“I was afraid you were going to say that,” said the Tsar. He sat back in his chair, letting his eyes wander across the gold-leafed titles of the books upon his shelves. “So we’ve got no answers at all.”
“We do have one,” replied Pekkala, placing something on the desk before the Tsar—a crumpled knot of gray the size of a robin’s egg.
The Tsar picked it up. “What’s this? Feels heavy.”
“Lead.” The candle flame trembled. A thread of molten wax poured into the frog’s open mouth.
“Is this the bullet?” He studied it with one eye closed, like a jeweler studying a diamond.
“Two bullets fused together,” replied Pekkala.
“Two? And where did you get them?”
“I removed them from the skull of the dead man.”
The Tsar dropped the bullets back onto the desk. “You could have told me that before.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his fingers.
“While the police were examining the gun,” explained Pekkala, “I decided to examine the body. It was not the gun that malfunctioned, Majesty. It was the bullet.”
“I don’t understand.” The Tsar frowned. “How does a bullet malfunction?”
“The bullet he fired at me contained the wrong amount of gunpowder. The weapon was of poor quality, as was the ammunition that came with it. When the gun discharged, the cartridge ejected, but it only drove the bullet into the barrel, where it became stuck. Then next time he pulled the trigger, a second bullet smashed into the first …”
“And both bullets went into his head at the same time.”
“Precisely.”
“Meanwhile, the world thinks you’re some kind of sorcerer.” The Tsar brushed his fingers through his beard. “Have you informed the police about this discovery of yours?”
“It was late by the time I had finished my investigation. I will inform the Petrograd chief first thing in the morning. He can then make an announcement to the public.”
“Now, Pekkala.” The Tsar rested his fingertips on the desktop, like a man about to begin playing a piano. “I want you to do something for me.”
“And what is that, Majesty?”
“Nothing.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I want you to do nothing.” He gestured towards the door, beyond which lay the vast expanse of Russia. “Let them believe what they want to believe.”
“That the bullet disappeared?”
The Tsar picked up the piece of lead and dropped it in the pocket of his waistcoat. “It has disappeared,” he said.
“YOU WERE THERE?” ASKED PEKKALA.
“I happened to be passing through the marketplace,” Maximov replied. “I saw the whole thing. I’ve always wondered how you managed to survive.”
“Later on,” replied Pekkala, “when you have answered some of my questions, perhaps I can answer some of yours.”
The cottage belonging to Nagorski was of the type known as a dacha. Built in the traditional style, with a thatched roof and shuttered windows, it had clearly been here many years longer than the facility itself. Perched at the edge of a small lake, the dacha was the only building in sight. Except for a clearing around the cottage itself, dense forest crowded down to the water’s edge.
It was still and peaceful here. Now that the clouds had cleared away, the surface of the lake glowed softly in the fading sunlight. Out on the water, a man sat in a rowboat. In his right hand he held a fishing rod. His arm waved gently back and forth. The long fly line, burning silver as it caught the rays of the sunset, stretched out from the tip of the rod, curving back upon itself and stretching out again until the speck of the fly touched down upon the surface of the lake. Around the man, tiny insects swirled like bubbles in champagne.
Pekkala was so focused on this image that he did not see a woman come around from the back of the house until she stood in front of him.
The woman looked very beautiful but tired. An air of quiet desperation hung about her. Tight curls waved across her short, dark hair. Her chin was small and her eyes so dark that the blackness of her irises seemed to have flooded out into her pupils.
Ignoring Pekkala, the woman turned to Maximov, who was getting out of the car. “Who is this man,” she asked, “and why is he so filthy dirty, as well as being dressed like an undertaker?”
“This is Inspector Pekkala,” Maximov answered, “from the Bureau of Special Operations.”
“Pekkala,” she echoed. “Oh, yes.” The dark eyes raked his face. “You arrested my husband in the middle of his lunch.”
“Detained,” replied Pekkala. “Not arrested.”
“I thought that was all cleared up.”
“It was, Mrs. Nagorski.”
“So why are you here?” She spat out the words as if her mouth was filled with shards of glass.
Pekkala could tell that a part of her already knew. It was as if she had been expecting this news, not just today but for a very long time.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked hoarsely.
Pekkala nodded.
Maximov reached out to lay his hand upon her shoulder.
Angrily, she brushed his touch away. Then her hand flew back, catching Maximov across the face. “You were supposed to take care of him!” she shrieked, raising her fists and bringing them down hard against his chest with a sound like muffled drumbeats.
Maximov staggered back, too stunned by her fury to resist.
“That was your job!” she shouted. “He took you in. He gave you a chance when no one else would. And now this! This is how you repay him?”
“Mrs. Nagorski,” whispered Maximov, “I did everything I could for him.”
Mrs. Nagorski stared at the big man as if she did not even know who he was. “If you had done everything,” she sneered, “my husband would still be alive.”
The figure in the boat turned his head to see where the shouting had come from.
Pekkala could see now that it was a young man, and he knew it must be the Nagorskis’ son, Konstantin.
The young man reeled in his line, set the fishing rod aside and took up the oars. Slowly, he made his way towards the shore, oars creaking in the brass wishbones of the oarlocks, water dripping from the oar blades like a stream of mercury.
Mrs. Nagorski turned and walked back towards the dacha. As she climbed the first step to the porch, she stumbled. One arm reached out to brace herself against the planks. Her hands were shaking. She sank down on the steps.
By then Pekkala had caught up with her.
She glanced at him, then looked away again. “I always said this project would destroy him, one way or another. I must see my husband.”
“I would not advise that,” replied Pekkala.
“I will see him, Inspector. Immediately.”
Hearing the determination in the widow’s voice, Pekkala realized there was no point in trying to dissuade her.
The rowboat ground up against the shore. The boy hauled in his oars with the unconscious precision of a bird folding its wings, then stepped out of the tippy boat. Konstantin was head and shoulders taller than his mother, with her dark eyes and unkempt hair that needed washing. His heavy canvas trousers were patched at the knees and looked as if they had belonged to someone else before they came to him. He wore a sweater with holes in the elbows and his bare feet were speckled with bug bites, although he did not seem to notice them.