Archive 17 (22 page)

The candle flame shuddered as he passed by and the face of the little Buddha appeared to be laughing at him
.

“What was that about?” Pekkala asked Rasputin
.

“He is a representative for a jeweler in Petersburg. He is hoping to have a royal warrant bestowed upon his company.”

“And why is he asking you for that?”

“Because he can’t ask anyone else! Least of all the Romanovs.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And that is why I love you, Pekkala.” Rasputin sat forward, lifting his bare feet from the table and planting them firmly on the floor. He picked up the bribe, index finger shuffling through the bills as he counted them. Then he tossed the money back onto the table. “You see, Pekkala, you can’t just ask for the royal warrant. You have to be given it. If you do ask for it, there’s no chance at all of receiving one. Instead, you must give the impression that you would accept it if offered, but that in the meantime, you do not expect anything. That’s the way things work.”

Pekkala did not know much about royal warrants, but the strange logic of wanting but not daring to show the want or not asking in the hopes of receiving was familiar to him from other aspects of the royal family. It was the way that they maintained their grip upon those levels of Russian society which fanned out around the Romanovs like ripples from a stone thrown in a pond
.

“He wants me to convince the Tsarina,” continued Rasputin
.

“And you think you could?”

Rasputin breathed out sharply through his nose. “Please, Pekkala. Of course I could! The question is, will I?”

“And what is the answer?”

“I don’t know yet, and that is what infuriates him.”

“He would be even more infuriated if he knew you will be giving away his money to the next sad face that walks into the room.”

Rasputin laughed. “I give away my money because it buys me something far more valuable than cash.”

“And what is that?”

“Loyalty. Affection. Information. Everything I would have spent it on except this way I also earn friends. That’s something he will never figure out.”

“Did you really think I had come to arrest you?”

“Of course not! I can’t be arrested. Not in here. And probably not anywhere. Not even by you.”

“I would not put that to the test.” Pekkala went over to the table, found another candle, this one jammed into a wicker-covered Chianti bottle, and lit it
.

With enough light now to see around the room, he looked at the flimsy sheets of silk which had been draped across the walls, the mud-caked Berber carpet on the floor, and what he at first thought was broken glass but which he realized was actually money. There were shiny coins everywhere, tossed like offerings to a fountain in every corner of the room
.

“Why are you here, Pekkala?” asked Rasputin, and as he spoke he stretched out one leg, nudging aside the bottles on the table with a big yellow-nailed toe, searching for one that might have some drink left in it. “Has something caused the Emerald Eye to blink? What could it be? Not the sight of blood. You have already seen too much of that. It would not be threats. Those do not seem to bother you. No. It is something for which you were unprepared.”

“The Tsar sent for me today. There is a room beneath the palace—”

Before Pekkala could finish, Rasputin clapped his hands and roared with laughter. “Of course! I should have guessed! The Tsar has been worshipping his gold again, and it was your turn to take part in the ceremony.”

“Ceremony? What do you mean?”

Rasputin’s smile revealed a mixture of pity and amusement. “Poor Pekkala! Without me here to guide you, how would you ever understand? You see, the Tsar has already exhausted all the solitary pleasure he can take from his hoard of treasure. What he needs is an audience. What satisfies him now is the look on the face of someone setting eyes for the first time on those bars of gold. What he wants, what he needs, Pekkala, is to see the flash of envy in their gaze. It destroys them. It ruins their lives. They never recover from the shock of that longing. And no matter how much they beg him for another glimpse of that gold—and believe me they do beg—those doors will remain closed to them forever.”

“I do not envy him because of what I saw today.”

“Of course you don’t! You are not like the others. The Tsar has failed to tempt you with his Fabergé eggs, his Amber Room, and the artwork on his walls. So now he has laid down his trump card, the thing which never fails.”

“But it has failed. When I looked at that pile of gold, all I could think about was the suffering of those miners. He sent in the Cossacks to kill them!” Pekkala’s voice rose in anger. “All those men wanted was the chance to work in safety, and he would not even give them that.”

Rasputin’s eyes seemed to flicker in the candlelight. “But many things are valuable precisely because they are the product of pain. Think of the pearl. It begins as a grain of sand. Imagine the agony of the oyster as that tiny piece of stone digs into the soft flesh of the creature, like a knife stabbing into your brain! So the oyster surrounds the pearl with its own living shell until at last it becomes what we value, enough to kill the oyster for it anyway—the same way the Tsar is prepared to kill his miners. The truth, Pekkala, is that beauty on this earth is set aside for the enjoyment of the few and comes at the cost of the suffering of the many. That is true for many things besides gold and pearls. It is true for the Tsarina, for example, although most of that suffering is her
husband’s. Your eyes have been opened, Pekkala. You used to see the Tsar as a victim of circumstance, secretly longing to be like any other man, like a god who wishes to be mortal. You blamed the world of extravagance into which he had been born. You blamed the need of all rulers to appear larger than life, in their manner, in their wealth, in their surroundings. You even blamed his wife, I expect. Everybody else does. But the one person you could not bring yourself to blame was the Tsar himself, and so I say again—it has not failed.”

“You can be very cruel, Grigori.”

“Not as cruel as the Tsar,” he replied. “He knew that the one thing you would respect in him was the secret disregard for all his wealth, because that was the only way for you to see yourself in him. And why else would you agree to serve a man unless you held the same things to be sacred? What the Tsar did today was to show you his true face, and in that moment the man you thought you knew turned out to be a stranger.” Rasputin leveled a long, bony finger at Pekkala. “I warn you, my friend, that treasure is cursed. Even those you trust with your own life will betray you if you come between them and that gold.”

“Have you seen it?” asked Pekkala
.

“Of course!” Rasputin lifted his hands and let them fall again upon the couch, sending up tiny puffs of dust from the crushed velvet. “I enjoyed the experience immensely, because I have discovered that my greatest source of pleasure is neither money nor the women who traipse into my life and get exactly what they’re looking for and who will one day swear they’ve never met me.”

“Then what is it, Rasputin?”

“What this twisted brain of mine can no longer do without”—Rasputin tapped a finger against his forehead—“is to stand at the edge of the abyss, not knowing which way I will fall.”

Six months later, the St. Petersburg police pulled Rasputin’s body from the freezing waters of the Neva River. At the spot where he had touched his forehead on that night Pekkala came to see him, Rasputin’s murderers had put a bullet through his skull
.

T
HERE WAS A SCUFFLING
in the tunnel outside, followed by a shout and a strange crunching sound, like someone biting into an apple.

Kolchak moved over to the entrance, the knife still in his hand. “Lavrenov, what’s happening?”

“I found someone prowling around.”

Kolchak and Pekkala stepped into the tunnel.

In the middle of the narrow passageway, a man lay on his back, nailed to the earth by Lavrenov’s pickax. The man was still alive, spluttering as he struggled for breath.

“He must have followed us,” Lavrenov said.

Kolchak fetched the lantern from the cave.

Pekkala stifled a gasp as the light touched the dying man’s face.

It was Savushkin, his bodyguard. Helplessly, the man stared at Pekkala.

Knowing there was nothing he could do, Pekkala struggled to contain his emotions as he watched Savushkin’s last breath trail out.

“Bury him,” ordered Kolchak.

“Yes, Colonel.” Lavrenov set his foot against Savushkin’s chest, and wrenched out the pickax blade.

Kolchak turned to Pekkala. “Go now,” he said gently, “before anyone notices you’ve been gone. And do not worry, my friend. It is all in motion now.”

“K
ORNFELD SAYS THE TARGET HAS
been liquidated.”

Without looking up from his paperwork, Stalin grunted in acknowledgment.

“There is something else, Comrade Stalin—a new development at Borodok.”

The paper shuffling came to an abrupt halt.

“Another telegram has arrived,” continued Poskrebyshev.

“From Kirov or Pekkala?”

“Neither. It’s from Camp Commandant Klenovkin, and addressed to you, Comrade Stalin.” Poskrebyshev handed over the message.

BEG TO REPORT INSPECTOR PEKKALA OVERHEARD DENOUNCING COMMUNIST PARTY AND MAKING THREATS AGAINST COMRADE STALIN STOP BELIEVE PEKKALA PLANNING UPRISING IN CAMP STOP HAS FALSELY ACCUSED ME OF INVOLVEMENT IN CRIME STOP LONG LIVE THE PARTY STOP LONG LIVE COMRADE STALIN STOP KLENOVKIN COMMANDANT BORODOK

Stalin sat back heavily in his chair. “Denouncing me? An uprising?”

“Has this been confirmed?” asked Poskrebyshev.

“There is no time to waste on confirmations,” Stalin snapped. “The prisoners will flock to him. The uprising could spread to other camps. If Pekkala isn’t stopped, this could turn into a national emergency.” He sat forward, wrote something on a pad of yellow note paper, and handed the note to Poskrebyshev. “Send this to Klenovkin. Tell him to carry out the order and to report back to me immediately afterwards.”

Poskrebyshev blinked in surprise when he saw what Stalin had written. “Do you not wish to verify the camp commandant’s message before such drastic action is taken?”

“What reason could this man Klenovkin have for sending me a pack of lies?”

“And what could Pekkala possibly have to gain by turning on you now?”

“More than you know! More than you could possibly realize!” With wild eyes, Stalin glared at Poskrebyshev. “Now send the message, and when I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

Poskrebyshev lowered his head in surrender, as if it was his own doom and not Pekkala’s which had just been sealed. “Yes, Comrade Stalin,” he whispered.

When Poskrebyshev had gone, Stalin walked to the window. He lit himself a cigarette and looked out over the city. As smoke flooded into his lungs, smoothing out the ragged edges of his mind, the memory of Pekkala was already fading from his thoughts.

E
VER SINCE SENDING
the telegram detailing Pekkala’s nonexistent threats against Stalin, Klenovkin had been poised over the telegraph, waiting for a reply. He waited for so long that he had dozed off. When the device finally sprang to life, the commandant was so startled that he backed away from it as if a growling dog had crept into the room.

As soon as Klenovkin read the telegram, he sent for Gramotin.

While he waited, Klenovkin paced around his study, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. For the first time in as long as he could remember, something was going his way. This would, he knew, be the springboard to greater things. The meteoric rise he had always imagined he would make through the ranks of the Dalstroy Company had finally begun.

At last Gramotin appeared.

“Read this.”

“Liq …” The telegram trembled between Gramotin’s fingers as he struggled to pronounce the words. “Liquiday. Liquidate.”

“Idiot!” Klenovkin snatched the message back and read it out himself. “Now,” he said when he had finished, “do you understand what must be done?”

“Yes, Comrade Klenovkin. First thing in the morning?”

Klenovkin paused. “On second thought, wait until he has finished his breakfast duties.”

“So we can keep him working to the very end.”

“My thoughts, exactly, Sergeant.”

Gramotin nodded, impressed. “Dalstroy will be proud of you.”

“Indeed they will,” agreed Klenovkin, “and it’s about time, too.”

T
HE OLD GUARD
, Larchenko, sat in his chair by the door, chin on his chest, snoring. His rifle stood propped against the wall.

Nearby, Pekkala lay in his bunk, haunted by the death of Savushkin. He inhaled the musty, used-up air of dreaming men and listened to the patient rhythm of their breathing.