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.