“What is it?” demanded Pekkala. “Is she all right?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Stalin. He laid the picture down, placed a finger on top of it, and slid the photograph towards Pekkala.
Pekkala snatched it up. It was Ilya. He recognized her instantly. She was sitting at a small café table. Behind her, printed on the awning of the café, he saw the words Les Deux Magots. She was smiling. He could see her strong white teeth. Now, reluctantly, Pekkala’s gaze shifted to the man who was sitting beside her. He was thin, with dark hair combed straight back. He wore a jacket and tie and the stub of a cigarette was pinched between his thumb and second finger. He held the cigarette in the Russian manner, with the burning end balanced over his palm as if to catch the falling ash. Like Ilya, the man was also smiling. Both of them were watching something just to the left of the camera. On the other side of the table was an object which at first Pekkala almost failed to recognize, since it had been so long since he had seen one. It was a baby carriage, its hood pulled up to shelter the infant from the sun.
Pekkala realized he wasn’t breathing. He had to force himself to fill his lungs.
Stalin rested his fist against his lips. Quietly, he cleared his throat, as if to remind Pekkala that he was not alone in the room.
“How did you get this?” asked Pekkala, his voice gone suddenly hoarse.
“We know the whereabouts of every Russian émigré in Paris.”
“Is she in danger?”
“No,” Stalin assured him. “Nor will she be. I promise you that.”
Pekkala stared at the baby carriage. He wondered if the child had her eyes.
“You must not blame her,” Stalin told him. “She waited, Pekkala. She waited a very long time. Over ten years. But a person cannot wait forever, can they?”
“No,” admitted Pekkala.
“As you see”-Stalin gestured towards the picture-“Ilya is happy now. She has a family. She is a teacher, of Russian, of course, at the prestigious Ecole Stanislas. No one would dare to say she does not love you still, Pekkala, but she has tried to put the past behind her. That is something all of us must do at some point in our lives.”
Slowly, Pekkala raised his head, until he was looking Stalin in the eye. “Why did you show this to me?” he asked.
Stalin’s lips twitched. “Would you rather have arrived in Paris, ready to start a new life, only to find that it was once more out of reach?”
“Out of reach?” Pekkala felt dizzy. His mind seemed to rush from one end of his skull to the other, like fish trapped in a net.
“You could still go to her, of course.” Stalin shrugged. “I have her address if you want it. One look at you and whatever peace of mind she might have won for herself in these past years would be gone forever. And let us say, for the sake of argument, that you might persuade her to leave the man she married. Let us say that she even leaves behind her child-”
“Stop,” said Pekkala.
“You are not that kind of man, Pekkala. You are not the monster that your enemies once believed you to be. If you were, you would never have been such a formidable opponent for people like myself. Monsters are easy to defeat. With such people, it is only a question of blood and time, since their only weapon is fear. But you-you won the hearts of the people and the respect of your enemies. I do not believe you understand how rare a thing that is, and those whose hearts you won are out there still.” Stalin brushed his hand towards the window, and out across the pale blue autumn sky. “They know how difficult your job can be, and how few of those who walk your path can do what must be done and still hold on to their humanity. They have not forgotten you. And I don’t believe you have forgotten them.”
“No,” whispered Pekkala, “I have not forgotten.”
“What I am trying to tell you, Pekkala, is that you still have a place here if you want it.”
Until that moment, the thought of staying on had not occurred to him. But now the plans he’d made held no meaning. Pekkala realized that his last gesture of affection for the woman he’d once thought would be his wife must be to let her believe he was dead.
“More than a place,” continued Stalin. “Here, you will have a purpose. I realize how dangerous your work can be. I know the risks you take, and I cannot promise that the odds of your survival will improve. But we need someone like you…” Suddenly Stalin seemed to falter, as if even he could not fathom why Pekkala would continue to shoulder such a burden.
In that moment, Pekkala thought of his father, of the dignity and patience he had learned from that old man.
“The job…” Stalin grasped for words.
“Matters,” said Pekkala.
“Yes.” Stalin breathed out. “It matters. To them.” Once more, he gestured towards the window, as if to take in the vastness of the country with a single sweep of his hand. Then he brought his hand in and his palm thumped hard against his chest. “To me.” Now Stalin’s confidence returned, and all confusion vanished, as if a shadow had been lifted from his face. “You might be interested to know,” he continued, “that I have spoken to Major Kirov. He made a couple of requests.”
“What did he want?”
Stalin grunted. “The first thing he wanted was my pipe.”
Pekkala glanced at the empty pipe holder on the desk.
“It was such a strange thing to ask for that I actually gave it to him.” Stalin shook his head, still puzzled. “It was a good one. English briar wood.”
“What was his other request?”
“He asked to work with you again, if the opportunity ever presented itself. I hear he is a decent cook,” said Stalin.
“A chef,” replied Pekkala.
Stalin thumped the desk. “Even better! This is a big country, filled with terrible food, and someone like that would be good to have along.”
Pekkala’s face was still unreadable.
“So.” Stalin sat back in his chair and touched the tips of his fingers together. “Would the Emerald Eye consider an assistant?”
For a long time, Pekkala sat there in silence, staring into space.
“I need an answer, Pekkala.”
Slowly, Pekkala stood. “Very well,” he said. “I will return to work at once.”
Now Stalin rose to his feet. He reached across the desk and shook Pekkala’s hand. “And what should I tell Major Kirov?”
“Tell him,” said Pekkala, “that two eyes are better than one.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author would like to thank the following, in alphabetical order, for their help and encouragement in the writing of this book: Loyale Coles, Randall Klein, Brian McLendon, Bill McMann, Steve Messina, Kate Miciak, Nita Taublib, and all the others who make up the extraordinary team at Bantam Dell and The Random House Publishing Group.
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO THE ROMANOVS?
On February 1, 1918, Russia switched from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar, which was in use elsewhere in the world. The Julian system was twelve days behind the Gregorian system until March 1900, after which it was thirteen days behind. For the sake of accuracy, the dates I have listed are what the Russians themselves would have used, being from the Julian calendar until the time the switch was made and thereafter from the Gregorian calendar.
FEBRUARY 1917
Conditions for Russian soldiers on the battlefront against the German and Austro-Hungarian armies have reached the breaking point. Demonstrations and workers’ strikes spread through most Russian cities, including Moscow and Petrograd.
MARCH 2, 1917
Nicholas II abdicates, naming his brother Mikhail as the heir to the Russian throne and passing over his own son, Alexei, whom he believes to be too young and frail to withstand the strain of leading the country.