Blast. Fyodor Suvorov was dressed for the opera or theater, as was the beautiful woman on his arm—Kira, he recalled absently. A former ballerina. He’d been invited to their wedding just before the war broke out. Zivon had no choice but to smile and reach to shake the hand held out to him. He answered in French, which was what Suvorov had spoken in. “Fyodor. You are in London?”

He laughed. “We came for our honeymoon—and then were stranded here. Though there are worse places to be stuck, given that Kira has friends in England, and my cousin is here. Kira, do you recall Zivon Marin? The most brilliant linguist we had in the Foreign Ministry.”

She smiled in the very way she’d been pictured on the poster Evgeni had once had tacked to his wall. “Of course. How good to see you again, Mr. Marin. Though I wish the circumstances were different.” She glanced around her with a concerned frown when a bigger tremor made itself felt. “Will it never stop? Ilya will be so frightened if she wakes up. And you know how Tionna fears these raids too. She’ll do little to calm her.”

“Konstantin will surely discover something. He should be back any—ah, there he is now.”

No. No, no, no. Zivon took a quick scan of the crowd, the escape routes, whom he could duck behind. But the people were packed too tightly in all directions but the one from which Nabokov came. There was no help for it. He’d done nothing to untangle the mess he’d made.

And now it had caught him up.

The ambassador was before him even now, drawing even with Fyodor. Eyes lighting in recognition. Reaching out a hand with “Filiminov, good evening!” even as his cousin said, “Are you familiar with . . . who?”

Zivon sighed and granted himself a single moment of closed eyes. When he opened them, the confusion had already shifted to suspicion on both of their faces. There was nothing for it but to straighten his spine. Lift his chin. And say in Russian, “Forgive me. I didn’t know whom I could trust.” He executed a quick military bow to the ambassador. “Kapitan Zivon Marin of the Imperial Navy, Intelligence Division. At your service, sir.”

14

Lily leaned her head against the seat, grateful for the silence in the cab of the embassy car. Exhaustion had settled on her limbs as heavily as the guilt, but at least the sirens had finally ceased. The fires had been put out. If only she could silence the barrage of accusations in her mind so easily.

This was her fault. Yes, she had been obeying Hall’s orders, but even so. Instead of convincing the Germans not to attack a superior force, they had only convinced them to send a superior force. If Londoners lay dead tonight, she was partially to blame.