by Sam Eastland
A strange look came over Alexei’s face.
It was a moment before Pekkala understood what it was. He had pitied the Tsarevich long before the fortunes of his family had turned. But now, Pekkala realized, Alexei was pitying him.
Alexei stared down at Anton, who lay spread-eagled in a puddle of his own diluted blood. Then he pushed past Kirov and stormed inside the house.
Pekkala sat down heavily upon the ground, as if his legs had collapsed underneath him.
Kirov knelt down beside Anton. “We need to get him to a doctor,” he said.
45
WHILE KIROV STAYED BEHIND TO GUARD ALEXEI, PEKKALA LIFTED Anton into the backseat of the Emka and drove to the police station. Kropotkin climbed in and the three traveled to the clinic of a man named Bulygin, who was the only doctor in town.
On the way, Pekkala told Kropotkin that Alexei was now at the Ipatiev house.
“Thank God,” Kropotkin kept repeating.
Pekkala also explained about Grodek and requested that Kropotkin put in a call to the Bureau of Special Operations, requesting an armed escort for the Tsarevich’s return to Moscow. “In the meantime,” said Pekkala, “I’ll need as many of your police as you can spare to stand guard outside the house.”
“I’ll see to it as soon as we have dropped off your brother at Bulygin’s.”
“No one is to know the Tsarevich is inside, not even the policemen guarding the house.” If news got out about Alexei, Pekkala knew that the Ipatiev place would be mobbed. Even those who wished him well would pose a threat. He remembered the disaster which had taken place at the Khodynka field in Moscow on the day of the Tsar’s coronation in 1896. Crowds which had gathered to witness the occasion rushed towards tables of food which had been provided for them. Hundreds of people lost their lives in the stampede. Under the circumstances, especially with a bomb maker like Grodek still at large, the situation could be even worse.
Bulygin was a bald man with an emotionless face and a small mouth which barely moved when he spoke. Anton was still unconscious when Bulygin laid him out on an operating table and shone a light into each of his eyes. “He has a concussion, but I see nothing life-threatening. Let me keep him here for observation. He should be conscious again in a matter of hours, but if his condition changes for the worse, I will let you know immediately.”
Returning to the Ipatiev house, Pekkala dropped Kropotkin off at the police station.
“I have seen your brother take a lot of beatings,” Kropotkin told him. “One more won’t do him any harm. I’ll keep an eye out for this man Grodek. In the meantime, let me know if you need any more help.”
Arriving at the Ipatiev house, Pekkala found Kirov sitting at the kitchen table. He was staring at Pekkala’s copy of the Kalevala.
“How is your brother?” asked Kirov.
“He should be fine. Where is Alexei?”
Kirov jerked his head towards the stairs. “Up on the second floor. Just sitting there. He isn’t very talkative.”
“When did you start reading Finnish?”
“I’m just looking at the illustrations.”
“Troops are on their way from Moscow. I’ll go and explain things to Alexei.”
“You need a new copy of this book,” Kirov called to Pekkala as he walked out of the room.
“What’s wrong with that one?”
“It’s full of holes.”
Pekkala grunted and walked on.
He was halfway up the stairs when he stopped. Then he turned and ran back downstairs. “What do you mean it’s full of holes?”
Kirov held up a page. Light through the kitchen window glinted through tiny puncture marks scattered across the page. “See?”
“Give me the book.” Trembling, Pekkala held out his hand.
Kirov slapped it shut and handed it over. “Your language has too many vowels,” he complained.
Pekkala took a lantern from the kitchen shelf and ran down to the basement. There, in the darkness at the bottom of the stairs, he lit the lamp and set it down before him.
The nun had told him about the Tsar’s method for smuggling messages out past the guards, using a pin to mark out letters on the pages. Now Pekkala thought back to that day at his cottage, when the Tsar had returned the book. At the time, he had thought the Tsar was just rambling, but now, as he held up the pages one by one, he could see tiny pinholes marked beneath different letters. Pekkala took out his notebook and began to assemble the words.
It took only a few minutes for him to decipher the message. When he had finished, he ran back up the stairs, taking the book and lantern with him. He dashed through the hall and up to the second floor.
Alexei was sitting in a chair by the window in an otherwise empty room.
“Alexei,” said Pekkala, as he tried to catch his breath.
Alexei turned. Nestled in his hands was a Russian army revolver.
“Where did you get that?”
“Do you think I would go about unarmed?”
“Please put it down,” said Pekkala.
“It appears I have run out of options.”
“I know where it is,” said Pekkala. Seeing Alexei alone like this, Pekkala wondered if the Tsarevich was contemplating suicide.
“Where what is?”
“The treasure. You were right. Your father did tell me.”
Alexei narrowed his eyes. “You mean you lied to me?”
“He left a message in this book. The message was hidden. I didn’t realize it was there until now.”
Slowly, Alexei rose to his feet. He put the gun in his pocket. “Well, where is it?”
“Close. I will take you straight to it.”
“Just tell me,” said Alexei. “That’s all I need.”
“It’s important that I take you there myself. I will explain on the way.”
“All right,” said Alexei, “but let’s not waste any more time.”
“We will go at once,” said Pekkala.
They met Kirov at the bottom of the stairs.
Pekkala explained what they were doing.
“It was in the book all along?” asked Kirov.
“I never would have found it if you hadn’t spotted the holes.”
Kirov looked bewildered. “And you say it is close by?” Pekkala nodded.
“I’ll get the car ready,” said Kirov.
“No,” Alexei told him. “Pekkala is the only one I trust. I promise that as soon as we get back, I will drive with you to Moscow.”
“Are you sure about this?” asked Kirov.
“Yes,” replied Pekkala. “Someone should stay here in case the doctor calls about Anton. We’ll be back in an hour or so.” He handed the book to Kirov. “Look after this,” he said.
46
“WHY WON’T YOU TELL ME WHERE WE ARE GOING?” ASKED ALEXEI, as the Emka raced beyond the outskirts of Sverdlovsk.
“I will when we get there,” replied Pekkala.
Alexei smiled. “All right, Pekkala. You just lead the way. I have waited a long time for this. I can wait a few minutes more. Of course, you will not go away empty-handed. There will be something in it for you, too.”
“You can keep it, Excellency,” Pekkala replied. “As far as I’m concerned, your father’s treasure stands for everything that got him killed.”
Alexei held up his hands and laughed. “Whatever you say, Pekkala!”
The Emka turned off the Moscow Highway, and headed down a potholed dirt track, tires splashing through muddy water. A minute later, Pekkala swung the car off the dirt track and into a field of tall grass. The clearing was surrounded by dense woods. At the far end, a crooked chimney rose from a dilapidated building. The Emka rolled across the field. At last, they came to a stop and Pekkala cut the engine. “We’re here,” he said. “We’ll need to walk the last-”
“But that’s the old mine over there,” said Alexei. “That’s where the bodies were dumped.”
Pekkala left the car. “Come with me,” he said.
/> Alexei got out and slammed the Emka’s door. “This is no joke, Pekkala! You promised me that gold.”
Pekkala walked to the edge of the mine shaft and stared down into the darkness. “The treasure is not gold.”
“What?” Alexei stood back from the mouth of the pit, unwilling to get near the edge.
“It’s diamonds,” said Pekkala, “and rubies and pearls. The Tsar had them sewn into specially made clothes. I couldn’t tell from the message how much there is or who was wearing them. Probably your parents and your elder sisters. Obviously, with your sickness, he would not have expected you to carry such an extra weight, and the less you knew about it, the safer you would be. I am telling you this now, Alexei, because I did not want to upset you. The bodies are still here. That is where we’ll find the treasure.”
“Gems?” Alexei appeared to be in shock.
“Yes,” replied Pekkala, “more than most people could even imagine.”
Alexei nodded. “All right, Pekkala, I believe you. But I’m afraid to go down in that mine.”
“I understand,” said Pekkala. “I’ll go by myself.” He brought out the towing rope, and fastened one end to the bumper of the Emka. Then he threw the heavy coil into the darkness. The rope shushed through the air as it uncoiled. Far below, there was a slap as it struck the ground. Then he fetched Anton’s flashlight from the glove compartment and the leather satchel he had brought with him from the forest of Krasnagolyana. “I’ll put the treasure in here,” he explained. “I may need to send parts of it up to you separately. I’m not sure I can climb this rope and carry it all at the same time.” He turned on the flashlight, unsure if it would even work. As light splashed down into the mine shaft, Pekkala sighed with relief that Kirov had remembered to replace the batteries.
Standing at the edge of the pit, Pekkala hesitated. Fear spread like wings inside his chest. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly.
“What’s the matter?” asked Alexei.
“You’ll need to lift the rope from the ground. Otherwise, it will drag against the edge of the mine shaft and I won’t be able to get a grip on it as I go over the side. Once I’m on the way down, I can handle it myself.”
Alexei took up the rope. “Like this?” he asked.
“The rope is still too low.”
Alexei closed the gap between them, his hands tight on the rough brown hemp, lifting it as he moved.
“You’ll have to come closer,” said Pekkala, “just until I can get my feet against the wall of the mine shaft. Then I’ll be fine.”
Now they were only an arm’s length apart, their hands almost touching.
Pekkala glanced into Alexei’s face. “Almost there,” he said.
Alexei smiled. His face had turned red from the effort of lifting the heavy rope. “I won’t forget this,” he promised.
Just as Pekkala was ready to lower himself over the side, he noticed the jagged white line of an old scar on Alexei’s forehead. He stared at it in confusion. A wound like that would probably have killed a hemophiliac. And then, like a ghostly image sliding over the features of Alexei, Pekkala glimpsed a different person. He was transported back many years, to a frigid day in Petrograd. He was on a bridge, overlooking the Neva River. Standing before him was Grodek, his face filled with terror at the thought of jumping from the bridge. As Grodek tried to dash past, Pekkala brought the barrel of the Webley down on his head. Grodek sprawled on the slush-covered ground, his forehead gashed by the front sight of the pistol. It was that same wound, the purple centipede crawling up into his hairline, which he had refused to cover up with bandages throughout the trial. The scar had faded so that it was almost invisible. Only now, as the skin around it flushed from exertion, did the old wound reappear.
“Grodek,” whispered Pekkala.
“It’s too late, Pekkala. You should have listened to your friends. But you wanted too much to believe.”
“What have you done with him?” stammered Pekkala. “What have you done with Alexei?”
“The same thing I did to the others,” Grodek replied. Then he let go of the rope.
Still attached to the bumper, the hemp cord snapped down. The shock almost tore it from Pekkala’s hands. He staggered backwards, desperate to keep his balance. But he was already too far out over the mine shaft. He toppled backwards. With the rope still in his grasp, he slid down, palms burning, kicking with his feet at the walls of the mine shaft, air rushing past him. Then his foot caught against a lip of stone. He clenched his hands around the rope. The skin of his palms had torn open, cauterized by the heat of holding on, but his grip held. With a jarring twist of his spine, everything stopped. Pekkala swung out and then back, his body slamming against the stone. He struggled to catch his breath. Wheezing, he lifted his knee, trying to gain a secure foothold. Just when he thought he had done this, his shoe came off. As he began to fall again, the weight of his body tore into his shoulder blades. He cried out in pain. His hands felt as if they had been held against a flame. This time he let go of the rope. He tumbled into the darkness, legs kicking. Then the blackness took shape, rushing up to meet him. He landed heavily, the wind knocked out of his lungs. Unable to breathe, he rolled, hands clawing in the dirt, mouth open and gasping for the air that would not come. As his consciousness faded, he curled over, forehead touching the ground, and in that arching of his body, his lungs released. He sucked in a mouthful of air filled with the stench of decay.
Grodek’s face appeared over the mouth of the pit. “Are you there, Pekkala?”
Pekkala groaned. He took another breath.
“Pekkala!”
“Where is Alexei?”
“Long gone,” Grodek answered. “Don’t worry, Pekkala. There is nothing you could have done. I kept him alive in case I needed a hostage. When I was dumping the bodies, he got out of the truck and tried to run away. I warned him to stop or I’d fire, but Alexei kept running. That’s why I had to shoot. He died the same night as the rest of his family. He is buried at the edge of this field. I had no choice.”
“No choice?” shouted Pekkala. “None of them deserved to die!”
“Neither did Maria Balka,” answered Grodek. “But I do not blame you, Pekkala. I have never considered you my enemy. From that day on the bridge to this, you and I have been on paths which were not of our own making. Whether we chose them or not, our paths have now converged. You have your brother to thank for that. He is the one who contacted me after that lunatic photographer decided to speak up. I would never have allowed him to live except the Tsar insisted upon it. And when Stalin chose to put you on the case, I thought we’d have a chance of locating that gold after all. If I’d only known it wasn’t gold we were looking for, I might have found it sooner.”
“You won’t get what you came for,” said Pekkala. “I know you’re too afraid to come down here.”
“You’re right,” Grodek said. “Instead, you will gather up the gems, put them in that leather bag, and tie it to the end of the rope. Then all I have to do is haul them up.”
“Why would I do that for you?”
“Because if you do, I will get in that car and drive away and you will never see me again. But if you don’t, I will go back into town and finish off the job I started on your brother. I’ll take care of that Commissar as well. I don’t want to do it, Pekkala. I know you think the blood of the Romanovs is on your hands, but the truth is that they brought it on themselves. It is the same with your brother. He has brought this on himself. Even so, he does not deserve to die. He believed you when you told him that you could not find the Tsar’s treasure. But I knew you’d get your hands on it eventually, and I was right. In the meantime, I had to keep threatening him. When he came back from the tavern black and blue, it was because I’d been knocking his head against the wall. When I came up with the idea of impersonating Alexei, he told me he couldn’t go through with it. I said I’d kill you if he mentioned my name. He knew I’d do it, too, so he kept his mouth shut. When you found out f
or yourself that I was here, he was going to warn you. That’s why I had to shut him up. He saved your life, Pekkala. The least you can do is save his.”
“If I gave you the jewels,” shouted Pekkala, “then what? You would leave me here to rot?”
“They’ll find you. When we’re not back in an hour, that Commissar will go looking for that message in the book. He’ll have you out of here before nightfall, but only if you hurry. Five minutes, Pekkala. That is all I’m giving you. If I don’t have those gems by then, I will leave you here to die among the bodies of your masters. With your brother and Kirov dead, there’ll be no one in Sverdlovsk to find you. By the time they figure it out, you’ll be just another body in the dark.”
“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“You don’t,” replied Grodek, “but if you hand me those jewels, I will have what I came for and I won’t hang around here any longer than necessary. Now hurry! Time is running out.”
Pekkala knew he had no choice except to follow Grodek’s instructions.
After groping around on the floor, he eventually found his satchel. He opened the flap, brought out his flashlight, and turned it on.
The mummified and broken faces of the Romanovs loomed out of the dark. They lay as he had left them. Among their rotted clothing, buttons of metal and bone reflected the light.
On his knees before the corpse of the Tsar, Pekkala grabbed the dead man’s tunic in his hands and pulled apart the cloth. It tore easily, sending up a faint cloud of dust as the threads ripped away. Beneath the tunic, Pekkala found a waistcoat made of heavy white cotton, like sailcloth. It looked to him like the kind of protective vest worn by fencers. It was ridged with many rows of stitching. The vest had been fastened with string ties instead of buttons. The knots were tightly done, so he pulled at the strings until they broke. Then, as gently as he could, he laid the Tsar facedown, tore away the tunic, and removed the vest, sliding it up over the skeletal arms. The vest was heavy. He threw it to one side.
“Three minutes, Pekkala!” Grodek called down.