Why, why could nothing just go right? She needed this. She needed to succeed in the mission they’d given her. She needed to be able to go home with her head high, having proven to the party that she was a comrade worthy of their esteem. She needed to know that the life she and Evgeni would build together wouldn’t be stripped away on a tyrant’s whim if the Whites regained power.

She needed to prove to herself, her family, her whole village that she’d been right to walk away, to scorn all they’d demanded she accept. That she didn’t need them, she didn’t need a husband, she didn’t need a heartless king or an archaic God to be what she wanted to be.

The next surge of temptation had her arm sweeping back, her gloved hand fisting. She landed it square in the middle of the glass covering the photo, relishing the crackle of every fracture. That was what she thought of the reminder of Paris.

Pivoting, she was ready to give up subtlety elsewhere too and start ripping the place to shreds. But a squeak beneath her foot stayed her.

Just the floorboard. They squeaked, this was nothing abnormal. But it was the one place she hadn’t checked yet.

She dropped to her knees, examining each seam. The noisy one seemed firmly in place, but she didn’t let that hinder her.

She had her reward five minutes later, when she found a short piece of wood near the wall that wasn’t sealed into place as the others were. Smiling, she slid the lockpick into the crack and levered it up.

And there, in the space between the board and the underfloor, was the boon she needed. A Russian passport.

“Yes!” She kept her exclamation quiet but couldn’t deny its utterance, especially when she grabbed it up and saw inside it the name Evgeni had been traveling under. A quiet laugh joined the affirmation. Evgeni’s photograph was gone, but that was no surprise. Zivon had probably needed it to show to the ambassador.

No matter. The rest was here. Nadya pocketed it, put the board back in place, and cast one more satisfied look at the shattered glass over the Eiffel Tower. Yes, Zivon Marin would know someone had been here.

Let him. It didn’t matter. She had what she needed.

She escaped the building without anyone noticing her, hurried to the nearest underground, and forty minutes later made it back to their stifling little room. As she neared, she shot a grin up at their window.

Evgeni was lounging in it, and he smiled down at her too. He had been watching for her. Not that he’d admit as much if she asked. “You’re back early, mon amour,” he called down in French.