Eye of the Red Tsar (13 page)

“Is he unhappy?” asked Alexei
.

“No, I don’t think so. He just keeps to himself how he feels.”

“Why did you choose him to be your special investigator? Why not just choose another detective in the Okhrana or the Gendarmerie?”

Pekkala glanced up and down the empty corridor. Laughter came from distant rooms. He knew he should move on, but the question Alexei had asked was one he’d often asked himself, and it seemed to him that if he did not learn the answer now, he never would. So he stayed, barely breathing, straining to hear their voices through the thick slab of the door
.

“A man like Pekkala,” said the Tsar, “does not realize his own potential. I knew that the first time I set eyes on him. You see, Alexei, it is necessary for people in our walk of life to understand with a single glimpse the character of those we meet. We have to know whether to trust someone or to keep them at arm’s length. What a person does matters more than what they say. I saw Pekkala refusing to jump his horse over a barbed-wire fence which some sadist of a drill instructor had constructed, and I watched how he behaved when the sergeant was dressing him down. And you know, he did not show a trace of fear. If I had not been there to witness it, that sergeant would have had Pekkala expelled from the ranks for insubordination. And it wouldn’t have mattered to Pekkala.”

“But why not?” asked the boy. “If he didn’t want to be in the regiment…”

“Oh, but he did, only not on those terms. Most of those cadets would simply have sacrificed the horse and done as they were told.”

“But isn’t it important,” asked Alexei, “to be obedient no matter what?”

“Sometimes, yes, but not for what I had in mind.”

“You mean, you chose him because you thought he might not do as he was told?”

“What I needed, Alexei, was a man who could not be threatened or beaten or corrupted into surrendering his sense of what was right or wrong. And that will never happen to a person like Pekkala.”

“But why not?”

“Because it would not occur to him. Men like that, Alexei, are fewer than one in a million. When you find them, you will know them at first sight.”

“Why would he choose to do the job he does? Do you think he enjoys such a life?”

“It is not a question of enjoying it or not. He is built for it, like a greyhound is built for running. He does the thing he was put on this earth to do, because he knows that it matters.”

As he listened to the Tsar, Pekkala was reminded of his father, doing the job which no one else would do. There had been times in the past months when Pekkala felt overwhelmed by the extraordinary coincidences which had led to him working for the Tsar. Now, hearing those words, what had once seemed the result of impossible randomness appeared to him almost inevitable
.

“Did you really need someone like him?” asked Alexei
.

“It is an unfortunate truth that the Okhrana is filled with spies. So is the Gendarmerie. The two branches are spying on each other. We send spies into the ranks of the terrorists. We even create spy rings which appear to be working against us, but are in fact controlled by the government. There is no end to the deception. When people reach a point where they do not expect to be ruled by leaders they can trust, that country is headed for ruin. With this going on, Alexei, what the people needed was one person they knew they could depend on.”

“Even more than you, Papa?”

“I hope not,” replied the Tsar, “but the answer is yes, all the same.”

“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Kirov’s voice ricocheted down the mine shaft.

Looking up, Pekkala glimpsed the silhouettes of Anton and Kirov, looking like paper cutouts as they leaned over the hole.

“I’m fine,” he stammered.

“Is it who we thought?” asked Anton.

“Yes, but one of them is gone.” Until now Pekkala had considered only three possibilities—one: that there would be no bodies; two: that bodies would be there but they would not be the Romanovs; and three: that the Romanovs would indeed be found dead at the bottom of that mine shaft. Pekkala had not factored in the chance that one of the Romanovs would be missing.

“Gone?” shouted Kirov. “Who?”

“Alexei,” answered Pekkala.

The flashlight was almost extinguished now, reduced to a coppery haze which barely reached beyond the bubble lens. The darkness was crowding in around him.

“Are you sure?” As it traveled down the mine shaft, Anton’s voice was amplified as if through a megaphone.

Pekkala glanced back to where the tunnel entrances had been sealed off. “Yes. Quite sure.” Even if Alexei had survived the fall, he would not have been able to make his way into the tunnels, and with his hemophilia the young man would certainly have died of his injuries.

Up at the top of the shaft, the two men held a whispered conversation. Their words grew harsh, the sound like a hissing of snakes.

“We’re bringing you up,” shouted Anton.

A moment later, the Emka’s engine growled into life.

“Take hold of the rope,” called Anton. “Kirov will back up slowly. We’ll pull you up.”

Light flickered on the walls, like ghosts emerging from the rock.

He gripped the rope.

“Ready?” asked Anton.

“Yes,” replied Pekkala.

The engine revved and Pekkala felt himself lifted slowly towards the surface. As he rose, he glanced down at the bodies, laid out side by side. The mouths gaped wide, as if in some terrible and silent chorus.

Keeping a firm grip on the rope, Pekkala walked his way up the sheer walls of the mine shaft. Finally, when he was almost at the top, Anton waved to Kirov and the car came to a halt. Anton reached down. “Take hold,” he commanded.

Pekkala hesitated.

“If I’d wanted to kill you,” said Anton, “I would have done it before now.”

Pekkala released one hand from the rope and clasped his brother’s forearm.

Anton hauled him to the surface.

While Kirov coiled the rope, Pekkala walked over to the car and leaned against the hood, arms folded, lost in thought.

Anton offered him his flask of Samahonka.

Pekkala shook his head. “You realize that there are two investigations now. One to find who killed the Romanovs and one to find the prince. He might still be alive.”

Anton shrugged and took a drink himself. “Anything’s possible,” he muttered.

“I will help you to find Alexei’s body,” continued Pekkala, “but if it turns out he’s alive, you’ll have to find someone else to track him down.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I will not deliver Alexei to you so you can assassinate him or throw him in prison for the rest of his life.”

“I have something to tell you.” Anton dropped the flask back in his pocket. “It might help you change your mind.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Listen,” said Anton, “don’t forget we have been chasing rumors for years now that some of the Romanovs might have survived. We were well aware that the rumors might actually be true. It is Comrade Stalin’s intention to offer amnesty to any of the Tsar’s immediate family who can be found alive.”

“You expect me to believe that?” rasped Pekkala.

“I’ve told you before that it was never Moscow’s intention to kill all of the Romanovs. The Tsar was to be put on trial and, yes, he would have been found guilty and, yes, he almost certainly would have been executed. But there was never any mention of wiping out his entire family. They were to be used as bargaining tools. They were too valuable a resource simply to kill them.”

“But Moscow already announced that the entire family were killed!” said Pekkala. “Why would Stalin acknowledge that he had made a mistake? It would make more sense for him to kill the Prince, rather than admit that he had lied.”

“Perhaps one of the guards took pity on Alexei. Perhaps he was saved from execution and hidden away until he could be smuggled to safety. If that was the case, there would have been no lie. Moscow could say they had simply been misinformed. For Stalin to let Alexei live means that we are no longer afraid of our past. The Romanovs will never rule this country again. There will never be another Tsar. Alexei no longer stands as a threat, and that is why Alexei is worth more to us alive than dead.”

Kirov had finished loading the tow rope into the car. He slammed the trunk and walked over to the brothers. He said nothing, but it was clear he had been listening.

“What do you think?” Pekkala asked him.

At first, Kirov seemed surprised to have been asked. He thought for a moment before he replied. “Alive or dead, Alexei is just another human being now. Just like you and me.”

“The Tsar would have wanted that for his son,” said Pekkala, “as much as he wanted it for himself.”

“Well?” Anton reached out and tapped his brother on the arm. “What do you say?”

In spite of his instinctive mistrust, Pekkala could not deny that an offer of amnesty was an important sign. Only a government confident in itself could make such a gesture to a former enemy. Stalin was right. The world would take notice of that.

Pekkala felt himself swept along by the possibility that Alexei might still be alive. He tried to stifle it, knowing how dangerous it was to want a thing too much. It could cloud his judgment. Make him vulnerable. But, at that moment, with the smell of the dead still bitter in his lungs, his hesitation was outweighed by the duty he felt to the Prince.

“Very well,” he said. “I will help you to find Alexei, one way or the other.”

“Where to now, boss?” asked Kirov.

“The Vodovenko asylum,” Pekkala told him. “Obviously that madman is not as crazy as they think he is.”

Although they were now within sight of Sverdlovsk, its gold-painted onion dome church rising above rooftops in the distance, they settled on a route which bypassed the main road into town and continued due south towards Vodovenko. On the outskirts of the town, they stopped at a fuel depot to requisition more gasoline.

The depot was little more than a fenced enclosure, inside which stood a hut surrounded by a barricade of dirty yellow fuel drums. The gate was open and when the Emka pulled in, the station manager emerged from the hut, wiping his hands on a rag. He wore a set of blue overalls, torn at the knees and tattooed with grease stains.

“Welcome to the Sverdlovsk Regional Center for Transportation,” he announced without enthusiasm as he shuffled over to them through puddles rainbowed with spilled gasoline. “We’re also the Regional Center for Contact and Communication.” The manager pointed towards a battered-looking phone nailed to the wall inside the hut. “Would you like to know the title they gave me to run this place? It takes about five minutes to say the whole thing.”

“We just came for some fuel.” Anton pulled a stack of brick-red-colored fuel coupons from his pocket. He flipped through them rapidly, like a bank teller counting money, then handed some over.

Without even glancing at them, the manager tossed the coupons into a barrel of old engine parts and oily rags. Then he turned to a fuel drum which had a pump attached to the top of the barrel. He worked the hand pump to pressurize the fuel drum, lifted the heavy nozzle, and began filling the Emka’s fuel tank. “Where are you men going? Not many people pass through here by car. They all take the train these days.”

“To the Vodovenko Sanitarium,” replied Kirov.

The manager nodded grimly. “Which route are you taking?”

“The road which runs south goes straight to it,” Kirov replied.

“Ah,” whispered the man. “An understandable mistake, seeing as you’re not from around here.”

“What do you mean ‘a mistake’?”

“I think you’ll find that road is… ah… not there.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Anton. “I saw it on the map.”

“Oh, it exists,” the manager assured him. “Only”—he hesitated—“there is no land to the south.”

“No land? Have you completely lost your mind?”

“Do you have your map with you?” asked the manager.

“Yes.”

“Then take a look at it and you’ll see what I mean,” he said.

With the manager standing beside him, Anton spread his map out on the hood of the car. It took him a moment of staring at the chart before he had his bearings.

“There’s the road,” said Anton, tracing his finger along it.

Now the manager dabbed one diesel-greasy finger at a large white space south of the town, through which the dark blue vein of road became a dotted line.

“I didn’t notice that before,” said Anton. “What does it mean?”

From the look on the manager’s face, it was clear that he knew but had no intention of saying. “Go around,” he said, pointing to another road which meandered to the south and then looped around, eventually trailing into Vodovenko.

“But that will take days!” said Anton. “We don’t have the time.”

“Suit yourself,” replied the manager.

“What aren’t you telling us?” asked Pekkala.

The manager lifted another fuel can and placed it in Pekkala’s arms. “Take this with you, just in case,” was all he would say.

IT WAS LATE afternoon when they arrived at the edge of that emptiness on the map. They came upon a roadblock made from a tree trunk set across the road at waist height, supported on either side by two X-shaped wooden structures. A small hut had been built beside the road.

A guard stood in the middle of the road, holding out his arm for them to stop. In his other hand, he held a revolver attached to a lanyard which hung around his neck. His ears were pressed back close against his skull, giving him a predatory look. On his collar he wore the red enameled rectangles of an officer.

Another man dozed in the darkness of the hut, arms folded and head lolling.

Pekkala noticed that beyond the roadblock, the fields were green and cultivated. In the distance, the thatched rooftops of a village seemed to glow in the midday sun.