Sam Eastland - Eye of the Red Tsar A Novel of Suspense

“You mean to lie,” corrected Pekkala.

“A temporary lie,” explained Kirov. “Someday, when the time is right, the record will be set straight.”

“You believe that?” Pekkala asked.

“Of course!” the Commissar replied enthusiastically. “I just never thought I’d actually get to see it for myself.”

Pekkala reached into his pocket and removed the wooden apple he had been given at the checkpoint and which he had failed to return. He tossed it into Kirov ’s lap. “Here’s a little souvenir, from your visit to the town of temporary lies.”

Anton reached across and bounced a fist off his brother’s shoulder. “Welcome to the Revolution,” he said.

But Pekkala was not thinking about the Revolution. His thoughts had drifted back to an earlier time, when apples like that had been real.

He found the Tsar chopping firewood outside the greenhouses of the Tsarskoye Selo estate, which were known as the Orangeries.

When he emerged onto the terrace of the Catherine Palace, having failed to locate the Tsar in any of its rooms, he’d heard, in the distance, the rhythmic sound of an axe cutting into dry wood.

From the way that axe was being handled-rapidly, without hesitation, and without the heavy thump of someone using more strength than was necessary to split logs into kindling-Pekkala knew it was the Tsar.

The Tsar liked to exercise, but not for its own sake. He preferred to be doing something he considered useful, such as shoveling snow, clearing rushes from the edges of the ponds. But his favorite occupation was simply to hide himself away behind the Orangeries and lose himself in the meditation of swinging an axe.

It was a cold day in late September. The first snow of the winter had fallen and the ground was hard with frost. In a few days the snow would probably melt again. Roads and paths would turn to mud. Pekkala had noticed that these first snowfalls were a special time for people in Petrograd. It filled them with new energy, replenishing what had been sapped from them by the muggy summer months.

The Tsar was stripped to the waist. On his left rose a pile of neatly stacked logs, each one about half the length of a man’s leg. On his right lay the jumble of logs which had been quartered for use as kindling. In the middle, the Tsar used a tree stump as a cutting platform. Pekkala admired the precision of the Tsar’s work, the way he placed each log for cutting, the effortless rise of the axe, its ash handle sliding through his grip until it reached the height of its arc. Then came the sharp downward swing, almost too swift to see, and the log would split apart like segments of an orange.

Pekkala waited at the edge of the clearing until the Tsar had paused to wipe sweat from his face. Then he stepped forward and cleared his throat.

The Tsar wheeled about, surprised. At first, he looked annoyed to have been disturbed, but his expression softened when he realized who it was. “Oh, it’s you, Pekkala.” He let the axe drop onto the tree stump. Its blade bit into the wood, and when he let go, the axe stayed where it was, jutting at an angle from the cutting platform. “What brings you here today?”

“I have come to ask for a favor, Excellency.”

“A favor?” The Tsar slapped his hands together, as if to brush away the redness in his palms. “Well, it’s about time you asked me for something. I was beginning to think you had no use for me at all.”

“No use for you, Excellency?” He had never thought about it like that.

The Tsar smiled at Pekkala’s confusion. “What is it that you would like, my friend?”

“A boat.”

The Tsar raised his eyebrows. “Well, I think we can manage that. What sort of boat? My yacht, the Standart? Or something bigger? Do you need some sort of military vessel?”

“I need a rowboat, Excellency.”

“A rowboat.”

“Yes.”

“Just an ordinary rowboat?” The Tsar failed to hide his disappointment.

“And some oars, Excellency.”

“Let me guess,” said the Tsar. “You would like two of those.”

Pekkala nodded.

“Is that all you want from me?”

“No, Excellency. I also need a lake to put it in.”

“Ah,” growled the Tsar, “now that’s more like it, Pekkala.”

Two days later, just after the sun had set, Pekkala rowed out into the lake known as the Great Pond, at the southern edge of the Tsarskoye Selo estate. Ilya sat in the back of the boat, a blindfold over her eyes.

It was a cool evening, but not cold. In a month this whole lake would be frozen.

“How much longer do I have to wear this?” Before he could respond, she asked another question. “Where are we going?”

He opened his mouth to reply.

“Is there anyone else in this boat?” she asked. “Why don’t you give me an answer?”

“I will if you’ll let me,” he said. “The answers are ‘not long,’ ‘not telling,’ and ‘no.’”

Ilya sighed and folded her hands in her lap. “What if one of my students sees me? They’ll think I’m being kidnapped.”

“I love you,” said Pekkala. He had meant to save that for later, but it just slipped out on its own.

“What?” she asked, her voice growing suddenly soft.

“You heard me.”

She was silent.

He wondered if he had made a mistake.

“Well, it’s about time,” she said, softly.

“You’re the second person who’s said that to me recently.”

“I love you, too,” she told him.

The bow of the rowboat nudged up against the shore of an island called the Hall, which stood in the middle of the Great Pond. A large pavilion had been built on the island, taking up most of its space, so that the pavilion itself seemed to float upon the water.

Pekkala drew in the oars, droplets falling from the Turk’s head knots which had been laced just forward of the oar grips. Then he helped Ilya out of the boat. She was still wearing the blindfold, but now she no longer complained. Holding her hand, he led her up to the pavilion, under which there was a single table with two chairs. A lantern on the table cast a pool of light around the space, and the backs of the chairs made shadows like the loops of twisted vines.

Once she was seated, he lifted the silver domes which had been placed over their plates. He had made the meal himself-chicken Kiev, its center stuffed with a knot of butter and parsley, mushrooms stirred into a sauce of cream and brandy, string beans no thicker than a sewing needle, and potatoes broiled with rosemary. The Tsarina had contributed a bottle of Grande Dame Veuve Clicquot. Beside the lantern sat a bowl of perfect apples, which they would eat with cheese for their dessert.

The plates had been set in silver rings, raising them just above the level of the table, and the meal kept warm by candles placed beneath.

Now Pekkala removed the candles and the silver rings, so that the plates were resting on the table.

He breathed in, his eyes scanning the place settings to make certain everything was in perfect order. For the past two days, he had been so busy with the details of this meal that he hadn’t had time to get nervous. But now he was very nervous. “You can take off the blindfold now,” he said.

She looked at the meal and then at him and then around her at the pavilion, darkness like velvet curtains all around.

Pekkala watched her anxiously.

“You did not need to go to all this trouble,” she told him.

“Well, I know, but-

“You had me at the first creak of the oars.”

NOW KIROV HELD THE WOODEN APPLE AS HE DROVE, HIS OTHER hand gripping the wheel. “Isn’t it beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Don’t we live in a wonderful time!”