Something his brother had always teased him about. Zivon helped the lad secure the strap around them again and was soon on his way, lips twitching up as thoughts of books and Evgeni reminded him of their trip to Paris when they were adolescents. When Batya had forbidden them from visiting again the bookshop near their hotel, it being owned by a Jew. When he’d convinced Zhenya to sneak out with him for one more perusal of the shelves.
How his brother had scoffed! Sneaking to a bookshop. But, always the rebel, he’d agreed.
Zivon picked up his pace. Remember where it is, Zhenya. Perhaps, if he willed it with strength enough, the words would find his brother wherever he was. Inspire him to go, find the place they’d agreed to rendezvous in Paris if they were separated. Receive the envelope Zivon had left for him. Find it. Find me. Find me even before I can find you.
He would—he could. Evgeni was resourceful, capable. If he was alive, if he was well . . .
The embassy loomed before him, the familiar Russian flag flapping in the wind, breathing bittersweet peace into his spirit. That flag had been removed from all the poles in Moscow, in St. Petersburg, all over Russia. The fact that it still flew here—that only abroad did the Russia he knew still exist—convinced him this plan was a good one.
These were his people. They would help. They must.
Though the building would be bustling in an hour, it was quiet now. He presented his false passport to a man who checked the name against a list he carried and nodded him inside. A wiry young man—the secretary who had set up the appointment for him—met him moments later and showed him upstairs to Nabokov’s office.
No time to be nervous. No time to second-guess. Zivon simply pasted on a smile, held out a hand to shake, and let his words happily turn to Russian. “Good morning, sir. I thank you heartily for meeting with me so early.”
The ambassador smiled. He looked to be in his mid-forties, his hair perfectly groomed and his mustache neatly trimmed. “Early is better for me today anyway, as I have plans later for Good Friday.”
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.”
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.”
A chuckle welled up in his throat. Unexpected, and all the sweeter for it. “I would not say that. But I do jog, yes. And I was out this morning. It could have been me you saw.”
Clarke laughed too and clapped a hand to Zivon’s shoulder. “That wasn’t a jog, Marin, at least not by my definition. Have you been a runner long?”
Though Zivon lifted his shoulders in a shrug, he wasn’t quite sure why. He knew the answer and had no problem giving it . . . except, perhaps, because it meant revealing a piece of himself, and he’d been in a mindset this morning to protect rather than reveal. He shook that off. “Ever since I was a boy, yes. My brother, he was the true sportsman, like our father. A fist-fighter.”
Clarke let out a little breath that bespoke surprise. “You mean, a boxer?”
Zivon tilted his head from side to side. “Similar, but in Russia we do not use gloves. Just fists.”
“Well. I’m much keener on running, personally. Or at least I used to be, before that nasty bout of pneumonia landed me behind a desk.”
Though he had no particular trouble keeping up with the English words this morning, Zivon couldn’t help but note tone more than syllables, the accompanying gestures more than sounds. Running was not just something this man preferred over fighting. Zivon smiled. “You are a runner too?”
Clarke’s blue gaze went a bit distant. “I’d hoped to make the Olympics in 1912. Nearly did. Lost the qualifier by this much.” He stretched out his hands and sighed out a laugh. He shrugged—though not the same sort of shrug Zivon had just given. This one said, Some things we can never change.
“I am impressed. I never competed.”
“Those days are certainly over for me.” Clarke thumped a fist to his chest. “I haven’t the fortitude anymore, since I fell ill. Though I have been trying to get back to it a bit.”
They reached the first landing, and Zivon cast a look over at his companion. Clarke was probably younger than he was by a few years. Not by much, but he’d guess him to be closer to Evgeni’s age than his own, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven. And though their stories weren’t exactly the same, they had enough in common that last night had been quite pleasant, even without the added bonus of two lovely young ladies to admire and hosts who were experts at setting them at ease.
He was also grateful for an opportunity to get to know his new superior a bit better. He didn’t think one shared dinner would make Hall trust him, take his advice. But it couldn’t hurt.
Right this moment, though, even more than those grand goals, he just wanted—no, needed—a friend. “I would like my routine to be more regular as well. Perhaps we could run together certain mornings each week?”
Clarke’s eyes lit up. “That would be just the thing. Accountability, you know. Perhaps we could work out the details over lunch today? If the weather’s fine, I’ll be up on the roof at one o’clock.”
Zivon nodded. “Perfect. I will look forward to it.”
“Ah, good. Just the chaps I was hoping to catch.”
They both looked up, spotting Captain Blackwell coming down the stairs, a smile on his face. Zivon had a feeling he wasn’t alone in the question of why the captain was looking for them both, though of course they merely said their respective good mornings and waited for the older man to explain himself.
“I’ve come with another invitation for each of you. I just received word that my brother and his wife won’t make it to Town as planned today, so we’ve two seats open for Easter dinner on Sunday. I thought, given that neither of you have people in London, you might like to join us. It’s a shame to spend a holiday alone.”
Zivon exchanged a glance with Clarke—who had told him on their shared tube ride home last night that Blackwell never invited the same young men to dinner more than once. What did this mean, that he was doing so now? For both of them, no less?
Perhaps it was simple Christian charity, not wanting them to be alone for the holiday, as he said. And if so, Zivon hadn’t the heart to tell him that he hadn’t been planning on celebrating until next month. What harm could there possibly be in observing his Lord’s resurrection now too? He nodded. “It would be my honor.”
“And pleasure,” Clarke added. “How good of you to think of us, Captain. I would certainly be delighted to join you.”
“And I.”
“Excellent.” Blackwell clapped them each on a shoulder and continued down the stairs. “I’ll let you both know of the time after I’ve verified it with Effie.”
For a long moment after he’d gone, Zivon and Clarke just stared at each other. Then they smiled, chuckled, and Zivon peeled off toward his door. “I will see you at lunch.”
His heart had never been quite so light as he passed into the corridor that housed the intelligence hub. Perhaps that was why he found himself following the voices toward Room 40 instead of his own desk across the hall.
“I think it must be another alphabet entirely.” It was De Wilde’s voice. He hadn’t yet learned them all, but it was certainly no trouble to recognize that of the sole female cryptographer.
And the words another alphabet drew him like a moth to flame.
He recognized the grumble too—Phillip Camden, one of the few of his new colleagues who always greeted him with an easy smile instead of polite distrust. “How in blazes am I supposed to decode something in a whole different alphabet? And how the devil can I know which one?”
“If it’s too much for you, you can put it aside for someone else, you know.” The note in De Wilde’s voice said she knew well that by phrasing it like that, she was making it an issue of pride.
Much like his colleagues had done in Russia, this group greatly enjoyed poking fun at one another. He stepped into the room and cleared his throat. “Pardon me. I heard mention of alphabets. I could perhaps be of service?”
Not everyone was in for the day yet, but those who were all came to a sudden halt, five sets of eyes upon him.
His fingers curled into his palm. Why did he feel as though he ought to apologize? This was, after all, why Hall had hired him, wasn’t it? He pulled out a smile. “I do not mean to be forward. But I studied linguistics at university. I am fluent in nine languages and able to translate several more with the aid of a lexicon. I am likely to know any alphabets we have intercepted.”
That use of we was calculated. It would, with a bit of luck, remind them that even before he came here, he’d been an ally. Doing this same work, on the same side.
Camden stood with a grin. “And the Lord provides. Here, sit. See if you can make sense of it, Ziv.”
Ziv. He blinked at the nickname but moved toward the chair. On Camden’s desk a few papers rested, including a hastily drawn Vigenère table with the Latin alphabet filled in. It had, apparently, produced nothing but gibberish when applied to the message also sitting there.
He sat, looking first at the encrypted message. The length of the words, the frequency of certain repetitions of letters, the patterns of language. Borrowing Camden’s slide rule, he flipped over the paper with the table on it and drew his own. One with thirty-three letters instead of English’s twenty-six. Into this he put the Cyrillic alphabet and then applied to the message the new pattern it created.
It required only a few minutes to realize he’d selected the correct alphabet. Words definitely began appearing, though they weren’t the most familiar. “Not Russian—but Bulgarian, without doubt. Shall I . . . ?”
“You had better.” This from one of the other codebreakers—Adcock, who smiled at him genuinely for the first time in Zivon’s three weeks here. “If you leave it to Camden, he’ll make a mess of it.”
A ball of paper sailed through the air, striking Adcock in the shoulder. “You aren’t exactly fluent in Bulgarian yourself, there, Ad. And I make no pretense of being the best codebreaker. I’m a pilot. That is why, if you’ll recall, I’m useful to you.”
Adcock snorted and sent the missile back to Camden. “Well, from what I hear, Old Ziv goes beyond most of us. You were the czar’s best, weren’t you?”
Zivon shook his head and stood again, gathering the papers. “That was Popov—my superior, head of the division.” But Popov had trained him. And then trained him to take over, though the Revolution put a halt to all those plans.
Camden took his chair again, brows arched with challenge. “That’s not the story the admiral tells. For that matter, it’s not the story that giant hunk of ruby on your finger tells.”
Of its own accord, Zivon’s gaze flicked to the ring he was inadvertently flashing as he clutched the papers.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you for the story about that, Marin.” Adcock leaned back in his chair, clearly not minding a bit of distraction so early in the day. “Family heirloom? Gift? It must be of sentimental value for you to have kept it during your escape rather than pawning it.”
The very thought of pawning it made something hot boil up in his veins. The anger wasn’t aimed at the codebreaker, who he knew was only teasing, but at the situation that had forced him into a pos
ition where it could even be an option. “I could never.”
Camden’s grin was every bit as teasing and mocking as Adcock’s had been. “Because . . . ?”
Zivon sighed. He hadn’t intentionally decided to keep his past a secret from these new colleagues—he’d simply fallen into it. But just as he’d shared his running with Clarke that morning, perhaps it was time to offer more of himself here too. “It was a gift from Czar Nicholas. Before the Revolution. Popov had told him of my work. To show his appreciation for my service, the czar invited me to dine at the palace and presented this to me as a token of his esteem.”
“There, see? I knew it had to be something like that.” Leaning an elbow onto his desk, Camden let his smile relax into something purely friendly. Or mostly, anyway. “As Adcock said—the best. Unless he gave every cryptographer a ring in thanks?”
How long had it been since he’d had the leisure of bantering like this with colleagues who understood him? Too long. He grinned back. “No. Or if he did, they did not wear them to the office.”
Adcock laughed. “If the king gave me a ring, you can bet I’d never take it off either. And you know, now that you mention it, perhaps DID can put a bug in his ear, what do you say? Royal-issued rings for all of us! That would shut up all those old biddies who berate us for having desk jobs.”
“I doubt it.” De Wilde stood as she spoke, crossing to the secretary’s desk where they put their handwritten decrypts in a basket to be typed up.
“Speaking of rings.” Adcock narrowed his eyes at her. “When’s this wedding of yours, De Wilde? We’re all invited, aren’t we?”
Never in his life had Zivon met a young woman like this one, who looked downright irritated at mention of her upcoming nuptials. “The nineteenth of May. Yes, everyone will be invited. And now can we get back to work, or would you like to help me pick out the pattern for my gown too?”
“Careful, De Wilde. You’ll have everyone thinking you’re reluctant to wed Elton if you keep up that attitude.” Camden reached over to snag another encoded piece of paper from the waiting stack of them.
A Portrait of Loyalty (The Codebreakers Book #3) Page 5
