the hands of this holy man can the true power of the icon be unleashed.’
‘And you expect me to convince her otherwise?’ asked Pekkala.
The Tsar laughed. ‘I have given you many difficult tasks before, Pekkala, but none as impossible as that! No, I do not expect you to persuade her. It’s Rasputin I need you to convince!’
Now the Tsar’s plan was becoming clear. Pekkala had met with Rasputin many times in the past, often at the special annexe of a club known as the Villa Roda, which had been built on the orders of the Tsarina for Rasputin’s private use. The reason for this structure’s existence was that Rasputin had been banned from almost every other club in the city.
‘He will listen to you,’ said the Tsar.
‘He might,’ agreed Pekkala, ‘but you he will obey, if you only command him to do so.’
‘Impossible!’ The Tsar waved a hand in front of his face, as if shooing away an insect. ‘If the Tsarina finds out that I have had a hand in this, she will dig in her heels even further.’
‘But even if I can talk Rasputin into this, it is the Tsarina who must be convinced.’
‘Exactly,’ the Tsar wagged a finger at Pekkala, ‘and the only one who can do that is Rasputin! She will follow his advice as if God himself had whispered in her ear.’
Pekkala could not deny the Tsar’s reasoning. ‘I will do my best, Majesty.’
The Tsar nodded, satisfied. He reached in to the pocket of his waistcoat. He removed his pocket watch, which was an 18-carat gold Patek Philippe, commissioned by his wife from Tiffany and finished with diamonds by the Tsar’s own jeweller, Carl Fabergé. Glancing at the time, he sighed. ‘I must get back to running the war.’
A few minutes later, Pekkala stepped down from the carriage.
With a jolt like the slamming of a huge door, the engine’s wheels began to move.
Pekkala watched the train pull out, his gaze fixed upon a guard who stood on the platform at the back of the caboose. The long, cruciform bayonet glinted at the end of his Mosin-Nagant rifle. The guard stared down along the empty tracks. Like the steward who had brought him tea, the man seemed oblivious to Pekkala’s presence. It was as if the Inspector had been a ghost, visible only to the Tsar. And then Pekkala realised that the Tsar had wanted it that way all along. He had never been here. This meeting had never taken place.
Pekkala turned and walked back down the road, his boots swishing through fragile globes of dandelions which had sprouted from cracks in the earth.
He found the car just where he had left it, Ostrogorsky leaning on the bonnet, puffing away on a long-stemmed pipe and humming an old Cossack tune. His deep, sad voice drifted on the still air as the smoke smoothed out the ragged edges of his mind. As they travelled back towards Tsarskoye Selo, Pekkala looked out at the dense ranks of pine and white birch trees which crowded down to the road, separated on either side of them by ditches overgrown with daisies, their white petals almost hidden under a coating of the grey road dust. The sun was already low in the sky, and beams of tannic-tinted light flickered down through the branches. He thought of his childhood in Finland and, in spite of the good fortune which the Tsar had bestowed upon him here in Russia, there were times when he longed to disappear back into the wilderness of his native country, where the brutal simplicity of life and death was not obscured by the lies men told to make themselves believe that they were masters of their fate.
*
Meanwhile, as the Imperial train headed south towards Mogilev, the Tsar opened the letter from his wife.
Unfolding the neatly creased page, he breathed in the dry sweet smell of his wife’s White Rose perfume, a tiny drop of which she always dabbed on to the paper.
Alexandra wrote to him almost every day, often interspersing her Russian with English or French, although seldom with the language of her birth. The Tsar always read the
‘And you expect me to convince her otherwise?’ asked Pekkala.
The Tsar laughed. ‘I have given you many difficult tasks before, Pekkala, but none as impossible as that! No, I do not expect you to persuade her. It’s Rasputin I need you to convince!’
Now the Tsar’s plan was becoming clear. Pekkala had met with Rasputin many times in the past, often at the special annexe of a club known as the Villa Roda, which had been built on the orders of the Tsarina for Rasputin’s private use. The reason for this structure’s existence was that Rasputin had been banned from almost every other club in the city.
‘He will listen to you,’ said the Tsar.
‘He might,’ agreed Pekkala, ‘but you he will obey, if you only command him to do so.’
‘Impossible!’ The Tsar waved a hand in front of his face, as if shooing away an insect. ‘If the Tsarina finds out that I have had a hand in this, she will dig in her heels even further.’
‘But even if I can talk Rasputin into this, it is the Tsarina who must be convinced.’
‘Exactly,’ the Tsar wagged a finger at Pekkala, ‘and the only one who can do that is Rasputin! She will follow his advice as if God himself had whispered in her ear.’
Pekkala could not deny the Tsar’s reasoning. ‘I will do my best, Majesty.’
The Tsar nodded, satisfied. He reached in to the pocket of his waistcoat. He removed his pocket watch, which was an 18-carat gold Patek Philippe, commissioned by his wife from Tiffany and finished with diamonds by the Tsar’s own jeweller, Carl Fabergé. Glancing at the time, he sighed. ‘I must get back to running the war.’
A few minutes later, Pekkala stepped down from the carriage.
With a jolt like the slamming of a huge door, the engine’s wheels began to move.
Pekkala watched the train pull out, his gaze fixed upon a guard who stood on the platform at the back of the caboose. The long, cruciform bayonet glinted at the end of his Mosin-Nagant rifle. The guard stared down along the empty tracks. Like the steward who had brought him tea, the man seemed oblivious to Pekkala’s presence. It was as if the Inspector had been a ghost, visible only to the Tsar. And then Pekkala realised that the Tsar had wanted it that way all along. He had never been here. This meeting had never taken place.
Pekkala turned and walked back down the road, his boots swishing through fragile globes of dandelions which had sprouted from cracks in the earth.
He found the car just where he had left it, Ostrogorsky leaning on the bonnet, puffing away on a long-stemmed pipe and humming an old Cossack tune. His deep, sad voice drifted on the still air as the smoke smoothed out the ragged edges of his mind. As they travelled back towards Tsarskoye Selo, Pekkala looked out at the dense ranks of pine and white birch trees which crowded down to the road, separated on either side of them by ditches overgrown with daisies, their white petals almost hidden under a coating of the grey road dust. The sun was already low in the sky, and beams of tannic-tinted light flickered down through the branches. He thought of his childhood in Finland and, in spite of the good fortune which the Tsar had bestowed upon him here in Russia, there were times when he longed to disappear back into the wilderness of his native country, where the brutal simplicity of life and death was not obscured by the lies men told to make themselves believe that they were masters of their fate.
*
Meanwhile, as the Imperial train headed south towards Mogilev, the Tsar opened the letter from his wife.
Unfolding the neatly creased page, he breathed in the dry sweet smell of his wife’s White Rose perfume, a tiny drop of which she always dabbed on to the paper.
Alexandra wrote to him almost every day, often interspersing her Russian with English or French, although seldom with the language of her birth. The Tsar always read the
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