“It is, I think, the other way round.” Who do you trust? The answer couldn’t be no one. He’d chosen this ally. This life. It was time to act accordingly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph. “My brother had this in his passport. I have been trying these weeks to determine why. Who the men are. But I have not the resources—or, perhaps, the ability—to answer those questions. Perhaps you will have better luck.”

Hall took the photo, studying it with that blinking gaze of his. When he looked up, Zivon could read nothing in his eyes. “Curious indeed. What do you know of your brother’s alliances? His role in the war?”

They were questions Zivon would have asked anyone else. Still, they made his shoulders edge back. “He was a lieutenant in the army. Well respected. Certainly not the sort to collaborate with Germans, if that is what you mean. But . . .” He deflated a bit. “To be truthful, I do not know much about his activities in recent years. We have scarcely seen each other since the war. It had crossed my mind that perhaps he had been an intelligence officer for the army.”

“Perhaps.” Hall flipped it over, frowning at writing on the back. “What does this say?”

“Second day of February of this year. That is all.”

The admiral’s gaze went distant for a moment. “Hmm. You all were out of the war by then.”

“This is true. But many of us still saw the Germans as a threat. I know my colleagues and I continued to do our work as we had always done. We were surely not the only ones.”

“Hmm.” Hall tapped the photograph against his gloved palm. “I’ll see what I can discover. Have my photography expert take a look. If I learn anything of interest, I’ll certainly let you know.”

That was more than he likely deserved, after keeping it hidden so long. Zivon gave a short bow. “Forgive me for not turning it over more quickly.”

“Heaven knows you’ve had enough else to worry over. Have you heard anything yet from your brother?”

How could it ache each and every time he thought of his brother’s silence? Zivon shook his head. “I have posted several letters to our rendezvous. And I have asked the ambassador to have his Parisian counterpart look for him. Nothing.”

Hall slid the photo into his jacket pocket. “I’ll have my people look too. No offense to Maklakov and Nabokov”—he flashed a smile—“but I daresay my agents will be able to turn him up far more quickly than they can.”

Zivon shouldn’t have been surprised that Hall knew the ambassadors. It seemed he knew everyone. Which was no reason to be nervous . . . not when they were allies. “Thank you, Admiral. I cannot adequately express my gratitude.”

“If you have a photo of him, that would help.”