Eye of the Red Tsar Read Online Free Page A

dark hair was combed and slicked back on his head with a severe parting which ran like a knife cut across his scalp. The man kept his hands neatly folded on the desk, poised as if he were waiting for someone to take his photograph.
    “Anton!” gasped Pekkala.
    “Welcome back,” he replied.
    Pekkala gaped at the man, who patiently returned the stare. Finally satisfied that his eyes were not playing tricks on him, Pekkala turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
    “Where are you going?” asked Kirov, running to catch up with him.
    “Any place but here,” replied Pekkala. “You could have had the decency to let me know.”
    “Let you know what?” The Commissar’s voice rose in frustration.
    The policeman was still standing in the doorway, looking nervously up and down the street.
    Kirov placed a hand on Pekkala’s shoulder. “You have not even spoken to Commander Starek.”
    “Is that what he calls himself now?”
    “Now?” The Commissar’s face twisted in confusion.
    Pekkala turned on him. “Starek is not his real name. He has invented it. Like Lenin did! And Stalin! Not because it changes anything, but only because it sounds better than Ulyanov or Dzhugashvili.”
    “You realize,” blurted the Commissar, “that I could have you shot for saying that?”
    “Find something you
couldn’t
shoot me for,” replied Pekkala. “That would be more impressive. Or, better still, let my brother do it for you.”
    “Your brother?” Kirov’s mouth hung open. “Commander Starek is your brother?”
    Now Anton emerged from the doorway.
    “You didn’t tell me,” protested Kirov. “Surely, I should have been informed—”
    “I am informing you now.” Anton turned back to Pekkala.
    “That’s not really him, is it?” asked the policeman. “You’re just kidding me, right?” He tried to smile, but failed. “This man is not the Emerald Eye. He’s been dead for years. I’ve heard people say he never even existed, that he’s just a legend.”
    Anton leaned across and whispered in the policeman’s ear.
    The policeman coughed. “But what have I done?” He looked at Pekkala. “What have I done?” he asked again.
    “We could ask that man you threw into the street,” replied Pekkala.
    The policeman stepped into the doorway. “But this is my station,” he whispered. “I am in command here.” He looked to Anton silently appealing for help.
    But Anton’s face remained stony. “I suggest you get out of our way while you still can,” he said quietly.
    The officer drifted aside, as if he were no more than the shadow of a man.
    Now, with his eyes fixed on Pekkala, Anton gave a nod towards the office down the corridor. “Brother,” he said, “it is time for us to talk.”
     

     
    It had been ten years since they’d last seen each other, on a desolate and frozen railway platform designated for the transport of prisoners to Siberia
.
    With his head shaved and still wearing the flimsy beige cotton pajamas which had been issued to him in jail, Pekkala huddled with other convicts waiting for convoy ETAP-61 to arrive. Nobody spoke. As more prisoners arrived, they took their places on the platform, adhering themselves to the mass of frozen men like the layers of an onion
.
    The sun had already set. Icicles as long as a man’s leg hung from the station house roof. Wind blew down the tracks, stirring up whirlwinds of snow. At each end of the platform, guards with rifles on their backs stood around oil barrels in which fires had been lit. Sparks flitted into the air, illuminating their faces
.
    Late in the night the train finally arrived. Two guards stood beside each open wagon door. As Pekkala climbed aboard, he happened to glance back at the station house. There, in the light of an oil drum fire, a soldier held his rosy-tinted hands over the flames
.
    Their eyes met
.
    Pekkala had only an instant to recognize that it was Anton before one of the guards shoved him into the darkness of the frost-encrusted