“Inspector, the inmates in this place do not need a reason for killing. That’s why they are in Vodovenko. And if you are telling me he was strangled, why go to the trouble of pouring lye down his throat?”

“To make it look like the work of a madman,” Pekkala answered, “so that no one would suspect a person from outside the asylum.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler to believe that it actually was someone in here?”

Pekkala thought of Occam’s razor. “It might be simpler, but it wouldn’t be the truth. He had something to tell us, and somebody got to him first.”

Pekkala went out into the corridor.

The attendant followed him. He caught Pekkala’s sleeve. “Why would someone from outside break into this place and kill a wretch like Katamidze?”

“He knew a name.”

“Just a name? He died for that?”

“He would not be the first,” said Pekkala. Then he started walking for the door.

On Pekkala’s seventy-fifth day in the Butyrka prison, two guards strapped him to a plank. They tilted him so that his feet were above the level of his head and threw a wet towel over his face. Then one of the guards poured water onto the towel until he could not breathe and his mind became convinced that he was drowning.

He did not know how long this went on.

He had fallen into a place inside his mind which he had not known existed until that moment. With everything they had done to him until then, his conscious mind had balanced the information they were looking for against the pain they were causing him. His task became to keep the scales from tipping. But as he drowned beneath the towel, the scales disappeared completely and something unconscious took over. A terrible blackness, tinged with dusty red, spread out like a cloud through his brain and he no longer knew who he was, or what he cared about. Nothing mattered except staying alive.

When they removed the towel from his face, he spoke the name they had been asking. He had not intended to say it. The name almost seemed to speak itself.

Pekkala was returned to his cell immediately.

When the cell door closed, Pekkala wept. He held his hand over his mouth to stop the noise. Despair opened like a chasm before him. Tears ran over his knuckles. When the crying stopped, he realized he was going to die.

The following day, when the guards arrived, he allowed himself to be guided past the corridor of chimney cells until they reached an empty room. The floor was wet. The space could not have been more than a few yards wide and long, but it seemed so vast after living in the chimney that Pekkala’s first reaction was to press himself up against the wall, as if he had been led to the edge of a cliff.

The guard handed Pekkala a piece of bread, then shut the door.

Pekkala took a bite of the bread and spat it out again. The bread gets worse and worse, he thought.

Then water started spraying out of a hole in the wall.

Pekkala screamed, dropped to the floor, and curled up in a ball.

The water kept spraying.

It was warm.

After a while, he raised his head. All he could see was the water spraying down on him. The piece of bread bubbled in his hand, and then he realized it was soap. He rubbed it all over his face.

Water sluiced over his body and ran away black with dirt, down a hole in the corner of the room. Pekkala climbed to his knees and stayed under the stream of water, chin against his chest, hands resting on his thighs. The falling water thundered in his ears.

Eventually, there was a squeaking sound and the water shut off.

Dressed in his soaked pajamas, Pekkala stumbled into the hall. In spite of the shower, dried blood crusted around his nostrils. Its metallic taste lingered in the back of his mouth.

“Hands behind your back,” the guard told him.

“Step to the left, step to the right,” said Pekkala.

“Shut up,” said the guard.

Pekkala and the two guards walked down a corridor until they came to a heavy iron door studded with rivets. The door was opened. A smell of damp air wafted into Pekkala’s face. Then the two guards hauled him down a long spiral staircase lit by bulbs in metal cages.

The basement, thought Pekkala. They are taking me down to the basement. Now they are going to shoot me. He felt glad that he would not have to go back into the chimney. His soul had all but vanished now. His body felt like a small and leaky boat, almost sunk beneath the waves.

35

“ARE YOU SURE?” KIROV ASKED, AS HE STEERED THE EMKA THROUGH the gates of Vodovenko.

“They are calling it a suicide,” said Pekkala. “But that’s not what it was.”

“We should get out of Sverdlovsk,” Anton warned. “We should leave now. We shouldn’t even go back to collect our stuff.”

“No,” replied Pekkala. “We will proceed with the investigation. We are getting closer now. The killer can’t be far away.”

“But shouldn’t we at least find a more secure location than the Ipatiev house?” asked Kirov.

“We need him to think we are vulnerable,” Pekkala answered. “If whoever killed the Romanovs knows we are closing in on him, then he knows he can no longer hide. It will be only a matter of time before he comes looking for us.”

36

IT WAS MORNING.

Pekkala sat by the water pump on an upturned bucket, the Webley resting by his foot. A hand-sized mirror, made of polished steel, was propped in the crook of the pump handle. Pekkala was shaving, a dingy froth of soap upon his face and the blade rustling faintly as it carved across the contours of his chin.

He’d slept only a couple of hours. After their return from Vodovenko, the three men had agreed to stand watch in turns throughout the night and every night from then on until the investigation was complete.

Suddenly, a face peeked around the corner of the courtyard wall.

Pekkala reached for the gun.

The face ducked out of sight. “It’s only me!” called a voice from behind the wall. “Your old friend, Mayakovsky.”

Pekkala set the gun back down. “What do you want?” he asked.

Cautiously, Mayakovsky stepped back into the courtyard. In his arms, the old man carried a basket made from woven bulrush stalks. “I bring gifts! These are some things which Kirov has requested.” Mayakovsky looked at the gun. “You are a little jumpy today, Inspector Pekkala.”

“I have reason to be jumpy.”

“Shaving, I see. Yes. Good for the nerves. Yes.” Mayakovsky gave a nervous laugh. “Occam would be pleased.”

“What?” asked Pekkala.

“Occam’s razor.” He pointed at the blade in Pekkala’s hand. “The simplest explanation that fits the facts…”

“… is usually right,” said Pekkala. He wondered where Mayakovsky had bartered for that piece of knowledge. “What brings you here?”

“Ah, well, you might say it is Occam who brings me here, Inspector Pekkala.”

Pekkala scraped the razor down the length of his throat, then whipped the soap off the blade and pressed the cutting edge to his skin.

Mayakovsky placed the basket on the doorstep and sat down beside it. “My father was a handyman for the Ipatiev family. I used to wait here for him when I was a child, as he finished up his work for the day. I swore that someday I would buy this place. In the end, of course, the house could not be bought. And who would have wanted it anyway, after the things that happened here?”

“The house you have seems big enough,” said Pekkala.

“Oh, yes!” answered Mayakovsky. “I have a different bedroom for every day of the week. But it is not this house.” He patted the stone on which he sat. “Not the one I swore I would own.”

“Then the only thing driving you is greed.”

“Do you think I would have been happier if I had bought the Ipatiev house?”

“No. Greed does not rest until it has been satisfied, and greed is never satisfied.”