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

“It matters to me.”

“That is because you are also a footnote in history-a ghost searching for other ghosts.”

“I may be a ghost,” said Pekkala, “but I am not searching for that gold.”

“Then your emerald eye is blind, Inspector, because you are being used by someone who is. You said it yourself-greed is never satisfied. The difference between us, Inspector, is that I have faced the facts and you have not.”

“I will decide that for myself, Mayakovsky.”

As if prompted by some invisible signal, both men rose to their feet.

“Katamidze is dead,” Pekkala said. “I thought you should know.”

“People don’t last long in Vodovenko.”

“He knew who murdered the Tsar. He may have been the only one who could have told me the name of the killer.”

“I may be able to help you,” said Mayakovsky.

“How?”

“There is someone Katamidze knew, someone he might have spoken to before he disappeared from Sverdlovsk.”

“Who?” asked Pekkala. “For God’s sake, Mayakovsky, if you know anything at all…”

Mayakovsky held up his hand. “I will talk to this person,” he said. “I must go about this carefully.”

“When can you let me know?”

“I will see to it at once.” The old man’s voice was calm and reassuring. “I may have an answer for you later today.”

“I expect it will come at a price. You must know by now that we don’t have much to give you.”

Mayakovsky tilted his head. “There is one thing I’ve had my eye on, so to speak.”

“And what is that?”

He nodded towards Pekkala’s black coat, which hung from a nail on the wall. Just visible under the lapel was the oval of the emerald eye.

Pekkala breathed out through his teeth. “You drive a hard bargain.”

Mayakovsky smiled. “If I did anything less, I would have no respect for myself.”

“What about your basket?”

“Keep it, Inspector. Think of it as a down payment on that badge of yours.”

WHEN PEKKALA HAD FINISHED SHAVING, HE WIPED THE LAST FLECKS of soap from his face, carefully folded the razor, and put it in his pocket. He walked into the kitchen and was surprised to find Anton sitting there with his feet up on the table, reading a copy of Pravda. “Look what I bought,” he said, without looking up.

“That paper is a week old,” said Pekkala.

“Even week-old news is news in a place like this.” Anton folded the paper and slapped it down on the table.

“Mayakovsky was here,” said Pekkala, handing over the basket.

Anton removed a loaf of dark rye bread and gnawed off a piece. “And what did our little house troll want for this?” he asked with his mouth full.

“He says he might know someone who spoke to Katamidze on the night the Romanovs were killed. He might be able to get us a name.”

“Let’s hope,” mumbled Anton, “that he’s more help to us than last time.”

With the contents of the basket-a small partridge, a bottle of milk, some salted butter, and half a dozen eggs- Kirov put together a meal. He chopped up the partridge, tore the bread into crumbs, and mixed them together in a cracked bowl which he found under the sink. Then he kneaded in some butter and the yolks of several eggs. He stoked the stove until the iron plate on top seemed to ripple from the heat. He shaped the mixture into oval cakes and fried them.

Afterwards, the three men sat around the stove, letting the fire die down while they ate with their hands and only their handkerchiefs for plates, scalding their fingers on the hot, buttery cakes.

Pekkala ate as slowly as he could, letting each thread of the taste weave its way through his brain as the cakes dissolved in his mouth.

“My family owned a tavern,” Kirov said, “in a town called Torjuk on the Moscow-Petrograd road. In the old days, with horse carriages passing through all the time, the place was very busy. There were small rooms upstairs for guests, and downstairs the windows were made from pieces of stained glass held together with strips of lead. It smelled of food and smoke. I remember people coming in half frozen from their carriage rides, stamping the snow off their boots and sitting down at the big tables. Coats would pile up by the door in heaps taller than I was. It was always busy in there, and the chef, whose name was Pojarski, had to be ready to cook meals for people whenever they came in, day or night. In winter, when things got quiet and the stove cooled down, Pojarski would sleep on the top of it. But when the Nikolaevsky railroad began running between the two cities, it didn’t pass through Torjuk. The road almost closed down, there were so few carriages traveling on it. But my family kept the tavern open. During the week, Pojarski cooked for the guests, if there were any, but on Sundays he would prepare a meal for me and my parents after we came back from church. This is what he used to cook for me. He seasoned it with vodka and sage and called it a Pojarski cutlet. I looked forward to it all week. What you are eating now is the reason I wanted to become a chef.”

“You went to church?” Anton had wolfed down his food. Now he was wiping the grease from his hands onto his handkerchief. “Not exactly good credentials for a Commissar.”

“Everyone went to church in Torjuk,” replied Kirov. “There were thirty-seven chapels in the town.”

“That’s all gone now,” said Anton.

“Be quiet and eat,” whispered Pekkala.

LATER THAT DAY, PEKKALA WAS ON HIS HANDS AND KNEES, SCRAPING the ashes from the fireplace. He had opened the curtains. Beams of sunlight fell in crooked pillars across the scuffed wood floor.

When he paused to wipe sweat from his face, he saw Mayakovsky emerge from his house.

Mayakovsky picked up a cardboard box lying on the doorstep. He opened it, smiled, and glanced towards the Ipatiev house. Then, carrying the box, he walked across the street. This time, he did not go around to the back of the house but came straight to the front door. The sharp, dry clacks of the brass horseshoe knocker echoed through the house.

Before Pekkala could get to his feet, Kirov came out of the kitchen and opened the door.

“ Kirov!” said Mayakovsky. “My good friend, Kirov!”

“Well, hello, Mayakovsky.”

“I knew there was something special between us.”

“I’m glad you think so,” replied Kirov.

Pekkala rested on his knees, his hands mottled gray with ash, enjoying Kirov ’s attempts to be polite.

“We understand each other,” Mayakovsky continued, “and I won’t forget it. Thank you!”

“You’re very welcome, Mayakovsky. I’m glad we’re getting on so well.”

The door closed. Kirov stood in the doorway to the front room, arms folded, a bemused look on his face. “There goes another one who’s lost his mind. Just like everyone else in this town.”

“He was thanking you for the present you left on his doorstep.”

“I didn’t give him anything,” Kirov said.

“You didn’t?” Pekkala looked out through the windows. “But I thought you said you were going to give him a present. To throw him off balance.”

“I was, but I never got around to it.”

Halfway across the road, the box still in his hands, Mayakovsky paused and turned.

His eyes locked with Pekkala’s.

A burn of adrenaline seared across Pekkala’s stomach. “Oh, Christ,” he whispered.

The smile faltered on Mayakovsky’s face. Then he disappeared. Where he had stood, for a fraction of a second, was a pink cloud of mist. The windows rippled like water. Then a wall of fire blew into the house. The shock wave picked up Pekkala and threw him to the opposite side of the room. He hit the wall. His eyes filled with dust. Metallic-reeking smoke poured into his lungs. He could not breathe. He felt sharp pain in his chest. All around him, fragments of glass were bouncing off the walls, skimming across the floor, flickering like diamonds in the air.