His chest ached. He may never step foot in this building again. He may be forced even from England. Forced to say good-bye to the only woman who had ever inspired passion in his heart. But at least he had known her. Known the beauty of this love. Just as he had the satisfaction of knowing that he’d done what he came here to do. He’d convinced Hall to take seriously the threat of mutiny in the German ranks—and to be prepared to use it. He couldn’t control the how, and, if the war ended, he couldn’t guarantee that Western forces would come to the aid of the White Army.

But that which was within his power he had done. The rest was up to God.

He pushed out into the sunshine that felt as dark as midnight. God had done nothing to save his family. How was he to believe He would save him? Or Russia? What if it was, for some reason Zivon couldn’t fathom, His will that the Bolsheviks remain in power? How was he to accept that?

He strode back along the same route he’d taken to get here, not relaxing any when he was out of earshot of the shouting reporters. Nor when he neared his building minutes later. His hands had curled into fists at his sides.

“Zivon! Wait up, my son.”

Zivon paused at the familiar voice with its Russian cadence. He turned, unable to drum up a smile for Father Smirnov, who was walking with Fyodor Suvorov. He looked from one to the other. “The two of you ought not to be seen with me just now.”

His priest’s bushy brows arched. “You think we will abandon our own in his time of greatest need? Rubbish.”

“Especially when it may be partially my fault.” Fyodor moved to his side, his expression earnest. And apologetic. “A reporter came to the embassy yesterday to ask about you. We told them very little, but he insisted he had spoken with other Russians who confirmed the story and gave him photographic proof. He described this couple to Konstantin and me, and it seems my cousin recognized the woman’s description.”

Zivon frowned. “A couple? Who are they?”

Fyodor shrugged. “The woman had come in several weeks ago, asking about you. She said she had been betrothed to Evgeni.”

“What?” Zivon shook his head. “My brother was unattached.”

“A lie, then—this did not occur to Konstantin at the time. He . . .” Fyodor winced. “He had me get your address to give to her. It was right when you began attending Mass. My cousin didn’t say at the time why he needed it; I assumed he only meant to follow up with you.”