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

“And did he?”

“He got right back on the train and then I hear him yelling at somebody else who’d come to ask what all the fuss was about. You see, whoever was in that carriage, they didn’t want anybody getting off and they didn’t want anybody getting on. But as I was walking back to couple up the car, one of the curtains moved aside”-he made the motion of parting the curtain-“and I saw the face of a woman looking down at me.”

“And you recognized her?”

“Of course I did! It was Olga, the eldest daughter. All scowly like she is in the pictures. And she looks me right in the eye and then the curtain closes up again.”

“You are sure about it being Olga?”

“Oh, yes.” The man nodded. “There could be no mistake.”

A woman walked around the side of the house, holding a long knife in one hand and a bucket of blood in the other. Behind her came a child wearing a dandelion yellow dress and no shoes. With her tiny chin, big inquisitive eyes, and nose no bigger than the knuckle of Pekkala’s little finger, the child looked more doll than human. The woman set the bucket down. “Here it is,” she said. Steam was rising off the blood.

“He hasn’t come for that,” said the man.

The woman grunted. “I carried that all the way around.”

“Now you can carry it all the way back,” the man told her.

“Are you sure you don’t want it?” insisted the woman. “It’s very nutritious. Look at my daughter here. She’s the picture of health and she drinks it.”

The child smiled up at Pekkala, one hand knotted in her mother’s dress.

“No, thank you,” said Pekkala. He looked at the blood, rocking from side to side in the bucket.

“He came to hear my story,” said the man. “About the princess on the train.”

“There’s more to that,” the woman said. “Did you tell him about the young girl they found in the woods?”

“I didn’t tell him,” said the man, irritated that his wife was trying to upstage him, “because I didn’t see it for myself.”

The woman paid no attention to her husband. She laid the knife on top of the bucket. Blood had dried black on the blade. “There was a girl seen wandering in the forest, over by Chelyabinsk. She was hurt. She had a bandage on her head. Like this.” With fingers trailing like weeds in a stream, she traced a path across her mouse-gray hair.

“How old was she? What did she look like?”

“Well, she wasn’t a child. But she wasn’t an adult, either. She had brown hair. Some foresters tried to talk to her, but she ran away. Then she went to the house of some people, but they handed that girl right over to the Cheka. That’s the last anyone saw of her. It was one of the middle daughters. Tatiana. Maybe Maria. She had escaped from the Reds, but they caught up with her again. She was almost free. It’s so sad. So terribly sad.”

There was a look in her face which Pekkala had seen many times before. The woman’s eyes grew bright as she spoke of the tragedy. As she repeated the words “terribly sad,” her cheeks flushed with a pleasure that seemed almost sexual.

“How did you learn about this?”

“A woman from Chelyabinsk. She used to buy from us. She fell in love with an officer of the Whites. When the Whites left, so did she. Are you sure you don’t want some of this?” The woman pointed once more at the bucket.

As Pekkala walked away, he turned once and looked back.

The parents were gone, but the child in the yellow dress remained standing on the doorstep.

Pekkala waved.

The child waved back, then giggled and ran behind the house.

In that moment, some half-formed menace spread like wings behind Pekkala’s eyes, as if that child was not really a child. As if something was trying to warn him in a language empty of words.

THE CONVENT WAS AN AUSTERE WHITE BUILDING AT THE TOP OF A steep hill on the outskirts of town. Lining the road, poplar trees rustled their leaves in a breeze he could not feel. As he climbed the hill, he shed his heavy black coat and carried it under his arm. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt. His heart thumped angrily against his ribs.

Tall black iron railings ringed the convent. In the courtyard, pale, sand-colored gravel simmered in the afternoon sun. Outside the front steps, a crew was loading crates into a truck.

The gates were open and Pekkala walked through, his feet crunching over the gravel. Climbing the convent steps, he had to stand aside as two men carried out a small piano.

More boxes filled the front hall.

It looked as if the entire building was being emptied.

Pekkala wondered if he had arrived too late. He paused, sweat cooling on his face.

“Have you come for the piano?” asked a woman’s voice.

Pekkala looked around. At first he could not see anyone.

The woman cleared her throat.

Pekkala glanced up. He saw a nun, wearing a blue and white habit, standing on the balcony which overlooked the hall. The nun’s face was picture-framed in the starched white cloth of her bonnet.

“You have arrived too late,” she told him. “The piano just left.” She spoke of it as if the piano had walked out on its own.

“No.” Pekkala shook his head. “I am not here for the piano.”

“Ah.” The nun made her way down the staircase. “Then what is it you’ve come to steal from us today?”

While Pekkala assured her that he had not come to rob the convent, the nun busied herself with inspecting the splintery crates, rapping on them with her knuckles as if to test the soundness of the wood. At first, he obtained nothing more than her name, Sister Ania; even this she seemed to grudge him. She picked up a checklist, stared at it, and put it down again. Then she wandered away, leaving Pekkala to follow her while he continued with his explanation.

“Pekkala,” repeated Sister Ania. “What kind of name is that?”

“I am from Finland, but I have been gone a long time.”

“I have never been to Finland, but that name sounds familiar to me.”

“There was another name by which I was a little better known.”

The nun, who had gone into a small sitting room and was in the process of shutting the door in Pekkala’s face, suddenly paused. “So you have changed your name. I hear it’s all the rage these days. Taking after Comrade Stalin, I see.”

“Or you, perhaps, Sister Ania.”

“And what is this other name of yours?” she asked.

Pekkala turned up his lapel. “The Emerald Eye,” he said.

Slowly, the door opened again. The harshness had vanished from her face. “Well,” she said, “it is a comfort to know that in this day and age, one’s prayers are sometimes answered after all.”

PEKKALA AND THE NUN SAT ON FLIMSY CHAIRS IN A ROOM BARE except for some framed photographs on the walls. All were portraits of nuns. The pictures had been colored in by hand, and the cheeks of the nuns were balls of pink, their lips clumsily traced. Only the blue of the habits had been correctly drawn. The artist had attempted to fill in the eyes, but instead of adding life to the picture, he had succeeded only in making them look afraid.

“We are being temporarily shut down,” explained Sister Ania.

“Temporarily?”

“Our beliefs, at this moment in time, are no longer in accord with the governing body, according to the Central Office of the Ural Soviet. The surprise is not that they are doing this to us, Inspector. What astonishes me is that it took them this long to get round to it.” Sister Ania sat straight-backed in her chair, her hands in her lap. She looked poised but uncomfortable. “The other sisters have all been dismissed. I am to stay on as caretaker of this empty building. Most of our belongings are to be placed in storage. Where, I don’t know. How long, I don’t know. And why, I don’t know either. Either we should be shut down or we should not be shut down. Instead, we are being held in a kind of suspended animation, like insects trapped in amber. But something tells me you have not come to investigate this particular injustice.”