Now Pekkala wondered if the young officer had died, after all.
“I need to see Ryabov’s body again,” he told Klenovkin.
“What? Now?”
“Yes!”
“But what if Melekov is still in the kitchen?”
“He won’t be. Melekov goes back to bed as soon as his shift is finished.”
Klenovkin’s eyebrows bobbed up in surprise. “Back to bed? He’s not allowed to do that in the middle of the day!”
“Nevertheless …”
“That lazy Siberian piece of …”
“Please, Commandant. It is crucial that I see the body immediately.”
Leaving Kirov’s telegram on the desk, the two men made their way to the kitchen.
Klenovkin opened the freezer with his master key.
Inside, at the back, Pekkala pushed aside the wall of vodka crates. Ryabov’s corpse was still there, lying on the floor under a tarpaulin.
Crouching down, Pekkala pulled back the tarp, whose ice-encrusted contours retained the shape of Ryabov’s face.
The shadows made it difficult to see.
“Do you have a match?” Pekkala asked.
Klenovkin pulled a box from his pocket and handed it down.
Pekkala struck a match and held it close to Ryabov’s hand. In the quivering light, he glimpsed the crookedly healed thumb and index finger of the Okhrana officer he had met years ago, on their way to the Moika Canal. As a pawn in this game of trust between Kolchak and the Tsar, agent Ryabov had played his role through to the end.
For a long time, Pekkala stared into the dead man’s face-the alabaster skin, sunken eyes, and blue-black lips. He could not shake the feeling that he was staring at himself. “See you on the other side,” he murmured, and his breath uncoiled like silk into the still and frozen air.
“What?” asked Klenovkin. “What did you say?”
“I knew this man,” Pekkala replied. “I thought he had died long ago.”
“Well, he’s dead now, anyway.” Klenovkin tapped Pekkala on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”
On their way back to Klenovkin’s office, Pekkala tried to fathom why on earth Vassileyev would have lied to him about this officer having survived the blast.
The answer soon became clear when Pekkala read the remainder of the telegram.
RYABOV COMMISSIONED BY TSAR TO MONITOR
KOLCHAK EXPEDITION STOP ACTIVITY OF AGENT
RYABOV NOT DISCLOSED TO OKHRANA STOP
The reason Vassileyev had not told Pekkala that there were survivors from the bomb at Grodek’s house was that he did not know of any. But the Tsar had not only lied to his own director of intelligence. He had lied to Pekkala as well.
The Tsar’s story had been very specific. He had told Pekkala that the precise location of the gold would be known only to Colonel Kolchak and his uncle, Admiral Alexander Kolchak of the Tsar’s Pacific fleet in Vladivostok. Even the Tsar himself was not to be told. There was good reason for this. Although the Tsar was confident that Kolchak could evade any attempt at capture by the Red Guards, the Tsar was equally certain that he himself would soon fall into captivity. And the first thing his captors would want to know was the location of the Imperial Reserves. Unless the Bolsheviks could be convinced that the Tsar didn’t know the whereabouts of his gold, they would resort to whatever means necessary to acquire that information.
For the Tsar, the trick would be in persuading these captors of his ignorance before they even asked the question.
Now, years later, an idea began to surface in Pekkala’s mind. At first it seemed so sinister that he felt sure this couldn’t be the answer. But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that it was true. The Tsar must have known that if Pekkala were arrested, he would be interrogated using whatever means the Bolshevik Security Service, known as the Cheka, thought necessary. For a man like Pekkala, in the hands of the Cheka, torture was a guarantee. The Bolsheviks would realize, as they beat and starved and questioned him, that Pekkala was telling the truth when he said that neither he nor the Tsar was aware of the gold’s hiding place.
Except it wasn’t the truth. It was a lie, but one that Pekkala had believed.
There was only one catch. For the Tsar’s plan to work, Pekkala would have to be caught.
It was the Tsar who had provided Pekkala with the means of escaping the country-forged papers, rail tickets, even the route he should take to avoid capture. But Pekkala never made it. At a small railway station on the Russo-Finnish border, with freedom almost within his grasp, Pekkala had been hauled off a crowded train by Bolshevik Revolutionary Guards. From there, he had begun his journey to Butyrka prison, and eventually to Borodok.
He had always wondered how the Revolutionary Guards singled him out so effectively. Now he knew.
The only way the Tsar could have guaranteed that Pekkala would be arrested was by revealing the information of his escape route to the enemy.
In this way the Tsar and his family would be spared the same fate as Pekkala. There would be no point in interrogating the Romanovs for information which they didn’t have.
The facts were inescapable.
The Tsar had betrayed him, his most trusted servant, who in return had trusted the Tsar with a devotion far beyond the value of his life.
It was an ingenious and intricate plan. Not surprisingly, the Tsar had calculated almost every detail, but the one thing he had not anticipated was that Kolchak might actually be caught. Or that the members of the Romanov family might be herded to the city of Ekaterinburg and, on a sultry August night in 1918, butchered in the basement of the Ipatiev house.
The knowledge that the Tsar had, in those final days of their acquaintance, offered him up as a sacrifice struck Pekkala like a hammer to his skull.
“Well,” demanded Klenovkin. “Do you have your answer?”
“I have an answer,” replied Pekkala. “But it was not the one I’d been expecting.”
As soon as Pekkala had left the room, Klenovkin began to pace like a cat trapped in a cage. He had read the telegram as soon as it came through but wasn’t able to make head or tail of it. And what did Pekkala mean, wondered the commandant, when he said it wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting? Klenovkin could not help but fear the worst. Pekkala was refusing to accept his theory about the Comitati. “And who else is there to accuse, but me?” he asked himself. Already, in feverish dreams, he had found himself before a board of inquiry, accused of Ryabov’s murder. To this imaginary jury he had pleaded his case, but was always found guilty.
“It’s time I took matters into my own hands,” he muttered to himself. Seating himself at his desk, Klenovkin took out a piece of paper and furiously scribbled a note.
