by Sam Eastland
He had walked with Pekkala out into the courtyard, while the man remained behind, guarded by Anton.
“It’s him,” Pekkala said. “I know.”
Kirov took Pekkala by the arm and shook him. “The last time you saw Alexei was more than ten years ago. I’m asking you again—how can you be sure?”
“I spent years with the Romanovs. That’s why the Bureau of Special Operations brought me here, so I could identify them whether they were alive or dead. And I’m telling you that is Alexei. He has his father’s chin, his father’s forehead. Even if you’ve only seen pictures of the family, there’s no mistaking that he is a Romanov!”
Reluctantly, Kirov released his grip. “I think it’s the same person I saw looking in the window that night.”
“And you told me he looked like the Tsar.”
“All right,” Kirov said, “but even if it is Alexei, what the hell is he doing here?”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to find out.”
Kirov nodded, satisfied. “If we agree, then I say we leave as soon as possible. Until we can get him to Moscow, none of us are safe in this house.”
“Anton will remain on watch,” said Pekkala. “He almost opened fire down there in the basement. I don’t want him in the room while we are questioning Alexei.”
THEY BROUGHT ALEXEI INTO THE KITCHEN. ALEXEI SAT ON ONE SIDE of the table, Kirov and Pekkala on the other.
Anton stood outside in the courtyard. He seemed relieved not to be part of the interrogation. After what happened to Mayakovsky, all Anton seemed to care about was getting out of town.
It was the middle of the night.
A lantern rested on the table. Its apricot-colored flame burned steadily, warming the room.
Wind moaned around the piece of cardboard which had been taped over the broken kitchen window.
Alexei looked sickly and disheveled. He had aged beyond his years. His shoulders hunched and he scratched nervously at his arms as he spoke. “They told me you were gone, Pekkala, but I never believed it. When I heard you had turned up in Sverdlovsk, I had to see for myself if it was true.”
“You heard?” asked Kirov. “Who told you?”
“And who are you to speak to me that way?” replied Alexei, flaring.
“I am Commissar Kirov, and as soon as I am satisfied that you are who you say you are, we can begin a civil conversation. Until then, you can answer the questions.”
“There are still people in this town who consider the Romanovs their friends,” said Alexei.
Kropotkin, thought Pekkala. The police chief must have known all along where Alexei was hiding.
“Excellency—” began Pekkala.
“Don’t call him that,” snapped Kirov. It was the first time he had raised his voice to Pekkala.
“He’s right,” said Alexei. “Just call me by my name.” With the heel of his palm, he wiped the tears out of his eyes.
“We found your parents, Alexei,” Pekkala told him, his face haggard and serious. “Your sisters, too. As you probably know by now, you are the only one who survived.”
Alexei nodded. “That is what I was told.”
“By whom?” demanded Kirov.
“Let him talk!” ordered Pekkala.
“By the people who looked after me,” Alexei told them.
“Start at the beginning,” Pekkala urged him gently. “What happened on the night you were taken from this house?”
“We were down in the basement,” said Alexei. “A man had come to take a photograph of us. We were used to it. Many had been taken since our confinement in Tsarskoye Selo and after that in Tobolsk. He was just about to take his photo when a man in an army uniform burst into the room and started shooting.”
“Did you know him?” asked Pekkala.
“No,” replied Alexei. “The guards were always changing, and there had been so many since our family was placed under arrest. The photographer had set up two bright lights. They were shining in our faces. I could barely see the man and there was only a second before he began shooting. After that, the room filled with smoke. My father shouted. I could hear my sisters screaming. I must have fainted. The next thing I remember, the man was carrying me up the stairs. I struggled, but he gripped me so tightly that I could barely move. He carried me out into the courtyard and made me climb into the front seat of a truck. He said that if I tried to get away I would end up like the rest. I was too terrified to disobey. Several times he went back into the house, and each time he came out he was carrying one of my family. I could see the way their heads hung down, the way their arms were dangling. I knew they were dead. Then he loaded them into the truck.”
“What happened after that?”
“He climbed in behind the wheel and we drove away.”
“In which direction?”
“I don’t know where we went. It was the first time I had been outside that house in many weeks. There was thick forest on either side of the road and it was very dark. We stopped outside a house. The people inside were waiting. They came around to my side of the truck. The driver told me to get out and as soon as my feet touched the ground, the truck drove away into the night. I never saw the man again. I never knew his name.”
Pekkala sat back in his chair. The muscles in his neck, which had bunched like a fist beneath his skin, slowly began to unclench. He now felt sure this was indeed Alexei Romanov. In spite of the years which had passed since he’d last seen the prince, there was no mistaking the physical resemblance. It was as if the Tsar’s own face shimmered out of Alexei, through his cheeks, through his chin, through his eyes.
But Kirov was not yet convinced. “And these people who looked after you?” he insisted. “Who were they?”
Alexei’s words came quickly now. He seemed anxious to explain all he could. “It was an elderly couple. The man’s name was Semyon and the old woman was Trina. I never knew their last names. All they would say was that they were friends and that my life had been spared because I was innocent. They fed me and clothed me. I was ill. I stayed with them for many months.”
It did not surprise Pekkala to hear this. In the eyes of the Russian people, Alexei had never shared the guilt heaped on his parents. The aloofness of the sisters and of their mother had only worked against them in the judgment of public opinion. Even at the height of the Revolution, with Lenin calling for rivers of blood to be spilled, Alexei had been spared the brunt of his rage. Pekkala had always believed that if mercy had been shown to anyone, it would have been towards Alexei.
“Did you try to escape?” Kirov asked.
Alexei laughed softly. “Where was there for me to go? The countryside was crawling with Bolsheviks. We’d seen that on the journey to Sverdlovsk. Eventually, I was smuggled aboard a train on the Trans-Siberian Railroad. I ended up in China and after that, Japan. I have traveled all over the world on my way back to this place.”
Pekkala remembered what his brother had said about people having sighted Alexei in strange corners of the planet. Now he wondered how many of those sightings had been real. “Why did you come back to this country?” he asked. “You are not safe here.”
“I knew it was dangerous,” replied Alexei, “but there was only one country where I felt that I belonged. I have been here for several years now. If people believe you are dead, they stop looking for you. And even if they think they recognize you, they persuade themselves their eyes are playing tricks on them. The safest thing for me to do is not to try to look like someone else. There are only a few who know who I really am. When I heard you were here, I knew you were looking for me. And I knew that if it really was you, I could not stand by and let you search for something you might never find. I remember the things you did for my family.”
“The situation is more dangerous than you imagine,” Pekkala said. “The man who killed your family knows we are looking for him, and we have reason to believe he is close by. Stalin has promised you amnesty, and I believe that his offer is genuine, but we must get you to Moscow as quickly
as possible. As soon as this has been done, Alexei, I will continue the search for this man who murdered your parents and your sisters, but for now my only concern is for your safety.” Pekkala rose and he and Kirov left the room.
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.”
Six hours later, Pekkala climbed aboard a train bound for Siberia.
ALEXEI STARED IN DISBELIEF. “CONSIDERING ALL THAT MY FAMILY HAS done for you, this is how you choose to repay us?”
“I am sorry, Excellency,” said Pekkala. “I am telling you the truth. We are in danger here.”
“I see no danger,” said Alexei, rising to his feet. “All I see is a man I once thought I could count on, no matter what.”
JUST BEFORE SUNRISE, KIROV WANDERED INTO THE KITCHEN. THE imprint of a tunic button, with its hammer and sickle design, was molded into his cheek where he had slept upon it. “I should have taken over from you hours ago,” he said. “Why did you let me sleep?”
Pekkala barely seemed to notice Kirov. He stared at the Webley, lying on the table in front of him.
“When do we leave for Moscow?” Kirov asked.
“We don’t,” replied Pekkala. He explained what had happened in the night.
“If he won’t go willingly,” said Kirov, “I have the authority to arrest him. We’ll take him to Moscow in handcuffs if we have to.”
“No,” said Pekkala. “He has been living in fear for so long now that he has forgotten how it is to live any other way. He has fastened onto the idea of his father’s gold as the only way he can protect himself. There’s no point trying to force him into changing his mind. I just need time to reason with him.”
“We need to leave now,” protested Kirov. “It’s for his own good.”
“Putting a man in handcuffs and telling him you’re doing him a favor is not going to convince him. He must go willingly or he might do something rash. He might try to escape, in which case he could get hurt, and with his hemophilia, any injury might prove life-threatening. He might even try to hurt himself. Even if we did get him to Moscow, he might refuse to accept the amnesty, in which case they would execute him just to save themselves the embarrassment.”
Kirov sighed. “Too bad we can’t uproot the whole city of Moscow and bring it here. Then we wouldn’t have to worry about transporting him.”