“This is true. But we also know that under the cloud of persecution, His truth shines all the brighter. We know that it was in captivity that His people called on Him again. We can trust that His promises are always true, because they have always been true. He is still God. And when He leads us through the valley of shadows, we can know it is so that we are made into sons and daughters of light, capable of redeeming these evil days for Him.”

Zivon’s gaze fell to the ground. He wanted to both shrug away from Smirnov and cling to him. Because the days were indeed evil. But he was none too certain he had any light left in him to redeem anything for the Lord. “I thank you for your support, Father. Fyodor. But please—do not endanger yourselves or your families for my sake.” He drew himself up and stepped away. “I have made my choices, and my conscience is clear. I will accept whatever consequences come, be they from friends or enemies.”

He left them there on the sidewalk and strode into his building, up the stairs, to his flat. His hand hesitated on the knob, as it always did lately. But why would anyone have come in today? They’d already gotten what they wanted. They’d sown seeds of distrust and hatred against him. They’d destroyed this life he’d built here. What more could they do?

He opened the door, walked through, closed it.

A figure rose from the chair. One he’d know anywhere. And yet one who couldn’t possibly be real. For a hallucination, though, he looked very solid.

“Evgeni.”

25

Zivon.” His brother halted in the middle of the living room, an uncharacteristic look of humility on his face. “You have something I need. And I hope you’ll give it to me without too many questions.”

The passport. The one that had been stolen, while nothing else had been, even after those later times he’d sensed an intruder had been in his space. The blonde. A couple. Evgeni’s betrothed, she said.

Evidence delivered to a newspaper that painted him as a Bolshevik.

You’ll know a man by the company he keeps.

Pieces. Patterns. A picture too clear to ignore, to deny.

His brother, his Zhenya.

His betrayer.

He set his satchel down on the table. Took off his hat. “The photograph is gone, Zhenya. I don’t have it anymore.”

Evgeni moved a few steps closer, nostrils flaring. “I’m not asking for the one with the officers. Just the small one of us. Is that so much to ask? A token.”

He would risk a meeting after his betrayal to ask for a memento? No. Zivon might do such a thing, but it wasn’t Evgeni’s way. There was something important in that photograph, or on it, that he’d missed.

Before giving it to Lily.