The sound came again, and now he glimpsed a shape in the room’s far corner. It was a person, huddled and facing the wall.

Anton stood beside Pekkala. His eyes were shining in the dark.

Pekkala nodded and the two brothers rushed across the room, feet kicking up the debris.

The figure turned. It was a man, on his knees. His crying rose to a terrible wail.

“Shoot him!” shouted Anton.

“No! Please, no!” The man cowered at Pekkala’s feet.

Anton pressed the gun against his head.

Pekkala knocked it aside and grabbed the stranger by the collar of his coat. “The lantern!” he shouted to Kirov.

A match flared. A moment later, the soft glow of the lantern spread across the walls.

Pekkala yanked the man off his knees, forcing him onto his back.

The lantern swung in Kirov ’s grip. Shadows pitched and rolled across the bullet-spattered walls.

The man held his clawed hands over his face, as if the light would burn away his skin.

“Who are you?” demanded Pekkala.

“Move your damn hands!” shouted Kirov.

Slowly, his fingers slid away. The man’s eyes were tightly shut, his face unnaturally pale in the lamplight. He had a broad forehead and a solid chin. A dark mustache and a close-cropped beard covered the lower part of his face.

Pekkala pushed Kirov ’s arm aside, so that the lantern was no longer in the man’s face.

At last, the man’s eyes flickered open. “Pekkala,” he murmured.

“My God,” whispered Pekkala. “It’s Alexei.”

40

“HOW CAN YOU BE SURE?” HISSED KIROV.

He had walked with Pekkala out into the courtyard, while the man remained behind, guarded by Anton.

“It’s him,” Pekkala said. “I know.”

Kirov took Pekkala by the arm and shook him. “The last time you saw Alexei was more than ten years ago. I’m asking you again-how can you be sure?”

“I spent years with the Romanovs. That’s why the Bureau of Special Operations brought me here, so I could identify them whether they were alive or dead. And I’m telling you that is Alexei. He has his father’s chin, his father’s forehead. Even if you’ve only seen pictures of the family, there’s no mistaking that he is a Romanov!”

Reluctantly, Kirov released his grip. “I think it’s the same person I saw looking in the window that night.”

“And you told me he looked like the Tsar.”

“All right,” Kirov said, “but even if it is Alexei, what the hell is he doing here?”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to find out.”

Kirov nodded, satisfied. “If we agree, then I say we leave as soon as possible. Until we can get him to Moscow, none of us are safe in this house.”

“Anton will remain on watch,” said Pekkala. “He almost opened fire down there in the basement. I don’t want him in the room while we are questioning Alexei.”

41

THEY BROUGHT ALEXEI INTO THE KITCHEN. ALEXEI SAT ON ONE SIDE of the table, Kirov and Pekkala on the other.

Anton stood outside in the courtyard. He seemed relieved not to be part of the interrogation. After what happened to Mayakovsky, all Anton seemed to care about was getting out of town.

It was the middle of the night.

A lantern rested on the table. Its apricot-colored flame burned steadily, warming the room.

Wind moaned around the piece of cardboard which had been taped over the broken kitchen window.

Alexei looked sickly and disheveled. He had aged beyond his years. His shoulders hunched and he scratched nervously at his arms as he spoke. “They told me you were gone, Pekkala, but I never believed it. When I heard you had turned up in Sverdlovsk, I had to see for myself if it was true.”

“You heard?” asked Kirov. “Who told you?”

“And who are you to speak to me that way?” replied Alexei, flaring.

“I am Commissar Kirov, and as soon as I am satisfied that you are who you say you are, we can begin a civil conversation. Until then, you can answer the questions.”

“There are still people in this town who consider the Romanovs their friends,” said Alexei.

Kropotkin, thought Pekkala. The police chief must have known all along where Alexei was hiding.

“Excellency-” began Pekkala.

“Don’t call him that,” snapped Kirov. It was the first time he had raised his voice to Pekkala.

“He’s right,” said Alexei. “Just call me by my name.” With the heel of his palm, he wiped the tears out of his eyes.

“We found your parents, Alexei,” Pekkala told him, his face haggard and serious. “Your sisters, too. As you probably know by now, you are the only one who survived.”

Alexei nodded. “That is what I was told.”

“By whom?” demanded Kirov.

“Let him talk!” ordered Pekkala.

“By the people who looked after me,” Alexei told them.

“Start at the beginning,” Pekkala urged him gently. “What happened on the night you were taken from this house?”

“We were down in the basement,” said Alexei. “A man had come to take a photograph of us. We were used to it. Many had been taken since our confinement in Tsarskoye Selo and after that in Tobolsk. He was just about to take his photo when a man in an army uniform burst into the room and started shooting.”

“Did you know him?” asked Pekkala.

“No,” replied Alexei. “The guards were always changing, and there had been so many since our family was placed under arrest. The photographer had set up two bright lights. They were shining in our faces. I could barely see the man and there was only a second before he began shooting. After that, the room filled with smoke. My father shouted. I could hear my sisters screaming. I must have fainted. The next thing I remember, the man was carrying me up the stairs. I struggled, but he gripped me so tightly that I could barely move. He carried me out into the courtyard and made me climb into the front seat of a truck. He said that if I tried to get away I would end up like the rest. I was too terrified to disobey. Several times he went back into the house, and each time he came out he was carrying one of my family. I could see the way their heads hung down, the way their arms were dangling. I knew they were dead. Then he loaded them into the truck.”

“What happened after that?”

“He climbed in behind the wheel and we drove away.”

“In which direction?”

“I don’t know where we went. It was the first time I had been outside that house in many weeks. There was thick forest on either side of the road and it was very dark. We stopped outside a house. The people inside were waiting. They came around to my side of the truck. The driver told me to get out and as soon as my feet touched the ground, the truck drove away into the night. I never saw the man again. I never knew his name.”

Pekkala sat back in his chair. The muscles in his neck, which had bunched like a fist beneath his skin, slowly began to unclench. He now felt sure this was indeed Alexei Romanov. In spite of the years which had passed since he’d last seen the prince, there was no mistaking the physical resemblance. It was as if the Tsar’s own face shimmered out of Alexei, through his cheeks, through his chin, through his eyes.

But Kirov was not yet convinced. “And these people who looked after you?” he insisted. “Who were they?”

Alexei’s words came quickly now. He seemed anxious to explain all he could. “It was an elderly couple. The man’s name was Semyon and the old woman was Trina. I never knew their last names. All they would say was that they were friends and that my life had been spared because I was innocent. They fed me and clothed me. I was ill. I stayed with them for many months.”

It did not surprise Pekkala to hear this. In the eyes of the Russian people, Alexei had never shared the guilt heaped on his parents. The aloofness of the sisters and of their mother had only worked against them in the judgment of public opinion. Even at the height of the Revolution, with Lenin calling for rivers of blood to be spilled, Alexei had been spared the brunt of his rage. Pekkala had always believed that if mercy had been shown to anyone, it would have been towards Alexei.