Something about the tone of voice had Zivon reaching for a chair at his table, pulling it out. Sitting.

Hall sighed. “A police officer we spoke to recognized the photograph you gave me. He said . . . he said he thought he’d seen him at the church that was shelled on Good Friday. Being carried off. He remembered solely because he bears a resemblance to this officer’s son, and it gave him quite a fright, despite the fact that the son is in the army, not in Paris.”

Zivon’s eyelids sank down. Be still, and know that I am God.

A soft hand came to rest on his shoulder. “I am sorry, Marin. He was the only family you had left?”

He could only nod. Once. It was all the movement he could summon. Be still. Be still.

The hand squeezed, then retreated. “I wish we’d found something more encouraging. As it is, I have my people instead looking for whoever sent that telegram to Godfrey Higgins—the chap who’s been following you. It seemed a better use of my resources.”

“Yes. Of course.” Zivon’s voice sounded as he felt—tight and gruff.

“I’ll let myself out.”

Zivon held his seat, kept his eyes closed. Tried to obey that voice in his spirit. But his mind wouldn’t still, wouldn’t stop spinning. All he could think was that his brother had only been at that church because of him. He’d have thought to find him there. And it was close to the rendezvous.

All his fault. Yet another death of someone dear to him that lay squarely on his shoulders.

His fault—and theirs. The whole reason they’d fled Russia. The Bolsheviks.

He leaned forward until he could rest his head in his hands. He could see it now, hear it in his own thoughts. The hatred Lily had pointed out to him.

He could see it. But for the life of him, he didn’t know how to fight it.

18

TUESDAY, 11 JUNE 1918

I think that’s it. We’re ready to go.”

Evgeni looked at the passport Paul had just delivered. Yet another one with his face but not his name. This time he was posing as a Frenchman. And, much to his amusement and delight, Nadya was apparently now his wife.

She’d scowled when Paul had delivered the identifications with their matching last names, but she hadn’t argued. Much. How could she, when it was the only way they’d likely be able to rent a single room once they arrived in England? Not that Paul had looked particularly happy with the arrangement either, but Paul wouldn’t be his problem for much longer.