Eye of the Red Tsar

25

ALEXANDER KROPOTKIN, THE SVERDLOVSK POLICE CHIEF, WAS A SQUAT, broad-shouldered man with a thick head of blond hair which he combed straight down over his forehead.

While Pekkala and Anton stood waiting, Kropotkin sat behind his desk, leafing through the papers which Anton had presented to him. He got to the last page, squinted at the signature, then tossed the papers on the desk. “Why do you bother?” he asked.

“Bother with what?” Anton asked.

Kropotkin tapped the orders with a stubby index finger. “Comrade Stalin signed these orders. You can do whatever the hell you want. You don’t need my permission.”

“It is a courtesy,” said Anton.

Kropotkin sat forward, resting his forearms on the desk. He stared at Pekkala. “The Emerald Eye. I heard you were dead.”

“You are not the only one who heard that.”

“I also heard that you could not be bought, but here you are working for them.” He jerked his chin towards Anton.

“I have not been bought,” Pekkala told him.

“Bribed, then. Or threatened. It doesn’t matter. One way or another, you are working for them now.”

The words cut into him, but Pekkala chose not to reply.

Kropotkin turned his attention to Anton. “You look familiar. You were one of the Cheka guards, weren’t you?”

“Perhaps,” Anton replied.

“There is no perhaps. I don’t forget faces, and I saw you at the tavern the whole time you were here. How many times did I see Cheka men come to fetch you when you were too drunk to walk? And judging from your face, either you are perpetually bruised or you didn’t waste any time going back to your old habits. Now you come here to my office and talk to me about courtesy? You gentlemen can go to hell. How is that for courtesy?”

“What’s got you all steamed up?” demanded Anton.

“You want to know? Fine, I’ll tell you. This was a nice, quiet place until your lot brought the Romanovs here. Since then, nothing’s ever been the same. You know what people think of when you say the word ‘ Sverdlovsk ’?” He made a gun with his thumb and index finger and set it against his temple. “Death. Execution. Murder. Take your pick. None of it’s good. And every time things start to settle down, one of you people drops in and stirs things up again. Nobody wants you here, but I can’t kick you out.” He jerked his chin towards the door. “So just do your work and then leave us alone.”

Pekkala took the grenade from the deep pocket inside his coat and set it on the desk.

Kropotkin stared at it. “What’s that? A gift?”

“Someone pitched it through our window last night,” Pekkala answered, “but forgot to pull the pin.”

“It’s German,” added Anton.

Kropotkin picked up the grenade. “Actually, it’s Austrian. The German stick grenades had belt clips on the cylinder here.” He tapped at the gray soup can which contained the explosives. “The Austrian ones didn’t.”

“You were in the war?” Pekkala asked.

“Yes,” replied Kropotkin, “and you learn these things when enough of them get thrown at you.”

“We were hoping you might know where it came from.”

“The Whites used these,” replied Kropotkin. “Most of the men who attacked Sverdlovsk had been in the Austrian Army before they came over to our side. Many of them were still using Austrian equipment.”

“You think it might be someone who was with the Whites?” asked Pekkala.

Kropotkin shook his head. “The man who threw this was not with the Whites.”

“So you know who might have thrown this?”

Kropotkin’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I know exactly who threw this at you. There’s only one man insane enough to throw one of these at you who is also stupid enough not to have pulled the cord when he threw it. His name is Nekrasov. He was one of the militiamen who guarded the Romanovs before the Cheka came in and threw him out. I expect he’s still holding a grudge. As soon as the lights went on again in the Ipatiev house, he must have guessed that you people were back.”

“But why would he bother to throw it?”

“Best ask him that yourselves.” Kropotkin snatched up a pencil, scrawled an address on a notepad, tore off the sheet, and held it out. “This is where you’ll find him.”

Anton removed the paper from his hand.

“Don’t take it the wrong way,” laughed Kropotkin. “He tries to kill everybody. He just stinks at it. If Nekrasov hasn’t thrown at least one bomb at you by the time you leave, you might as well have stayed at home.”

“At least I’m not the only one they hate around here,” said Anton, when he and Pekkala were back out in the street. “Do you want me to come with you to see Nekrasov?”

“I’ll handle it,” said Pekkala. “You look as if you could use some sleep.”

Anton nodded, his eyes narrowed against the morning sunlight. “I won’t argue with that.”