‘What for?’

‘There are things you need to know.’

‘True, my friend. But I doubt you can tell me any of them.’

‘What’s your brother doing in Helsinki?’

‘Lars isn’t in Helsinki.’

‘Yes, he is. I saw him there yesterday with my own eyes.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘No. He was there. He followed Koskinen and me to Matalainen’s office. Didn’t Lund mention that? I certainly told him. I’ll tell you what I think, shall I? I think Lars was doing what you accused Pernille of: trying to get his hands on the letters. You haven’t shared the secret with him, have you? Not all of it, anyway. You guard it jealously. Even from your own family. Why is that, Tolmar? Why can’t you bring yourself to trust them?’

‘My family is none of your concern, Eusden. Prying into our affairs is why you’re going to die here in the snow, a long way from home.’

‘Kill me and you’ll be making a big mistake.’

‘And you’re going to explain why, of course.’

Yes. He was. He had to. His brain raced to fill the gaps between what he knew and what he needed to guess – correctly. ‘Do you really believe your father was the Tsarevich, Tolmar? I mean, really? I think you do. I think you’ve always wanted to believe it. That’s why you’re carving out a business empire in Russia. To make up for the real empire you reckon was your birthright. I imagine that information would come as an unpleasant surprise to your new friends over there. Of course, it could all be bullshit, couldn’t it? Who did Karl Wanting find in Siberia? A haemophiliac peasant with a passing resemblance to Alexei? A lie for him and Paavo Falenius to sell to your family so they could help themselves – and ultimately you – to the Tsar’s money? Or was your father the real thing – the one true Alexei? He must have told you.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘He didn’t, did he? That’s it. That’s your problem. He never said. You were too young when he died. Your grandfather didn’t let you into the family secret until years later. Maybe he waited until Paavo Falenius was dead too. Wanting was long gone, of course. But your grandfather only knew what they wanted him to know – and to believe. It’s not the same as certainty. Rock solid certainty. One way or the other. Well, I can give you that if you want it. If you have the guts to face it.’

‘You can give me that?’ Aksden’s question was an admission of weakness. Eusden had found a way under his defences.

‘Not everything was destroyed in the explosion. Brad kept back one item to sell later to the highest bidder. What else would you expect? The guy was a scumbag.’

‘What item?’

‘Two sets of fingerprints, taken by Clem Hewitson sixteen years apart. The first aboard the imperial yacht off Cowes in August 1909. The second at Aksdenhøj in October 1925. They prove – once and for all – whether your father was the Tsarevich. If he was, the two sets have to match. If not…’

Aksden raised the rifle to his shoulder. ‘Where are they?’

‘One set’s in my pocket. The other’s in a safe at the Grand Marina Hotel in Helsinki, accessible only to me.’

‘Show me what you have.’

Eusden took out the envelope and held it up. ‘You won’t be able to see the insignia from there, Tolmar, so I’ll tell you what it is: the double-headed eagle of the Romanovs. Want a closer look?’

‘Throw your gun away.’

‘OK.’ Eusden tossed the pistol into the snow a few feet from him. ‘Now what?’

‘Don’t move.’

Aksden walked slowly towards him, the rifle held in front of him. The expression on his face was intent and watchful. But something else burned in his gaze. It was more than curiosity, more than desire for certainty. It was obsession.

He stopped a yard or so short and levelled the rifle at Eusden. He looked at the double-headed eagle for a second, then said, ‘Show me what’s in the envelope.’

Eusden fingered up the flap, slid out the sheet of paper and turned it for Aksden to see. There was an intake of breath. Aksden stared at the red-inked fingerprints and the writing beneath them: A.N. 4 viii ’09.

‘A.N.,’ he murmured. ‘Alexei Nikolaievich.’

The rifle was still pointing at Eusden, but Aksden’s attention was fixed on the letter, held out to one side. It was the opportunity Eusden had gambled on getting. It was, in truth, his only chance. He slid forward, swivelled on his hip and lashed out with his uninjured foot. The Dane cried out and fell backwards as his leg was whipped from under him. The rifle went off, but the shot flew harmlessly skywards. As Aksden landed on his back with a thump, Eusden rolled the other way and lunged for the gun. The pain in his ankle counted for nothing now. He grabbed the gun, pushed himself up and turned in the same instant.

But Aksden was already sitting up himself, his eyes blazing, his mouth twisted in fury. He swung the rifle towards Eusden. His finger curled around the trigger. Eusden brought his arm down straight, in line with Aksden’s face. And there was a roar as both weapons fired.

FIFTY

The sky, stared at long enough, seemed to turn from grey to palest blue. And the silence, once the ears had adjusted, gave way to tiny stirrings of wind and the distant cawing of crows somewhere in the forest. Only the gnawing chill of the air above and the snow beneath stirred Eusden from his reverie, which could have lasted several seconds or many minutes – he had no way of knowing. When he tried to sit up, the pain in his right side was sharp and deep. Blood had soaked through his jacket. He could not tell how serious this second wound was. But he was certainly alive. At least, he thought he was.

He propped himself up on his elbows and saw Tolmar Aksden’s body lying a few feet away, the rifle across his chest, one hand still clutching the butt. His expression was a frozen mixture of anger and surprise. There was a sickeningly neat bullet-hole above his left eyebrow and blood on the snow behind his head.

Eusden felt weak, light-headed and curiously contented. Nothing he saw or felt was entirely real to him. He assumed this was some kind of trick being played on him by his brain, a defence mechanism designed to ease the onset of death. It did not dull the pain he was in, but somehow divorced it from him, as if he was watching himself from a place of warmth and safety and disinterested ease. It made the idea of lying back down and continuing to stare at the sky very appealing.

‘Don’t lie down, Coningsby,’ said Marty.

The voice seemed to come from behind him. When he turned his head, there was no one there. Yet he had the sense that someone had been. It was like the quivering of a leaf after a creature has fled into undergrowth: a sign without a sighting.

‘This is all your fault,’ Eusden said aloud. ‘You know that, Marty, don’t you?’ There was no rancour in his tone. It was more in the way of a friendly reproach. ‘Thanks for landing me in it. One last time.’

‘Don’t lie down, Coningsby.’

‘What do you expect me to do?’

‘Deliver a touching eulogy at my funeral.’

‘And for that I need to be there, of course.’

‘It’s customary.’

‘Yeah. So it is.’

Eusden tried to sit up. There was a jab of pain in his side. The bullet had probably smashed a rib. What other damage it might have done he did not care to consider. Certainly standing up did not seem to be an option. He could not phone for help. He was closer to the jammer now than when he had failed to get a signal on the veranda. Theoretically, he could drive to where help might be found if he could make it to the Bentley. He had the key in his pocket. But theory was a long way from practice. Moving presented itself to his mind as a task best deferred, while another part of his mind insisted that deferral would be fatal.

He straightened his arms. It was like plunging into an ice-cold bath. He began to shiver and noticed the sheet of paper with the fingerprints on it lying close to his hand, beside the fallen gun. There they were: the unique traces of a human’s existence on this planet. A.N. Anastasia Nikolaievna. Or Alexei Nikolaievich. ‘Or A.N. bloody Other, Clem, eh?’