“The fact that you are still alive should tell you all you need to know,” Tarnowski replied.

Soon the wood began to burn. Flames cast their flickering light across the bare stone walls.

“We were surprised to see you back at Borodok.”

“Not as surprised as I was,” Pekkala answered.

“We almost crossed paths here, you know,” Tarnowski continued. “The last survivors of the Kolchak Expedition reached Borodok not long after you did, but by that time you had already been sent into the forest. For a long time, we heard that you were still alive, even though no one had actually seen you. But when a new tree- marker was sent out to take your place, we became convinced you had died. Then new prisoners started showing up at the camp, saying you had been recalled to duty in Moscow. They said you were working for the Bureau of Special Operations, under the direction of Stalin himself. At first, we didn’t believe it. Why would the Emerald Eye put himself at the disposal of a beast like Stalin? But when these rumors persisted, we began to suspect that the stories might be true.”

“The stories are true,” Pekkala admitted. “I was recalled to Moscow in order to investigate the murder of the Tsar. After that, I was given a choice. Either I could come back here to die or I could go back to the job I had been trained to do.”

“Not much of a choice.”

“Stalin is fond of placing men in such predicaments.”

“And if they do not choose wisely?”

“They die.”

“Like a cat with a mouse,” muttered Tarnowski. “And now he has cast you aside once again, as he has done with so many others. This is where we end up and our job becomes to simply stay alive, a task you might find difficult, since there are men who are here in this camp because of you.”

“No.” Pekkala shook his head. “They are here because of the crimes they committed.”

“A distinction which is lost on them, Inspector. But I have passed the word that anyone who lays a hand on you will answer for it with his life.”

“And who will answer for the murder of Captain Ryabov?”

The muscles clenched along Tarnowski’s jaw. “Saving your life and seeking vengeance for his death are not the same thing, Inspector. So many have perished since we came to this camp, I can no longer even remember their names. It would take a hundred lifetimes to avenge them all. And even if I could, what would be the point? The desire for revenge can take over a man’s life.”

“And can also be the end of it,” said Pekkala.

“As you and I have seen for ourselves.”

“We have?”

“Oh, yes, Inspector. You and I have met before.”

Pekkala was startled by the revelation. “You mean at this camp? But I thought-”

Tarnowski shook his head. “Long before that, Pekkala, on a night even colder than this, outside the Hotel Metropole.”

At the mention of that place, memories came tumbling like an avalanche out of the darkness of his mind. “The duel!” whispered Pekkala.

He was sitting at a table in the hotel restaurant, waiting for Ilya to arrive. For his fiancee’s birthday, Pekkala had promised her dinner at the finest place in St. Petersburg.

Large white pillars, like relics from a temple on Olympus, held up the high ceiling, in the center of which was a huge skylight, its view of the heavens obscured by thick swirls of cigarette smoke.

From every corner of the room came laughter, the clink of cutlery on plates, and the dry clatter of footsteps on the tiled floor.

Tuxedoed and ball-gowned couples danced on a raised floor at the far end of the room, to music played by a troupe of gypsies, dressed in their traditional bright, flowing clothes. In front of the musicians stood the most famous singer in St. Petersburg, Maria Nikolaevna. Her quavering voice rose above all other sounds as she sang Panina’s melancholy song “I Do Not Speak to You.”

A high balcony skirted the large rectangular room. Set into the walls along this balcony and interspersed between tropical elephant-ear ferns were rows of doors leading into private rooms known as “Kabinets.” What went on in those cramped spaces, judging from the endless stream of waiters in short white jackets delivering blinis and caviar, as well as the scantily dressed women who flitted like ghosts between the Kabinets, was not difficult to guess.

Now and then, the warmth of the tobacco-fogged air would be disturbed by waves of cold as the double doors to the street were flung open and new customers entered, stamping pom-poms of snow from the toes of their boots and shedding huge sable coats. Immediately, they would be ushered to their tables, leaving behind a glittering dust of frost in the air, as if they had materialized from the haze of a magician’s spell.

Pekkala kept his eyes on the door as he sipped a cup of smoky-tasting tea. He wondered why Ilya was late. She was normally punctual, which was perhaps to be expected from a teacher of young children. Probably the headmistress had kept her behind again to discuss some change in the curriculum, not in spite of the fact that she must have known it was Ilya’s birthday and that Pekkala had made reservations at the Metropole but precisely because of that fact. The headmistress had done things like this before, and now Pekkala clenched his fist upon the tablecloth as he silently cursed the old woman.

Just when he was about to give up and go home, the door opened and this time Pekkala felt sure it must be Ilya. Instead, however, a giant of a man walked into the room, swathed in the uniform of an Imperial cavalry officer. The newcomer removed his cap in the manner of a cavalryman, lifting it from the back and tipping it forward off his head. Briefly, he glanced about to get his bearings, then climbed the stairs and strode along the balcony. The leaves of palm trees brushed against his shoulders, as if bowing to the giant as he passed. He came to a stop outside one of the Kabinets, knocked once, and entered. Late for the party, guessed Pekkala, and for a moment he went back to thinking about Ilya-whether she would like the present he had bought her, a silver dragonfly necklace made by the St. Petersburg jeweler Nijinsky. The necklace had been very expensive, and quietly it galled Pekkala to pay so much for something so utterly impractical.

The wanderings of Pekkala’s mind were halted by the sound of the door to the Kabinet opening again. This time two men emerged-the giant cavalry officer again and a man Pekkala recognized as Colonel Kolchak.

Kolchak was fastening the buttons on his tunic as he descended from the balcony and made his way towards the exit. Glancing across the sea of guests, he caught Pekkala’s eye.

The two men nodded in greeting.

Kolchak’s expression was grim and angry. He muttered something in the ear of the cavalry officer, who then crossed the dining room, sidestepping in the narrow space between tables with an agility surprising for such a heavyset man. He arrived at Pekkala’s table, clicked his heels, and jolted his head forward in a hasty bow. “I am the colonel’s aide-de-camp. He requires your help, Inspector.”

Immediately Pekkala rose to his feet, dropping his napkin on the table. “What is it about?”

“Colonel Kolchak needs you to be his second.”

“His second what?”

“His second in a duel.”

The word took Pekkala’s breath away. “A duel? When? Where?”

“Outside. Now.”

Pekkala hesitated. Although the fighting of duels was legal, as far as he knew, it had been years since one had taken place in the streets of St. Petersburg. In order to make the duel legal, a second was required for each man, and these seconds, if asked, were required by law to witness the event.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Lieutenant, why aren’t you his second in this matter?”

“Because Colonel Kolchak asked for you, Inspector. Now if you will kindly follow me …”

Out in the street, it was snowing. Horse-drawn carriages passed by, wheels purring through the slush.

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