“Of course,” said Anton. “What do you take me for?”

Pekkala didn’t answer. He was staring at the frying pan. “Is there any left?” he asked.

“A bit.” Anton handed him the pan.

Pekkala sat down beside his brother on the stone step. There was no chicken left, but by working the wooden spoon around the edges of the pan, he gathered up some of the sauce and a single jade green gooseberry which his brother had been too full to eat. The still-warm, buttery sauce, flecked with chopped parsley and thickened with fried bread crumbs, crunched between his teeth. He tasted the sweetness of onion and the earthiness of simmered carrots. Then he let the gooseberry rest on his tongue, and slowly pressed it against the roof of his mouth until the firm round edges gave way, almost like a sigh, spilling warm, sharp-tasting juice into his mouth. Saliva welled up from under his tongue, and he sighed, recalling winters in his cabin in the Krasnagolyana forest when his only food for days on end had been boiled potatoes and salt. He remembered the silence of those nights, a stillness so complete that he could hear the faint hiss which he could only detect when there were no other noises. Often, in the forest, he had heard it: there were times in the winter months when it seemed almost deafening to him. When he was a child, his father had explained that it was the noise of his blood moving through his body. That silence, more than any barbed-wire fence, had been his prison in Siberia. Even though Pekkala’s body had left that prison behind, his mind had remained trapped inside it. Only now, as these tastes formed unfamiliar arcs across his senses, did he slowly feel himself emerging from his years as a convict.

Following his arrest at the Vainikkala railway station, Pekkala was transported to the Butyrka prison in Petrograd. The Webley and his copy of the Kalevala were handed over to the authorities. He was told to sign a huge book containing thousands of pages. The book had a steel plate covering everything except the space for him to write his name. From there, guards brought him to a room where he was made to strip and his clothes were taken away.

Alone, Pekkala paced nervously around the small room. The walls were painted brown up to chest height. Above that, to the high ceiling, everything was white. The light in the room came from a single bulb above the door, covered with a wire cage. The room contained no bed or chair or any other furniture, so when Pekkala grew tired of pacing, he sat on the floor with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his bare chest. Every few minutes, a peephole in the door scraped open and Pekkala saw a pair of eyes looking in at him.

It was while he waited naked in the cell that prison guards, searching his clothes, discovered the emerald eye beneath the lapel of his coat.

Over the weeks that followed, in those few times when his head was clear enough to think straight, Pekkala would ask himself why he had not thrown away the badge which revealed his identity. Perhaps it was just vanity. Perhaps he imagined he would one day return to serve in his former capacity. Perhaps it was because the badge had become a part of him and he could no more be separated from it than he could be parted from his liver or his kidneys or his heart. But there was another possibility for why he had held on to the badge, and it was that part of him had not wanted to escape. Part of him knew his fate had become so entwined with that of the Tsar that even his freedom could not sever the bond.

As soon as the Butyrka prison staff realized they had captured the Emerald Eye, Pekkala was separated from the other prisoners and brought to a place known as the Chimney.

They led him to the cell and shoved him inside. Pekkala tumbled down one step into a space the size of a small closet. The door clicked shut. He tried to stand, but the ceiling was too low. Black-painted walls sloped above him, lower at the back and curving to a point just above the door. The space was so narrow that he could not lie down, nor could he stand except hunched over. A bright bulb glared down from a wire mesh cage, so close to his face that he could feel its heat. A wave of claustrophobia washed over him. His jaw locked open and he gagged.

After only a few minutes, he could not take it anymore and banged on the door, asking to be released.

The peephole slid back. “The prisoner must be silent,” said a voice.

“Please,” Pekkala said. “I can’t breathe in here.”

The peephole clanged shut again.

Before long, his back spasmed from bending over. He let himself slide down the wall, pressing his knees against the door. This helped for a few minutes, but then his knees cramped. He soon discovered that there was no position in which he could get comfortable. There was no air. Heat from the lightbulb pulsed against the back of his head and sweat poured down his face.

Pekkala fully expected to die. Before that, he knew, he would be tortured. Having reached this inevitable conclusion, he was filled with a curious sensation of lightness, as if his spirit had already begun a slow migration from his body.

He was ready for it to begin.

28

THE THREE MEN SPREAD OUT THROUGH THE TOWN.

Kirov took the houses on the main street. He made sure he had pages in his notebook. He sharpened two pencils. He combed his hair and even brushed his teeth.

Anton caught up with him as he was shaving, using the mirror of the Emka so that he could see what he was doing.

“Where are you going?” asked Kirov.

“To the tavern,” replied Anton. “That’s where people tell their secrets. Why dig them out of their houses when they can come to me there?”

Pekkala decided to follow up on Nekrasov’s story about the militia stealing from the baskets of food delivered by the sisters of the Sverdlovsk convent. He wondered if the nuns had actually seen the Romanovs during their captivity. Perhaps they’d even spoken to the family. If that was true, they would have been the only people outside the militia or the Cheka to do so.

His route to the convent took him around the edge of town. Determined to question as many people as he could along the way, he stopped at several houses. No one came to the door. The owners were home. They simply refused to answer. He could see one old couple, sitting in chairs in a darkened room, blinking at each other while the sound of his fist on their door echoed about the house. The old couple did not move. Their brittle fingers, draped over the armrests of their chairs, hung down like pale creeper vines.

Finally, a door opened.

A wiry man, his pocked face covered by an unkempt white beard, asked Pekkala if he’d come to buy some blood.

“Blood?” asked Pekkala.

“From the pig,” replied the man.

Now Pekkala could hear a gurgling squeal, coming from somewhere behind the house. It rose and fell like breathing.

“You have to cut their throats,” the man explained. “They have to bleed to death or the meat doesn’t taste right. Sometimes it takes a while. I drain the blood into buckets. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Pekkala explained why he was there.

The man didn’t seem surprised. “I knew you’d come looking for the truth sooner or later.”

“What truth is that?”

“That the Romanovs weren’t all killed the way the papers said they were. I saw one of them the night after they were supposed to have been executed.”

“Who did you see?” Pekkala felt a tightness in his chest, hoping this might lead him to Alexei.

“One of the daughters,” the man answered.

Pekkala felt his heart sink. Like Mayakovsky, this old man had convinced himself of something Pekkala knew to be false. He could not understand it.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” asked the man.