Shadow Pass (15 page)

“And are we?”

Stalin got up from his desk and began to pace around the room, the report still clutched in his fist. The soft soles of his calfskin leather boots swished across the wooden floor. “We have no such plan, but the Germans are taking these British rumors seriously. This means they are watching us for any signs of provocation. The slightest hostile gesture by us could bring about a full-scale war, and Hitler has made no secret of what he would like to do with the Soviet Union. If he has his way, our culture will be annihilated, our people enslaved. This entire country would become a living space for German colonists. The T-34 is not merely a machine. It is our only hope for survival. If we lose the advantage this tank can give us, we will lose everything. As of this moment, Pekkala, you are in charge of the investigation. You will replace this”—he squinted at the name on the report—“Major Lysenkova.”

“If I could ask, Comrade Stalin—”

“What?”

“Why did you assign her to the case at all?”

“I didn’t,” replied Stalin. “The guard in charge of security at Nagorski’s facility put in a call to her directly.”

“That would be Captain Samarin,” said Pekkala.

“Samarin had to call NKVD,” continued Stalin. “He couldn’t have called the regular police, because secret facilities are out of their jurisdiction. It had to be handled by Internal Security.”

“I realize that,” persisted Pekkala, “but my understanding is that Captain Samarin specifically requested Major Lysenkova.”

“Maybe he did,” replied Stalin impatiently. “Just ask him yourself.”

“Captain Samarin is dead, Comrade Stalin.”

“What? How?”

Pekkala explained what had happened in the woods.

Stalin returned to his seat. Resting in the chair, his back seemed unnaturally straight, as if he wore a metal brace beneath his clothing. “And this fugitive, the one you chased through the woods, has still not been located?”

“Since the death has been declared an accident, Comrade Stalin, I assume they have called off the search.”

“Called it off,” muttered Stalin. He picked up Lysenkova’s report. “Then it may already be too late. For this major’s sake, I hope not.” He let the paper fall onto the desk.

“I will speak to the major,” said Pekkala. “Perhaps she can help us with some answers.”

“Suit yourself, Pekkala. I don’t care how you do it, but I want the man who shot Nagorski before he goes and kills somebody else I cannot do without. In the meantime, no one must know about this. I do not want our enemies to think that we have faltered. They are waiting for us to make mistakes, Pekkala. They are looking out for any sign of weakness.”

P
EKKALA SAT ON THE END OF HIS BED
.

In front of him, on a small collapsible table, lay his dinner—three slices of black rye bread, a small bowl of Tvorok cheese, and a mug of carbonated water.

Pekkala’s coat and shoulder holster lay draped over his bed rail. He wore a pair of heavy corduroy trousers, their color the same deep brown as a horse chestnut, and a sweater of undyed wool, the color of oatmeal.

His residence was a boardinghouse on Tverskaia Street—not a particularly safe or beautiful part of town. In spite of this, over the past few years the building had become overcrowded. Workers had flooded out of the countryside, looking for jobs in the city. These days, it was not unusual to find a dozen people crammed
into a space which, under normal circumstances, would barely have suited half that number.

His one-room apartment was sparsely furnished, with a fold-up army cot, which took up one corner of the room, and a collapsible table at which he ate his meals and wrote up his reports. There was also a china cabinet, slathered with many layers of paint, its current incarnation being chalky white. Pekkala had no china, only enameled cups and saucers, and only a couple each of those, since he rarely had any guests. The remainder of the cabinet was taken up with several dozen cardboard boxes of .455-caliber bullets belonging to the brass-handled Webley he wore when he was on duty and for which ammunition was difficult to come by in this country.

Pekkala had survived on so little for so long that he could not get used to doing otherwise. He lived like a man who expected at any moment to be given half an hour’s notice to vacate the premises.

Tucking a handkerchief into his collar, Pekkala brushed his hands against his chest and was about to begin his meal when a floorboard creaked in the hallway. He froze. A moment later, as he heard a knocking on his door, an old memory flickered to life in his head.

He stood outside the Tsarina’s Mauve Boudoir, his hand raised to rap on the door
.

To the Alexander Palace maids, passing by with bundles of laundry, or trays of breakfast china, or feather dusters clasped like strange bouquets of flowers, he seemed to be frozen in place
.

At last, as if the strength required for knocking on that door was more than he possessed, Pekkala sighed and lowered his hand
.

Ever since the Tsarina had sent for him that morning, Pekkala had
been filled with uneasiness. Alexandra usually stayed as far away from him as she could get
.

Pekkala did not know why she disliked him so intensely. All he knew was that she did and that she made no secret of it. His only consolation was that he was far from alone in finding himself out of favor with her
.

The Tsarina was a proud and stubborn woman who made up her mind very quickly about people and rarely changed her opinion afterwards. Even among those whom she tolerated, very few could count themselves as friends. Aside from Rasputin, her only confidante was the pouty, moonfaced Anna Vyrubova. For both of them, remaining in the Tsarina’s good graces had become a full-time job
.

Now she had summoned Pekkala, and he had no idea what she wanted. Pekkala wished he could turn and walk away, but he had no choice except to obey
.

As he raised his hand again to knock on the door, he caught sight of a sun wheel carved into the top of the doorframe. This crooked cross, its arms bent leftwards until it almost, but not quite, formed a circle, was the symbol the Tsarina had chosen as her own. It could be found carved into the doorframes of any place she had stayed for any length of time. Her life was filled with superstitions, and this was only one of them
.

Knowing there was nothing to be gained by postponing this meeting any longer, Pekkala finally knocked
.

“Come in,” ordered a muffled voice
.

The Mauve Boudoir smelled of cigarettes and the dense fragrance of pink hyacinth flowers, which grew in planters on the windowsills. The lace curtains, a mauve color like everything else in the room, had been drawn, turning the light which filtered into the room the color of diluted blood. The dreary uniformity of its furnishings and the fact that the Tsarina never seemed to open the windows combined to make the space unbearably stifling to Pekkala
.

Adding to his discomfort was the presence of an entire miniature circus made out of thin strands of glass, gold filigree, and pearls. There were more
than a hundred pieces in all. The circus had been specially commissioned by the Tsar from the workshops of Karl Fabergé; it was rumored to be worth the lifetime salaries of more than a dozen Russian factory workers
.

The fragile figures—elephants, tigers, clowns, fire-eaters, and tight-rope walkers—were balanced precariously on the edge of every flat surface in the room. Pekkala felt as if all he had to do was sigh and everything would come crashing to the floor
.

The Tsarina lay on an overstuffed daybed, her legs covered by a blanket, wearing the gray and white uniform of a nurse of the Russian Red Cross. Ever since casualties had first started pouring back from the front in the late summer of 1914, the Great Hall of the Catherine Palace had been turned into a hospital ward and the Tsarina and her daughters had taken on the role of nurses to the wounded
.

Soldiers who had grown up in thatch-roofed, dirt-floored Izba huts now woke each day in a room with golden pillars, walked across a polished marble floor, and rested in linen-sheeted beds. In spite of the level of comfort, the soldiers Pekkala had seen there did not look comfortable at all. Most would have preferred the more familiar surroundings of an army hospital instead of being showcased like the glass circus animals, as the Tsarina’s contribution to the war
.

There were times when, in spite of her hostility towards him, Pekkala felt sorry for the Tsarina, particularly since war had broken out. No matter how hard she worked, her German background had made it almost impossible to make any gesture of loyalty to Russia without the gesture backfiring upon her. In trying to ease the suffering of others, she had succeeded only in prolonging it for herself
.

But Pekkala had come to realize that this might not have been entirely by accident. The Tsarina was drawn towards suffering. An odd nervous energy surrounded her whenever the topic turned to misfortune. Attending to the wounded had given new purpose to her life
.

Now, with Pekkala standing before her, the Tsarina gestured towards a fragile-looking wicker chair. “Sit,” she told Pekkala
.

Hesitantly, Pekkala settled onto the chair, afraid that its legs would collapse under his weight
.

“Pekkala,” said the Tsarina, “I believe we have gotten off to a bad start, you and I, but it is simply a matter of trust. I would like to trust you, Pekkala.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“With that in mind,” she said, her clasped hands pressing into her lap as if she had a cramp in her stomach, “I would like for us to work together on a matter of great importance. I require you to conduct an investigation.”

“Of course,” answered Pekkala. “What do you need me to investigate?”

She paused for a moment. “The Tsar.”

Pekkala breathed in sharply. “I beg your pardon, Majesty?” The wicker seat creaked beneath him
.

“I need you,” she continued, “to look into whether my husband is keeping a mistress.”

“A mistress,” repeated Pekkala
.

“Yes.” She watched him closely, her lips tight in an awkward smile. “You know what that is, don’t you?”

“I do know, Majesty.” He also knew that the Tsar did, in fact, have a mistress. Or, at least, there was a woman who had been his mistress. Her name was Mathilde Kschessinska and she was the lead dancer of the Imperial Russian Ballet. The Tsar had known her for years, since before his marriage to the Tsarina, and had even bought her a mansion in Petrograd. Officially, he had broken off ties with her. Unofficially, Pekkala knew, the Tsar kept in contact with this woman. Although the full extent of their relationship was unknown to him, he knew for certain that the Tsar continued to visit her, even using a secret door located at the back of the Petrograd mansion so that he could enter undetected
.

Pekkala had always assumed that the Tsarina knew everything about this other woman. The reason for this was that he did not believe the Tsar to be capable of keeping any secret from his wife. He lacked the necessary
guile, and the Tsarina was far too suspicious to allow an affair to continue undetected
.

“I regret,” said Pekkala, rising to his feet, “that I cannot investigate the Tsar.”

The Tsarina appeared to have been waiting for this moment. “You can investigate the Tsar,” she told him, as her eyes lit up. “The Tsar himself gave you the right to investigate anyone you choose. That is by Imperial Decree. And what is more, I have the right to order this investigation.”

“I understand, Majesty, that technically I am permitted—”

“Not permitted, Pekkala. Obliged.”

“I understand—” he continued
.

She cut him off again. “Then it is settled.”

“Majesty,” pleaded Pekkala, “what you ask, I must not do.”

“Then you refuse?” she asked
.

Pekkala felt a trap closing around him. To refuse an order from the Tsarina would amount to treason, the penalty for which was death. The Tsar was at army headquarters in Mogilev, halfway across the country. If the Tsarina wished it, Pekkala could be executed before the Tsar even found out what was wrong
.

“You refuse?” she asked again
.

“No, Majesty.” The words fell like stones from his mouth
.

“Good. I am glad we are finally able to see”—the Tsarina held out her hand towards the door—“eye to emerald eye.”

T
HE KNOCKING CAME AGAIN, BUT THERE WAS SOMETHING UNUSUAL
about it. The knuckles were striking far too low against the door.

At first Pekkala could make no sense of it, but then he smiled. He stepped over to the door and opened it just as the child on the other side was about to knock again. “Good evening, Talia.”

“Good evening, Comrade Pekkala.”

Before Pekkala stood a girl about seven years old, with plump
cheeks and a dimple in her chin, wearing a khaki shirt and dress and the red scarf of a Young Pioneer around her neck. In a fashion popular among girls in the Communist Youth Movement, her short hair had been cut in a straight line across her forehead. Smiling, she gave him the Pioneer salute: the knife edge of her outstretched hand held at an angle in front of her face, as if to fend off an attack.

Conscious of how much he towered over the girl, Pekkala got down on one knee so they were looking each other in the face. “And what has brought you here this evening?”

“Babayaga says you are lonely.”

“And how does she know that?”

The child shrugged. “She just does.”

Pekkala glanced back at his dinner—the lumps of bread and the bowl of watery cheese. He sighed. “Well, Talia, it just so happens that I could use a little company right now.”

Talia stepped back into the hall and held out her hand for him to take. “Come along, then,” she said.

“One moment,” Pekkala said. He pulled on his coat which, although it had been cleaned, still looked the worse for wear after his journey across the proving ground.