For a moment, he was back on the train, imagining what he couldn’t remember—screeching and squealing and lurching. He was calling for his brother, reaching for him, grasping nothing. For a moment, the blackness was over him, a heavy blanket that whispered of death—at the hands of the war that had damaged the tracks, if not the Bolsheviks who despised him.

Then he blinked, breathed, and saw the bank clerk again, bent over the paperwork, chattering to Captain Blackwell. To his ears it sounded like nothing but babble. The words on the paper she slid across to him could have been in cuneiform for all the sense they made.

Another blink, another breath. Be still, and know that I am God. He counted the air in, counted it out, and the panic edged back just a bit. Their words became words, as did the ones on the page. English words.

He picked through them until they began to make sense and then filled in the information they were requesting. His name. His address. His place of employment. Simple answers that felt far from simple.

With Captain Blackwell signing something, too, as his reference, Zivon finally had his money safely in the hands of the bank. After indicating that he’d await his impromptu host outside, he exited back onto the busy street and drew in a deep breath.

He leaned against the stone wall behind him, letting the world rush by for a moment. Let the patterns of speech and movement soothe him.

It couldn’t soothe for long. Despite the command for stillness, his mind spun. He visualized the map he’d been studying that morning. Tracing out the path to the church he’d yet to visit, where fellow Russians and Greeks would meet together. He wanted to go. Needed to go. But couldn’t, not yet. He didn’t know which Russians were friends, which had ties to the Bolsheviks. And he couldn’t risk word reaching home that he was here. He didn’t think Lenin’s organization was ordered enough to have sent operatives after him . . . but they might if they realized who he was. What he’d done. That he knew their plans, knew their hopes.

He had to guard himself. His identity. Take care with every introduction.

But he needed help. Needed someone with friends in France to help him search for what he’d lost. His album. His papers.

His brother.

He’d considered asking Hall for that help today—but Hall didn’t yet trust Zivon. So could Zivon trust Hall? He’d nearly spoken of it, but the words wouldn’t come.