How gracious of him to even consider that Zivon had plans, when surely he’d seen that their colleagues viewed him more as an oddity than a friend. Zivon knew his own smile was self-deprecating. “Tonight would be lovely.”

“Excellent.” A few of the clouds in his eyes shifted, though they didn’t exactly flee. “I’ve a car outside. I’d be happy to drive you to your flat to tidy up and then to my home. It’s close, I believe?”

Zivon nodded. “That is most kind. Thank you, sir.”

“Next. May I help you, sir?”

The captain nodded, directing Zivon’s attention back to the queue, where his turn had come. He put on what he hoped was an easy smile and approached the clerk behind her gleaming wooden counter. “Good afternoon.”

If only he could speak without an accent. The woman’s smile flickered, dropping into a momentary frown before she remembered herself. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

He opened his briefcase and withdrew the crisp paycheck. “I would like to open an account and deposit this.”

Now the woman’s brows winged upward. No doubt she had a hard time reconciling his speech—clearly Russian—with Admiralty pay. He knew the feeling. But she produced another smile, unconvincing as it was, and said, “Of course. I’ll just need to see your references.”

“I beg your pardon?” His chest went tight, holding captive the air already in his lungs and barring out any fresh influx. References? “It is my money. I ought to be asking you for references.”

Laughter belted out behind him, and he felt someone drawing near. Captain Blackwell, he soon realized, who leaned in and said, “I’m his reference, Miss Knight. And Admiral Hall. Let the man give you his money.”

The woman’s face relaxed into a smile. “Of course, Captain. My apologies, Mr. . . .” She glanced down at the check again. “Mr. Marin.”

How had he become mister again? He had been a kapitan in the Imperial Navy. He’d been at the very center of the intelligence community, second in command, friends all around him, respected by his every colleague. He’d dined with Czar Nicholas, who had promised to make him chief cryptographer when Popov retired at the end of the year—a position that would have come with the honorary title of Admiral-General. Admiral-General at thirty! A far cry from the humble beginnings of a schoolteacher’s son. A far cry from this.

Well, Matushka had always warned him against the dangers of pride. Now he couldn’t even open a bank account without the mercy of strangers.

But he was alive. He’d found a new home. He wouldn’t resent the demotion. He would thank God for it. Embrace it. Follow the advice of his Lord and take the lowest place at the table. He would work for his people instead of himself. Help end the war. Help restore order.