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

“Then it’s a warning,” said Pekkala, “and next time we won’t be so lucky.”

“I have to present my papers at the police station before you can officially begin your investigation,” Anton told him. “You can come along and see if they know anything.”

ALEXANDER KROPOTKIN, THE SVERDLOVSK POLICE CHIEF, WAS A SQUAT, broad-shouldered man with a thick head of blond hair which he combed straight down over his forehead.

While Pekkala and Anton stood waiting, Kropotkin sat behind his desk, leafing through the papers which Anton had presented to him. He got to the last page, squinted at the signature, then tossed the papers on the desk. “Why do you bother?” he asked.

“Bother with what?” Anton asked.

Kropotkin tapped the orders with a stubby index finger. “Comrade Stalin signed these orders. You can do whatever the hell you want. You don’t need my permission.”

“It is a courtesy,” said Anton.

Kropotkin sat forward, resting his forearms on the desk. He stared at Pekkala. “The Emerald Eye. I heard you were dead.”

“You are not the only one who heard that.”

“I also heard that you could not be bought, but here you are working for them.” He jerked his chin towards Anton.

“I have not been bought,” Pekkala told him.

“Bribed, then. Or threatened. It doesn’t matter. One way or another, you are working for them now.”

The words cut into him, but Pekkala chose not to reply.

Kropotkin turned his attention to Anton. “You look familiar. You were one of the Cheka guards, weren’t you?”

“Perhaps,” Anton replied.

“There is no perhaps. I don’t forget faces, and I saw you at the tavern the whole time you were here. How many times did I see Cheka men come to fetch you when you were too drunk to walk? And judging from your face, either you are perpetually bruised or you didn’t waste any time going back to your old habits. Now you come here to my office and talk to me about courtesy? You gentlemen can go to hell. How is that for courtesy?”

“What’s got you all steamed up?” demanded Anton.

“You want to know? Fine, I’ll tell you. This was a nice, quiet place until your lot brought the Romanovs here. Since then, nothing’s ever been the same. You know what people think of when you say the word ‘ Sverdlovsk ’?” He made a gun with his thumb and index finger and set it against his temple. “Death. Execution. Murder. Take your pick. None of it’s good. And every time things start to settle down, one of you people drops in and stirs things up again. Nobody wants you here, but I can’t kick you out.” He jerked his chin towards the door. “So just do your work and then leave us alone.”

Pekkala took the grenade from the deep pocket inside his coat and set it on the desk.

Kropotkin stared at it. “What’s that? A gift?”

“Someone pitched it through our window last night,” Pekkala answered, “but forgot to pull the pin.”

“It’s German,” added Anton.

Kropotkin picked up the grenade. “Actually, it’s Austrian. The German stick grenades had belt clips on the cylinder here.” He tapped at the gray soup can which contained the explosives. “The Austrian ones didn’t.”

“You were in the war?” Pekkala asked.

“Yes,” replied Kropotkin, “and you learn these things when enough of them get thrown at you.”

“We were hoping you might know where it came from.”

“The Whites used these,” replied Kropotkin. “Most of the men who attacked Sverdlovsk had been in the Austrian Army before they came over to our side. Many of them were still using Austrian equipment.”

“You think it might be someone who was with the Whites?” asked Pekkala.

Kropotkin shook his head. “The man who threw this was not with the Whites.”

“So you know who might have thrown this?”

Kropotkin’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I know exactly who threw this at you. There’s only one man insane enough to throw one of these at you who is also stupid enough not to have pulled the cord when he threw it. His name is Nekrasov. He was one of the militiamen who guarded the Romanovs before the Cheka came in and threw him out. I expect he’s still holding a grudge. As soon as the lights went on again in the Ipatiev house, he must have guessed that you people were back.”

“But why would he bother to throw it?”

“Best ask him that yourselves.” Kropotkin snatched up a pencil, scrawled an address on a notepad, tore off the sheet, and held it out. “This is where you’ll find him.”

Anton removed the paper from his hand.

“Don’t take it the wrong way,” laughed Kropotkin. “He tries to kill everybody. He just stinks at it. If Nekrasov hasn’t thrown at least one bomb at you by the time you leave, you might as well have stayed at home.”

“At least I’m not the only one they hate around here,” said Anton, when he and Pekkala were back out in the street. “Do you want me to come with you to see Nekrasov?”

“I’ll handle it,” said Pekkala. “You look as if you could use some sleep.”

Anton nodded, his eyes narrowed against the morning sunlight. “I won’t argue with that.”

THE DOOR OPENED A CRACK. FROM THE DARKNESS INSIDE THE HOUSE, a man peered out at Pekkala. “What do you want?”

“Nekrasov?”

The door swung wide, revealing a man with wavy gray hair and two days’ worth of stubble on his chin. “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Pekkala,” he replied. Then he punched Nekrasov in the jaw.

When Nekrasov woke up, he was slumped in a wheelbarrow with his arms tied to the wheel behind his back.

Pekkala was sitting on a dark green wooden crate with rope handles. The crate had been stamped with the double-headed Habsburg eagle of the Austro-Hungarian Army. Under that, in yellow letters, were the words GRANATEN and ACHTUNG-EXPLOSIVEN.

Nekrasov lived in a small, thatched-roof cottage with a white picket fence at the front. Inside, the ceiling was so low that Pekkala had to stoop, weaving among dried sprigs of sage, rosemary, and basil, tied with strands of grass and dangling from the beams. As his hand brushed them aside, the smell of the spices drifted softly through the air.

With his hands hooked under Nekrasov’s armpits, Pekkala had dragged the man through a room with an old-fashioned bench set against the wall-the kind once used as beds in these single-story houses. Neatly folded on the bench was a blue blanket, along with a dirty red pillow, revealing that the bench was still being used for its original purpose. Next to the bench, Pekkala had found the box of grenades. Seventeen of the original thirty were still inside, each one wrapped in brown wax paper. When he opened the lid of the box, the marzipan smell of the explosives wafted up into his face.

It had rained in the night and now the sun was burning off the moisture. While waiting for Nekrasov to regain consciousness, Pekkala had made himself a cheese sandwich in the man’s kitchen. Now he was eating the sandwich for his breakfast.

Nekrasov’s eyes fluttered open. Blearily, he looked around, until he caught sight of Pekkala. “What did you say your name was?”

“Pekkala,” he replied, as he finished his mouthful.

Nekrasov struggled briefly, against the ropes, then sagged and glared at Pekkala. “You could at least have tied me to a chair.”

“A wheelbarrow is just as good.”

“I see you have discovered my grenades.”

“They weren’t hard to find.”

“The Whites left them behind. How did you track me down so quickly?”

“The police chief told me about you.”

“Kropotkin!” Nekrasov leaned over the side of the wheelbarrow and spat. “He owes me money.”