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

They stood outside with Anton.

“What do you think?” Pekkala asked them. “We must all be in agreement before we can proceed.”

Kirov spoke first. “The only way I could know if he is who he says he is would be if I had seen him before. Since I haven’t, I need to rely on your judgment.”

“And do you?” asked Pekkala.

“Yes,” replied Kirov earnestly. “I do.”

Pekkala turned to his brother. “Well? What do you think?”

“I don’t care who he is or who he says he is,” Anton replied. “We need to get out of here. If he wants to come with us to Moscow, then let him. If he doesn’t, I say we leave him behind.”

“Then it is settled,” said Pekkala. “We’ll leave for Moscow first thing in the morning.”

Anton and Kirov remained in the courtyard, while Pekkala returned to the kitchen.

He sat down at the table.

“I have good news, Alexei. We’ll be leaving for Moscow…”

Before he could continue, however, Alexei reached across the table and gripped Pekkala’s hand. “That man outside. I don’t trust him. You have to keep him away from me.”

“That man is my brother. Someone died here today. My brother’s still in shock. The strain of these past days has proved too much. Don’t judge him for the way he is now. Once we are on our way to Moscow, you’ll see a different side of him.”

“I owe you my life,” Alexei said. “I owe you everything.”

Hearing those words, the guilt of abandoning the family rose up and overwhelmed Pekkala. He turned his head away and tears spilled down his cheeks.

LATER THAT NIGHT, AS PEKKALA STOOD WATCH, SITTING IN THE darkness of the kitchen with the Webley laid out on the table, Alexei came in to see him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, taking a seat at the opposite side of the table.

Pekkala was silent. There were so many questions he wanted to ask-about the places the young man had been, about the people who had helped him, and the plans he had for the future. But for now, those would have to wait. Although Alexei seemed strong on the outside, Pekkala could only guess at how deeply his mind had been scarred by the events he had witnessed, or how much his hemophilia had caused him to suffer. To haul such memories too swiftly to the surface would be like bringing up a deep-sea diver without giving him the chance to adjust to the pressure of a world above the waves.

“Since we last met,” Alexei said, “my life has not been easy.”

“I do not doubt it, Excellency, but you have good reason to be optimistic about the future.”

“Do you really believe that, Pekkala? Can I trust these people you are taking me to see?”

“I trust that you’re worth more to them alive than dead.”

“And if they allow me to live,” said Alexei, “what then?”

“That is up to you.”

“I doubt that, Pekkala. My life has never been my own to do with as I please.”

“For now, I do not think we have a choice,” Pekkala replied, “except to go to Moscow and accept the terms we have been offered.”

“Perhaps there is another way,” said Alexei.

“Whatever it is, I will do my best to help.”

“All I would like is a chance at a normal life.”

“Sometimes, I think your father would gladly have given up all of his power and his riches to have had precisely that.”

“I need some chance at independence. Otherwise, I will be like an animal in a zoo, a curiosity, relying on the kindness of strangers.”

“I agree,” said Pekkala, “but what kind of independence do you mean?”

“My father hid some of his wealth.”

“Yes, although I don’t know how much or where.”

“Surely that isn’t true. My father trusted you with everything.”

“There was an officer named Kolchak-”

“Yes,” interrupted Alexei. His voice sounded suddenly impatient. “I know about Kolchak. I know he helped my father hide the gold, but he would never have taken the risk of not informing someone else of its whereabouts.”

“That is also what they said when I was a prisoner in Butyrka, but even they believed me, eventually.”

“That’s because you held out, Pekkala! They couldn’t break you.”

“Excellency,” said Pekkala, “they did break me.”

As they went downstairs to the basement of the prison, Pekkala’s fingertips brushed against black-painted walls made from uneven slabs of rock. They entered a space with a very low ceiling which dripped with condensation. The dark earth felt soft as cinnamon powder beneath his feet.

When the guards released Pekkala, he dropped to his knees in the dirt.

By the light of a caged bulb, he saw someone cowering in the corner. The figure barely looked human, more like some pale and unknown creature fished up from the bowels of the earth. The man was naked, legs straight out in front, hands covering his face. His head had been shaved and he was covered with bruises.

As Pekkala looked around, he realized that others stood hidden in the shadows. All wore the Cheka uniform of olive brown tunics and blue trousers tucked into knee-length boots.

One of the men began to speak.

Pekkala instantly recognized Stalin’s voice.

“Maxim Platonovich Kolchak…”

Kolchak? thought Pekkala. Then, as he stared at the creature, he began to see the cavalry officer’s face beneath the mask of bruises.

“You,” Stalin continued, “have been found guilty of counterrevolutionary activity, theft of government property, and abuse of rank and privileges. You are hereby condemned to death. You no longer exist.”

Kolchak raised his head. As his eyes locked with Pekkala’s, the creature tried to smile. “Hello, Pekkala,” he said. “I want you to know I have given them nothing. Tell His Excellency…”

The roar of gunshots was deafening in the cramped space of the room.

Pekkala pressed his hands against his ears. Concussion waves passed through his body.

When the fusillade had stopped, Stalin stepped forward and fired point-blank into Kolchak’s forehead.

Then Pekkala was dragged to his feet and frog-marched back up the stairs.

By the time Pekkala arrived in the interrogation room, Stalin was already there. As before, the briefcase lay on the table, a box of Markov cigarettes beside it.

“It’s just as Kolchak told you,” said Stalin. “We knew all along that the Tsar had given him the task of removing the gold to a secure location, but Kolchak gave us absolutely nothing. It is almost incredible, considering what we put him through.” He opened up the red box of Markovs, but this time he did not offer one to Pekkala.

“But how long had Kolchak been here?” Pekkala asked.

Stalin picked a fleck of tobacco off his tongue. “Since long before we got our hands on you, Inspector.”

“Then why did you want his name from me? Everything you did”-he tried to stop his voice from cracking-“it served no purpose at all.”

“It depends on how you look at it,” replied Stalin. “You see, it is useful for us to know the point at which men like yourself can be broken. And it is equally important to know that there are others, men like Kolchak, who cannot be broken at all. Personally, what gives me the greatest satisfaction is that now you know what kind of man you are.” He tapped the ash off his cigarette onto the floor. “The kind who can be broken.”

Pekkala stared in disbelief at Stalin, whose face appeared and disappeared in cobras of tobacco smoke. “Go ahead,” he whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“Go ahead. Shoot me.”

“Oh, no.” Stalin drummed his fingers on the briefcase which contained the relics of Pekkala’s life. “That would simply be a waste. Someday we may need the Emerald Eye again. Until then, we will send you to a place where we can find you if we need you.”