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

Kirov was the first to break. He shoved away his can of meat and snarled, “How much of this do I have to endure?” From his pocket, he pulled out the wooden apple. He thumped it down on the table. The painted red apple seemed to glow from the inside. “It makes my mouth water just to look at it,” said Kirov. He reached into his pocket and brought out his pipe. “To make things worse, I am almost out of tobacco.”

“Come now, Kirov,” Anton said. “What’s become of our happy little Junior Man?” He removed a bulging leather pouch from his pocket and inspected its contents. A leafy smell of unburned tobacco wafted across the table. “My own supply is holding out quite nicely.”

“Lend me some,” said Kirov.

“Get your own.” Anton breathed in, ready to say more, but his sentence was interrupted by a sound like a pebble thrown against a window.

The three men jumped.

The pipe fell out of Kirov ’s mouth.

“What the hell was that?” Anton asked.

The sound came again, louder now.

Anton drew his gun.

“Someone is at the door,” Pekkala said.

Whoever it was had come around the back, rather than risk being seen at the front of the house.

Pekkala went to see who it was.

The other two stayed at the table.

When Pekkala reappeared, he was followed by an old man with a wide belly and a side-to-side plod which made him teeter like a metronome as he walked into the room. With small, almond-brown eyes, he peered suspiciously at Anton.

“This is Yevgeny Mayakovsky,” Pekkala said.

The old man nodded in greeting.

“He says,” continued Pekkala, “he has information.”

“I remember you.” Anton was staring at the old man.

“I remember you, too.” Mayakovsky turned to leave. “Perhaps I should be going now-” he said.

“Not so fast.” Anton held up his hand. “Why don’t you stay for a while?” He pulled out a chair and patted the seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Reluctantly, Mayakovsky sat, sweat already dappling his red-veined cheeks.

“How is it you know each other?” asked Pekkala.

“Oh, he tried this little trick once before,” Anton replied. “The day the Cheka arrived, he showed up with information to sell. Swore he could make himself useful to us.”

“And did he?” Kirov asked.

“We didn’t give him the chance,” Anton replied.

“They broke my nose,” said Mayakovsky, quietly. “It was uncivilized.”

“If you were looking for civilization,” replied Anton, “you knocked at the wrong door.”

“When I saw the lights on here,” continued Mayakovsky, ignoring him, “I did not realize it was you.” He stirred in his chair. “I’ll just be on my way-”

“No one is going to hurt you this time,” Pekkala told him.

Mayakovsky eyed him. “Is that so?”

“I give you my word,” Pekkala replied.

“I’ve got something worth knowing,” said Mayakovsky, tapping a stubby finger against his temple.

“What are you talking about?” asked Pekkala.

“When the Whites came in, they set up a board of inquiry. They didn’t believe the Romanovs had survived. All they were interested in was making sure that the Reds took the blame. Then, when the Reds came back, they set up their own inquiry. Just like the Whites, they figured the Romanovs had all been killed. The difference was that the Reds wanted to be told that the guards in this house had taken matters into their own hands. It seemed like everyone wanted the Romanovs dead, but nobody wanted to be responsible for killing them. And then, of course, there’s what really happened.”

“And what is that?” asked Pekkala.

Mayakovsky clapped his hands together softly. “Well, that is the part which I have come to sell.”

Anton snorted. “We don’t have money for buying information.”

“You could trade,” said Mayakovsky, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Trade what?” asked Kirov.

The old man licked his lips. “That’s a nice pipe you’re smoking.”

“Forget it!” Kirov ’s back straightened. “You’re not getting this!”

“Give him the pipe,” said Pekkala.

“What?”

“Yes, I would like that pipe,” said Mayakovsky.

“Well, you can’t have it!” shouted Kirov. “I’m already sleeping on the floor. You can’t expect me to-”

“Give him the pipe,” repeated Pekkala, “and let’s hear what this man has to say.”

Kirov appealed to Anton. “He can’t make me do that!”

“He just did,” said Anton.

“Nobody knows what I know,” Mayakovsky said.

Kirov glared at Anton and Pekkala. “You bastards!”

Both men eyed him patiently.

“Well, this is just outrageous!” said Kirov.

Mayakovsky held out his hand for the pipe.

Anton folded his arms and laughed.

“And give him your tobacco.” Pekkala nodded at the leather pouch which lay upon the table.

The laughter died in Anton’s throat. “My tobacco?”

“Yes.” Kirov thumped the table with his fist. “Give him your tobacco.”

The old man held out his hand and wiggled his fingers at Anton.

“You’d better have something good.” Anton tossed the pouch at the old man. “Or I’m going to adjust your face again.”

While the three men watched, Mayakovsky loaded the pipe and set it burning with a fluff-covered match that he pulled from his waistcoat pocket and lit on the sole of his shoe. He puffed contentedly for a minute. And then he began to talk. “I read in the papers that the Romanovs are dead.”

“Everybody read that!” Kirov sneered. “The whole world read about it.”

“They did,” nodded Mayakovsky. “But it isn’t true.”

Anton opened his mouth to shout the old man down.

Sharply, Pekkala raised a hand to silence him.

With a grumble, Anton settled back in his chair.

“Mayakovsky,” said Pekkala, “what makes you think they aren’t dead?”

“Because I saw the whole thing!” answered the old man. “I live across the road.”

“All right, Mayakovsky,” said Pekkala, “you tell us what happened.”

“That night the Romanovs were rescued,” Mayakovsky continued, “a load of Cheka guards suddenly came running out into the courtyard of the Ipatiev house. They kept two trucks in the courtyard. The guards piled into one of them and drove away.”

“A call had just come in,” said Anton. “We were ordered to set up a roadblock. The Whites were getting ready to attack. At least that’s what we were told.”

“Well, only a few minutes after that truck left, that damned fool Katamidze came to the front door of this house! He’s the photographer they’ve got locked up in Vodovenko. I’m not surprised the bastard ended up in there. Calling himself an artist. Well, I saw some of that art. Naked ladies. There’s another name for that. And those pictures were expensive-”

“Mayakovsky!” Pekkala cut him off. “What happened when the photographer arrived at the house?”

“The guards let him in. And a few minutes after that, a Cheka officer came to the door. He knocked and the guards let him in. Then the shooting started.”

“Then what did you see?” asked Pekkala.

“A regular gun battle,” answered Mayakovsky, grimly.

“Wait a minute,” Anton interrupted. “There was a tall fence around the whole building. Except for the front door and the entrance to the courtyard, the whole place was surrounded. How did you see anything?”

“I told you. I live across the road,” said Mayakovsky. “There’s a little window in my attic. If I went up there, I could see over the top of the fence.”

“But the windows had been painted over,” said Anton. “They’d even been glued shut.”