Archive 17 Read Online Free Page A

of tones. But the way Pekkala talked to Stalin caused Poskrebyshev’s bowels to cramp. Even more amazing to him was the fact that Stalin let Pekkala get away with it. In asking such a question, Poskrebyshev was well aware that he hadoverstepped his bounds. If the answer to his question was a flood of obscenities from the next room, he knew he would have only himself to blame. Nevertheless, he simply had to know.
    “The reason I endure his insolence—unlike, for example, yours, Poskrebyshev—is that Pekkala is the only person I know of who would not kill me for the chance to rule this country.”
    “Surely that is not true, Comrade Stalin!” protested Poskrebyshev, knowing perfectly well that whether it was true or not, what mattered was that Stalin believed it.
    “Ask yourself, Poskrebyshev—what would you do to sit where I am sitting now?”
    An image flashed through Poskrebyshev’s mind, of himself at Stalin’s desk, smoking Stalin’s cigarettes and bullying his very own secretary. In that moment, Poskrebyshev knew that, in spite of all his claims of loyalty, he would have gutted Stalin like a fish for the chance to take the leader’s place.
    O NE HOUR LATER , as the last rays of sunset glistened on the ice-sheathed telegraph wires, Pekkala’s battered Emka staff car, driven by his assistant, Major Kirov, pulled into a rail yard at mile marker 17 on the Moscow Highway. The rail yard had no name. It was known simply as V-4, and the only trains departing from this place were convict transports headed for the Gulags.
    However miserable the journey promised to be, Pekkala knew it was necessary to travel as a convict in order to protect the cover story that he had fallen out of favor with Stalin and received a twenty-year sentence for unspecified crimes against the State.
    Major Kirov pulled up behind some empty freight cars, cut the engine, and looked out across the rail yard, where prisoners huddled by the wagons which would soon be taking them away.
    “You can still call this off, Inspector.”
    “You know that is impossible.”
    “They have no right to send you back to that place, even if it is to carry out an investigation.”
    “There is no ‘they,’ Kirov. The order came directly from Stalin.”
    “Then he should at least have given you time to study the relevant files.”
    “It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Pekkala answered. “The victim’s dossier is incomplete. There was only one page. The rest of it must be lost somewhere in NKVD archives. As a result, I know almost nothing about the man whose death I am being sent to investigate.”
    The train whistle blew, and the prisoners began to climb aboard.
    “It is time,” said Pekkala. “But first, there is something I need you to look after while I’m gone.” Into Kirov’s hand Pekkala dropped a heavy gold disk, as wide across as the length of his little finger. Along the center was a stripe of white enamel inlay, which began at a point, widened until it took up half the disk and narrowed again to a point on the other side. Embedded in the middle of the white enamel was a large round emerald. Together, the elements formed the unmistakable shape of an eye.
    Pekkala had already been working for two years as the Tsar’s Special Investigator when the Tsar summoned him one evening to the Alexander Palace, his residence on the Tsarskoye Selo estate .
    Entering the Tsar’s study, Pekkala found him sitting in a chair by the window. He was relieved that the Tsar did not get up. In Pekkala’s experience, if the Tsar remained seated when he entered the room, the meeting would go well. If the Tsar rose to his feet, however, Pekkala could be sure that the man’s temper had already been lost .
    Beside the Tsar’s chair stood a small table, on which a candle burned . This was the only light source in the room, and in that glowing pool, the Tsar seemed to float like a mirage .
    With his soft blue eyes, the Tsar regarded Pekkala. “I have decided