“Ah.” Hall tapped his fingers to his lips. “Yes, of course. So the Bolsheviks would be quite interested in those allies staying busy in Europe.”
“Exactly.” A fleeting smile touched Zivon’s lips. At least he never had to explain anything to his new superior.
Thoughts raced through the admiral’s eyes. “You have a copy of this message?”
“I . . . had.” Zivon couldn’t quite contain the wince. “It was in my bag, lost in the train accident in France.”
And just as quickly as the thoughts had raced in Hall’s eyes, they stilled. The light went dark. The fingers lowered.
Dismissed.
“Well.” His tone still sounded casual. Interested. Friendly. But he might as well have ordered Zivon from his office then and there. “You know my dilemma, then. Without the actual message to give credence to this information, I must classify it as rumor more than fact.”
Of course he knew that. But in Russia, his word would have been enough. Not to take action, perhaps, but to look into it. To search for other evidence.
But as every single thing in this place kept hammering home, he was not in Russia anymore. No one here knew him. No one trusted him. No one . . . He was no one.
“We’ll keep our eyes and ears open.” With another easy smile, Hall sat forward again and folded the paper. Held it out. “And if this mutiny does happen, we’ll be ready to strike.”
“Nyet!” It came out too vehemently. Zivon knew it the moment his lips parted. Knew how it would sound. He sighed. “If the Revolution has taught me anything, Admiral, it is that when the people cry out against their leaders, rebellion cannot be put down by an outside force coming against them in strength. That will give them reason to rally and forget their complaints for another day or week or month. If we want to encourage this mutiny, we must convince them that those complaints—their own superiors—are the enemy, the only one worth bothering with. Turn them on themselves, not on you.”
As his people had done with their own government. Their czar.
Hall just blinked at him. “Interesting theory. I’ll consider that idea, of course. But I daresay I’d have a hard time convincing any of the brass to back away if such a thing happened rather than doubling their efforts.”
That was the true power of the Director of Intelligence, though, wasn’t it? It had been in Moscow. Hall got to decide what story to tell these generals and admirals making decisions on the ground. And at this point in the war, they’d learned to listen to him.
But Hall hadn’t yet learned to listen to Zivon. Though frustration filled the blood in his veins, he understood that too. Hated it but understood it. He leaned forward and took the paper with the bank’s name and address. “Thank you for allowing me to speak, at any rate. And for this.”
“Of course. Have a good evening, Marin.”
He nodded, though it promised to be an evening just like all the rest. Solitary. Empty of anything but his own nagging thoughts and worries. He hurried from the building, glancing at the words on the page.
Hall hadn’t finished whatever he’d been writing, but he’d gotten the name and street number down, and that would suffice. Zivon had studied a map of London and recognized this street name. It wasn’t far off.
A few minutes of walking, then he would hand over his first paycheck from the British Admiralty. Open an account. Take the first real step toward becoming English.
English. No, not quite. He would make his home here. He would serve with loyalty. But he would never—could never—be anything but Russian. He would live here and become a subject of the Crown because he was Russian. Because this was the best way to help his people.
Assuming he could ever convince Admiral Hall to listen to him.
He needed his album. The telegram. But he didn’t have that. Just as he hadn’t had the money stashed in his bag, or the clothes he’d had tailor-made in Moscow after his last promotion, or the invitation from the czar that he’d promised himself he’d never part with.
Just as he didn’t have his brother.
Evgeni. Lord God, where is Evgeni? Zivon forced the fist in his chest to release, his breath to ease out, back in. Every time he thought of his brother, urgency filled him. Had been filling him ever since he’d awoken in that French hospital, dazed and so very alone, Evgeni’s bag with him instead of his own, and a shadowy something gnawing at the edges of his mind. He’d remembered feeling irritation with his brother for being gone so long, gone during the entirety of the water stop. He remembered Evgeni waking the other passengers when he came back in. And then . . . nothing. Blackness. The twisted rails that had sent the train careening had stolen a few minutes from his memory too—or, rather, the concussion had. The French doctor had assured him this was normal.
The French doctor had also said that, no, the memories wouldn’t return. That it was God’s blessing, really, that the mind didn’t retain those moments of trauma.
God’s blessing. He’d once thought he knew the meaning of that. These days, his prayers seemed to be only hollow, echoing words. Cry as he might to the Father—morning, noon, and night—only unfamiliar silence greeted him in return. Well . . . unfamiliar silence and the continued echoing of a long-ago memorized Scripture.
Be still, and know that I am God.
Zivon turned the last corner, noting the puddle in the street up ahead. The bicyclist who would have to swerve to avoid it. The oncoming car that wouldn’t allow the cyclist to swerve into the road and so make the sidewalk the better option. The woman walking a few paces ahead of him who would be directly in the cyclist’s path. “Madam!”
It was probably the urgency in his voice, more than the nameless call, that got her attention. She paused, turned.
The bicycle’s bell jangled, and the rider called out an apology as he barely missed the woman. She clutched a hand to her chest, eyes wide. And then smiled at Zivon. “Thank you.”
He nodded but made no other attempt at conversation. The bank was there, on his right.
He’d have to find the proof, find the names, find something to convince his new superior that he should be believed—and then consulted on what the proper course of action would be.
Because the end to this war was paramount. Only then, when hostilities were over in Europe, could the British or French or American forces spare any help for the White Army. Only then did Russia have a chance of renewed order.
Only then could the Bolsheviks be destroyed.
He thrust a hand into his pocket, wrapped his fingers around Batya’s pocket watch so that the steady tick-a-tick could soothe him. Remind him of the eternal march onward, despite whatever disruptions came into the pattern. He let the ever-present Scripture flood his thoughts in time to the ticking.
He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; he breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder; he burneth the chariot in the fire. Be still, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth.
Be still. He drew in one more breath and released his grasp on the watch in his pocket.
Still. He forced the rocking of the world, of his thoughts, of his heart to halt and then forced his legs to move him forward. Through the doors. Into the elegant interior of the bank. He took his place in the back of the queue and tried to convince his pulse to stay slow and steady. Tried to convince his heart to hold tight to what his mind knew.