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

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.”