by Sam Eastland
“Who’s there?” asked Pekkala.
A hand reached out and brushed against his leg.
Pekkala shouted with alarm. Stepping back, he noticed a figure sitting in an alcove formed inside the stone.
The presence of this huddled shape reminded him of tales he had heard about ancient and mummified corpses discovered in caves such as this, creatures whose careless wanderings had brought them here to die before their species ever dared to rule the earth.
Pekkala’s eyes darted among the scaffolding of pillars. He was certain now that he’d been led into an ambush. In his terror, he glimpsed his own desiccated body, sleeping through millennia.
“Tarnowski?” he called. “Sedov, is that you?”
The figure emerged from its hiding place in the wall, as if the rock itself had come to life. Even through the matted beard and filthy clothes, Pekkala recognized a man he had long since consigned to oblivion.
It was Colonel Kolchak himself.
The colonel spread his arms and smiled, revealing strong white teeth.
“You!” Pekkala finally managed to say, and suddenly all the years since the night outside his cottage when he had last set eyes on Kolchak crumpled together like the folds of an accordion, so that it seemed as if no time had passed between that moment and this.
“I told you we would meet again someday, Pekkala. Many times during my long exile in Shanghai, I imagined this reunion. I had hoped it would be in more luxurious surroundings, but this will have to do, at least for now.”
“But how did you get here?” asked Pekkala, bewildered. “Is there a tunnel to the forest?”
The colonel laughed. “There is nothing beyond this cave but solid rock. If there had been a way in or out of here other than the main entrance to the mine, I would have made use of it by now. I have been down here for almost a month, eating stale bread from your kitchen and drinking your pine needle soup.”
“A month?”
“That was not my intention,” admitted Kolchak. “I had arranged to spend only a few days inside the camp while we made final preparations for the escape. It almost never happened. Then one of my own men betrayed me. At least, he tried to. There was a price to pay for that.” To emphasize his words, Kolchak drew a long, stag-handled knife from under his jacket. Its massive bowie blade glimmered in the lantern light.
“You killed Ryabov?” gasped Pekkala. “Your own captain?”
“I had no choice.”
“But why would he have betrayed you?”
“What does it matter now? He is dead.”
“It matters a great deal,” insisted Pekkala, “to me and to your men.”
“He went over to the enemy. That is all you need to know. My friend”—a tone of warning had entered Kolchak’s voice—“just be glad you’re coming with us.”
From the tone of those words, Pekkala realized it was the only answer he was going to get. “What caused the delay in your plan?” he asked.
“After Ryabov’s body was found,” Kolchak replied, “the camp was locked down. Guards were doubled. Curfews were put in place. And then, when I learned you had returned to Borodok, I did not dare to make a move until I knew why you were here. Now the time has finally come for us to break out of this place.”
“Break out? I am still trying to understand how you broke in!”
“The Ostyaks arranged it. They have agreed to help us get across the border into China.”
“But the Ostyaks have never helped convicts before.”
“That is because no prisoner has ever been able to offer them a decent bribe, something better than the bags of salt and army bread paid out by the camp commandant for delivering the bodies of those who attempted escape.”
“What did you offer?”
“A share of the gold,” answered Kolchak. “Which we will pick up from its hiding place on our way to the border. Of course, before any of this could happen, they first had to get me inside the camp, so that I could organize the breakout of however many men remained from the expedition. I had no idea so few were left. I wish I could have come sooner, but it took me many years to find out where the men were being held and longer still to lay out the plans for escape. I am glad their days of suffering at Borodok will soon be at an end.”
“How did you manage to get inside the camp?”
“The only time the Ostyaks come to Borodok is to deliver the dead to Klenovkin’s door and to pick up their payment for each body. They had noticed that the men who took away the corpses all had tattoos of a pine tree on their hands, just as I have on mine. Since that is the symbol we chose for our journey to Siberia, I knew those men must be survivors of the expedition. Just before you arrived at the camp, a group of men had tried to escape. Before long, they, like all the others, had perished in the forest. When the Ostyaks found some of the corpses, they brought them to the camp and unloaded them at the feet of the Comitati, who were waiting to take them away. Except one of those bodies was still breathing.” Kolchak tapped a finger against his chest. “As soon as Tarnowski and the others realized what was happening, they carried me out of sight to the generator shed, where the bodies of the dead are stored. That night, after dark, they brought me to the safety of this mine. I have been here ever since, waiting for the right moment to escape.”
“But how will the Ostyaks know when you are ready?”
“They have been watching this camp from the forest. That fire in the generator shed yesterday morning was the signal that we are ready to go.”
“I was sure you had been killed,” said Pekkala. “When I learned that you might still be alive, I thought I must be dreaming.”
“Survival has been difficult for both of us,” replied Kolchak, “and we are not yet out of danger. We have much to discuss, old friend, but it will have to wait until we’re safe.”
“And how long will that be?”
“We leave tomorrow at first light. When the moment arrives, you will know, but you will have to move quickly in order not to be left behind. If you are delayed, we can’t afford to wait for you.”
As the shock of seeing Kolchak began to wear off, Pekkala’s thoughts turned back towards the gold. Stalin must have known all along about the missing Imperial Reserves, he told himself. That’s why he sent me here. He knew that my acquaintance with Kolchak from before the Revolution would lure the colonel out into the open. Once Kolchak had been found, the gold would not be far away. Ryabov was not the pawn in this game, thought Pekkala. I was.
Bile spilled into the back of his throat as he realized he had been played by Stalin, just as the Tsar had used him, and both times because of this gold.
Pekkala suddenly remembered a conversation he’d had with Rasputin many years before. Pekkala sometimes had difficulty in deciphering the musings of the Siberian holy man and even when Rasputin did manage to make himself understood, Pekkala often found it hard to take him seriously. But this time Pekkala wished he had listened more closely.
It was evening. Pekkala walked along a tree-lined boulevard on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. Heat from that summer day still lingered in the air.
Following the odor of frying garlic, Pekkala made his way to a club known as the Villa Rode.
Pekkala was looking for Rasputin, who could be found at this place almost every evening. He did not normally seek out the Siberian mystic. In fact, Pekkala usually went out of his way to avoid Rasputin, but he was the only person that Pekkala knew he could talk to about what he’d seen earlier that day.
The Villa Rode was popular with the St. Petersburg elite because it did not close until sunup. When the famous Streilna restaurant, which resembled a miniature palace made of ice in the middle of Petrovsky Park, shut its doors at two a.m., followed by the Koupeschesky casino club at three a.m., those who were still conscious and had money in their pockets paid a visit to the Villa Rode.
The building’s wooden plank exterior was badly in need of paint. Inside, the rooms were cramped, the tables small and rickety, an
d the acoustics notoriously strange. It was sometimes possible to hear the whispered conversation of a couple on the other side of the room while having to almost shout to be understood by someone sitting at the same table.
Through the open windows of the Villa Rode came the sounds of laughter and piano music. A deep and slightly drunken voice crooned Sorokin’s song, “As long as I can see the flame, out there in the darkness, I know that I am still alive.”
The Villa Rode had become Rasputin’s favorite haunt for the simple reason that he never had to pay for anything when he was there. His bill was handled by the Tsarina Alexandra from an account set up specially to pay for his food and drink, as well as to cover the costs of the broken chairs, tables, china, and windows which were often the result of his evening entertainment.
Rasputin had been thrown out of so many places that restaurant owners were given a special number to call if they needed him removed from their premises. Once the call had been made, an unmarked car would be dispatched and Rasputin would be hauled away by agents of the Okhrana operating under the direct orders of the Tsarina. Fetching Rasputin was said to be one of the worst duties an Okhrana agent could be assigned. Chief Inspector Vassileyev, head of the St. Petersburg Bureau, reserved it for those men under his command who required an extra dose of humiliation.
Just when it seemed as if the city might be running out of places for Rasputin to disgrace himself, the owner of the Villa Rode, a somber-looking man named Gorokhin, hit upon a brilliant plan which assured him a steady source of income from the coffers of the Romanovs, as well as the gratitude of the Tsarina.
Gorokhin offered to build an extension onto the Villa Rode. This extra room would be for Rasputin alone. It could not be accessed by regular patrons, nor would Rasputin ever be asked to leave the extension, no matter what he did inside it.
No sooner had Gorokhin made his offer than a team of builders arrived from the palace of Tsarskoye Selo to begin construction of the extension. It was completed in forty-eight hours, and since then Rasputin had made it his own.
That night, Gorokhin recognized Pekkala at once, and correctly guessed that he had come to see Rasputin. He led Pekkala out the back of the restaurant, passing through a neglected garden thick with tangled bushes. The air was heavy with the smell of lavender and honeysuckle. At last they arrived at a plain, low-roofed hut which adjoined the Villa Rode.
No noise came from behind the pine door. Nor was there any light glimmering through the shuttered windows.
“Are you sure he’s here?” Pekkala asked.
“He kicked the door down on his way in this morning,” replied Gorokhin. “I had to put up this new one. There have been several visitors since then, but Rasputin himself has not emerged.”
“Is he alone?”
“I doubt it.”
“Thank you,” said Pekkala.
Gorokhin nodded and left.
Pekkala opened the door and walked inside. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and alcohol and the ash of coarse Khorizki tobacco, which Rasputin preferred to the more expensive Balkan cigarettes smoked by his benefactor, the Empress.
The only light came from a single candle melted onto the head of a small brass Buddha. The melted wax had trickled down, coating the belly of the statue.
Searching the gloom, Pekkala could make out a large couch and a low table strewn with bottles. On an upholstered stool sat a man who was definitely not Rasputin. This stranger wore a black wool coat with a velvet collar and clutched a round-topped Homburg hat. His thin-soled shoes were narrow in the toe and highly polished. The man did not glance up at Pekkala, but stared at the floor with a grim expression on his face.
Pekkala had seen that look before, from people who had been caught red-handed at some illegal activity but were too dignified, or too afraid, to run away.
Opposite the man, slumped on a couch with legs spread and bare feet resting on the table, was Rasputin. He wore a silk robe with a Japanese kimono pattern and a belt like a bell-ringer’s rope. “Pekkala,” he said, and the name seemed to crack from his lips like a tiny spark of electricity. Haphazardly, Rasputin began to rearrange his clothes. “Has Chief Inspector Vassileyev finally sent you to arrest me or else”—he gestured vaguely at the man huddled across the table—“is it this gentleman you’ve come to put in chains?”
The man still refused to look up, as if by remaining motionless he might escape detection.
“I am not here to arrest either of you.”
“Thank God for that,” sighed the man in the black coat.
Rasputin lifted one finger and wagged it at the man. “You can go now—and be sure to thank God for that, as well.”
Obediently, the man stood. From the inside pocket of his coat, he removed an envelope and placed it on the table, between Rasputin’s large and hairy feet. “So we have an understanding?”
Rasputin laughed. “I understand you, but that does not mean we understand each other. Come back tomorrow. Bring another envelope.”
“Not without some kind of guarantee,” protested the man. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You will,” Rasputin told him, “and that is all you’ll dream about.”
Too indignant to reply, the man stormed out of the room.
The candle flame shuddered as he passed by and the face of the little Buddha appeared to be laughing at him.
“What was that about?” Pekkala asked Rasputin.
“He is a representative for a jeweler in Petersburg. He is hoping to have a royal warrant bestowed upon his company.”
“And why is he asking you for that?”
“Because he can’t ask anyone else! Least of all the Romanovs.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And that is why I love you, Pekkala.” Rasputin sat forward, lifting his bare feet from the table and planting them firmly on the floor. He picked up the bribe, index finger shuffling through the bills as he counted them. Then he tossed the money back onto the table. “You see, Pekkala, you can’t just ask for the royal warrant. You have to be given it. If you do ask for it, there’s no chance at all of receiving one. Instead, you must give the impression that you would accept it if offered, but that in the meantime, you do not expect anything. That’s the way things work.”
Pekkala did not know much about royal warrants, but the strange logic of wanting but not daring to show the want or not asking in the hopes of receiving was familiar to him from other aspects of the royal family. It was the way that they maintained their grip upon those levels of Russian society which fanned out around the Romanovs like ripples from a stone thrown in a pond.
“He wants me to convince the Tsarina,” continued Rasputin.
“And you think you could?”
Rasputin breathed out sharply through his nose. “Please, Pekkala. Of course I could! The question is, will I?”
“And what is the answer?”
“I don’t know yet, and that is what infuriates him.”
“He would be even more infuriated if he knew you will be giving away his money to the next sad face that walks into the room.”
Rasputin laughed. “I give away my money because it buys me something far more valuable than cash.”
“And what is that?”
“Loyalty. Affection. Information. Everything I would have spent it on except this way I also earn friends. That’s something he will never figure out.”
“Did you really think I had come to arrest you?”
“Of course not! I can’t be arrested. Not in here. And probably not anywhere. Not even by you.”
“I would not put that to the test.” Pekkala went over to the table, found another candle, this one jammed into a wicker-covered Chianti bottle, and lit it.
With enough light now to see around the room, he looked at the flimsy sheets of silk which had been draped across the walls, the mud-caked Berber carpet on the floor, and what he at first thought was broken glass but which he realized was actually money. There were sh
iny coins everywhere, tossed like offerings to a fountain in every corner of the room.
“Why are you here, Pekkala?” asked Rasputin, and as he spoke he stretched out one leg, nudging aside the bottles on the table with a big yellow-nailed toe, searching for one that might have some drink left in it. “Has something caused the Emerald Eye to blink? What could it be? Not the sight of blood. You have already seen too much of that. It would not be threats. Those do not seem to bother you. No. It is something for which you were unprepared.”
“The Tsar sent for me today. There is a room beneath the palace—”
Before Pekkala could finish, Rasputin clapped his hands and roared with laughter. “Of course! I should have guessed! The Tsar has been worshipping his gold again, and it was your turn to take part in the ceremony.”
“Ceremony? What do you mean?”
Rasputin’s smile revealed a mixture of pity and amusement. “Poor Pekkala! Without me here to guide you, how would you ever understand? You see, the Tsar has already exhausted all the solitary pleasure he can take from his hoard of treasure. What he needs is an audience. What satisfies him now is the look on the face of someone setting eyes for the first time on those bars of gold. What he wants, what he needs, Pekkala, is to see the flash of envy in their gaze. It destroys them. It ruins their lives. They never recover from the shock of that longing. And no matter how much they beg him for another glimpse of that gold—and believe me they do beg—those doors will remain closed to them forever.”
“I do not envy him because of what I saw today.”
“Of course you don’t! You are not like the others. The Tsar has failed to tempt you with his Fabergé eggs, his Amber Room, and the artwork on his walls. So now he has laid down his trump card, the thing which never fails.”
“But it has failed. When I looked at that pile of gold, all I could think about was the suffering of those miners. He sent in the Cossacks to kill them!” Pekkala’s voice rose in anger. “All those men wanted was the chance to work in safety, and he would not even give them that.”
Rasputin’s eyes seemed to flicker in the candlelight. “But many things are valuable precisely because they are the product of pain. Think of the pearl. It begins as a grain of sand. Imagine the agony of the oyster as that tiny piece of stone digs into the soft flesh of the creature, like a knife stabbing into your brain! So the oyster surrounds the pearl with its own living shell until at last it becomes what we value, enough to kill the oyster for it anyway—the same way the Tsar is prepared to kill his miners. The truth, Pekkala, is that beauty on this earth is set aside for the enjoyment of the few and comes at the cost of the suffering of the many. That is true for many things besides gold and pearls. It is true for the Tsarina, for example, although most of that suffering is her husband’s. Your eyes have been opened, Pekkala. You used to see the Tsar as a victim of circumstance, secretly longing to be like any other man, like a god who wishes to be mortal. You blamed the world of extravagance into which he had been born. You blamed the need of all rulers to appear larger than life, in their manner, in their wealth, in their surroundings. You even blamed his wife, I expect. Everybody else does. But the one person you could not bring yourself to blame was the Tsar himself, and so I say again—it has not failed.”