Read Online Eye of the Red Tsar by Sam Eastland - Free Book Online Page B

way is to the east,” he said.
    Neither man questioned this result, conjured from thin air with skills beyond their reckoning, a thing both strange and absolute.
    Having driven all day, stopping only to refuel from one of several gas cans they carried in the trunk, they stopped that night under the roof of an abandoned barn.
    They parked the Emka on the dirt floor of the barn, to keep it out of sight in case this place was not as empty as it seemed. Then they lit a fire on the floor, feeding the flames with wooden planks prised out of old horse stalls.
    Anton opened up a can of army ration meat with the word TUSHONKA stamped on the side. With a spoon pulled from his boot, he took a mouthful, jammed the spoon into the can, and passed it on to Kirov, who gouged out a clump of meat and packed it into his mouth, then turned and spat it out.
    “This is atrocious!”
    “Get used to it,” Anton told him. “I have three cases of the stuff.”
    Kirov shook his head violently, like a dog shaking water from its fur. “If you’d thought to bring some decent food, I would gladly have cooked it for us.”
    Anton pulled a flask from his pocket. It was made of glass wrapped in leather and had a pewter cup which fitted to the bottom of the glass. He unscrewed the metal cap and took a swig. “The reason they shut down your cookery class—”
    “Chef! A school for chefs!”
    Anton rolled his eyes. “The reason they closed it, Kirov, was because there isn’t enough decent food left in this country to make a proper meal. Trust me, you’re better off working for the government. At least you won’t starve.”
    “I will,” said Kirov, “if I have to keep eating this.” He held the can out to Pekkala. “What did the Tsar like to eat?”
    Up in the rafters, pigeons peered down at the men, flames reflected in their wide and curious eyes.
    “Simple food mostly,” replied Pekkala. “Roast pork. Boiled cabbage. Blinis. Shashlik.” He remembered the skewers of meat, red peppers, onions, and mushrooms, served next to beds of rice and washed down with heavy Georgian wine. “I’m afraid you might have found his tastes a little disappointing.”
    “On the contrary,” said Kirov, “those meals are the hardest to make. When chefs meet for a meal, they choose the traditional recipes. The mark of a good chef is whether he can create a simple meal and have it taste the way everyone expects it to.”
    “What about cooks?” asked Anton.
    Before Kirov could reply, Anton tossed the flask into his lap.
    “What’s in here?” Kirov eyed the flask as if it were a grenade about to blow up in his face.
    “Samahonka!” said Anton.
    “Home brew,” muttered Kirov, handing back the flask. “You’re lucky you haven’t gone blind.”
    “I made it in my bathtub,” said Anton. He took another drink and put the flask back in his pocket.
    “Aren’t you going to offer some to your brother?”
    Anton lay back, resting his head on the secret report. “A detective is not allowed to drink when he’s working. Isn’t that right, brother?” He pulled his heavy greatcoat over him and curled up in a ball. “Get some rest. We still have a long way to go.”
    “I thought we were just stopping here for a meal,” said Kirov. “You mean we’re spending the whole night? On this bare floor?”
    “Why not?” Anton muttered through a veil of fading consciousness.
    “I used to have a bed,” said Kirov indignantly. “I used to have a room to myself.” He pulled the pipe from his pocket. With jerky and impatient hands, he stuffed it with tobacco.
    “You’re too young for a pipe,” said Anton.
    Kirov held it out admiringly. “The bowl is made from English briar wood.”
    “Pipes are for old men,” yawned Anton.
    Kirov glared at him. “Comrade Stalin smokes a pipe!”
    But the comment was lost on Anton. He had fallen asleep, his steady breaths like the sound of a pendulum swinging slowly through the air above them.
    Pekkala dozed off, hearing