The Red Coffin (15 page)

Pekkala travelled to the mansion of Mathilde Kschessinska.
He did not present himself at the front door, which might
have drawn attention. Instead, he went around to the quiet
street at the back of the mansion and let himself in through the
gate that the Tsar himself used when he came to visit Madame
Kschessinska.

The private door, just beyond the gate, was overgrown with
ivy, making it difficult to spot. Even the brass doorbell had been
overpainted green to camouflage it.

Pekkala glanced back into the street, to see if anyone had seen
him come in, but the street was empty. A rain shower had passed
through about an hour before. Now a pale blue sky stretched
overhead. He pressed the doorbell and waited.

It was only a few seconds before Madame Kschessinska ap
peared. She was short and very slight, with a softly rounded
face and bright, inquisitive eyes. Her hair was wrapped in a
towel in the manner of a turban and she wore a man’s silk-
brocaded smoking jacket, which probably belonged to the Tsar.
‘I heard the gate creak,’ she began, but then she breathed
in sharply, realising it was not the Tsar. ‘I thought you were
somebody else.’

‘Madame Kschessinska,’ he said, ‘I am Inspector Pekkala,
the Tsar’s personal investigator.’ He reached up to his lapel and
turned it over, revealing the badge of his service.

‘The Emerald Eye. Nicky has often spoken about you.’
Suddenly she looked afraid. ‘Oh, no. Has something happened?
Is he all right?’

‘He is perfectly well.’

‘Then what brings you here, Inspector?’

‘May I come in?’

She hesitated for a moment, then swung the door wide and
stood back.

Pekkala followed her into a well-lit house, on whose walls hung
numerous framed programmes and posters from the Imperial Ballet.
In the front hall, peacock feathers sprouted from a brass umbrella
holder like a strange bouquet of flowers. Tucked in among the
feathers, Pekkala noticed one of the Tsar’s walking sticks, throated
with a band of gold engraved with the Imperial crest.

They sat in her kitchen, which looked out on to a small garden
where a willow tree draped its leaves over a wooden bench.

She served him coffee and toast with apricot jam.

‘Madame Kschessinska,’ Pekkala began, but then words failed
him and he gave her a desperate look.

‘Inspector,’ she said, reaching across the table and touching
the tips of her fingers against the gnarled bumps of his knuckles,
‘whatever this is, I am not in the habit of killing messengers who
bring bad news.’

‘I am glad to hear you say it,’ replied Pekkala. Then he
explained why he had come. When he got to the end of his story,
he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped drops of sweat off his
forehead. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘I would never have troubled
you with this if I could have found a way to refuse.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Kschessinska. ‘She knows about me.
She has known about me for years.’

‘Yes, I believe she does. It is also a mystery to me.’

For a moment, Kschessinska seemed lost in thought. Then she
brushed her hand across her mouth as an idea occurred to her.
‘How well do you get along with the Tsarina?’

‘Not well at all.’

‘Then I think, Inspector Pekkala, that this investigation really
has nothing to do with me.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It is about you, Inspector Pekkala.’ She got up and walked to
the open window. Outside, in the garden, a breeze rustled the
willow branches. ‘What do you think the Tsar will do when he
finds out you have been investigating him, especially on a matter
such as this?’

‘He will be furious,’ answered Pekkala, ‘but the Tsarina has
ordered the investigation. I cannot refuse the order, so the Tsar
can hardly blame me for coming here to speak with you.’

She turned and looked at him. ‘But he will blame you,
Pekkala, for the simple reason that he cannot blame his wife.
He will forgive her anything, no matter what she does, but what
about you, Pekkala?’

‘Now I am worried for both of us.’

‘You shouldn’t be,’ she replied. ‘I will not be hurt by this,
Inspector. If the Tsarina had wanted me out of the way, she
would have seen to that a long time ago. It is you she is after, I’m
afraid.’

Her words settled on him like a layer of dust. Everything she
said was true.

During the course of their conversation, it became clear to
Pekkala that Madame Kschessinska was, in almost every way,
the polar opposite of the Tsarina. For the Tsar to have fallen in
love with a woman like Kschessinska seemed not only plausible,
but inevitable.

‘Thank you, Madame Kschessinska,’ he said as she walked
him to the door.

‘You must not worry, Inspector,’ she replied. ‘The Tsarina may
try to feed you to the wolves, but from what I know about you,
you may be the one who ends up eating the wolf.’

One week later, Pekkala presented himself once again at the
Tsarina’s study door.

He found the Tsarina exactly as he had left her, lying on the
daybed. It was almost as if she had not moved since they’d last
parted company. She was knitting a sweater, the needles clicking
rhythmically.

‘I have concluded my investigation,’ he told her.

‘Yes?’ The Tsarina kept her eyes on her knitting. ‘And what
have you discovered, Inspector?’

‘Nothing, Majesty.’

The click of the knitting needles came abruptly to a stop. ‘What?’

‘I have discovered no irregularities.’

‘I see.’ She pressed her lips together, draining the blood from
the flesh.

‘In my opinion, Majesty,’ he continued, ‘everything is as it
should be.’

Her eyes filled with hate as she took in the meaning of his
words. ‘You listen to me, Pekkala,’ she said through clenched
teeth. ‘Before he died, my friend Grigori made clear that there is
a time of judgement coming. All secrets will be laid bare and for
those who have not followed a path of righteousness, there will be
no one to whom they can turn. And I wonder what will happen
to you on that day.’

Pekkala thought about Rasputin after the police had pulled
him from the river. Pekkala wondered what the Tsarina would
have said about the day of judgement if she could have seen
her friend that day, lying on the quayside with a bullet in his
head.

The Tsarina turned away. With a swipe of her hand, she
dismissed him.

After that, Pekkala sometimes came across Madame
Kschessinska, buying food in the Gostiny Dvor market or
shopping on the Passazh. They never spoke again, but they
always remembered to smile.

As often happened, by the time Pekkala had finished his tea, Babayaga had already fallen asleep, chin resting on her chest and breathing heavily.

He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. In the hallway, he took off his shoes and carried them, so as not to wake the others on his floor.

The next morning, when Pekkala walked into his office, Kirov was already there.

So was Major Lysenkova.

Kirov stood beside her, holding out his kumquat plant in its rust-coloured earthenware pot. ‘You should try one!’ he urged.

‘No, really,’ replied Lysenkova, ‘I would rather not.’

Neither of them had seen Pekkala come in.

‘You may never see another,’ persisted Kirov. Sunlight through the dusty window glinted off the waxy green leaves.

‘I wouldn’t mind that at all,’ answered Lysenkova.

Pekkala shut the door more loudly than usual.

Kirov jumped. ‘Inspector! There you are!’ He hugged the plant to his chest as if trying to take cover behind it.

‘What can we do for you, Major Lysenkova?’ asked Pekkala, taking off his coat and hanging it on the peg beside the door.

‘I came here to ask for your help,’ said Lysenkova. ‘As you might have heard, the Nagorski case has been reopened, and I am no longer in charge.’

‘I did hear that,’ said Pekkala.

‘In fact, I have been told that you and Major Kirov will be running the investigation from now on.’

‘We are?’ asked Kirov, as he replaced the plant on the windowsill.

‘I was just about to tell you,’ explained Pekkala.

‘The truth is,’ said Lysenkova, ‘I never wanted it in the first place.’

‘Why is that?’ asked Pekkala. ‘You seemed pretty certain before.’

‘I was certain about a number of things,’ replied Lysenkova, ‘and it turned out I was wrong about all of them. That’s why I need your help now.’

Pekkala nodded, slightly confused.

‘I need to keep working on the case,’ she said.

Pekkala sat down in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. ‘But you just said you didn’t want to be working on it in the first place.’

Lysenkova swallowed. ‘I can explain,’ she said.

Pekkala held open his hand. ‘Please do.’

‘Until yesterday,’ she began, ‘I’d never even heard of

Project Konstantin. Then, when Captain Samarin called, informing me that Colonel Nagorski had been killed, I told him he must have dialled the wrong number.’

‘Why did you think that?’

‘I am, as you know, an internal investigator. My task is to pursue crimes committed inside the NKVD. I was explaining that to Samarin when he told me he believed someone in the NKVD might actually be responsible for Nagorski’s death.’

Pekkala’s focus sharpened. ‘Did he say why?’

‘The location of the facility is a state secret,’ continued Lysenkova. ‘According to Samarin, the only people who had access to that information and who might have been able to infiltrate the facility were NKVD. We didn’t have time to discuss it any further. He told me to get out there as quickly as I could. At that point, I realised I didn’t have any choice, even though this was nothing like the cases I normally handle. I deal in cases of corruption, extortion, bribery, blackmail. Not murders, Inspector Pekkala. Not bodies that have been ground up by tank tracks! That’s why I didn’t spot the bullet fragment you pulled out of his skull.’

‘I don’t understand, Major. You say you never wanted the case, and it sounds to me as if you got your wish, but now you want to keep working on it?’

‘I don’t want to, Inspector, I
have
to. It’s only a matter of time before I’m accused of counter-revolutionary activity for coming to the wrong conclusion about Nagorski’s death. The only chance I’ve got is to remain on the case until it is solved, and the only person who can make that happen is you.’

Pekkala was silent for a while. ‘I understand,’ he said finally, ‘but I will have to speak with Major Kirov here before making any decision.’

‘I realise we did not get off to a good start, but I could be useful to you.’ Her voice had taken on a tone of pleading. ‘I know how the NKVD works, inside and out. Once you start investigating them, they will close ranks and you’ll never get a word out of them. But I can and I will, if you’ll let me.’

‘Very well.’ Pekkala took his feet off the desk and stood up. ‘We will let you know our decision as soon as we can. Before you go, Major, I do have one question to ask you.’

‘Of course, Inspector. Anything.’

‘What do you know about the White Guild?’ asked Pekkala, as he walked her out into the hall.

‘Not a great deal, I’m afraid. It’s some kind of top secret department in the Bureau of Special Operations.’

‘Have you heard them mentioned recently?’

‘Special Operations is a tribe of phantoms, Inspector. You ought to know that, since you’re one of them. Where I come from nobody even speaks their name.’

‘Thank you, Major,’ sighed Pekkala.

‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ From her pocket, Lysenkova removed a stained and tattered piece of paper. ‘Consider this a peace offering.’

Pekkala squinted at the document. At first glance, what he saw looked to him like Arabic writing on the page. Then he realised it was actually scientific equations, dozens of them, completely covering the paper. ‘Where did this come from?’ he asked.

‘I found it in Nagorski’s pocket.’

‘Do you have any idea what it means?’

‘None,’ she told him.

‘Does anyone else know about this?’

She shook her head.

He folded up the page. ‘I appreciate this, Major.’

‘Then I will hear from you?’

‘Yes.’

She paused, as if there might be something else to say, but then she turned away and walked back down the stairs.

Kirov came and stood beside Pekkala. They listened to her footsteps fading away.

‘I never thought I would feel sorry for that woman,’ said Kirov.

‘But you do.’

‘A little.’

‘From the way you were talking to her, I’d say you felt a little more than sorry.’

Back inside the office, Pekkala busied himself straightening piles of papers which had slid in miniature avalanches across the surface of his desk.

‘What’s bothering you, Inspector?’ asked Kirov. ‘You never tidy up your desk unless something is bothering you.’

‘I am not certain about taking her on,’ replied Pekkala.

‘I don’t think we have a choice,’ replied Kirov. ‘If Captain Samarin was right that the NKVD were involved, we’ll never get to the bottom of this without her working on the case.’

‘Your willingness to work with Major Lysenkova wouldn’t have anything to do with …’

‘With those eyes?’ asked Kirov. ‘Those …’

‘Exactly.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector.’

‘No,’ muttered Pekkala. ‘Of course you don’t.’

‘Besides,’ continued Kirov, ‘if we don’t give Major Lysenkova a chance to set things straight with Comrade Stalin, you know what will happen to her.’

Pekkala did know, because the same thing had happened to him during the Revolution, when he was arrested by
Bolshevik Guards on his way out of the country. He thought back to the months he had spent in a solitary confinement cell, the endless interrogations and his sanity wearing so thin he no longer knew what remained of it. And then came the winter’s night when he was delivered, still wearing his flimsy beige prison pyjamas, to a railroad siding on the outskirts of Moscow. There, he boarded a train bound for Siberia.