No. First he would try his own people—a few, carefully chosen. He would go to the embassy, using the false papers Evgeni had gotten for him. A different name for his face. He knew well that the ambassador had no ties to the Bolsheviks—not with his ties to nobility, instead. Nabokov was an imperialist, through and through, outspoken in his admiration of how Britain ruled its empire. Vastly opposed to anything socialist. Nabokov could be trusted that far, at least. And Nabokov would know his counterparts in France. Perhaps they could help.

Perhaps.

At the sound of a door falling shut nearby, Zivon opened his eyes again and smiled over at Captain Blackwell. “Thank you,” he felt the necessity to say. “For your intervention in there.”

The captain laughed and motioned him toward an auto parked along the curb. “Blinker—assuming it was he who referred you to this bank—ought to have remembered to provide a reference when he did so. Standard practice when one is opening a new account, I’m afraid.”

“Had I known this, I would have asked explicitly for one.”

Blackwell waved that away. “Not your fault.” He chuckled. “They ought to show you references—I say, you do have a point!”

Zivon felt his lips pull up. He hadn’t had much cause to smile in the last few months, but it was good to know his mouth remembered how it was done. “Perhaps. Even so, had you not been there, I suspect my observation would have earned me an escort out the door.”

“Well, we can be thankful I was. You got your account, and I got a story to tell.” Blackwell opened the passenger-side door and motioned for Zivon to slide in.

A familiar fragrance, scarcely discernible, teased his nose. Lavender? No . . . lily of the valley. It must be a remnant from the captain’s wife. Once his host was settled behind the steering wheel, Zivon gave him the direction to his flat and then asked, “Will you tell me of your family, sir? I am afraid I know little.”

Blackwell’s face creased into lines worn by smiling, smoothing out a few of the ones that must be from worry. “My wife is Euphemia Blackwell—a rather celebrated artist, I’m proud to say. You may not have heard of her work as far away as Russia, but she’s gained quite a lot of acclaim here in England, and into America and the Continent as well. Oils.”

Though Zivon nodded, her name didn’t sound familiar. “I am afraid the world of art has never been one with which I am accustomed. Though if any of her work is in your home, I will be most honored to view it.”