That gave Zivon pause, made his brows draw together. It was not Orthodox Easter yet; they had another month until their celebrations.

Nabokov chuckled. “I know, I know. Surprise I get all the time. I attend Anglican services.”

Odd. Especially since the embassy supported the Orthodox church in London, so far as he had been able to glean. But he hadn’t time to dig into that now. “I pray you have a beautiful weekend, then, celebrating the sacrifice and resurrection of our Lord.”

“Thank you. Please, sit.” Nabokov motioned to a chair across from his own. “You are newly arrived in England, I’m told? Did you flee the unrest at home?”

Zivon nodded. “It became . . . necessary.”

“I can imagine.” His face solemn, the ambassador shook his head. “We diplomats are at a loss as to how to help from where we are, so we just keep doing our jobs, assisting our people here however we can. The unrest will settle soon, surely. Order will be restored, those soviets put back in their place.”

Spoken like a man who hadn’t seen the riots, hadn’t had to slink around the edges of any mobs. “I pray you’re right.” Zivon leaned forward, not having to fake the plea on his face. “I fled with my brother, and our train derailed in France. We were separated, taken to different hospitals. It’s my hope that you can perhaps get in contact with your counterpart in Paris and help me locate him. I had no luck while I was there, and no funds to stay and search. I had to get here to accept a position, you see.”

“Hmm.” Frowning, Nabokov drew forward a piece of paper and a pen. “You were traveling by train through France? A bit dangerous, wasn’t it? Why did you not go by sea?”

“With the U-boats?” Zivon shook his head. “All options offered danger. We took the one we could best manage.”

“Well. What is your brother’s name? We will certainly do what we can to find him—or any record of him.”

Of his body, he meant, if he were dead. Zivon’s throat went dry, and he had to swallow before he could speak. “Dmitri Filiminov.” That was the name on Evgeni’s passport. “But he did not have identification on him. It was in his bag, which I have.”

Nabokov let out a slow breath. “That does complicate matters, to be sure. But I know Maklakov will be happy to help however he can. I’ll dispatch a message to him today. Just leave your direction with my secretary, and we’ll let you know whatever we discover.”