Red Icon

by Sam Eastland

‘Why did she want it done?’

  Rasputin shrugged, rolling his shoulders as if he were in pain. ‘She didn’t want the icon hanging on a dirty wall.’

  ‘What did the owners of the apartment have to say about that?’

  To this, Rasputin laughed. ‘What could they say, except to thank her for her generosity? Now, perhaps we can talk about all this at a later time.’ He moved to push past the Inspector.

  Pekkala held out his arm and set his thumb and first two fingers, like the spear tips of a trident, against the Siberian’s chest. ‘Grigori,’ he said, ‘it can’t wait.’

  At this, Rasputin’s resolve seemed to fail him. ‘You should not have come here,’ he whispered. ‘I told her to keep you away.’

  ‘She tried,’ answered Pekkala.

  ‘I asked her to keep it a secret!’

  ‘She knew I would find out eventually. That’s why she told me herself.’

  With a sigh, Rasputin turned and stared at the empty space on the wall, marked only by a nail driven into the surface. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is the scene of the crime.’

  ‘When was the icon stolen, Grigori?’

  ‘It disappeared last night, while I was out.’

  ‘Out where?’

  ‘Here and there.’

  ‘Grigori,’ said Pekkala, his voice growing cold with impatience, ‘I need you to be specific.’

  ‘Well,’ began Rasputin, scratching his head with his long fingernails as he struggled to recall, ‘first I went to Yar, the gypsy restaurant in Petrovsky Park. The Lebedevs were playing. I stayed until they closed and then I went over to the Bear Café.’

  ‘I thought you were thrown out of there,’ said Pekkala.

  ‘Oh, I was,’ agreed Rasputin. ‘I am always thrown out of the Bear. I walked home from there and that’s when I noticed it was gone.’

  Pekkala turned towards the door. Carefully, he brushed his fingers over the latch mechanism. ‘It shows no sign of being forced.’

  ‘I may not have locked it,’ answered Rasputin. ‘Sometimes I forget.’

  Now Pekkala began to look around the room. He noticed the blue-and-white washbowl, decorated with scenes of pagodas and men fishing from spindly boats. It was half full of money. ‘Strange,’ he said, ‘that this should have been left by the thieves.’

  ‘Perhaps they just came for one thing,’ offered Rasputin. ‘They found it, they took it and that’s that.’

  ‘So what you are telling me,’ continued Pekkala, ‘is that whoever robbed you knew the icon was here.’

  ‘They must have.’

  ‘And which of your recent visitors expressed an interest in the icon?’

  ‘Don’t drag them into this!’ Rasputin began pacing about the room. ‘I assure you they had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘So let us say, for the sake of argument, that none of your guests were involved.’

  ‘That’s more like it!’ Rasputin clapped his hands. ‘Now we are seeing eye to eye.’

  But Pekkala wasn’t finished with him yet. ‘And yet you maintain that the thieves came with only one object in mind. Or else, surely, they would have taken other things of value, such as this bowl of cash.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying.’ Sensing that he was being led into a snare, Rasputin screwed up his face. ‘At least, I think I am,’ he added.

  ‘But whoever stole the icon knew that it had been moved from the Church of the Resurrection to your home. And if it wasn’t one of your guests, then who else besides the Romanovs knew it was here?’

  Rasputin twisted a finger in his beard. ‘I didn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Why not, Grigori?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Certainly, it would have been an interesting topic of conversation.’

  ‘You think I have nothing else to talk about?’ snapped Rasputin. ‘Besides, you know perfectly well what would happen if the wrong people found out. They hate me enough as it is.’

  ‘So you didn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘I just told you I didn’t!’

  ‘Then who is left?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Surely you don’t mean to implicate the Tsarina herself?’

  Rasputin clasped the Inspector’s arms and shook him gently. ‘Stay away from those thoughts, my old friend!’ he hissed. ‘Don’t even dare to think them! Instead, just ask yourself what matters more – the things that give us peace or peace itself?’

  ‘Do you really believe that this icon can bring an end to the war?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Rasputin nodded. ‘But if we are not careful it could be the end of us as well.’

  ‘I don’t see how,’ replied Pekkala. ‘I have seen that icon and it’s just a picture of a man and some sheep, which does not strike me as particularly worrisome.’

  ‘It’s what lies behind the picture that should worry you. You cannot see it, Pekkala, but this picture is dripping with blood.’ And when Rasputin next began to speak, quoting from the Gospel of St Matthew, his voice turned low and steady, like that of a man in a trance. ‘And before him shall be gathered all nations, and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats. And he shall set his sheep on his right hand and his goats upon the left. Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand – Come ye who are blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.’

  ‘And what happens to the goats?’ Pekkala wondered aloud.

  ‘What do you think?’ demanded Rasputin. ‘They are slaughtered and their bodies are cast into the fire. There is nothing gentle about The Shepherd, Inspector. Quite the contrary. Contained within that image is all the fury of the Last Judgement. And as far as the rulers of this country were concerned, that is exactly what this icon could deliver – not just protection for themselves but oblivion for their enemies. Whoever possesses this image holds the key to Armageddon. That is why you must turn around now, Pekkala, and walk away from this while you still can.’

  Pekkala slowly shook his head. ‘It’s too late now, Grigori.’

  ‘I see there’s no convincing you.’ Rasputin’s hands slipped away from their grasp upon Pekkala’s coat sleeves. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Maybe it is just a painting, and one day all that will be left are the ghosts who once adored it.’

  After leaving Rasputin’s apartment, Pekkala descended the stairs and strode across the uneven cobblestones of the courtyard, boots crunching on shards of broken wine bottles. He emerged into the street, turned right, and began to make his way to the station, where a short train ride would bring him back to Tsarskoye Selo. He had travelled that route many times, and knew each sway of the carriages as they clattered towards their destination. Even at night, he could tell by the pitch of the engine exactly where they were upon the journey.

  Pekkala paused to watch a car speeding down the street. It was a beautiful, open-topped Opel saloon car, belonging to the Grand Duke Pavel Alexandrovich, a career cavalry officer and commander of the Garde du Corps. Although his rank and position dictated that he should be driven by a chauffeur, the Grand Duke preferred to do his own driving and would often make his chauffeur sit in the back while Alexandrovich, with the chauffeur’s cap wedged on to his head, would steer the car at high speed through the busy streets of Petrograd. Pekkala recognised the stiff moustache of the Grand Duke, wearing the high-necked tunic of a Grodno Hussar. In the back, with arms folded and staring sullenly into space, sat the bare-headed chauffeur.

  It was late in the day now and even though the sun had not yet set, shadows filled the streets and the horse-drawn droshky carriages making their way along the road had already lit their lanterns.

  At that moment, from the corner of his eye, Pekkala caught a glimpse of somebody following behind him in the exact spot where a person would be if they wanted to remain unnoticed. It could simply have been a coincidence. The streets were busy, after all, but Pekkala had an inkling that something was not right. To make sure, one way or the other, he slowed and then knelt down, pretending to tie one of his bootl
aces. If the man walked past, the chances were that Pekkala was not being followed. But the man hung back, and Pekkala’s suspicions grew. Standing, he crossed the street and as he stepped from the pavement, he glanced casually to his left. He saw a tall, heavyset man with a lumbering gait, his face almost hidden beneath a long-brimmed wool cap of the type worn by newsboys who sold late editions of the Ryetch newspaper at street corners during the evening rush hour. His long coat was unbuttoned and the hem flapped around his calves as he walked. He also wore a pair of greyish-white suede gloves, which struck Pekkala as unusual for the time of year.

  The man did not appear to be carrying a gun. Certainly, there was no shoulder holster and the open coat revealed no weapon tucked into his belt.

  Pekkala made no effort to confront the stranger, or to lose him in the crowds of commuters who had begun to fill the streets. Instead, he allowed the man to track him. Every few minutes, he paused at a shop window, pretending to examine things for sale. In fact, he was studying the man’s reflection in the glass.

  Each time, the man would slow his pace, lower his head and turn, seemingly preoccupied, like someone who has just remembered something he forgot at home.

  From his observations, Pekkala concluded that the man’s clothing was of Russian make, but not that of a city dweller. By the way he carefully hid his face, as well as maintaining a precise distance, not too close but never so far as to risk losing sight of his target, it was clear to Pekkala that the man did not desire an immediate confrontation.

  Pekkala guessed that this man was not on his own errand, but was likely working for somebody else, and that this probably had less to do with him than it did with some transgression of Rasputin. Having no wish to become involved in one of Rasputin’s intrigues, Pekkala might normally have waited until he reached the station, busy at this time of day, before losing the man in the crowd.

  But the conversation with Rasputin, combined with the theft of the icon, had unsettled him. Rasputin had been hiding something, and Pekkala knew that there would be much work ahead if he was to unravel the reason for the icon’s disappearance, let alone restore it to its rightful place in the cathedral. And there was a chance, however slim, that this man had something to do with it.

  Pekkala decided to double back on the man. If he had to, he would make an arrest, but he hoped it would not come to that. If this lumbering giant was simply doing his job, as Pekkala suspected, it might be possible to learn all he needed to know with a few whispered words and a glimpse of the Emerald Eye.

  There was an alleyway that ran parallel to the Gosciny Dvor, the main road to the station. The alley, known as St Christopher’s Way, was used primarily by tradesmen delivering goods to shops whose storefronts opened out on to the Gosciny. It was also where rubbish was placed, sometimes in large galvanised bins, but just as often dumped in the narrow thoroughfare, blocking the way for anyone who did not feel like kicking his way through the heaps of cardboard boxes and prickly bundles of hay used to cushion fragile objects on their journey from factory to store.

  Pekkala ducked into the Watkins Bookshop, which had for many years kept Petrograd supplied with French and English and, until recently, German editions of novels not yet available in translation. He strode through the store, breathing in the dry and comforting smell of new books, and passing the alcoves where customers lounged in comfortable chairs, sometimes reading entire books in one sitting, or else falling completely asleep. Rather than evicting them, the staff would coax the sleepers back to consciousness with cups of sweet Kusmichov tea, and, whether from embarrassment or gratitude, they would usually end up buying more than they had planned to when they came in.

  Pekkala exited the book shop into St Christopher’s Way, pushing past several splintery shipping crates. His plan was to run the length of the alley, turn back on to the Gosciny Dvor and catch the man as he waited outside the shop for Pekkala to emerge. He knew there was little danger of the man actually going inside. Even an untrained tracker knew better than to follow his quarry into a confined space where he would immediately give up the advantage of his anonymity.

  Pekkala set off at a sprint down the alleyway, dodging past rubbish bins, bundled stacks of old newspapers and broken pieces of furniture. The sun had angled to the west and only at the very top of the alley could its coppery light be seen upon the brickwork and the windows of the garrets where bachelors and students lived in attic rooms whose angled ceilings made life miserable for anyone who dared to stand up straight.

  He was just rounding the corner on to a side street, which would take him, with a dozen steps, to the crowded thoroughfare of the Gosciny, when he ploughed into someone coming from the other way.

  As Pekkala staggered back, a muttered apology on his lips, he realised it was the man who had been following him. He had no time to contemplate the fact that he had misjudged both the man’s skill as a tracker and also his speed. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash, as if the light from a lantern on a passing droshky had winked off a shop window out on the main street. Then he felt something brush across his chest. He heard a dull click and one of his coat buttons went flying off over his shoulder. Now he understood that the flash had come from a blade, and that the man’s first swing with the cutting edge had sliced through the wool of his coat, glancing off the Webley in its holster on his chest.

  The man brought his arm back, a long, strange knife gripped in his hand. It was about the same length as from the tip of a man’s fingers to his elbow, the end squared off and the back edge of the blade unusually thick, as if the knife was meant for wielding like an axe.

  Pekkala saw that the man’s greyish-white suede gloves were not gloves at all but the actual colour of his skin. The man’s face, too, was pale and waxy, his features abnormally rounded and his eyes little more than slits in the puffy skin. He appeared, at first glance, to have no eyebrows, nor any facial hair at all and what there might have been on his head was hidden by the newsboy’s cap. He reminded Pekkala of a drowned fisherman he had once found washed up on the beach as a child, on the tiny Finnish island of Kovasin.

  The man reached out to grab Pekkala’s coat. In his other hand, he held the knife.

  Pekkala knew that if the man succeeded in getting a hold on his lapel, he would be knocked off balance, in which case he was as good as dead. There was no time, nor room enough to draw his gun. He jumped back, just as the man swung again with the knife and this time Pekkala felt a sharp stinging pain on the left side of his forehead. He stepped to the side as the man was carried forward by the momentum of his swing. Pekkala lunged, grabbing the wrist of the hand which held the knife. He twisted the man’s arm straight, forcing his shoulder to drop. Then, Pekkala smashed the heel of his left hand into the man’s elbow. He heard a faint crunch as one of the man’s tendons gave way. The man cried out through clenched teeth as the knife fell from his grasp and fell with a clatter into the alley.

  By now, blood was pouring from the gash on Pekkala’s forehead. He could see nothing at all from his left eye. As yet, there was no pain, and he had no idea how badly he’d been cut.

  With both hands still gripping the man’s arm, Pekkala swung him head first into the brick wall, then stepped back, giving himself enough space to finally reach for his gun. But his hand slipped instead into the lining of the coat, which had been torn open by the first swipe of the blade. By the time he had withdrawn his hand, ready to try again, it was too late.

  The man had turned to face him. He was breathing heavily. His right hand hung useless at his side and his skin was scored with bloody creases where it had scraped against the wall.

  For a moment, the two men remained motionless, only an arm’s length apart.

  Pekkala had no idea where the knife had fallen. The alley was in darkness now and he knew it must have come to rest somewhere behind him. Perhaps the man could see it from where he stood. Pekkala wasn’t certain he could get to his revolver, or if his hand would once more become tangled in the lining of
his coat. At this distance, it would have been foolish even to try.

  For the first time, the man spoke. ‘Stay away,’ he whispered. Then he lunged at Pekkala, knocking him off balance.

  Pekkala tripped backwards, his back striking hard against the ground. He gasped from the pain of his landing. With his consciousness flickering, he reached once more for his gun and this time his hand closed around the brass handle of the Webley. But it was no use. By the time he had drawn the weapon, the man was already gone.

  Dazed by loss of blood, Pekkala lay there in the alley, his gaze fixed upon the silhouettes of pedestrians strolling past out on the Gosciny Dvor, completely unaware of what had happened only a few feet away. Then he slowly clambered to his feet. Half blind and groping about in the dirt, he searched for the knife until he found it lodged beneath a drainpipe. He tore a page from a stack of old newspapers, rolled it around the weapon and used another page to wipe some of the blood from his face. With gritted teeth, he touched his fingertips to the puckered wound. It wasn’t as bad as he had thought. The cut was deep but it hadn’t gone down to the bone.

  An hour later, he was sitting in the office of Chief Inspector Vassileyev, head of the Petrograd Okhrana, wincing while a medic named Isaac Blaustein, hastily summoned from his dental practice across the street, stitched up the cut on Pekkala’s forehead.

  ‘This isn’t my line of work!’ protested the dentist.

  ‘Well, it was either you or me,’ replied Vassileyev. ‘We have a doctor on our staff, but he went home early today.’

  ‘Believe me,’ Pekkala said to Blaustein, ‘between you and Chief Inspector Vassileyev is no choice at all.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ answered the dentist, ‘but now will you please hold steady, Inspector!’

  Vassileyev paced about the room, steadily making his way through several of the sixty Markov cigarettes he smoked each day. Stacks of red boxes, each one emblazoned in gold with the brand name, lined the Chief Inspector’s windowsill.

  He had one wooden leg, having lost his right limb in an assassination attempt several years before. The prosthetic was heavy and caused him a great deal of pain and he could often be found with the leg laid out on his desk while he hollowed it out with a chisel, trying to reduce its weight. Now his footsteps marked uneven time upon the creaking floorboards.