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

“But you have to be sober to hear them!” Pekkala snatched the wooden apple which lay on the table and threw it at his brother.

Anton’s hand shot up. The apple slapped into his palm and he closed his fingers around it. He gave his brother a triumphant look.

“Did you offer to rescue the Tsar?” asked Pekkala.

The gloating look sheared off his face. “What?”

“You heard me,” replied Pekkala. “When you were guarding the Romanovs, did you offer to let him and his family escape?”

Anton laughed. “Have you completely lost your mind? What possible reason would I have for helping them? There was a time when all I wanted was a place among the Finnish Regiment, but you stole that from me. I had to make some different plans, which did not include the Tsar.”

“You could have rejoined the Regiment!” said Pekkala. “They didn’t kick you out for good.”

“I was going to come back, until I found out you were on your way to Petrograd to take my place. Did you honestly expect me to endure that humiliation? Why didn’t you stay home and take over the family business the way our father planned for you to do?”

“The way he planned?” repeated Pekkala. “Don’t you realize he was the one who sent me to take your place in the Regiment?”

Anton blinked. “He sent you?”

“After we received the telegram that you had been suspended. We didn’t know that it was only temporary.”

“But why?” Anton stammered. “Why didn’t you tell me back then?”

“Because I couldn’t find you. You had disappeared.”

For a long time, nobody spoke.

Anton seemed rooted to the spot, too stunned to move. “I swear I didn’t know,” he murmured.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Pekkala told him. “It’s too late now.”

“Yes,” Anton replied, speaking like a man in a trance. “It is too late.” Then he walked out into the courtyard.

“Perhaps,” said Kirov, after a moment, “one of the other Cheka guards made an offer to the Tsar. Your brother might not have known anything about it.”

“You mean he was too drunk to know,” Pekkala said.

Both men looked out at Anton, who stood slumped against the wall, one arm held up against the stone for balance. A bright arc of piss splashed down onto the ground. Then he walked out of the courtyard, into the street, and was gone.

“He’s going straight back to the tavern,” said Kirov.

“Perhaps,” Pekkala agreed.

“They’ll beat him up all over again.”

“He doesn’t seem to care.”

“At the Bureau,” said Kirov, “when they assigned me to the case, I was told his drinking might be a problem.”

“He’s not as drunk as he wants us to believe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you see the way he caught the apple?”

“You were testing his reflexes?”

Pekkala nodded. “If he had been really drunk, he would never have reacted that quickly.”

“Why would he pretend to be drunk?”

“Because he’s hiding something,” said Pekkala, “but whether it has to do with this investigation or if it is something from our past, or both, I do not know.”

“Are you saying we can’t trust him anymore?” asked Kirov.

“We never could,” Pekkala answered.

“There is something we would like to know,” said Stalin. “Eventually you will tell us. The only variable in this equation is what remains of you, physically and spiritually, by the time you have answered the question.”

Pekkala felt almost relieved that the process had begun. Anything was better than the agony of standing hunched inside that chimney of a cell. It was the curve of the ceiling which terrified him most, as if the room were slowly caving in. Every time he thought of it, fresh sweat beaded on his face.

“Fortunately,” continued Stalin, “we only have one question for you.”

Pekkala waited.

“Would you like a cigarette?” Stalin asked. From his trouser pocket, he removed a red and gold box with the word MARKOV on the cover.

Pekkala recognized them as the brand which Vassileyev used to smoke.

“The former director of the Okhrana was kind enough to leave behind a considerable supply in his office,” explained Stalin.

“Where is he now?”

“He is dead,” said Stalin matter-of-factly. “Do you know what he did? When he knew we were coming to arrest him, he filled his artificial leg with explosives. Then, in the police van on the way to this prison, Vassileyev set off the bomb. The axle of the van ended up on the roof of a two-story building.” Stalin laughed softly. “Explosives in a wooden leg! I can’t deny he had a sense of humor.”

He held out the box of cigarettes, awkwardly rotating his wrist so that the white sticks faced Pekkala.

Pekkala shook his head.

Stalin snapped the box shut. “In the days ahead, I ask you to remember that my first offer to you was one of friendship.”

“I won’t forget,” said Pekkala.

“Of course you won’t. That famous memory of yours would not allow it. That is why I am confident that you will be able to answer my question.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Where are the Tsar’s reserves of gold?”

“I have no idea.”

Stalin breathed out quietly, his lips slightly pursed, like someone learning to whistle. “Then it must be wrong, what I have heard.”

“What did you hear?” With each passing minute, that strange lightness which was the certainty of death filled more and more of Pekkala’s body. By the time they get around to killing me, he thought, there will be nothing left to feel the pain.

“I heard that the Tsar trusted you,” said Stalin.

“With some things.”

Stalin smiled faintly. “Pity,” he said.

Two weeks later, Pekkala was dragged out of his cell and returned to the interrogation room. He had to be carried, because he could no longer walk. The tops of his toes were burned raw on the carpet as the guards hauled him along, each with one of Pekkala’s arms hooked over his shoulder.

Released by the guards, Pekkala walked the last few paces to his chair in the interrogation room. Trembling like a man with a high fever, he sat down and tried to keep his balance. His feet were swollen to twice their normal size, the nails blackened from blood which had congealed beneath them. He could not lift his hands above his shoulders. He could no longer breathe through his nose. Every few breaths, he would cough violently, his knees drawn up towards his chest. Blue flashes arced across his vision, accompanied by pain like a spike driven into his skull.

Stalin was there. “Now would you like a cigarette?” He asked it in that same, half-timid voice.

Pekkala opened his mouth to speak, but started coughing again. He managed only to shake his head. “I don’t know where the gold is. I am telling you the truth.”

“Yes,” replied Stalin. “I am now convinced of that. What I would like to know instead is this: Who did he trust with the task of removing the gold?”

Pekkala did not answer.

“You do know the answer to this,” Stalin told him.

Pekkala remained silent. Dread came loping like a black dog down the tunnels of his mind.

“When this is over,” said Stalin, “and you reflect on what will happen to you now, you may regret that perfect memory of yours.”

LATER THAT EVENING, PEKKALA SAT IN THE FRONT ROOM, WITH HIS back against the wall, legs stretched out across the bare floorboards. The Kalevala lay on his lap.

Kirov came in, carrying a pile of wood for the fire. He dumped it with a clatter on the hearth.

“No sign of Anton?” asked Pekkala.

“No sign,” replied Kirov, slapping the wood dust off his palms. He nodded towards the Kalevala. “Why don’t you read me some of your book?”