“What did happen?”

“They got into an argument. Grodek said that when he went down to the basement, the Tsar started taunting him, saying that the treasure was right there in front of him, that the Romanovs themselves were the treasure. Grodek thought the man had gone out of his mind. When he realized that the Tsar was never going to lead him to the gold, he snapped. He started shooting.”

“Why did he spare Alexei?”

“He knew he had to get rid of the bodies, so that it would look as if the Romanovs had escaped. Grodek wanted a hostage, in case he ran into White Army detachments and his escape route was blocked. Listen, brother, I will tell you everything I know, but right now we are still in danger.”

“I know about the danger,” said Pekkala.

Suddenly, Anton’s eyes widened.

Pekkala swung around just in time to see Alexei’s boot crash into the side of Anton’s head. Anton’s eyes fluttered. His mouth locked open, teeth bared, as the pain drilled through his skull. Then he slumped back, unconscious. Blood dripped from his head, seeping into cracks between the stones.

Alexei kicked Anton again. This time Pekkala held him back.

“What the hell is going on?” Kirov demanded, appearing out of the dusk.

“That is the man who helped to kill my family!” Alexei stabbed a finger at Anton. “He just confessed to it! This is the murderer you have been looking for.”

“Is it true?” Kirov asked Pekkala.

“Grodek killed the Tsar. My brother helped him.”

“But I thought you said Grodek was in prison for life!”

“He was released during the Revolution. I never knew about it until Anton told me.” Pekkala turned to Alexei. “I am now almost certain that Grodek is the one who killed the photographer Katamidze, and Mayakovsky too. He may have let you live that night he killed the others in your family, but if he feels that we are near to catching him, he won’t feel safe again until all of us are dead. Including you, Alexei.”

“If you want me to be safe,” said Alexei, “then you can start by killing him.” He gestured at Anton, sprawled and bleeding on the cobblestones.

“No,” replied Pekkala. “This is not the time for vengeance.”

“The vengeance would be yours as well,” Alexei urged. “He has been working against you all along. If you won’t kill him, then let me do it. And afterwards you can take me to my father’s gold. Then I will gladly go with you to Moscow. Otherwise, I will take my chances here.”

Pekkala thought back to the boy he had once known, his gentle nature torn away, and of the rage which had taken its place. “What happened to you, Alexei?”

“What’s happened is that you betrayed me, Pekkala! You are no better than your brother. My family might still be alive if it wasn’t for you.”

Pekkala felt as if a hand was closing on his throat. “Whatever you choose to believe about me, I came here to find you and to help you if I could. We are all victims of the Revolution. Some of us have suffered from it, and others have suffered for it, but in one way or another all of us have suffered. No amount of gold will ever change that.”

A strange look came over Alexei’s face.

It was a moment before Pekkala understood what it was. He had pitied the Tsarevich long before the fortunes of his family had turned. But now, Pekkala realized, Alexei was pitying him.

Alexei stared down at Anton, who lay spread-eagled in a puddle of his own diluted blood. Then he pushed past Kirov and stormed inside the house.

Pekkala sat down heavily upon the ground, as if his legs had collapsed underneath him.

Kirov knelt down beside Anton. “We need to get him to a doctor,” he said.

45

WHILE KIROV STAYED BEHIND TO GUARD ALEXEI, PEKKALA LIFTED Anton into the backseat of the Emka and drove to the police station. Kropotkin climbed in and the three traveled to the clinic of a man named Bulygin, who was the only doctor in town.

On the way, Pekkala told Kropotkin that Alexei was now at the Ipatiev house.

“Thank God,” Kropotkin kept repeating.

Pekkala also explained about Grodek and requested that Kropotkin put in a call to the Bureau of Special Operations, requesting an armed escort for the Tsarevich’s return to Moscow. “In the meantime,” said Pekkala, “I’ll need as many of your police as you can spare to stand guard outside the house.”

“I’ll see to it as soon as we have dropped off your brother at Bulygin’s.”

“No one is to know the Tsarevich is inside, not even the policemen guarding the house.” If news got out about Alexei, Pekkala knew that the Ipatiev place would be mobbed. Even those who wished him well would pose a threat. He remembered the disaster which had taken place at the Khodynka field in Moscow on the day of the Tsar’s coronation in 1896. Crowds which had gathered to witness the occasion rushed towards tables of food which had been provided for them. Hundreds of people lost their lives in the stampede. Under the circumstances, especially with a bomb maker like Grodek still at large, the situation could be even worse.

Bulygin was a bald man with an emotionless face and a small mouth which barely moved when he spoke. Anton was still unconscious when Bulygin laid him out on an operating table and shone a light into each of his eyes. “He has a concussion, but I see nothing life-threatening. Let me keep him here for observation. He should be conscious again in a matter of hours, but if his condition changes for the worse, I will let you know immediately.”

Returning to the Ipatiev house, Pekkala dropped Kropotkin off at the police station.

“I have seen your brother take a lot of beatings,” Kropotkin told him. “One more won’t do him any harm. I’ll keep an eye out for this man Grodek. In the meantime, let me know if you need any more help.”

Arriving at the Ipatiev house, Pekkala found Kirov sitting at the kitchen table. He was staring at Pekkala’s copy of the Kalevala.

“How is your brother?” asked Kirov.

“He should be fine. Where is Alexei?”

Kirov jerked his head towards the stairs. “Up on the second floor. Just sitting there. He isn’t very talkative.”

“When did you start reading Finnish?”

“I’m just looking at the illustrations.”

“Troops are on their way from Moscow. I’ll go and explain things to Alexei.”

“You need a new copy of this book,” Kirov called to Pekkala as he walked out of the room.

“What’s wrong with that one?”

“It’s full of holes.”

Pekkala grunted and walked on.

He was halfway up the stairs when he stopped. Then he turned and ran back downstairs. “What do you mean it’s full of holes?”

Kirov held up a page. Light through the kitchen window glinted through tiny puncture marks scattered across the page. “See?”

“Give me the book.” Trembling, Pekkala held out his hand.

Kirov slapped it shut and handed it over. “Your language has too many vowels,” he complained.

Pekkala took a lantern from the kitchen shelf and ran down to the basement. There, in the darkness at the bottom of the stairs, he lit the lamp and set it down before him.

The nun had told him about the Tsar’s method for smuggling messages out past the guards, using a pin to mark out letters on the pages. Now Pekkala thought back to that day at his cottage, when the Tsar had returned the book. At the time, he had thought the Tsar was just rambling, but now, as he held up the pages one by one, he could see tiny pinholes marked beneath different letters. Pekkala took out his notebook and began to assemble the words.

It took only a few minutes for him to decipher the message. When he had finished, he ran back up the stairs, taking the book and lantern with him. He dashed through the hall and up to the second floor.

Alexei was sitting in a chair by the window in an otherwise empty room.