fake limb, dressed in a sock and shoe, propped against the wall along with Vassileyev’s walking stick and umbrella. The Major’s replacement right hand was made of wood with brass hinges, which he adjusted with his left hand before putting it to use, primarily for holding cigarettes. The brand he smoked was called Markov. The cigarettes came in a red and gold box, and Vassileyev kept a whole shelf of them behind his desk
.
Also on the wall behind Vassileyev’s desk, displayed in a black shadow box, was a cut-throat razor opened halfway to form a V
.
“It’s Occam’s razor,” explained Vassileyev
.
Pekkala, feeling foolish, admitted that he had not heard of Occam, whom he assumed to be a great criminal put behind bars by Vassileyev’s detective work
.
Vassileyev laughed when he heard this. “It’s not really Occam’s razor. The razor is just an idea.” Seeing Pekkala’s confusion, he went on to explain. “In the Middle Ages, a Franciscan monk named William of Occam formulated one of the basic principles of detective work, which is that the simplest explanation that fits the facts is usually right.”
“But why is it called Occam’s razor?” asked Pekkala
.
“I don’t know,” admitted Vassileyev. “Probably because it cuts straight to the truth, something you will need to learn how to do if you ever hope to survive as an investigator.”
Vassileyev liked to test Pekkala, sending him into town with instructions to walk a certain route. Vassileyev, meanwhile, would have planted people along the way, noted down advertisements pasted on walls, the headlines of newspapers hawked on the street corners by boys with floppy hats. No detail was too small. When Pekkala returned, Vassileyev would quiz the young man about everything he had seen. The point, Vassileyev
explained, was that there was too much to note down, especially when he might not even know what he was looking for. The purpose of the exercise was to train Pekkala’s mind to catalogue it all and then to permit his subconscious to sift through the information. Eventually, Vassileyev explained, he would be able to rely solely on his instincts to tell him when something was not right
.
Other times, Pekkala was instructed to evade capture by traveling in disguise across the city while different agents searched for him. He learned to pose as a cabdriver, a priest, and a bartender
.
He studied the effects of poisons, the disarming of bombs, the business of killing with a knife
.
In addition to instructing Pekkala on how to shoot a variety of weapons, all of which he had to disassemble, reassemble, and load while blindfolded, Vassileyev taught him to recognize the sounds made by different-caliber guns and even the varying sounds made by different models of the same caliber. Pekkala would sit on a chair behind a brick wall while Vassileyev, perched on a chair on the other side of the wall, fired off various guns and asked Pekkala to identify each one. During these sessions, Vassileyev was rarely without a cigarette wedged between his wooden fingers. Pekkala learned to watch the thin gray line of smoke rising from behind the wall, and the way it would ripple as Vassileyev bit down on the cigarette, just before he pulled the trigger of the gun
.
At the beginning of his third year of training, Vassileyev called Pekkala into his office. The artificial leg was on the desk. Using a chisel, Vassileyev had begun to hollow out the solid block of wood from which his prosthetic limb had been constructed
.
“Why are you doing that?” Pekkala asked
.
“Well, you never know when you might need a hiding place for valuables. Besides, this damned thing is too heavy for me.” Vassileyev set down the chisel and carefully swept the wood shavings into his palm. “Do you know why the Tsar chose you for this job?”
“I never asked him,” replied Pekkala
.
“He told me that he chose you because you have the closest thing to
perfect memory as he has ever seen.
.
Also on the wall behind Vassileyev’s desk, displayed in a black shadow box, was a cut-throat razor opened halfway to form a V
.
“It’s Occam’s razor,” explained Vassileyev
.
Pekkala, feeling foolish, admitted that he had not heard of Occam, whom he assumed to be a great criminal put behind bars by Vassileyev’s detective work
.
Vassileyev laughed when he heard this. “It’s not really Occam’s razor. The razor is just an idea.” Seeing Pekkala’s confusion, he went on to explain. “In the Middle Ages, a Franciscan monk named William of Occam formulated one of the basic principles of detective work, which is that the simplest explanation that fits the facts is usually right.”
“But why is it called Occam’s razor?” asked Pekkala
.
“I don’t know,” admitted Vassileyev. “Probably because it cuts straight to the truth, something you will need to learn how to do if you ever hope to survive as an investigator.”
Vassileyev liked to test Pekkala, sending him into town with instructions to walk a certain route. Vassileyev, meanwhile, would have planted people along the way, noted down advertisements pasted on walls, the headlines of newspapers hawked on the street corners by boys with floppy hats. No detail was too small. When Pekkala returned, Vassileyev would quiz the young man about everything he had seen. The point, Vassileyev
explained, was that there was too much to note down, especially when he might not even know what he was looking for. The purpose of the exercise was to train Pekkala’s mind to catalogue it all and then to permit his subconscious to sift through the information. Eventually, Vassileyev explained, he would be able to rely solely on his instincts to tell him when something was not right
.
Other times, Pekkala was instructed to evade capture by traveling in disguise across the city while different agents searched for him. He learned to pose as a cabdriver, a priest, and a bartender
.
He studied the effects of poisons, the disarming of bombs, the business of killing with a knife
.
In addition to instructing Pekkala on how to shoot a variety of weapons, all of which he had to disassemble, reassemble, and load while blindfolded, Vassileyev taught him to recognize the sounds made by different-caliber guns and even the varying sounds made by different models of the same caliber. Pekkala would sit on a chair behind a brick wall while Vassileyev, perched on a chair on the other side of the wall, fired off various guns and asked Pekkala to identify each one. During these sessions, Vassileyev was rarely without a cigarette wedged between his wooden fingers. Pekkala learned to watch the thin gray line of smoke rising from behind the wall, and the way it would ripple as Vassileyev bit down on the cigarette, just before he pulled the trigger of the gun
.
At the beginning of his third year of training, Vassileyev called Pekkala into his office. The artificial leg was on the desk. Using a chisel, Vassileyev had begun to hollow out the solid block of wood from which his prosthetic limb had been constructed
.
“Why are you doing that?” Pekkala asked
.
“Well, you never know when you might need a hiding place for valuables. Besides, this damned thing is too heavy for me.” Vassileyev set down the chisel and carefully swept the wood shavings into his palm. “Do you know why the Tsar chose you for this job?”
“I never asked him,” replied Pekkala
.
“He told me that he chose you because you have the closest thing to
perfect memory as he has ever seen.
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