the time to deliver this news personally, during a downpour. “This is most welcome news indeed, sir. But I must ask—were you convinced by her arguments?”
For a long moment, Hall continued to study the landscape. Then he pivoted, gaze just as steady on Zivon. “My people have not been idle. Pearce did indeed follow that chap who’d been following you. Found his home, his workplace. There was nothing immediately suspicious, so he had his sisters set up a watch and dig deeper. They gave their report yesterday.”
Zivon clasped his hands behind his back to keep them still. The man had been there several more times, trailing him, hiding from him—or thinking he was. He’d seen Pearce again too, clearly keeping an eye on the other fellow, not on Zivon. “If I may guess—he has socialist ties?”
Hall jerked his head in a nod. “Attended a convention for the Allied socialists in the past and even bought a ticket for the upcoming one. He was overheard in a pub the other night complaining about a fellow called Kerensky, a Trudovik—you know him, perhaps?”
“Of him.” The ousted head of the defeated Trudovik party. As much an enemy of the Bolsheviks, in some ways, as Zivon was.
“Right. The man was complaining that Kerensky was to be allowed a seat at the convention, though Russia is no longer an ally and his party no longer in power.” Hall moved three steps closer. “More, we intercepted a telegram for him some ten or so days ago, ordering him to desist following you. It came from Paris.”
Zivon frowned. “But I have seen him just two days ago.”
The admiral grinned. “The instructions may have been misdelivered. I plan to bring him in for questioning soon and would prefer to apprehend him while he’s about this questionable business rather than at work or the pub. I will advise you on the day this is planned so you can lead him to the place where I will have people waiting.”
“Of course. Thank you.” It wasn’t exactly a full statement of trust, but it was something, wasn’t it, to be brought in on this plan?
Hall cleared his throat. “The fact that he is connected to the socialists, who are clearly concerned with you, lends credence to all you’ve told me. But then there’s this.” He reached into his overcoat and pulled out a manila envelope.
Regarding it much as he would a serpent, Zivon reached for it carefully, bracing himself for whatever strike might come upon opening it.
His breath balled up in his chest when he pulled out the photograph. Him and Evgeni, both in uniform. The one taken at Christmas, the last time they were both home. He didn’t know why the image would alarm the admiral, but he did know what it meant for him. “This—this is from my album. The one I lost—the one I had those intercepted messages stored in.”
Hall didn’t seem quite so excited. “It could be another print.”
“No. No, the corner has the same fold. And see, on the back is my handwriting, with the date.” But when he flipped it over, his words died on his tongue. His wasn’t the only handwriting. More words were scrawled in a feminine hand. In English.
. . . by the company . . .
He frowned. “What is this?”
“That would be the question. We received another photograph that had ‘You will know a man . . .’ on the back. Combined with this, I expect a third one to arrive finishing out the phrase. Probably ‘You will know a man by the company he keeps.’”
And why would his brother be bad company? Zivon lowered the image, shaking his head. “I do not understand. Have your people in Paris had any luck searching for him yet? Evgeni?”
“We found a hospital that had treated him after the train accident.” He said it so matter-of-factly, as if it were no great thing that he’d discovered this and then not mentioned it until now. “They said he was stable but not well when he left. We have found no evidence of him since. Aside from . . .”
Something about the tone of voice had Zivon reaching for a chair at his table, pulling it out. Sitting.
Hall sighed. “A police officer we spoke to recognized the photograph you gave me. He said . . . he said he thought he’d seen him at the church that was shelled on Good Friday. Being carried off. He remembered solely because he bears a resemblance to this officer’s son, and it gave him quite a fright, despite the fact that the son is in the army, not in Paris.”
Zivon’s eyelids sank down. Be still, and know that I am God.
A soft hand came to rest on his shoulder. “I am sorry, Marin. He was the only family you had left?”
He could only nod. Once. It was all the movement he could summon. Be still. Be still.
The hand squeezed, then retreated. “I wish we’d found something more encouraging. As it is, I have my people instead looking for whoever sent that telegram to Godfrey Higgins—the chap who’s been following you. It seemed a better use of my resources.”
“Yes. Of course.” Zivon’s voice sounded as he felt—tight and gruff.
“I’ll let myself out.”
Zivon held his seat, kept his eyes closed. Tried to obey that voice in his spirit. But his mind wouldn’t still, wouldn’t stop spinning. All he could think was that his brother had only been at that church because of him. He’d have thought to find him there. And it was close to the rendezvous.
All his fault. Yet another death of someone dear to him that lay squarely on his shoulders.
His fault—and theirs. The whole reason they’d fled Russia. The Bolsheviks.
He leaned forward until he could rest his head in his hands. He could see it now, hear it in his own thoughts. The hatred Lily had pointed out to him.
He could see it. But for the life of him, he didn’t know how to fight it.
18
TUESDAY, 11 JUNE 1918
I think that’s it. We’re ready to go.”
Evgeni looked at the passport Paul had just delivered. Yet another one with his face but not his name. This time he was posing as a Frenchman. And, much to his amusement and delight, Nadya was apparently now his wife.
She’d scowled when Paul had delivered the identifications with their matching last names, but she hadn’t argued. Much. How could she, when it was the only way they’d likely be able to rent a single room once they arrived in England? Not that Paul had looked particularly happy with the arrangement either, but Paul wouldn’t be his problem for much longer.
A quick trip to England. They’d steal his passport back from Zivon, verify that he’d fallen out of favor with the Admiralty and so was safe, and then return to the Continent. It would take only a week or so, if all went well. They’d find the German officers. Kill them. And then be back in Russia before June had turned to July.
Nadya checked their bags for the eighth time since she’d packed them that morning. To Evgeni’s way of thinking, all that really mattered was that the album was in there, along with the altered photographs Paul’s friend had given them, and bits and pieces of the originals he’d cut up to create them. Evgeni hadn’t spent too much time dwelling on the mutilated remains of Zivon’s past. If he did, it soured his stomach. Because at least half of Zivon’s memories were his too. And he hated to see them used so.
But it was for Zivon’s good, ultimately. And Russia’s good. Sentiment couldn’t long hold up against that.
He slid the new passport into his pocket. He didn’t intend to let this one out of his sight for even a moment. They’d been held up far too long, waiting for Paul to get him a new one.
H
is eyes went to their pantry shelves. All but empty. “Food?”
Though she sent him a narrow-eyed glance, her lips nearly lost the battle to a smile. “Go and beg some from your pretty little grocer’s daughter, I suppose.”
Evgeni grinned. He rather liked a jealous Nadya. She made him hope that she’d actually stick around for a while. “Not going to come keep an eye on me?”
The smile won possession of her mouth. “I daresay she has no chocolate, so I can trust you.”
He laughed and moved over to plant a sound kiss on those lips. “I won’t be long.” By evening, they’d be on their way.
He grabbed his cap and stepped out into the sunshine, reveling in the pleasant air. His gait wasn’t exactly buoyant as he considered the coming trip. It was dangerous, getting so close to Zivon. Letting Nadya slip into his flat and search for Evgeni’s passport. She would do a fine job, that he knew, but, well, Zivon had always been unpredictable. Stable to the point of boring in some ways, but then he’d simply out-think the rest of them and take everyone by surprise.
And Zivon had been in England months already. He’d know the territory. He’d know the normal look and feel, which meant that if Evgeni and Nadya disrupted a pattern, he would sense it and be on to them within hours. He could foil their plans yet again.
He pressed his lips together. Why couldn’t his brother just have settled in France and found a position translating? Why, why had he sold his services to the British?
When the grocer’s came into view, Evgeni slowed, trying to get a gauge on how many other customers might be inside. He could only see one through the glass, and dawdling before crossing the street gave the faded housewife enough time to exit. He watched Claire take out her broom, pass before the window. A sure sign she was now alone.
Perfect. He hurried over and pulled open the door.
She looked up with a smile that went considerably brighter as recognition dawned. “Zhenya! You’re early today.”
A Portrait of Loyalty Page 21