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

This was the point at which Pekkala knew he had to get Ilya out of the country, at least until things quieted down.

Now the train was ready to depart, heading east towards Warsaw. From there it would travel to Berlin and on to Paris, which was Ilya’s final destination.

“Here,” said Pekkala, and reached inside his shirt. He pulled a leather cord from around his neck. Looped into the cord was a gold signet ring. “Look after this for me.”

“But that was going to be your wedding ring.”

“It will be,” he replied, “and when I see you again, I’ll put on that ring and never take it off again.”

The crowd ebbed and flowed, as if a wind was blowing them like grain stalks in a field.

Many of those fleeing had come with huge steamer trunks, sets of matching luggage, even birds in cages. Hauling this baggage were exhausted porters in their pillbox hats and dark blue uniforms with a single red stripe, like a trickle of blood, down the sides of their trousers. There were too many people. Nobody could move without shoving. One by one, passengers abandoned their baggage and pressed forward to the train, tickets raised above their heads. Their shouts rose above the panting roar of the steam train as it prepared to move out. High above, beneath the glass-paned roof, condensation beaded on the dirty glass. It fell back as black rain upon the passengers.

A conductor leaned out of a doorway, whistle clenched between his teeth. He blew three shrill blasts.

“That’s a two-minute warning,” said Pekkala. “The train won’t wait. You have to go, Ilya.”

The crowd began to panic.

“I could wait for the next train,” she pleaded. In her hands, she clutched a single bag made out of brightly patterned carpet material, containing some books, a few photographs, and a change of clothes.

“There might not be a next train. Please. You must leave now.”

“But how will you find me?”

He smiled faintly, reaching up and running his fingers through her hair. “Don’t worry,” he said. “That’s what I’m good at.”

“How will I know where you are?”

“Wherever the Tsar is, that’s where I’ll be too.”

“I should stay with you.”

“No. Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous now. When things settle down, I will come for you, and I will bring you back.”

“But what if they don’t settle down?”

“Then I will leave this place. I will find you. Stay in Paris if you can, but wherever you are, I will find you. Then we will start a new life. One way or the other, I promise we will be together soon.”

The roar of those who could not get aboard had risen to a constant shriek.

A pile of luggage stacked too high suddenly lurched and fell. Fur-coated passengers went sprawling. The crowd closed up around them.

“Now!” said Pekkala. “Before it’s too late.”

“All right,” Ilya said at last. “Don’t let anything happen to you.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he told her. “Just get aboard the train.”

She moved away into the sea of people.

Pekkala remained where he was. He watched her head above the others. When she was almost at the carriage, she turned and waved to him.

He waved back. And then he lost sight of her, as a tide of people poured past him, pursuing the rumor that another train had pulled in at the Finland station on the other side of the river.

Before he knew it, he had been swept out into the street.

Pekkala ran around the side of the station, and from a street just off the Nevski Prospekt, he watched the train pulling out. The windows were open. Passengers leaned out, waving to those they had left behind on the platform. The carriages rattled past. Then suddenly the tracks were empty and there was only the rhythmic clatter of the wheels, fading away into the distance.

It was the last train out.

The next day, the Reds set fire to the station.

“WHAT IS IT YOU WANT TO TELL ME, KATAMIDZE?”

“I know where they are,” he replied. “The bodies of the Romanovs.”

“Yes.” Pekkala nodded. “We have found them.” For the moment, he said nothing about Alexei.

“And did you find my camera?”

“Camera? No. There was no camera in the mine shaft.”

“Not in the mine shaft! In the basement of the Ipatiev house!”

Pekkala’s face went suddenly numb. “You were in the Ipatiev house?”

Katamidze nodded. “Oh, yes. I’m a photographer,” he said, as if that would explain everything. “I’m the only one in town.”

“But how did you come to be in the basement?” According to Anton, that was where the bodies of the guards had been found. Pekkala tried to sound calm, even though his heart was racing.

“For the portrait!” said Katamidze. “They called me. I have a telephone. Not many people in town have one of those.”

“Who called you?”

“An officer of the Internal Security, the Cheka. They were the ones guarding the Tsar and the family. The officer said they wanted me to take a formal portrait, to prove to the rest of the country that the Romanovs were being well treated. He said it was going to be published.”

“Did he give his name?”

“No. I didn’t ask. He just said he was Cheka.”

“Did you know the Tsar was staying at the Ipatiev house?”

“Of course! Nobody saw them, but everyone knew they were there. You can’t keep a secret like that. The Guards built a temporary fence around the house and painted the windows so that no one could look in. Afterwards, they tore the fence down, but when the Romanovs were there, if you so much as stopped and looked at the place, the soldiers would pull a gun on you. Only the Red Guards came and went. And I got the call! A portrait of the Tsar. Imagine it. One minute I am taking pictures of prize cows and farmers who have to pay me in apples because they don’t have the money for a picture, and then next minute I am photographing the Romanovs. It would have made my career. I planned on doubling my fees. The officer said to come right over, but it was already after dark. I asked if it couldn’t wait until morning. He said he had just received orders from Moscow. You know how those people are. You can’t get them to do anything but, when they want something, it all has to happen yesterday. He told me there was a room in the basement which had been cleared out and that this would be a good place for taking the family portrait. Fortunately, I knew that the Ipatievs had electricity in their house, so I would be able to use my studio lights. I barely had time to pack. There’s all sorts of things involved. Tripod. Film. I had just received a new camera. Ordered it from Moscow. Only had it for a month. I would like to have it back.”

“What happened when you arrived at the Ipatiev house?”

Katamidze puffed his cheeks and exhaled noisily. “Well, I almost got run over on the way there. One of their trucks went racing past me. They had two, you know. I was carrying all my photography equipment. I barely had time to get out of the way. It’s a miracle nothing got broken.”

“Where was the other truck?”

“It was in the courtyard behind the house. I couldn’t see it, because the courtyard has high walls, but I could hear the engine running. I smelled the smoke of its exhaust. When I knocked on the door, two Cheka guards came to answer it. Both had their guns drawn. They looked very nervous. They told me to go away, but when I explained about the photo, and that the order to take it had come from one of their own officers, they let me inside.”

“What did you see when you walked in?”

Katamidze shrugged. “I’d been in there before. I’d done portraits for the Ipatiev family. It looked about the same, except there was less furniture on the ground floor. I never made it upstairs. That’s where the Romanovs were staying. There’s a staircase to the right of the front door, and a big room to the left.”