Once the laces on his shoes were tied, he pocketed his keys and slipped as quietly as he could from the building. His mincing steps lasted only as long as he was inside. Once on the sidewalk, he set himself at a pace that soon had sweat running down his face. His legs pumped as they always had, his muscles warmed, and the damp morning air burned his lungs just a bit. Something that hadn’t changed, through it all.

Thank you, Lord God, for this. He sent the words heavenward, like he’d always done. Prayer had long been as intuitive as breathing. Before. Now . . . he still said the words, still remembered the motions as surely as his legs knew how to pound the pavement. But where had the certainty gone? The sure knowledge that God would hear, would answer?

Gone. Swallowed up by the Red tide. His faith as stained as the bloodied streets.

Be still, and know that I am God.

Breath heaved into his lungs, out again. “I am trying, Lord.”

He ran his usual circuit, though he didn’t much enjoy the views of street after street, building after building. He should find a park. Would, eventually. The sun was finally peeking over the buildings as he went back into his own. After a quick bath, he dressed for the day and, for the first time since arriving in London, reached for the passports he’d hidden away under a loose floorboard.

He opened first the one with his photograph, alongside the name Ivan Filiminov. He still didn’t know how Evgeni had procured the false papers so quickly, but he hadn’t had the luxury of questioning it at the time. It had meant salvation, so he had taken it, willing to call it a gift from God.

He slid the passport into his pocket. He only had it still because he’d done the same on the train. Unlike his brother, who had put his own papers into his bag for some reason. Why? Why had he not kept his passport on his person, as he usually did?

Zivon didn’t know. But he suspected it had something to do with the photograph jammed inside it.

Lowering himself to a seat on the edge of his bed, he studied the image yet again. He didn’t know the faces. No names were written on the back either, only the date—2 February 1918. All he could tell for certain was that there were two men, clearly German, given the uniforms. They were talking.

That was all. All he knew. But oh, the questions.

Not just who they were, but why did his brother have this picture? Where did he get it? When?

The water stop. Maybe. Perhaps. Zivon certainly hadn’t noticed it tucked in his passport when they’d boarded the train.

But if so . . . what did that mean? What had Zhenya been up to?