account of your deep and abiding love of Russian icons,’ Rasputin remarked sarcastically. ‘The Tsar sent you, didn’t he?’
Pekkala nodded. There was no point in denying it.
‘That coward!’ hissed Rasputin.
‘He is a realist,’ replied Pekkala, ‘at least when it comes to his wife.’
‘Curious, don’t you think,’ sneered Rasputin, ‘that a man who would gamble the safety of his country on the power of an icon would not trust that same power to protect the icon itself? But if that is what the Tsar wants, he should come here and ask me himself.’
‘You know what will happen if word gets out that this country’s most sacred object is hanging on your wall like some old family portrait, and that the Tsarina herself ordered it to be delivered to your door.’
‘You think I haven’t considered this?’ demanded Rasputin. ‘I know exactly how much damage this could do.’
‘Then make her see reason, Grigori! You are the only one who can.’
Rasputin breathed in deeply, then exhaled in a long and melancholy sigh. ‘Don’t you see, Pekkala? I can only convince the Tsarina here,’ he tapped a bony finger against his chest, ‘if she is already convinced in here.’ He shifted the finger to his temple, drilling his long fingernail into the skin. ‘My power, if you want to call it that, lies in being able to predict what the Tsarina wants, before she knows herself what it is that she desires. I cannot change her mind once it has been made up. All I can do is convince her she is right. And that,’ grinned Rasputin, ‘is one of the reasons she loves me.’ As suddenly as it had appeared, the playful smile slid away from his face. ‘Go back to your master, the Tsar. Tell him I refused to yield. Tell him it is the will of God. Tell him whatever you like, but make him understand that there is nothing to be done.’
‘What have you got yourself into this time?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Trust me when I tell you,’ answered Rasputin, ‘that even for a man as curious as you, some things are better left unknown.’
*
Two weeks later, Pekkala was summoned again, only this time, it was not by the Tsar.
The old gardener, Stefanov, whose son Ostrogorsky had almost cleaved in half, knocked on the door of Pekkala’s cottage. Then, unsure at what distance to wait, he retreated to the road.
By the time Pekkala came to the door, Stefanov was standing on the other side of the garden gate, cap in hand, his thatch of long grey hair matted down on his head.
‘Yes?’ asked Pekkala. It was a Sunday morning, the time when Pekkala would polish his boots, mend tears in his clothes and oil his Webley revolver. He always looked forward to this time. They were the only few hours of the week when his mind was not focused on his work.
There was something meditative in the threading of needles, in the rustle of the horsehair brush over the toe caps of his boots and in the precise click of metal parts as he carefully disassembled the gun.
Now the Webley lay in pieces on the bare pine of his kitchen table and Pekkala’s fingertips were smudged dark brown, since he did not use a brush to work the polish into his heavy, double-soled boots. He wore a tattered pair of corduroys, the lines partially rubbed out above the knee so that they seemed to spell out Morse-code messages. He also had on a collarless grey wool shirt with buttons made of antler bone, the cloth so worn down that even he, who wore his clothes until they all but vaporised, had consigned it for use only when doing his chores.
‘A message for you, Inspector,’ mumbled Stefanov. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, his dark eyes darting about.
‘Is everything all right, Stefanov?’
‘Oh, yes,’ lied the gardener. In truth, he was terrified of Pekkala. He was a superstitious old man, and had heard so many stories about the mysterious Finn that he no longer considered Pekkala to be human, but rather some creature conjured into being by the black arts
Pekkala nodded. There was no point in denying it.
‘That coward!’ hissed Rasputin.
‘He is a realist,’ replied Pekkala, ‘at least when it comes to his wife.’
‘Curious, don’t you think,’ sneered Rasputin, ‘that a man who would gamble the safety of his country on the power of an icon would not trust that same power to protect the icon itself? But if that is what the Tsar wants, he should come here and ask me himself.’
‘You know what will happen if word gets out that this country’s most sacred object is hanging on your wall like some old family portrait, and that the Tsarina herself ordered it to be delivered to your door.’
‘You think I haven’t considered this?’ demanded Rasputin. ‘I know exactly how much damage this could do.’
‘Then make her see reason, Grigori! You are the only one who can.’
Rasputin breathed in deeply, then exhaled in a long and melancholy sigh. ‘Don’t you see, Pekkala? I can only convince the Tsarina here,’ he tapped a bony finger against his chest, ‘if she is already convinced in here.’ He shifted the finger to his temple, drilling his long fingernail into the skin. ‘My power, if you want to call it that, lies in being able to predict what the Tsarina wants, before she knows herself what it is that she desires. I cannot change her mind once it has been made up. All I can do is convince her she is right. And that,’ grinned Rasputin, ‘is one of the reasons she loves me.’ As suddenly as it had appeared, the playful smile slid away from his face. ‘Go back to your master, the Tsar. Tell him I refused to yield. Tell him it is the will of God. Tell him whatever you like, but make him understand that there is nothing to be done.’
‘What have you got yourself into this time?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Trust me when I tell you,’ answered Rasputin, ‘that even for a man as curious as you, some things are better left unknown.’
*
Two weeks later, Pekkala was summoned again, only this time, it was not by the Tsar.
The old gardener, Stefanov, whose son Ostrogorsky had almost cleaved in half, knocked on the door of Pekkala’s cottage. Then, unsure at what distance to wait, he retreated to the road.
By the time Pekkala came to the door, Stefanov was standing on the other side of the garden gate, cap in hand, his thatch of long grey hair matted down on his head.
‘Yes?’ asked Pekkala. It was a Sunday morning, the time when Pekkala would polish his boots, mend tears in his clothes and oil his Webley revolver. He always looked forward to this time. They were the only few hours of the week when his mind was not focused on his work.
There was something meditative in the threading of needles, in the rustle of the horsehair brush over the toe caps of his boots and in the precise click of metal parts as he carefully disassembled the gun.
Now the Webley lay in pieces on the bare pine of his kitchen table and Pekkala’s fingertips were smudged dark brown, since he did not use a brush to work the polish into his heavy, double-soled boots. He wore a tattered pair of corduroys, the lines partially rubbed out above the knee so that they seemed to spell out Morse-code messages. He also had on a collarless grey wool shirt with buttons made of antler bone, the cloth so worn down that even he, who wore his clothes until they all but vaporised, had consigned it for use only when doing his chores.
‘A message for you, Inspector,’ mumbled Stefanov. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, his dark eyes darting about.
‘Is everything all right, Stefanov?’
‘Oh, yes,’ lied the gardener. In truth, he was terrified of Pekkala. He was a superstitious old man, and had heard so many stories about the mysterious Finn that he no longer considered Pekkala to be human, but rather some creature conjured into being by the black arts
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