“Yes, Excellency.”

Oblivious to the real reason for Pekkala’s visit, Alexei was still smiling at him.

Pekkala winked

Alexei winked back.

Pekkala backed up three paces, turned, and headed for the door

“Pekkala!” the Tsar called.

Pekkala stopped and turned again and waited.

“Don’t ever change,” said the Tsar.

“Ever!” shouted Alexei.

When Pekkala left the Tsar’s study, he closed the door behind him. Just as he was doing this, he heard Alexei’s voice.

“Why does Pekkala never smile, Papa?”

Pekkala paused. He did not mean to eavesdrop, but the question had caught him by surprise. He did not think of himself as a man who never smiled.

“Pekkala is a serious man,” he heard the Tsar reply. “He views the world with gravity. He does not have time for the games which you and I enjoy.”

“Is he unhappy?” asked Alexei.

“No, I don’t think so. He just keeps to himself how he feels.”

“Why did you choose him to be your special investigator? Why not just choose another detective in the Okhrana or the Gendarmerie?”

Pekkala glanced up and down the empty corridor. Laughter came from distant rooms. He knew he should move on, but the question Alexei had asked was one he’d often asked himself, and it seemed to him that if he did not learn the answer now, he never would. So he stayed, barely breathing, straining to hear their voices through the thick slab of the door.

“A man like Pekkala,” said the Tsar, “does not realize his own potential. I knew that the first time I set eyes on him. You see, Alexei, it is necessary for people in our walk of life to understand with a single glimpse the character of those we meet. We have to know whether to trust someone or to keep them at arm’s length. What a person does matters more than what they say. I saw Pekkala refusing to jump his horse over a barbed-wire fence which some sadist of a drill instructor had constructed, and I watched how he behaved when the sergeant was dressing him down. And you know, he did not show a trace of fear. If I had not been there to witness it, that sergeant would have had Pekkala expelled from the ranks for insubordination. And it wouldn’t have mattered to Pekkala.”

“But why not?” asked the boy. “If he didn’t want to be in the regiment…”

“Oh, but he did, only not on those terms. Most of those cadets would simply have sacrificed the horse and done as they were told.”

“But isn’t it important,” asked Alexei, “to be obedient no matter what?”

“Sometimes, yes, but not for what I had in mind.”

“You mean, you chose him because you thought he might not do as he was told?”

“What I needed, Alexei, was a man who could not be threatened or beaten or corrupted into surrendering his sense of what was right or wrong. And that will never happen to a person like Pekkala.”

“But why not?”

“Because it would not occur to him. Men like that, Alexei, are fewer than one in a million. When you find them, you will know them at first sight.”

“Why would he choose to do the job he does? Do you think he enjoys such a life?”

“It is not a question of enjoying it or not. He is built for it, like a greyhound is built for running. He does the thing he was put on this earth to do, because he knows that it matters.”

As he listened to the Tsar, Pekkala was reminded of his father, doing the job which no one else would do. There had been times in the past months when Pekkala felt overwhelmed by the extraordinary coincidences which had led to him working for the Tsar. Now, hearing those words, what had once seemed the result of impossible randomness appeared to him almost inevitable.

“Did you really need someone like him?” asked Alexei.

“It is an unfortunate truth that the Okhrana is filled with spies. So is the Gendarmerie. The two branches are spying on each other. We send spies into the ranks of the terrorists. We even create spy rings which appear to be working against us, but are in fact controlled by the government. There is no end to the deception. When people reach a point where they do not expect to be ruled by leaders they can trust, that country is headed for ruin. With this going on, Alexei, what the people needed was one person they knew they could depend on.”

“Even more than you, Papa?”

“I hope not,” replied the Tsar, “but the answer is yes, all the same.”

14

“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” KIROV ’S VOICE RICOCHETED DOWN THE MINE shaft.

Looking up, Pekkala glimpsed the silhouettes of Anton and Kirov, looking like paper cutouts as they leaned over the hole.

“I’m fine,” he stammered.

“Is it who we thought?” asked Anton.

“Yes, but one of them is gone.” Until now Pekkala had considered only three possibilities-one: that there would be no bodies; two: that bodies would be there but they would not be the Romanovs; and three: that the Romanovs would indeed be found dead at the bottom of that mine shaft. Pekkala had not factored in the chance that one of the Romanovs would be missing.

“Gone?” shouted Kirov. “Who?”

“Alexei,” answered Pekkala.

The flashlight was almost extinguished now, reduced to a coppery haze which barely reached beyond the bubble lens. The darkness was crowding in around him.

“Are you sure?” As it traveled down the mine shaft, Anton’s voice was amplified as if through a megaphone.

Pekkala glanced back to where the tunnel entrances had been sealed off. “Yes. Quite sure.” Even if Alexei had survived the fall, he would not have been able to make his way into the tunnels, and with his hemophilia the young man would certainly have died of his injuries.

Up at the top of the shaft, the two men held a whispered conversation. Their words grew harsh, the sound like a hissing of snakes.

“We’re bringing you up,” shouted Anton.

A moment later, the Emka’s engine growled into life.

“Take hold of the rope,” called Anton. “ Kirov will back up slowly. We’ll pull you up.”

Light flickered on the walls, like ghosts emerging from the rock.

He gripped the rope.

“Ready?” asked Anton.

“Yes,” replied Pekkala.

The engine revved and Pekkala felt himself lifted slowly towards the surface. As he rose, he glanced down at the bodies, laid out side by side. The mouths gaped wide, as if in some terrible and silent chorus.

Keeping a firm grip on the rope, Pekkala walked his way up the sheer walls of the mine shaft. Finally, when he was almost at the top, Anton waved to Kirov and the car came to a halt. Anton reached down. “Take hold,” he commanded.

Pekkala hesitated.

“If I’d wanted to kill you,” said Anton, “I would have done it before now.”

Pekkala released one hand from the rope and clasped his brother’s forearm.

Anton hauled him to the surface.

While Kirov coiled the rope, Pekkala walked over to the car and leaned against the hood, arms folded, lost in thought.

Anton offered him his flask of Samahonka.

Pekkala shook his head. “You realize that there are two investigations now. One to find who killed the Romanovs and one to find the prince. He might still be alive.”

Anton shrugged and took a drink himself. “Anything’s possible,” he muttered.

“I will help you to find Alexei’s body,” continued Pekkala, “but if it turns out he’s alive, you’ll have to find someone else to track him down.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I will not deliver Alexei to you so you can assassinate him or throw him in prison for the rest of his life.”

“I have something to tell you.” Anton dropped the flask back in his pocket. “It might help you change your mind.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Listen,” said Anton, “don’t forget we have been chasing rumors for years now that some of the Romanovs might have survived. We were well aware that the rumors might actually be true. It is Comrade Stalin’s intention to offer amnesty to any of the Tsar’s immediate family who can be found alive.”