The turn of his friend’s lips looked token at best. “I find it hard to believe you weren’t reading Tolstoy already at twelve.”
“Well, I did not say how young a man. But I was thirteen, I will have you know.”
The subdued chuckle wasn’t much bigger than the echo of a smile had been. “Did your brother share your literary bent, or did you have friends in St. Petersburg that joined you in your lecture-going?”
Did. Zivon slid a hand into his pocket, where Batya’s pocket watch resided. Would he ever get used to using past tense for the people who should still be at his side? “Evgeni . . . indulged me. But he and our father were more men of action than words. I took after my mother.”
Clarke made some reply, but Zivon’s attention shifted from the easy conversation. Something wasn’t right. He slowed, listened.
Voices. Too many voices, all coming from ahead, near the OB. The pedestrians walking toward them, away from the building, kept looking over their shoulders. Ahead of them, a man carrying a large camera broke into a jog.
“Reporters. At the OB.” Zivon drifted to a halt the moment they came within sight of the parade grounds. It wasn’t unusual for men from the press to be there, but not in a crowd like that. And not outside. Usually, when more than a few gathered, it was because DID was holding a press conference.
These, though, were not the orderly collection of fellows here for promised news. These were rather a roiling, shouting group best defined by the word mob.
His chest constricted. He’d had enough of those to last him a lifetime. “We had probably better go the long way round and come in at the back.”
“No argument from me.”
They fell in with a few others in the naval reserve uniform who had apparently come to the same conclusion. When they reached the back door—the one through which Lily habitually came and went—De Wilde stood there with a newspaper in hand and a serious look on her face.
Her gaze caught his the moment he came into view, and she lifted the paper. “Have you read the news this morning?”
Zivon shook his head. Most mornings he still tried to do so before he came to work, but he’d run an extra mile today and hadn’t had the time.
She thrust the newsprint at him. “DID wants to see you straightaway. Look on page three. I’d suggest still walking while you look, though.”
Everything in him went cold, even before he opened the paper. This wasn’t about the search for those two German officers, it wasn’t about his suggestions on how to meet a mutiny if it came, it wasn’t about the czar’s execution.
No. This would rather be linked to whoever had been breaking into his apartment, searching for he knew not what. This would be about him. The shoe he’d been waiting for months to drop.
His enemies catching him up.
He waited until they were through the door before unfolding the paper and flipping to the third page, his eyes adjusting to the interior light as he walked. He skimmed over the first headings, which didn’t seem to be anything of relevance. Then caught his breath when he spotted the one halfway down the page. BOLSHEVIK SPY INFILTRATES BRITISH MILITARY.
Impossible. How? Who? He would know another Russian if one were here—even if their English were perfect, this was his life’s work. He would recognize nuance in language, in intonation, in behavior. The patterns that would be wrong, the idioms.
His gaze ate up the words. Not another Russian at all. Him. This article was all about him, the Russian linguist hired by the Admiralty. Except the article made it sound as though he’d had the French and English bidding for his “linguistics” services and had gone wherever they offered him the most money.
His feet came to a halt halfway up the first flight of stairs. He lifted his eyes to De Wilde’s. “Does he believe this rubbish? That I am in league with the Bolsheviks? That I conspired with them to kill my own fiancée so I would have a plausible excuse for leaving Russia and coming here?”
He could scarcely see through the haze of fury. Was it not enough that they had killed her? Must they now accuse him of the crime?
Because it was them. He knew it was them. It wasn’t enough that the soviets had forced him from his home. Now they would seek to ruin him here, everywhere, by claiming he was the very thing he hated, the very thing that they knew he’d be working against.
The thing the British government would distrust.
De Wilde didn’t nod, didn’t shake her head, didn’t even shrug. She just held his gaze for a long moment with that ageless look of hers. And then she said, “DID will see the truth. But that doesn’t mean he can always convince others of it. You’ll have to help him with that part. Give him the evidence people will demand.”
Evidence? How was he to provide evidence of anything other than the story he’d already shared? He’d come here with nothing but a ruby ring and a photograph he’d already turned over. Everything else had been lost to him. He had no proof but his word, and if that was called into question . . .
Clarke clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Chin up, old boy. It’s a bunch of rot—sensationalism, nothing more. The next big offensive and everyone will forget it again.”
Zivon jerked his head in a nod and skimmed the rest of the article. Whoever wrote it claimed to have an anonymous source for the information—a source that had presented “irrefutable proof” of his underhanded plot and his association with top-level Bolsheviks.
He was a bit surprised they hadn’t tossed in a few accusations of being in league with the Central Powers for good measure.
Be still, and know that I am God.
Zivon pulled in a breath that did little to calm him and refolded the newspaper. He couldn’t quite manage a smile, even for his friend or colleague. But he could appreciate that they still flanked him on the stairs. They hadn’t abandoned him—at least not yet.
At his floor, Zivon bade Clarke a low farewell and continued into the corridor with De Wilde. It was no more abuzz than usual. No one pointed or stared. But he felt conspicuous as he aimed himself for Hall’s office rather than the room in which he usually worked, De Wilde peeling off at her door with a nod that he took for support.
Camden took her place at his side. “Don’t let it bother you, Ziv. They lambasted me for months, accusing me of every crime under the sun. Between the admiral and the truth, it’ll all be put to rest.”
“I appreciate your support.” He did. But still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a bit different from the accusations Camden had faced. He’d been an English subject with a known record, whereas no one really knew Zivon. Not really. He could have lied about everything, and how would they know? Which meant, how could he prove he hadn’t?
When he neared the admiral’s office, he found Hall waiting for him at the door, face grim. He ushered him in and then clicked the door shut. “It’s bad,” he said without preamble. “I’ve contacts at the newspaper—not good enough ones, apparently, to keep them from printing this entirely, but they agreed to show me the material they received. Some of it I’d already seen, other parts I hadn’t. I would show you now, but they didn’t leave it with me.”
Zivon stood before the desk, not taking a seat since his superior didn’t. He kept his back straight and his hands clasped behind him. “May I at least know what this supposed evidence is, sir? Because I assure you, it cannot be true. Not if it is trying to prove me associated with the Bolsheviks.”
Hall leaned against his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “Photographs. Newspaper articles in Russian. All of which claim you are here under false pretenses, which then, of course, would beg the question of why.” He waved a hand toward the window. “Half of the reporters out there are opposed to socialism and insist your presence here is part of a dastardly plot to undermine order. The other half are in favor of it and claim you’re a disgrace to the cause, a murderer who may have started on the correct side but who has clearly been corrupted by capitalism.”
“No friends either way, I se
e.”
Hall smirked. “Enmity sells more newspapers than amity.” His lips turned down again. “It’s like this, Marin. I’ve already asked my questions, and I believe you’re exactly who you say you are. But I have those I answer to who are not keen on this division receiving attention from the press, and we’ve had more of it lately than we should have. I’ve already fielded calls that demand an official investigation.”
Zivon forced a swallow down his dry throat. “You will have trouble finding out anything. Communicating with Russia is difficult these days.”
“And the government currently in power isn’t exactly forthcoming about answering anyone’s questions. But the truth can always be discovered, given time and energy enough.”
He held himself still. But the world rocked around him. How could he have faith in that, when truth had played no part in what had befallen him lately? The truth hadn’t saved Alyona. It hadn’t saved Evgeni. The truth hadn’t kept his parents alive. The truth hadn’t gained him freedom from his enemies. “Until then?”
“Until then . . .” Hall sighed. “You ought to lie low for a bit. Stay at home. I’ll send work for you to do via Lieutenant Clarke. But it would be best if the press doesn’t see you here. For now.”
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.”
He left them there on the sidewalk and strode into his building, up the stairs, to his flat. His hand hesitated on the knob, as it always did lately. But why would anyone have come in today? They’d already gotten what they wanted. They’d sown seeds of distrust and hatred against him. They’d destroyed this life he’d built here. What more could they do?
He opened the door, walked through, closed it.
A figure rose from the chair. One he’d know anywhere. And yet one who couldn’t possibly be real. For a hallucination, though, he looked very solid.
“Evgeni.”
25
Zivon.” His brother halted in the middle of the living room, an uncharacteristic look of humility on his face. “You have something I need. And I hope you’ll give it to me without too many questions.”
The passport. The one that had been stolen, while nothing else had been, even after those later times he’d sensed an intruder had been in his space. The blonde. A couple. Evgeni’s betrothed, she said.
Evidence delivered to a newspaper that painted him as a Bolshevik.
You’ll know a man by the company he keeps.
Pieces. Patterns. A picture too clear to ignore, to deny.
His brother, his Zhenya.
His betrayer.
He set his satchel down on the table. Took off his hat. “The photograph is gone, Zhenya. I don’t have it anymore.”
Evgeni moved a few steps closer, nostrils flaring. “I’m not asking for the one with the officers. Just the small one of us. Is that so much to ask? A token.”
A Portrait of Loyalty Page 29