As Kirov left to get his gun, Pekkala caught sight of the grenade, lying by the storage shed. As he neared it, he could see what appeared to be a small white button lying beside it. Looking closely, he realized that the button was in fact a ball, the size of a small marble, with a hole drilled into the middle. A string had been threaded through the ball. The other end disappeared into the hollow handle of the grenade. This would have been covered with a metal screw cap until the grenade was to be used. The porcelain ball and the string were stored inside the stick and had to be pulled in order to ignite the fuse. Whoever threw the grenade had unscrewed the cap but forgot to pull the cord.

“Maybe it was just a warning,” said Kirov, when Pekkala had explained why the grenade did not go off.

Pekkala weighed the stick grenade in his hand, slapping the metal detonator can gently into his palm. He didn’t reply.

While Kirov stood watch at the front of the house, Pekkala remained in the kitchen. In the darkness, he sat with the Webley and the grenade laid out in front of him. Tiny flecks of glass lay scattered across the tabletop. Through the broken window, he stared out into the night until his eyes ached and shadows danced about like people taunting him.

Anton showed up at dawn. He went straight to the pump in the courtyard. Its gracefully curved handle wore an old coat of red paint the same vivid color as a holly berry. Rusted iron showed where the paint had been rubbed away. As Anton worked the lever, a bird-like shriek of grinding metal filled the air.

A moment later, a shapeless explosion of silver emerged from the pump head and Anton stuck his face under the stream. When he raised his head, a plume of silver arced over his shoulder. He smoothed his hair back with both hands, eyes closed, mouth open, droplets falling from his chin.

In that moment, Pekkala realized he had seen that pump before.

It was in a picture, one which Pekkala had discovered in an issue of Pravda that was left with his winter’s rations at the trailhead in Krasnagolyana. The Tsar and his son, Alexei, were cutting wood with a large two-man saw. Each had hold of one end. A pile of wood stood off to one side. The pump was in the background. The photograph had been taken during the Tsar’s captivity in this place. The Tsar wore a plain service tunic, much like his captors would have worn. Alexei wore a heavy coat and fur hat, bundled up against a chill his father did not seem to feel. By the time Pekkala saw that picture, the paper was so out of date that the Tsar had been dead more than a year.

Pekkala thought about the face Kirov had glimpsed in the window. Maybe this place is haunted after all, he thought.

Anton barged into the kitchen. His eyes were bloodshot, the whites turned sickly yellow. One of his cheeks was bruised purple, the color almost black where his cheekbone nudged against the skin.

“What happened to you?” Pekkala asked him.

“Let’s just say that Mayakovsky isn’t the only one in this town who remembers me.”

“We had another visitor last night.” Pekkala set the grenade on the table.

Anton whistled quietly. He walked over and peered at it. “A dud?”

“They didn’t pull the cord.”

“That’s not something a person does by mistake.”

“Then it’s a warning,” said Pekkala, “and next time we won’t be so lucky.”

“I have to present my papers at the police station before you can officially begin your investigation,” Anton told him. “You can come along and see if they know anything.”

25

ALEXANDER KROPOTKIN, THE SVERDLOVSK POLICE CHIEF, WAS A SQUAT, broad-shouldered man with a thick head of blond hair which he combed straight down over his forehead.

While Pekkala and Anton stood waiting, Kropotkin sat behind his desk, leafing through the papers which Anton had presented to him. He got to the last page, squinted at the signature, then tossed the papers on the desk. “Why do you bother?” he asked.

“Bother with what?” Anton asked.

Kropotkin tapped the orders with a stubby index finger. “Comrade Stalin signed these orders. You can do whatever the hell you want. You don’t need my permission.”

“It is a courtesy,” said Anton.

Kropotkin sat forward, resting his forearms on the desk. He stared at Pekkala. “The Emerald Eye. I heard you were dead.”

“You are not the only one who heard that.”

“I also heard that you could not be bought, but here you are working for them.” He jerked his chin towards Anton.

“I have not been bought,” Pekkala told him.

“Bribed, then. Or threatened. It doesn’t matter. One way or another, you are working for them now.”

The words cut into him, but Pekkala chose not to reply.

Kropotkin turned his attention to Anton. “You look familiar. You were one of the Cheka guards, weren’t you?”

“Perhaps,” Anton replied.

“There is no perhaps. I don’t forget faces, and I saw you at the tavern the whole time you were here. How many times did I see Cheka men come to fetch you when you were too drunk to walk? And judging from your face, either you are perpetually bruised or you didn’t waste any time going back to your old habits. Now you come here to my office and talk to me about courtesy? You gentlemen can go to hell. How is that for courtesy?”

“What’s got you all steamed up?” demanded Anton.

“You want to know? Fine, I’ll tell you. This was a nice, quiet place until your lot brought the Romanovs here. Since then, nothing’s ever been the same. You know what people think of when you say the word ‘ Sverdlovsk ’?” He made a gun with his thumb and index finger and set it against his temple. “Death. Execution. Murder. Take your pick. None of it’s good. And every time things start to settle down, one of you people drops in and stirs things up again. Nobody wants you here, but I can’t kick you out.” He jerked his chin towards the door. “So just do your work and then leave us alone.”

Pekkala took the grenade from the deep pocket inside his coat and set it on the desk.

Kropotkin stared at it. “What’s that? A gift?”

“Someone pitched it through our window last night,” Pekkala answered, “but forgot to pull the pin.”

“It’s German,” added Anton.

Kropotkin picked up the grenade. “Actually, it’s Austrian. The German stick grenades had belt clips on the cylinder here.” He tapped at the gray soup can which contained the explosives. “The Austrian ones didn’t.”

“You were in the war?” Pekkala asked.

“Yes,” replied Kropotkin, “and you learn these things when enough of them get thrown at you.”

“We were hoping you might know where it came from.”

“The Whites used these,” replied Kropotkin. “Most of the men who attacked Sverdlovsk had been in the Austrian Army before they came over to our side. Many of them were still using Austrian equipment.”

“You think it might be someone who was with the Whites?” asked Pekkala.

Kropotkin shook his head. “The man who threw this was not with the Whites.”

“So you know who might have thrown this?”

Kropotkin’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I know exactly who threw this at you. There’s only one man insane enough to throw one of these at you who is also stupid enough not to have pulled the cord when he threw it. His name is Nekrasov. He was one of the militiamen who guarded the Romanovs before the Cheka came in and threw him out. I expect he’s still holding a grudge. As soon as the lights went on again in the Ipatiev house, he must have guessed that you people were back.”

“But why would he bother to throw it?”

“Best ask him that yourselves.” Kropotkin snatched up a pencil, scrawled an address on a notepad, tore off the sheet, and held it out. “This is where you’ll find him.”

Anton removed the paper from his hand.

“Don’t take it the wrong way,” laughed Kropotkin. “He tries to kill everybody. He just stinks at it. If Nekrasov hasn’t thrown at least one bomb at you by the time you leave, you might as well have stayed at home.”