She stared for another long moment at the photos and then sent him a sultry smile. “I think I know how to do this. We convince his new allies that they’d better not believe a word he says.” Slapping the album shut, she shot to her feet. “Come on. We have work to do, and if it goes as planned, you’ll have your way and his life will be spared.”

She didn’t add a But if not . . . She didn’t have to.

MONDAY, 29 APRIL 1918

Zivon moved to the edge of the roof, tilting his face up to receive the sunshine. He’d already finished his lunch, but there were a few minutes yet before he had to return to his desk.

Behind him, Clarke gave an exaggerated groan and stretched out his legs. “I don’t like the sprinting days. Give me the six-mile run over the sprinting any time.”

Zivon chuckled and cast his gaze out over the city. “I do agree. But the short bursts, they help build strength.”

“I know it. I just don’t like it. But at least I’m feeling fitter again. And I’m keeping up with you more easily—unless you’re holding back.”

Zivon shot his friend a half smile. “Do you really want me to tell you if I am?” In truth, he was putting in far more hours than Clarke each week, given that he ran even on their off days just to clear his mind.

Clarke laughed. “No. Let me luxuriate in my ignorance, thank you.”

A few of Clarke’s colleagues moved their way, balling up their paper sandwich wrappers, and asked him something about their afternoon’s assignment. Zivon took that as an excuse to move a step away and draw in a breath of crisp air. He’d woken up in a dark mood again today, thoughts of Evgeni plaguing him.

It had been two months. Two long, excruciating months since the train accident. Since he’d lost his brother. Since all the pieces he’d put together so carefully for his escape had been dashed off the game board.

Evgeni was likely dead. Zhenya dead, the information so carefully concealed in Zivon’s album burned up or blown away. All because of the Bolsheviks.

His gaze moved as far as it could over the city, toward the embassy. He hadn’t dared to visit again, not now that he knew Fyodor Suvorov could be around. But the conversation he’d overheard in the park eleven days ago kept coming back to him. The diplomats were still working for Russia too. Were trying to convince the Americans to join the White Army’s fight.