And also because you are a Finn. To us Russians, the Finns have never quite seemed human.”
“Not human?”
“Warlocks. Witches. Magicians,” explained Vassileyev. “Do you know that many Russians still believe the Finns are capable of casting spells? That’s why the Tsar surrounded himself with a regiment of Finnish Guards. And that is why he picked you. But you and I both know that you are not a magician.”
“I never claimed to be one.”
“Nevertheless,” replied Vassileyev, “that is how you are likely to be seen, even by the Tsar himself. You must not forget the difference between who you are and who people believe you to be. The Tsar needs you even more than he realizes. Dark times are coming, Pekkala. Back when I got blown to bits, crooks were still robbing money from banks. Now they have learned how to steal the whole bank. It won’t be long before they are running the country. If we let them get that far, Pekkala, you and I will wake up one day and find we are the criminals. And then you’ll need the skills I’ve taught you just to stay alive.”
8
THE NEXT MORNING, as red streamers of dawn unfurled across the sky, Pekkala, Kirov, and Anton climbed into the Emka staff car.
The houses all around were still shuttered, their occupants not yet emerged. The slatted shutters made the buildings look as if they were asleep, but there was something sinister about them, and each man felt that he was being watched.
Kirov got behind the wheel. Having stayed up half the night reading the secret report, the young Commissar now seemed in a state of total shock.
Pekkala had decided that they should proceed directly to the mine shaft where the bodies had been dumped. According to Anton, who had the place marked on his map, the mine was on the outskirts of Sverdlovsk, approximately two days’ drive away.
They had only been on the road a few minutes when a figure came stumbling out of an abandoned house on the outskirts of the town. It was the policeman. His clothes were filthy from hiding out all night.
The Emka skidded to a stop.
The policeman stood ankle deep in a puddle in the middle of the road. He was drunk. He moved like a man on the deck of a ship in rough seas. “I don’t care if he’s the Emerald Eye or not!” he shouted. “You’re taking me with you.” He staggered over to the car, hauled out his service revolver, and tapped the glass with the barrel of the gun.
“Everybody out,” said Anton, in a low voice.
The three men piled into the muddy road.
“We have to get out of here!” shouted the policeman. “Word is all over town that Pekkala is investigating me!” He brandished the gun back towards the rooftops of the village. “But they’re not going to wait for that.”
“We have more important things to do than put you under investigation,” said Anton, not taking his eyes from the gun.
“It doesn’t matter now!” insisted the policeman. “If I go back into town, those people will tear me to pieces!”
“You should have thought about that,” said Anton, “before you started kicking the teeth out of old men. Your job is to stay at your post. Now get out of the road and go back to work.”
“I can’t.” The policeman’s finger locked inside the trigger guard. All he had to do was clench his hand and the gun would go off. The way the man looked, he seemed just as likely to accomplish that by accident as on purpose. “I won’t let you leave me here!”
“I will not help you to desert,” replied Anton.
“I wouldn’t be deserting!” His voice rippled thinly through the still morning air. “I could come back with reinforcements.”
“I can’t help you,” said Anton. “We have other work to do.”
“This is your fault! You brought that ghost into my town”—he jerked his head towards Pekkala—“and woke up things which should have stayed asleep.”
“Return to your post,” Anton ordered. “You are not coming with us.”
The
“Not human?”
“Warlocks. Witches. Magicians,” explained Vassileyev. “Do you know that many Russians still believe the Finns are capable of casting spells? That’s why the Tsar surrounded himself with a regiment of Finnish Guards. And that is why he picked you. But you and I both know that you are not a magician.”
“I never claimed to be one.”
“Nevertheless,” replied Vassileyev, “that is how you are likely to be seen, even by the Tsar himself. You must not forget the difference between who you are and who people believe you to be. The Tsar needs you even more than he realizes. Dark times are coming, Pekkala. Back when I got blown to bits, crooks were still robbing money from banks. Now they have learned how to steal the whole bank. It won’t be long before they are running the country. If we let them get that far, Pekkala, you and I will wake up one day and find we are the criminals. And then you’ll need the skills I’ve taught you just to stay alive.”
8
THE NEXT MORNING, as red streamers of dawn unfurled across the sky, Pekkala, Kirov, and Anton climbed into the Emka staff car.
The houses all around were still shuttered, their occupants not yet emerged. The slatted shutters made the buildings look as if they were asleep, but there was something sinister about them, and each man felt that he was being watched.
Kirov got behind the wheel. Having stayed up half the night reading the secret report, the young Commissar now seemed in a state of total shock.
Pekkala had decided that they should proceed directly to the mine shaft where the bodies had been dumped. According to Anton, who had the place marked on his map, the mine was on the outskirts of Sverdlovsk, approximately two days’ drive away.
They had only been on the road a few minutes when a figure came stumbling out of an abandoned house on the outskirts of the town. It was the policeman. His clothes were filthy from hiding out all night.
The Emka skidded to a stop.
The policeman stood ankle deep in a puddle in the middle of the road. He was drunk. He moved like a man on the deck of a ship in rough seas. “I don’t care if he’s the Emerald Eye or not!” he shouted. “You’re taking me with you.” He staggered over to the car, hauled out his service revolver, and tapped the glass with the barrel of the gun.
“Everybody out,” said Anton, in a low voice.
The three men piled into the muddy road.
“We have to get out of here!” shouted the policeman. “Word is all over town that Pekkala is investigating me!” He brandished the gun back towards the rooftops of the village. “But they’re not going to wait for that.”
“We have more important things to do than put you under investigation,” said Anton, not taking his eyes from the gun.
“It doesn’t matter now!” insisted the policeman. “If I go back into town, those people will tear me to pieces!”
“You should have thought about that,” said Anton, “before you started kicking the teeth out of old men. Your job is to stay at your post. Now get out of the road and go back to work.”
“I can’t.” The policeman’s finger locked inside the trigger guard. All he had to do was clench his hand and the gun would go off. The way the man looked, he seemed just as likely to accomplish that by accident as on purpose. “I won’t let you leave me here!”
“I will not help you to desert,” replied Anton.
“I wouldn’t be deserting!” His voice rippled thinly through the still morning air. “I could come back with reinforcements.”
“I can’t help you,” said Anton. “We have other work to do.”
“This is your fault! You brought that ghost into my town”—he jerked his head towards Pekkala—“and woke up things which should have stayed asleep.”
“Return to your post,” Anton ordered. “You are not coming with us.”
The
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