A Portrait of Loyalty

by Roseanna M. White

  He would risk a meeting after his betrayal to ask for a memento? No. Zivon might do such a thing, but it wasn’t Evgeni’s way. There was something important in that photograph, or on it, that he’d missed.

  Before giving it to Lily.

  He kept his breath regulated. His hands steady. Be still, and know that I am God. Perhaps the Lord hadn’t made a way for Zivon. But He would protect her, wouldn’t He? He must protect her. “I am sorry. I don’t know what you mean. There was another photo in there?”

  His brother huffed. “Don’t play ignorant. If either of them fell out in the crash, it would have been the one of the officers. Not that one.”

  Zivon turned. Slowly, carefully. Faced his brother. Batya’s eyes. Matushka’s smile. All they’d ever had in common. “I don’t have it.”

  All they had in common, but they knew each other. Too well, perhaps. Evgeni cocked his head. “So you get it. You get it, Zivon, or I will, from whoever has it.”

  Lily. He’d keep her safe, keep her out of this, if it was the last thing he did. She’d not end up dead like Alyona. Not because of him.

  His mind raced. The first image—soldiers. Officers fomenting rebellion, Hall had said. They knew now who they were. They had their names.

  But Evgeni and the blond woman must not—and they must need them. All he had to do was keep that information from them as long as possible. Delay them until the Germans could put their plan into effect, perhaps nudged along by Hall’s contacts.

  He lifted his brows and prayed his brother would read disdain in his eyes instead of desperation. “You just made that rather difficult for me to do, given that I’m no longer welcome at the Admiralty. How exactly do you expect me to get it back now? Or do you think you can break into the Old Building as easily as your lady friend got into my flat?”

  A corner of Evgeni’s mouth quirked up. And that was why Zivon had always loved him so fiercely, even when they were at odds. Only his brother could laugh at a time like this. “I told her you would know.”

  “Yes. Even before I saw the glass she broke in my picture frame.” He motioned to where it hung on the wall, the shards long since removed and thrown out.

  Evgeni huffed, but it still sounded amused. “She didn’t mention that.”

  Zivon borrowed one of Hall’s mannerisms and blinked at him. “Who is she? She told the embassy you were engaged.”

  “Did she?” That seemed to please his brother as much as it surprised him. “Interesting.”

  “Would Matushka have liked her?”

  Evgeni snorted a laugh. “Hardly. But as to how you are to get the photo back—you’re clever, Zivon. You can come up with something.”

  “No doubt. But I will need time.”

  “I’ll give you a day.”

  “You’ll give me a week.” He folded his arms. And prayed, prayed with every grain of faith left in him, that a week would be enough. “You’ve already ruined all I’ve built here. You’ll let me get this in a way that won’t have me kicked out of the country before I can put another plan in order. Am I clear?”

  Though he sneered, Evgeni’s shoulders had that line of capitulation to them. “Still the tyrant, determined to have your own way.”

  “Me?” Fury pounded, so consuming and quick he couldn’t stop it. “You think this was my way, any of it? You think this is what I wanted to do with my life? They killed her, Zhenya!” The they echoed in his head, more than in the room. The implications, white hot, scalded his heart. He staggered back. “No. Tell me it wasn’t you. Tell me you didn’t kill Alyona.”

  “I didn’t!” His eyes flashed the truth of that. “I wouldn’t. You have to know that. She was a sister to me.”

  And Zivon a brother—in blood, not just in affection. Yet he would do this to him. His hands shook. “I don’t know what I know anymore. Not about you.”

  For a moment, they just stared at each other. Neither speaking. Neither moving. Then Evgeni shook his head. “We will never agree. But we are still brothers. I still want you to be happy. You just have to promise to lead a quiet life somewhere, away from the military and politics. Is that so bad?”

  If it meant leaving England? Leaving Lily? It was the worst thing possible. But his brother might not know about her. And if he didn’t yet, he must preserve that ignorance at any cost.

  Evgeni sighed and moved toward the door. “A week, brother. I will send you a note with instructions on where to meet me—and don’t try anything clever. Please, just do this the easy way. You know I would never hurt you, but Nadya . . . I am not so certain she wouldn’t.”

  And yet Zhenya seemed to love her. He bit his tongue against any retort, held his silence until his brother had drawn even with him. Then, quietly, he said, “I was only trying to save you.”

  Evgeni paused with his hand on the latch. “Believe it or not, Zivon, that’s what I’m trying to do too. Please let me. I don’t want to see any harm come to you.”

  And then he was gone. Again. The brother he’d risked everything to save, the brother who had been his enemy all this time, the brother he’d mourned as dead.

  He’d been praying since that first conversation with Father Smirnov that the Lord would show him how to forgive. How to crave mercy for his enemies’ souls above justice. He’d been praying God would show him how to love them.

  He sank to a seat on the hard wooden chair at the table. This wasn’t the answer he’d anticipated.

  Lily stared at the newspaper, but no matter which sentence she focused her gaze upon, it still made no sense. She knew that the Zivon Marin who had captured her heart was in fact the Kapitan Marin named by the reporter. The history outlined in the article was a distorted reflection of the one he’d told her. But the man painted with words in black and white and the man who held her while she sobbed and entrusted her with his heart were entirely different.

  Black and white could lie. She knew that better than anyone. It was no great thing at all to take what was there, cut it out, and put it somewhere else instead, where it meant something entirely different.

  Mama pushed her tea aside with a shake of her head and tossed a second newspaper onto the table, disgust in every line of her face—and the lines had deepened in the last month. “Rot and rubbish, the lot of it. Zivon Marin is no murderer.”

  “No. He is most assuredly not.” And that, in her opinion, was where whoever had orchestrated this had overplayed their hand. Zivon was many things, capable of many things. She’d glimpsed that soul-deep bitterness in him, yes. But it was the sort that came of being wronged, not of doing the wronging. Of feeling the guilt and shame for being unable to save someone who was his responsibility, not for taking actions against her.

  And she understood that bitterness now. She hated this influenza with the same passion he’d applied to the Bolsheviks. And though her hate wasn’t aimed at people, it would still eat away at her if she let it.

  She tapped a finger to the second column of the story. “This here, this mention of the evidence they were shown. That sounds like photographic evidence, does it not?”

  Mama moved around the table to stand beside Lily and skimmed the paragraph in question. “It does. Do you think Blinker has copies?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s one certain way to find out.” She spun for the door.

  Mama was hot on her heels. “I’m coming with you. I want to help, if I can.”

  They didn’t waste time on conversation as they hurried onto Curzon Street. She avoided looking toward Hyde Park, toward the path she usually walked with Ivy. Instead, they turned to Mayfair, directly toward Whitehall. And as the OB came into view, she also tried not to wonder if her halfhearted hours at work were in part responsible for this wretched article.

  If she’d gone in as often as she should have, would Hall have shown her whatever evidence this was? Asked her to authenticate any photographs? Had her grief and bitterness kept her from helping the man she loved?

  No. Hall had kept her out of the loop long b
efore Ivy’s death. But if she’d been there, maybe she could have convinced him by now to read her in.

  She shoved the useless thoughts aside as they gained the back entrance. Barely slowing on the stairs, she was soon opening the door to her darkroom.

  “Oh my. Lilian. I had no idea.”

  Only at her mother’s gasp did Lily pause to realize that Mama had never been down here. She hadn’t seen the space, so many times larger than her darkroom at home. The newest equipment, the endless supply of chemicals, the photo archives, and the most frequently appearing faces tacked to the wall.

  “No wonder you couldn’t work so well at home. This is—this is . . . well, professional, isn’t it? This is a career.”

  “I suppose it is.” She rarely thought of it as such. A calling, yes. And she received a paycheck, but she never even saw those. Daddy always took them to the bank for her.

  Mama was wandering to the photo wall. “And these?”

  “I keep track of how often the same people appear. The admiral says it has proven useful innumerable times.” Including the last one, with the German officers.

  The photo Zivon had given them. She frowned. Hall had promised to tell her what came of that, but she’d scarcely darkened the door of the OB since then. And the mountain of film on her desk awaiting processing told the tale too.

  “Lily? Ah good, it is you.” Barclay Pearce stuck his head in with a smile. “Saw the lights as I was heading out the back. Here to help your Russian?”

  Lily gave a decisive nod. “If Hall will let me.”

  “He just sent me to fetch you, actually. Declared all hands on deck to help clear Marin’s name. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  He vanished again. Mama was still perusing the wall, so Lily occupied herself by ordering the canisters of film while she waited for Hall.

  She didn’t have to wait long. And he arrived with an armload of manila envelopes, his expression grim. “I finally convinced one of my reporter friends to bring all these over. And we’ve the ones that were sent to us, of course. They’re on top.”

  Seeing no need for small talk, Lily began with those while Mama and DID pulled the others from their envelopes and arranged them on one of her long tables. She switched on a lamp, grabbed her loupe, and turned to the trio of images that had made Hall and Daddy suspicious of Zivon to begin with.

  The one of him with Lenin, with You will know a man . . . on the back.

  One of him and Evgeni, with . . . by the company . . .

  And finally, one of a group that included many men in Russian uniform. She didn’t recognize most of their faces, but she spotted Evgeni in the mix, smiling at the soldier next to him. This one finished out the message with . . . he keeps.

  She started with the first one, the one of him bowing over Lenin’s hand, that Hall hadn’t let her get a good look at back when he received it. With the aid of her loupe, she looked at the outline all around Zivon, fully expecting to see a telltale white line or a too-dark one. To find his head had been put on another’s body, perhaps. Or even some evidence that the image was old.

  But his hair was cut in the same style. His eyeglasses the pair he was still wearing. And it was without question his lithe runner’s form. One thing, however, was out of place. The ruby ring was missing from his hand. She straightened. “Admiral?”

  He was still spreading papers out and had what appeared to be a newspaper clipping in hand. “Yes?”

  “Did Zivon ever mention when the czar gave him his ring?”

  “Shortly before he abdicated in the spring of 1917, I believe. Why?”

  “He isn’t wearing it in this photo—but he never takes it off. Even if he had done so before meeting Lenin, there would be a dent on his finger. But there’s none. This photo must be from before he received it.”

  “It can’t be. Lenin was in exile in Switzerland until after the Revolution began.”

  “Then . . .” It was clearly Zivon in the photo, and he was seamless with his background. She moved the loupe. And laughed. “Lenin was put in after the fact. Look.” Once Hall had moved to her side, she held a larger magnifying glass in place for him and used the tip of a pencil to point to the faint white line around Lenin’s figure. “Were I to guess, I would say this is a photograph of Zivon meeting the czar, not Lenin.” That would explain the adoration on his face.

  Hall breathed a laugh. “Well done, Lily. What of the others? I showed him this second one—he verified it himself. Said it was from the album that he lost in the train accident.”

  She reached for the third. “If his enemies found it, that explains how they created these.” She used first a magnifying glass and then the loupe to study the group picture but shook her head. “This one seems to be genuine too. What does that mean? Who are these people?”

  Hall’s face looked grim. “Bolsheviks.”

  “Even—his brother?”

  “So it would seem. According to some of this information, the false passport Zivon traveled under was even given to him by the Bolsheviks—though that would make sense if his brother is among them.” He turned back to the table. “Take a look at these others. I need to find someone who can translate this.” He tapped the article he’d been holding. “It’s in Russian.”

  “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 tr
anslation 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.