A wrinkle, that. The flat Hall let for him was in his real name, not the one on this second passport. He put on a smile, though, standing as the ambassador did. “I do not know how long I will be in my current room.” Also true. The Admiralty had promised him a house eventually, though he didn’t imagine it would come before a response from the embassy in Paris. “I will stop back once or twice a week, though, if that will do. And perhaps find a way to repay your kindness.”

“Nonsense.” But Nabokov smiled. “This is our purpose. Though we are a tight-knit community here in London. I’m certain if you wish to extend the kindness to our fellow Russians, an opportunity will present itself. They can give you information on the church at the front desk, if you’d like.”

“I have already found it. Thank you.” Zivon nodded and held his smile in place as he hurried back out to the street. He wanted to meet the other Russians. Make a place for himself in the congregation, find ways to help. Let Russian and Greek spill from his tongue alongside the prayers.

He wanted it—but he couldn’t risk it, not yet. First, he’d do what he could to help all of Russia. To end the war. Then he’d let himself indulge the need for community. Once it was safe to be Zivon Marin among them.

As he walked, he tucked the Filiminov passport deep into an inner pocket and pulled forward the identification Hall had provided for him. The one that had his real name, with that odd designation—British Admiralty. He flashed it as always at the OB, and the guards nodded him through. One even smiled. A bit.

A bit. The sigh worked its way out as he turned to the stairs. In Moscow, he’d been greeted every morning with respect and eagerness. In Moscow, people sought his opinions, his knowledge, his insight. In Moscow . . .

His fingers slipped into his pocket, where they could feel the ticking of Batya’s watch. He wasn’t in Moscow. Would likely never be in Moscow again. What he needed was a way to find his new place here.

“Good day to you, Marin!”

A familiar voice brought Zivon to a halt on the first step, and he turned with a smile to see Clarke. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

A crooked smile greeted him. “As I said last night, old boy, Clarke is quite sufficient—or even Theo, if you prefer.”

Zivon inclined his head. “Of course. Thank you.”

Clarke came up beside him and motioned him onward. “I say, I think I may have spotted you this morning outside my flat.” Clarke lifted golden brows. “Assuming you run like a stallion bent on breaking a record at the tracks.”