“How do you know all this?” demanded Pekkala. “How do you know that this is not just another fantasy to throw the world off the track?”

“Because I was there!” replied Anton, his voice exasperated, as if this was one secret he had hoped to keep. “I had joined the Internal Police two years before.”

The Cheka, thought Pekkala. Formed at the outset of the Revolution under the command of a Polish assassin named Felix Dzerzhinsky, the Cheka quickly became known as a death squad, responsible for murders, torture, and disappearances. Since then, like Lenin and Stalin themselves, the Cheka had changed its name, first to the GPU, then OGPU, but its bloody purpose had remained the same. Many of the Cheka’s original members had themselves been swallowed up in the subterranean chambers where the torturers did their work.

“Two months before the Romanovs vanished,” continued Anton, “I received orders to accompany an officer named Yurovsky to Sverdlovsk. There, a group of us took over from the local militia unit who had been guarding the Romanovs. From then on, we were in charge of the Tsar and his family. The night they disappeared, I was off duty. I was at the tavern when I heard that the call had come in. I went straight to where the roadblock had been set up. By the time we returned to the Ipatiev house, the Romanovs were already gone and the two guards who stayed behind had been killed.”

“Did you conduct an investigation?”

“There was no time. The Whites were advancing on the town. We had to get out. When the White Army marched in two days later, they conducted their own inquiry. But they never found the Romanovs, alive or dead. When the Whites had moved on and we finally regained control of Sverdlovsk, the trail had gone cold. The Tsar’s whole family had simply vanished.”

“So rather than admit that the Romanovs had escaped, Lenin chose to report that they had been killed.”

Anton nodded wearily. “But then the rumors began-sightings were reported all over the world, particularly of the children. Every time a story surfaced, no matter how incredible it seemed, we sent an agent to investigate. Do you realize we even sent a man to Tahiti because a sea captain swore he saw someone there who looked exactly like Princess Maria? But all of those rumors turned out to be false. So we waited. Every day, we expected news that the Romanovs had surfaced in China, or Paris, or London. It seemed only a matter of time. But then years went by. There were fewer sightings. No new rumors. We began to think that maybe we had heard the last of the Romanovs. Then, two weeks ago, I was summoned by the Bureau of Special Operations. They informed me that a man had recently come forward, claiming that the bodies of the Romanovs had been thrown down an abandoned mine shaft not far from Sverdlovsk. He said that he witnessed it himself.”

“And where is this man?”

It was raining harder now, the storm a constant roar upon the roof, like a train riding through the air above their heads.

“In a place called Vodovenko. It’s an institution for the criminally insane.”

“Criminally insane?” Pekkala grunted. “Does this mine shaft even exist?”

“Yes. It has been located.”

“And the bodies? Have they been found?” A shudder passed through Pekkala as he thought of the skeletons lying jumbled at the bottom of the mine shaft. Many times he had dreamed of the killings, but those nightmares always ended in the moment of their deaths. Until now, he had never been tormented by the image of their unburied bones.

“The mine shaft was sealed off as soon as news reached the Bureau. As far as we know, the crime scene has not been touched.”

“I still don’t understand why they need me for this,” said Pekkala.

“You are the only person left alive who knew the Romanovs personally and who is also trained in detective work. You can positively identify those bodies. There is no margin for error.”

Pekkala hesitated before he spoke. “That explains why Stalin sent for me, but not what you are doing here.”

Anton opened his hands and brought them softly together again. “The Bureau thought it might help if a familiar face passed on their offer to you.”

“Offer?” asked Pekkala. “What offer?”

“On successful completion of this investigation, your sentence at the Gulag will be commuted. You will be granted your freedom. You can leave the country. You can go anywhere you want.”

Pekkala’s first instinct was not to believe it. He had been told too many lies in the past to take the offer seriously. “What do you get out of this?”

“This promotion is my reward,” replied Anton. “Ever since the Romanovs disappeared, no matter how hard I worked, how loyal I showed myself to be, I was passed over. Until last week I was a Corporal in some windowless office in Moscow. My job was to steam open letters and copy down anything which sounded critical of the government. It looked as if that was all I’d ever be. Then the Bureau called.” He sat back in his chair. “If the investigation succeeds, we’ll both have a second chance.”

“And if we don’t succeed?” asked Pekkala.

“You will be returned to Borodok,” replied Anton, “and I’ll go back to steaming open letters.”

“What about that Commissar? What’s he doing here?”

“ Kirov? He’s just a kid. He was training as a cook until they closed down his school and transferred him to the political academy instead. This is his first assignment. Officially, Kirov is our political liaison, but as of now, he doesn’t even know what the investigation is about.”

“When were you planning on telling him?”

“As soon as you agree to help.”

“Political liaison,” said Pekkala. “Apparently your Bureau does not trust either of us.”

“Get used to it,” said Anton. “No one is trusted anymore.”

Pekkala slowly shook his head in disbelief. “Congratulations.”

“On what?”

“On the mess you have made of this country.”

Anton stood up. His chair scudded back across the floor. “The Tsar got what he deserved. And so did you.”

They stood face-to-face, the desk like a barricade between them.

“Father would have been proud of you,” Pekkala said, unable to hide his disgust.

At the mention of their father, something snapped inside Anton. He lunged across the desk, lashing out with his fist and striking Pekkala on the side of the head.

Pekkala saw a flash behind his eye. He rocked back, then regained his balance.

Anton came out from behind the desk and swung again, hitting his brother in the chest.

Pekkala staggered. Then, with a roar, he grabbed Anton around the shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides.

The two men tumbled backwards, plowing through the office door, which gave way with a splintering of flimsy wood. They fell into the narrow corridor. Anton struck the ground first.

Pekkala crashed down on top of him.

For a moment both of them were stunned.

Then Anton grabbed Pekkala by the throat.

The two men stared at each other, their eyes filled with hate.

“You told me things were different now,” said Pekkala, “but you were wrong. Nothing has changed between us.”

Unable to contain his rage, Anton wrenched the pistol from his belt and jammed the end of the barrel against his brother’s temple.

The same day he arrived in St. Petersburg, Pekkala enlisted as a cadet in the Finnish Regiment of Guards.

He soon learned the reason why Anton had been thrown out of the corps.

Anton had been accused of stealing money from the footlocker of another cadet. At first, he had denied it. No evidence could be brought against him other than the coincidence that he suddenly had money to spend, at the precise moment when the other cadet’s funds went missing. But that same evening, as the cadet recounted his loss to the recruit in the neighboring bunk, he noticed something on his bedside locker. He was sitting on the edge of his bed and leaning over so as not to have to raise his voice. As he spoke, his warm breath passed over the polished surface of the locker and a ghostly handprint shimmered into view. The print was not his own, nor did it belong to any of the other six cadets who bunked in that room. The sergeant was called and he ordered a comparison of Anton’s handprint and the one upon the locker.