Shadow Pass

aware of German plans to invade their country. They know that their only chance of preventing invasion is if the Germans become involved in a war against us. Germany would be bogged down in a war to the east as well as to the west, in which case it might not have the resources to invade Britain at all. British intelligence has been spreading rumors that we are planning to launch a preemptive strike against Germany through southern Poland.”

“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.”

PEKKALA 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 Faberge; 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