The self-accusation burned him to the quick, even as he noted the books slipping from a boy’s hand. The precarious-looking buckle on their strap. The puddle under the lad’s arm. Zivon burst into motion, managing to get close enough that he could send his umbrella—something he’d learned never to leave home without in London—into the space between books and water, just as the strap gave way and sent them tumbling.

The child looked down, blinked at the umbrella, and then grinned up at him. “Thanks, mister! You’re fast.”

Zivon grinned back and scooped up the books. “Anything for the sake of a book.”

Something his brother had always teased him about. Zivon helped the lad secure the strap around them again and was soon on his way, lips twitching up as thoughts of books and Evgeni reminded him of their trip to Paris when they were adolescents. When Batya had forbidden them from visiting again the bookshop near their hotel, it being owned by a Jew. When he’d convinced Zhenya to sneak out with him for one more perusal of the shelves.

How his brother had scoffed! Sneaking to a bookshop. But, always the rebel, he’d agreed.

Zivon picked up his pace. Remember where it is, Zhenya. Perhaps, if he willed it with strength enough, the words would find his brother wherever he was. Inspire him to go, find the place they’d agreed to rendezvous in Paris if they were separated. Receive the envelope Zivon had left for him. Find it. Find me. Find me even before I can find you.

He would—he could. Evgeni was resourceful, capable. If he was alive, if he was well . . .

The embassy loomed before him, the familiar Russian flag flapping in the wind, breathing bittersweet peace into his spirit. That flag had been removed from all the poles in Moscow, in St. Petersburg, all over Russia. The fact that it still flew here—that only abroad did the Russia he knew still exist—convinced him this plan was a good one.

These were his people. They would help. They must.

Though the building would be bustling in an hour, it was quiet now. He presented his false passport to a man who checked the name against a list he carried and nodded him inside. A wiry young man—the secretary who had set up the appointment for him—met him moments later and showed him upstairs to Nabokov’s office.

No time to be nervous. No time to second-guess. Zivon simply pasted on a smile, held out a hand to shake, and let his words happily turn to Russian. “Good morning, sir. I thank you heartily for meeting with me so early.”

The ambassador smiled. He looked to be in his mid-forties, his hair perfectly groomed and his mustache neatly trimmed. “Early is better for me today anyway, as I have plans later for Good Friday.”