Eye of the Red Tsar (21 page)

“Should we go get her?” asked one of the Guards
.

“Let her freeze,” replied the leader. “She won’t be there in the morning.”

“Why not?”

“There’s another train coming through before dawn. When that thing hits her, she’ll shatter like a piece of glass.”

The following morning, a Guard placed a black cloth over Pekkala’s head. When the train from Helsinki arrived, he was shoved across the platform, blind and choking for air. Rough hands hauled him on board
.
He lay in the unheated baggage compartment, handcuffed to a replacement tractor engine, until the train pulled into Petrograd
.

“WHAT IF THE Romanovs were in that truck…” Pekkala said.

Mayakovsky turned in the doorway. “I already told you they were.”

“But what if they were dead when the truck took them away?”

“Listen to me,” said the old man impatiently. “Everybody in this town knew that when those Cheka men arrived in town, the only reason for them being there was to make sure the Romanovs were dead before the Whites marched into town. That’s why they kicked out the local militiamen who had been guarding the Ipatiev house. Moscow wanted to be absolutely sure that if the Whites came close enough, the Cheka would carry out the executions and wouldn’t just run away like the militia might have done. If anybody on the outside wanted the Romanovs killed, all they had to do was wait for the Whites to show up. The only kind of person who would break into that house and risk their life in a gunfight with those Guards was someone who wanted to save the Tsar’s family, not kill them off.”

After Mayakovsky had gone, the three men returned to the table.

“Why did you let him go on talking?” asked Kirov, “when you knew what he was saying was a pack of lies?”

“For once,” said Anton, “I agree with Junior Man here. And the worst part is, the old bastard thinks he got away with it.”

“Mayakovsky didn’t think he was lying,” Pekkala told them. “He’s convinced that the only reason you and the other Cheka guards took over from the militia was so that you could murder the family.”

“We replaced the militia,” replied Anton, “because they were stealing from the Romanovs. The Tsar was being guarded by a gang of petty thieves. It was unprofessional. They could no longer be relied upon for anything.”

“But you see how your arrival must have looked to someone on the outside. That’s why Mayakovsky believed what he was saying. It’s important to know how people have perceived a crime, even if you know it’s not the truth.”

“Either it’s true or it’s not.” Anton picked up the wooden apple and tossed it to Pekkala. “You’re sounding like the men who gave us these.”

“The difference,” said Pekkala, “is that we’re solving a crime, not committing one.”

Anton flung up his hands. “You go ahead and run this investigation however you want. I am going to the tavern to see if I can beg for some tobacco, since that’s the only chance I have of getting any.” He stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

Kirov and Pekkala went to the frigid front room and built a fire. They brought the chairs in from the kitchen and sat in front of the hearth, blankets over their shoulders, and hands held out toward the flames.

From his coat pocket, Pekkala removed the old book he had brought with him. As he read, his expression grew distant. The lines smoothed out in his face.

“What’s that?” Kirov demanded.

“The
Kalevala,”
murmured Pekkala and kept reading.

“The what?”

Pekkala groaned and set the book down on his knee. “It’s a book of stories,” he explained.

“What sort of stories?”

“Legends.”

“I don’t know any legends.”

“They are like ghost stories. You don’t have to believe them, but it’s hard to think there is no truth in them at all.”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Pekkala?”

“Why are you asking, Kirov?”

“Because I just saw one,” he said.

Pekkala sat up. “What?”

Kirov shrugged awkwardly. “While I was making the fire, someone looked in at that window.” He pointed to the curtains in the corner near the fireplace. From where the two men sat, they could see a small piece of window glass which was not covered by the curtain. Through this, the silhouettes of tree branches stirred like strange aquatic creatures in the moonlight.

“It’s probably just some drunk on his way home from the tavern who wanted to see why there were lights on in this place. People are bound to be curious.”

Embarrassed, Kirov scratched at his blushing cheeks. “It’s just that… well… it just sounds…”

“What is it, Kirov? Spit it out so I can get back to reading my book.”

“It’s just that I could have sworn that man looking in at the window was the Tsar. That beard of his. Those sad-looking eyes. Of course, I’ve only seen pictures. And it was dark.… Maybe I just imagined him.”

Pekkala got to his feet and left the room. He opened the front door. The night breeze seeped past him, replacing the still air which had accumulated inside the Ipatiev house. For a long time, he stood there, staring at the shuttered windows of houses across the street, searching for any sign which might give away the presence of an observer. He did not see anybody, but he did have the feeling that someone was there.

When at last Pekkala returned to the front room, he found Kirov squatting before the fire, adding pieces of a broken chair.

Pekkala sat down where he had been before.

The flames spat as they rose around the splintered wood.

“I told you I must have imagined it,” said Kirov.

“Maybe,” Pekkala replied.

PEKKALA SAT UP ABRUPTLY.

The crash of breaking glass had woken him.

Kirov was already on his feet. His hair stuck up in tufts. “It came from in there.” He pointed to the kitchen. Softly he walked into the next room and lit one of the lanterns.

Pekkala threw back his blanket and rubbed his face. Probably just Anton, he thought. He’s got himself locked out and broke a window trying to get in again.

“Damned kids!” said Kirov.

Pekkala got to his feet. He took the Webley from its holster, just in case. On stiff legs, he made his way into the kitchen. The first thing he saw was that the window above the sink had been broken. Shards scattered the floor.

Kirov peered out the broken window. “Go away!” he shouted into the darkness. “Get the hell out of here!”

“What did they throw?” asked Pekkala.

“A piece of a table leg.”

Pekkala’s breath caught in his throat.

In Kirov’s hand was a German stick grenade: a gray-painted metal cylinder like a small soup can attached to a wooden stick a little shorter than a man’s forearm, so that the grenade could be thrown a great distance.

“What?” asked Kirov. He looked at Pekkala, then at the stick in his hand. Suddenly, he seemed to understand. “Oh, my God,” he whispered.

Pekkala grabbed the grenade from Kirov’s hand and threw it back through the kitchen window, shattering another pane of glass. Grabbing Kirov’s shirt, he pulled him down to the floor.

The grenade clattered across the courtyard. Glass fragments clinked musically on the cobblestones.

Pekkala put his hands over his ears, his mouth open to equalize the pressure, bracing for the roar. He knew that if the men outside had been properly trained, they would enter the house immediately after the detonation. Pekkala lay as close to the wall as he could get, to avoid being hurt when the windows and the door blew in. These grenades had a seven-second fuse. Vassileyev himself had taught him that. He waited, counting, but there was no explosion. Satisfied at last that the grenade had been a dud, he rose and looked out into the courtyard. Moonlight glinted off the glass shards and off the Emka’s windshield, dividing the courtyard into geometric shapes of bluish light and neatly chiseled angles of black shadow. The silence was profound.

“Let’s go,” he said, nudging Kirov with his toe.

Cautiously, the two men walked out into the courtyard. Stars fanned out across the sky.

The gate was open. It had been closed when they went to sleep.

“Should we try to follow them?” Kirov asked.

Pekkala shook his head. “When they realize the grenade didn’t go off, they might come back. We’ll be safer if we wait for them here.”

As Kirov left to get his gun, Pekkala caught sight of the grenade, lying by the storage shed. As he neared it, he could see what appeared to be a small white button lying beside it. Looking closely, he realized that the button was in fact a ball, the size of a small marble, with a hole drilled into the middle. A string had been threaded through the ball. The other end disappeared into the hollow handle of the grenade. This would have been covered with a metal screw cap until the grenade was to be used. The porcelain ball and the string were stored inside the stick and had to be pulled in order to ignite the fuse. Whoever threw the grenade had unscrewed the cap but forgot to pull the cord.

“Maybe it was just a warning,” said Kirov, when Pekkala had explained why the grenade did not go off.

Pekkala weighed the stick grenade in his hand, slapping the metal detonator can gently into his palm. He didn’t reply.

While Kirov stood watch at the front of the house, Pekkala remained in the kitchen. In the darkness, he sat with the Webley and the grenade laid out in front of him. Tiny flecks of glass lay scattered across the tabletop. Through the broken window, he stared out into the night until his eyes ached and shadows danced about like people taunting him.

Anton showed up at dawn. He went straight to the pump in the courtyard. Its gracefully curved handle wore an old coat of red paint the same vivid color as a holly berry. Rusted iron showed where the paint had been rubbed away. As Anton worked the lever, a bird-like shriek of grinding metal filled the air.

A moment later, a shapeless explosion of silver emerged from the pump head and Anton stuck his face under the stream. When he raised his head, a plume of silver arced over his shoulder. He smoothed his hair back with both hands, eyes closed, mouth open, droplets falling from his chin.

In that moment, Pekkala realized he had seen that pump before.

It was in a picture, one which Pekkala had discovered in an issue of
Pravda
that was left with his winter’s rations at the trailhead in Krasnagolyana. The Tsar and his son, Alexei, were cutting wood with a large two-man saw. Each had hold of one end. A pile of wood stood off to one side. The pump was in the background. The photograph had been taken during the Tsar’s captivity in this place. The Tsar wore a plain service tunic, much like his captors would have worn. Alexei wore a heavy coat and fur hat, bundled up against a chill his father did not seem to feel. By the time Pekkala saw that picture, the paper was so out of date that the Tsar had been dead more than a year.

Pekkala thought about the face Kirov had glimpsed in the window. Maybe this place is haunted after all, he thought.

Anton barged into the kitchen. His eyes were bloodshot, the whites turned sickly yellow. One of his cheeks was bruised purple, the color almost black where his cheekbone nudged against the skin.

“What happened to you?” Pekkala asked him.

“Let’s just say that Mayakovsky isn’t the only one in this town who remembers me.”

“We had another visitor last night.” Pekkala set the grenade on the table.

Anton whistled quietly. He walked over and peered at it. “A dud?”

“They didn’t pull the cord.”

“That’s not something a person does by mistake.”

“Then it’s a warning,” said Pekkala, “and next time we won’t be so lucky.”

“I have to present my papers at the police station before you can officially begin your investigation,” Anton told him. “You can come along and see if they know anything.”

ALEXANDER KROPOTKIN, the Sverdlovsk Police Chief, was a squat, broad-shouldered man with a thick head of blond hair which he combed straight down over his forehead.

While Pekkala and Anton stood waiting, Kropotkin sat behind his desk, leafing through the papers which Anton had presented to him. He got to the last page, squinted at the signature, then tossed the papers on the desk. “Why do you bother?” he asked.

“Bother with what?” Anton asked.

Kropotkin tapped the orders with a stubby index finger. “Comrade Stalin signed these orders. You can do whatever the hell you want. You don’t need my permission.”

“It is a courtesy,” said Anton.

Kropotkin sat forward, resting his forearms on the desk. He stared at Pekkala. “The Emerald Eye. I heard you were dead.”

“You are not the only one who heard that.”

“I also heard that you could not be bought, but here you are working for
them.”
He jerked his chin towards Anton.

“I have not been bought,” Pekkala told him.

“Bribed, then. Or threatened. It doesn’t matter. One way or another, you are working for them now.”

The words cut into him, but Pekkala chose not to reply.

Kropotkin turned his attention to Anton. “You look familiar. You were one of the Cheka guards, weren’t you?”

“Perhaps,” Anton replied.

“There is no
perhaps
. I don’t forget faces, and I saw you at the tavern the whole time you were here. How many times did I see Cheka men come to fetch you when you were too drunk to walk? And judging from your face, either you are perpetually bruised or you didn’t waste any time going back to your old habits. Now you come here to my office and talk to me about
courtesy?
You gentlemen can go to hell. How is that for courtesy?”

“What’s got you all steamed up?” demanded Anton.

“You want to know? Fine, I’ll tell you. This was a nice, quiet place until your lot brought the Romanovs here. Since then, nothing’s ever been the same. You know what people think of when you say the word ‘Sverdlovsk’?” He made a gun with his thumb and index finger and set it against his temple. “Death. Execution. Murder. Take your pick. None of it’s good. And every time things start to settle down, one of you people drops in and stirs things up again. Nobody wants you here, but I can’t kick you out.” He jerked his chin towards the door. “So just do your work and then leave us alone.”