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

WHEN PEKKALA RETURNED TO THE IPATIEV HOUSE, HE FOUND ANTON sitting on the back step of the house, a slab of stone worn by the countless footsteps of those who had lived and worked here before the house became frozen in time. He was eating something out of a frying pan, scooping up its contents with a wooden mixing spoon.

Kirov appeared in the kitchen doorway, the sleeves rolled up on his shirt. “Did you find the old militiaman?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Pekkala.

“Have you placed him under arrest?”

“No.”

“Why not?” asked Kirov. “He tried to kill us last night!”

“If he had wanted to kill us, we would already be dead.”

“All the same, I think you should have arrested him,” the Commissar insisted. “It’s the principle of the thing!”

Anton laughed. “Just what the world needs more of. A boy, a gun, and principles.”

“Did he confess to killing the Tsar?” Kirov demanded.

“No.”

“There’s a surprise,” mumbled Anton.

“It’s not the Romanovs he hated,” said Pekkala. “It’s you and your friends in the Cheka.”

“Well, he can get in line like everybody else,” said Anton. “The Militia. The Whites. The Romanovs. That police chief, Kropotkin. Even those nuns at the convent hated us.”

“In fact,” continued Pekkala, “he’s convinced that the Cheka were responsible for the death of the Romanovs.”

Kirov whistled through his teeth. “The Cheka think the militia killed the Tsar. The militia think the Cheka did it. And Mayakovsky thinks they survived!”

“Well,” said Pekkala, “at least we can rule out survival.”

“What about the Cheka?” Anton asked. “Do you mean you actually believe we might have had something to do with it?”

Pekkala shrugged.

Anton wagged the wooden spoon at him. “Are you placing me under suspicion?”

Sensing that another fight was about to break out between the brothers, Kirov tried to change the subject. “Don’t you have something else to say?” he asked Anton.

“I already apologized,” replied Anton, shoveling up another mouthful from the pan.

“A public apology! That’s what we agreed.”

Anton groaned. He set the frying pan down on the cobblestones and let the spoon fall with a clatter onto the blackened surface of the pan. “I apologize for calling you a cook. You are a chef. A mighty chef.”

“There,” said Kirov. “Was that so difficult?”

Anton sucked at his teeth and said nothing.

“What did you make?” Pekkala was peering into the frying pan.

“Chicken with gooseberry sauce!” announced Kirov.

“Where did you find the ingredients for that?” asked Pekkala.

“Our new friend, Mayakovsky,” replied Kirov.

“Make that our only friend,” Anton corrected.

“He says he can get his hands on anything we want,” said Kirov.

Anton looked over his shoulder at Kirov. “Wait a minute. How did you pay for this? I’m the one holding on to our cash.”

“You didn’t wonder about that while you were eating it, did you?” Kirov demanded. “Let’s just say we only have enough fuel coupons to drive most of the way back to Moscow.”

“Damn it!” shouted Anton. “Why don’t we just raid Mayakovsky’s house and take whatever we need?”

“We could,” agreed Pekkala, “but I think he knows more than he’s told us so far. Sooner or later, he’ll come back with more information.”

“We don’t have time for sooner or later,” Anton snapped.

“Rushing through an investigation,” Pekkala said as he bent down and streaked one finger through the sauce in the pan, “is like rushing through a meal…” He tasted the sauce. His eyes closed. “That’s very good,” he muttered. “And besides, with your help, things will go much more quickly.”

“I’m already helping,” said Anton.

“How exactly,” asked Pekkala, “except with eating the food?”

“I’ll help,” Kirov volunteered cheerfully.

“You stick to being a cook,” Anton grumbled.

“The more people we can talk to,” Pekkala pointed out, “the faster this will go.”

Kirov jabbed Anton in the spine with the toe of his boot. “Do you want to go back to steaming open letters?”

“All right!” Anton moaned angrily. “What do you want me to do?”

After assigning each of them a section of the town, Pekkala explained that he needed them to go door-to-door and learn what they could about the night the Romanovs disappeared.

Anton scowled. “We can’t do that! Officially, the Romanovs were executed by order of the government. If word gets out that we’re looking for whoever killed the Tsar and his family-”

“You don’t have to tell them that. Just say there have been some new developments. You don’t have to explain what those are, and most people will be too concerned with the questions you are asking them to think about questions of their own. Ask if they saw any strangers in town around the time the Romanovs disappeared. Ask if any bodies have been found since then. If someone from out of town buried a murder victim in a hurry, it’s unlikely to have stayed hidden from the locals.”

“It’s been a long time since that night,” grumbled Anton. “If they’ve kept their secrets this long, what makes you think they’ll tell us any now?”

“Secrets grow heavy,” Pekkala answered. “In time, the weight of them becomes too much to carry. Talk to people who work out of doors-postmen, foresters, farmers. If anything was going on in the days leading up to the disappearances, they are more likely to know than those who stayed inside. Or you could go to the tavern…”

“The tavern?” Anton brightened.

Kirov rolled his eyes. “All of a sudden, he is willing to help.”

“People are more likely to tell you their secrets there than any other place,” said Pekkala. “Just make sure you stay sober so you can listen to what they are saying.”

“Of course,” said Anton. “What do you take me for?”

Pekkala didn’t answer. He was staring at the frying pan. “Is there any left?” he asked.

“A bit.” Anton handed him the pan.

Pekkala sat down beside his brother on the stone step. There was no chicken left, but by working the wooden spoon around the edges of the pan, he gathered up some of the sauce and a single jade green gooseberry which his brother had been too full to eat. The still-warm, buttery sauce, flecked with chopped parsley and thickened with fried bread crumbs, crunched between his teeth. He tasted the sweetness of onion and the earthiness of simmered carrots. Then he let the gooseberry rest on his tongue, and slowly pressed it against the roof of his mouth until the firm round edges gave way, almost like a sigh, spilling warm, sharp-tasting juice into his mouth. Saliva welled up from under his tongue, and he sighed, recalling winters in his cabin in the Krasnagolyana forest when his only food for days on end had been boiled potatoes and salt. He remembered the silence of those nights, a stillness so complete that he could hear the faint hiss which he could only detect when there were no other noises. Often, in the forest, he had heard it: there were times in the winter months when it seemed almost deafening to him. When he was a child, his father had explained that it was the noise of his blood moving through his body. That silence, more than any barbed-wire fence, had been his prison in Siberia. Even though Pekkala’s body had left that prison behind, his mind had remained trapped inside it. Only now, as these tastes formed unfamiliar arcs across his senses, did he slowly feel himself emerging from his years as a convict.

Following his arrest at the Vainikkala railway station, Pekkala was transported to the Butyrka prison in Petrograd. The Webley and his copy of the Kalevala were handed over to the authorities. He was told to sign a huge book containing thousands of pages. The book had a steel plate covering everything except the space for him to write his name. From there, guards brought him to a room where he was made to strip and his clothes were taken away.