That ball of anxiety in her stomach wanted to quake, to quiver. She swallowed against it and indulged only in gripping her bag’s strap tighter as Paul struck out down the street. “Evgeni?”

He muttered something she didn’t quite catch. Or perhaps her French just wasn’t as thorough as his when it came to colorful phrases. But he pointed ahead. “Resting in his room. He was too near a shell the other day, when he was out looking for his brother. Reinjured his ribs. Sprained an arm.” He shrugged and ran his tongue over his teeth. “He won’t die from it. Probably.”

He took another long drag of his cigarette, then held it out to her. When she shook her head, he put it between his lips again with another shrug. “I hope you intend to explain to me what is so important that you have both come here.”

She kept her gaze straight ahead. “It is a military matter.”

“Military.” He laughed. Until he saw she didn’t. “But you are—”

“I am what?” She wasn’t wearing her uniform now. It hadn’t seemed like a good idea when traveling across lines that had once been enemy. “A comrade in the new Red Army? Yes. I am. A senior unterofitser in the First Russian Women’s Battalion of Death? Why, yes. Yes, I was, when such a ranking mattered.”

“Easy, Nadezhda.” He looked about ready to pat her on the head. If he tried it, she’d bite his hand.

Good side. She forced another smile. “I am not authorized to tell anyone the details of what Evgeni had been about. But I can say that the party deems his brother a threat.”

“I would think the party has threats enough in Russia to worry about, without traveling so far in search of one that has gone astray.”

All too true. She’d welcome the day when they could hunt down all their enemies. But that day couldn’t possibly come until they’d gotten their newly built house in better order. “He is an exceptional case.”

Paul led her toward a métro station. “Why? What makes him so special?”

“He has knowledge that could put us all at risk if he shares it with the wrong parties.”

Paul said no more about it as they approached the ticket counter, just exchanged a few quick French words with the attendant, handed over coins, and nodded Nadya down a tunnel.

She looked up at the low ceiling. “Are you certain another shell won’t strike while we’re in here?”

“Perfectly.”

Keenly aware of the bodies packed around her, both on the platform and on the train, Nadya made no attempt at further conversation during the ten-minute ride. She was far too busy counting the minutes since the last shell. It was one thing to die for a cause that mattered, but not in a train tunnel from a random German shell, thank you.