Eye of the Red Tsar (34 page)

Grodek shrieked with pain.

Kirov’s face showed no emotion.

“How did you find me?” asked Pekkala.

“As soon as your brother woke up,” replied Kirov, “he borrowed the doctor’s car and came to find me. He told me about Grodek. At first, neither of us knew where you had gone. Then I remembered the book. I deciphered the message. We came here as quickly as we could. When we got to the field, I tried to keep Grodek pinned down while Anton came around the side, but Grodek spotted him and opened fire. Anton was wounded. Grodek threw him into the pit.” Now Kirov hauled Grodek to his feet, lifting him by the cuffs. “And now it is time to settle the accounts.”

Grodek cried out as his arms were bent back.

“I hear you are afraid of heights,” said Kirov, as he hauled Grodek towards the mine shaft.

Kirov held him over the edge.

Grodek writhed and begged.

All Kirov had to do was let go.

He was about to cross a line from which there was no turning back. Already, Kirov seemed to be a different man from the Junior Commissar Pekkala had met in the forest, lifetimes ago. Pekkala felt helpless to prevent what was about to happen. Part of him wanted it, knowing that if Kirov did not cross that line today, the time would surely come when he would have no choice. But Pekkala realized that he could not stand by and let it happen. He called out to Kirov, ordering him to stop, knowing it might already be too late.

For a moment Kirov seemed confused, like a man snapping out of hypnosis. Then he leaned back, fist clenched around the handcuff chain, pulling Grodek away from the precipice.

Grodek dropped to his knees, sobbing.

Pekkala walked over to the vests. They lay in a heap, the white cotton looking stained and brittle in the daylight. He lifted one of them and held it up, feeling the weight drag at his arm. The rotten cloth tore open and a stream of diamonds poured out on the ground, sparkling like water in the sunlight.

ONE WEEK LATER, Pekkala was in Moscow.

He sat in a wood-paneled room whose tall windows, framed by crimson velvet curtains, looked out onto Red Square. An eighteenth-century Thomas Lister grandfather clock, which had once stood in the Catherine Palace, patiently marked time in the corner of the room.

The desk in front of him was bare except for an empty wooden pipe holder.

He did not know how long he had been waiting. Now and then he glanced at the large double doors. Outside, he heard soldiers marching in the square.

A dream he’d had the night before still echoed in his head. He was in Sverdlovsk, on that bicycle, flying downhill without brakes, heading straight for the duck pond again. Just as before, he had ended up in the water, soaked and covered in weeds. When he rose from the pond, he saw a person standing in the rushes on the other side. It was Anton. His heart jumped when he saw his brother. Pekkala tried to move but found that he could not. He called, but Anton did not seem to hear. Then Anton turned and walked away and the bulrushes closed up around him. Pekkala stood there for a long time—at least it seemed so in his dream—thinking of the day when he would cross that pond. Like Anton, he would stand on that far shore, looking back where he had come from, without pain or anger or sadness, and then he, too, would disappear into the world that lay beyond the water.

Suddenly a door opened in the wall behind the desk. It was shaped so much like one of the panels that Pekkala had not even noticed it was there.

The man who walked into the room wore a plain brownish-green wool suit, whose jacket had been fashioned in a military cut so that its short stand-up collar closed across his throat. His dark hair, streaked with gray above his ears and temples, had been combed straight back on his head and a thick mustache bunched under his nose. When he smiled, his eyes closed shut like those of a contented cat. “Pekkala,” he said.

Pekkala rose to his feet. “Comrade Stalin.”

Stalin sat down opposite him. “Sit,” he said.

Pekkala returned to his chair.

For a moment, the two men regarded each other in silence.

The ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder.

“I told you we would meet again, Pekkala.”

“The setting is more pleasant than before.”

Stalin sat back and looked around the room, as if he had never really noticed it before. “It’s all more pleasant now.”

“You asked to see me.”

Stalin nodded. “As you requested, credit for the return of the Tsar’s jewels to the Soviet people has been given to Lieutenant Kirov. Actually”—Stalin scratched at his chin—“it is Major Kirov now.”

“Thank you for letting me know,” said Pekkala.

“You are free to go now,” said Stalin, “unless, of course, you might consider staying on.”

“Stay on? No, I am bound for Paris. I have a meeting which is long overdue.”

“Ah,” he said. “Ilya, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” It made Pekkala nervous to hear him say her name.

“I have some information about her.” Stalin was watching him closely, as if they were playing cards. “Permit me to share it with you.”

“Information?” asked Pekkala. “What information?” He thought,
Please don’t let her be hurt, or sick. Or worse. Anything but that
.

Stalin opened a drawer on his side of the desk. The dry wood squeaked as he pulled. He withdrew a photograph. For a moment, he studied it, leaving Pekkala to stare at the back of the picture and wonder what on earth this was about.

“What is it?” demanded Pekkala. “Is she all right?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Stalin. He laid the picture down, placed a finger on top of it, and slid the photograph towards Pekkala.

Pekkala snatched it up. It was Ilya. He recognized her instantly. She was sitting at a small café table. Behind her, printed on the awning of the café, he saw the words
Les Deux Magots
. She was smiling. He could see her strong white teeth. Now, reluctantly, Pekkala’s gaze shifted to the man who was sitting beside her. He was thin, with dark hair combed straight back. He wore a jacket and tie and the stub of a cigarette was pinched between his thumb and second finger. He held the cigarette in the Russian manner, with the burning end balanced over his palm as if to catch the falling ash. Like Ilya, the man was also smiling. Both of them were watching something just to the left of the camera. On the other side of the table was an object which at first Pekkala almost failed to recognize, since it had been so long since he had seen one. It was a baby carriage, its hood pulled up to shelter the infant from the sun.

Pekkala realized he wasn’t breathing. He had to force himself to fill his lungs.

Stalin rested his fist against his lips. Quietly, he cleared his throat, as if to remind Pekkala that he was not alone in the room.

“How did you get this?” asked Pekkala, his voice gone suddenly hoarse.

“We know the whereabouts of every Russian émigré in Paris.”

“Is she in danger?”

“No,” Stalin assured him. “Nor will she be. I promise you that.”

Pekkala stared at the baby carriage. He wondered if the child had her eyes.

“You must not blame her,” Stalin told him. “She waited, Pekkala. She waited a very long time. Over ten years. But a person cannot wait forever, can they?”

“No,” admitted Pekkala.

“As you see”—Stalin gestured towards the picture—“Ilya is happy now. She has a family. She is a teacher, of Russian, of course, at the prestigious Ecole Stanislas. No one would dare to say she does not love you still, Pekkala, but she has tried to put the past behind her. That is something all of us must do at some point in our lives.”

Slowly, Pekkala raised his head, until he was looking Stalin in the eye. “Why did you show this to me?” he asked.

Stalin’s lips twitched. “Would you rather have arrived in Paris, ready to start a new life, only to find that it was once more out of reach?”

“Out of reach?” Pekkala felt dizzy. His mind seemed to rush from one end of his skull to the other, like fish trapped in a net.

“You could still go to her, of course.” Stalin shrugged. “I have her address if you want it. One look at you and whatever peace of mind she might have won for herself in these past years would be gone forever. And let us say, for the sake of argument, that you might persuade her to leave the man she married. Let us say that she even leaves behind her child—”

“Stop,” said Pekkala.

“You are not that kind of man, Pekkala. You are not the monster that your enemies once believed you to be. If you were, you would never have been such a formidable opponent for people like myself. Monsters are easy to defeat. With such people, it is only a question of blood and time, since their only weapon is fear. But you—you won the hearts of the people and the respect of your enemies. I do not believe you understand how rare a thing that is, and those whose hearts you won are out there still.” Stalin brushed his hand towards the window, and out across the pale blue autumn sky. “They know how difficult your job can be, and how few of those who walk your path can do what must be done and still hold on to their humanity. They have not forgotten you. And I don’t believe you have forgotten them.”

“No,” whispered Pekkala, “I have not forgotten.”

“What I am trying to tell you, Pekkala, is that you still have a place here if you want it.”

Until that moment, the thought of staying on had not occurred to him. But now the plans he’d made held no meaning. Pekkala realized that his last gesture of affection for the woman he’d once thought would be his wife must be to let her believe he was dead.

“More than a place,” continued Stalin. “Here, you will have a purpose. I realize how dangerous your work can be. I know the risks you take, and I cannot promise that the odds of your survival will improve. But we need someone like you…” Suddenly Stalin seemed to falter, as if even he could not fathom why Pekkala would continue to shoulder such a burden.

In that moment, Pekkala thought of his father, of the dignity and patience he had learned from that old man.

“The job…” Stalin grasped for words.

“Matters,” said Pekkala.

“Yes.” Stalin breathed out. “It matters. To them.” Once more, he gestured towards the window, as if to take in the vastness of the country with a single sweep of his hand. Then he brought his hand in and his palm thumped hard against his chest. “To me.” Now Stalin’s confidence returned, and all confusion vanished, as if a shadow had been lifted from his face. “You might be interested to know,” he continued, “that I have spoken to Major Kirov. He made a couple of requests.”

“What did he want?”

Stalin grunted. “The first thing he wanted was my pipe.”

Pekkala glanced at the empty pipe holder on the desk.

“It was such a strange thing to ask for that I actually gave it to him.” Stalin shook his head, still puzzled. “It was a good one. English briar wood.”

“What was his other request?”

“He asked to work with you again, if the opportunity ever presented itself. I hear he is a decent cook,” said Stalin.

“A chef,” replied Pekkala.

Stalin thumped the desk. “Even better! This is a big country, filled with terrible food, and someone like that would be good to have along.”

Pekkala’s face was still unreadable.

“So.” Stalin sat back in his chair and touched the tips of his fingers together. “Would the Emerald Eye consider an assistant?”

For a long time, Pekkala sat there in silence, staring into space.

“I need an answer, Pekkala.”

Slowly, Pekkala stood. “Very well,” he said. “I will return to work at once.”

Now Stalin rose to his feet. He reached across the desk and shook Pekkala’s hand. “And what should I tell Major Kirov?”

“Tell him,” said Pekkala, “that two eyes are better than one.”

The author would like to thank the following, in alphabetical order, for their help and encouragement in the writing of this book: Loyale Coles, Randall Klein, Brian McLendon, Bill McMann, Steve Messina, Kate Miciak, Nita Taublib, and all the others who make up the extraordinary team at Bantam Dell and The Random House Publishing Group.

On February 1, 1918, Russia switched from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar, which was in use elsewhere in the world. The Julian system was twelve days behind the Gregorian system until March 1900, after which it was thirteen days behind. For the sake of accuracy, the dates I have listed are what the Russians themselves would have used, being from the Julian calendar until the time the switch was made and thereafter from the Gregorian calendar.

Conditions for Russian soldiers on the battlefront against the German and Austro-Hungarian armies have reached the breaking point. Demonstrations and workers’ strikes spread through most Russian cities, including Moscow and Petrograd.