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Pekkala bowed, suddenly aware of his threadbare corduroys, his dusty boots and unbuttoned coat.

‘You must be wondering why you’re here,’ said the Tsarina.

‘I am now, Majesty,’ he replied.

‘I thought that you should be the first to know,’ continued the Tsarina. ‘A robbery has taken place. The icon of
The Shepherd
has been stolen from the house of Grigori Rasputin.’

Pekkala’s first instinct was to doubt what he had just been told. As far as he knew, nothing had ever been stolen from Rasputin. There was no need to rob a man who gladly made a gift of everything he owned. In fact, thought Pekkala, that’s probably what happened. Rasputin got drunk and gave it away and now that he has sobered up he can’t remember who he gave it to. But, for now at least, he kept his suspicions to himself. ‘Has the Tsar been informed?’ he asked.

‘He will be, in due course.’

Pekkala heard a floorboard creak and turned to see Vyroubova waiting in the doorway.

Her small eyes glittered.

‘Do not stand behind the Inspector,’ cautioned the Tsarina. ‘He is liable to shoot you with that English cannon which he carries beneath his coat. Perhaps you would be kind enough to bring the Inspector some refreshment.’

Mechanically, Vyroubova stepped back into the hall. A moment later came the sound of her clattering about in the kitchen.

‘The Tsar should be notified at once,’ said Pekkala. ‘The loss of that icon . . .’

‘The Tsar is very busy with affairs at Mogilev,’ snapped the Tsarina, ‘and I know perfectly well what the loss of
The Shepherd
means to this country.’

‘I’ll go to Rasputin,’ said Pekkala, ‘and find out exactly what took place.’

‘I have just told you what happened,’ snapped the Tsarina, ‘and as for you bothering Grigori, I have a better idea.’

‘And what is that, Majesty?’

The Tsarina lifted her hand from where it balanced on her knee. With a careless gesture, she twisted her fingers in the air. ‘Do nothing,’ she told him.

Pekkala’s eyes widened. ‘Nothing?’

‘An investigation now would only draw attention to its loss.’

‘Not as much as if it became known that we had taken no steps to recover the icon.’

‘That is why,’ continued the Tsarina, ‘we will inform the public that the icon is being restored, and that this work is likely to take some time. No one would find it unusual.’

‘That is a lie which will not hold for long, Majesty. The icon could surface again at any time.’

‘Agreed, but by then the war may be over and the country will have turned its attention to other things.’

‘I really should speak with Rasputin,’ insisted Pekkala.

The Tsarina breathed in slowly, the air whistling faintly through her nose. ‘Leave him be, Pekkala. He had no role in this.’

‘Forgive me, Majesty, but you have just told me that the icon was stolen from his house!’ exclaimed Pekkala.

‘So you think our dear friend is the one who stole it?’ The Tsarina smiled faintly at the absurdity of this idea, her expression almost hidden in the flare of sunlight through the curtains.

‘No,’ answered Pekkala, ‘but others will. He is very much a part of this, whether he intended to be or not. Surely you would want me to prove his innocence.’

The Tsarina sighed. ‘Very well. Go then, if you insist. But be careful, Pekkala. These days, there is danger everywhere.’

At that moment, Vyroubova reappeared from the kitchen. In her hand, she held a glass of water. ‘Your refreshment, Inspector,’ she said quietly.

‘Some other time perhaps,’ he told her as he walked out through the door.

Vyroubova watched him fade away among the trees, until all that remained was the sound of his footsteps crunching on the gravel path.

‘I warned him,’ said the Tsarina.

‘He listened but he did not understand,’ remarked Vyroubova.

‘Oh, he understood me perfectly,’ replied the Tsarina. ‘He is simply doing what he has often done before.’

‘And what is that, Majesty?’

‘Whatever he chooses,’ answered the Tsarina, ‘only this time he will regret it.’

Later that same day, as Pekkala entered the gloomy courtyard of Rasputin’s house in Petrograd, he noticed several newly smashed bottles on the cobblestones. The vinegary reek of spilled wine drilled into his senses. Glancing up, he caught sight of a figure staring down at him from one of the windows at the top. That was Rasputin’s floor, and Pekkala recognised the figure as Grigori himself, wearing only a sleeveless white undershirt, his bare arms sinewy with muscle. Although he rarely used it, Rasputin was a man of great physical strength. With a rustle of the curtains, he disappeared back into the room.

Once more, Pekkala trudged up the stairs. At each of the three floors leading up to Rasputin’s apartment, he studied the closed doors which led to the rooms of the building’s other inhabitants. He wondered what they thought of the constant tramp of visitors to the apartment on the top floor. Whatever their suspicions, they had doubtless learned to keep their opinions to themselves. News of any confrontation with Rasputin would soon find its way to the ears of the Tsarina, to be followed swiftly by a visit from special agents of the Tsar’s Secret Service, whose task it was to smooth over, with bribes if possible, by force if necessary, Rasputin’s increasingly difficult reputation. Rasputin himself seemed barely aware of these gun-toting guardian angels, who often delivered him senseless to his lodgings after a night at the Villa Roda. Waking fully clothed upon his unmade bed, in the early afternoon of the following day, with no idea of how he came to be there, the Siberian would simply consign the missing hours to oblivion and throw open his door to the next group of guests in search of salvation or cash.

This time, however, when Pekkala arrived on the landing, he found the door locked. Gently, he bounced his knuckles off the wood, then, when no one answered, less gently, and finally, he pounded with his fist so that the hinges rattled on their pins.

Eventually, there came the creak of footsteps on the other side, the clunk of a lock being turned, and the door creaked open, just wide enough to show one of Rasputin’s eyes, peering nervously out into the hall. ‘Inspector!’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

‘You knew it was me,’ replied Pekkala.

Rasputin cleared his throat. ‘Well, it so happens I was just on my way out. You’ll have to come back some other time.’

‘Then I’ll walk you down to the street, Grigori, and keep you company wherever you are going.’

‘No,’ muttered Rasputin. ‘I am very busy. There is no time for talk.’

Pekkala set his toe upon the door and pushed.

At first, Rasputin tried to hold him back, but then, with a growl of surrender, he let go.

In the time it had taken Pekkala to climb the stairs, Rasputin had changed from his white undershirt into a red tunic with black trousers and knee-length, calfskin boots. He was in the process of fastening around his waist a woven horsehair belt with an intricate, silver buckle, fashioned in the Cossack style, like two halves of a scallop shell split open end to end.

The walls, Pekkala noted, had been freshly painted in a particular shade of mauve which was the choice of the Tsarina for her own rooms in the Alexander Palace. ‘An interesting colour choice,’ he remarked.

‘You know perfectly well it wasn’t my idea,’ Rasputin mumbled into his beard.

‘Why did she want it done?’

Rasputin shrugged, rolling his shoulders as if he were in pain. ‘She didn’t want the icon hanging on a dirty wall.’

‘What did the owners of the apartment have to say about that?’

To this, Rasputin laughed. ‘What could they say, except to thank her for her generosity? Now, perhaps we can talk about all this at a later time.’ He moved to push past the Inspector.

Pekkala held out his arm and set his thumb and first two fingers, like the spear tips of a trident, against the Siberian’s chest. ‘Grigori,’ he said, ‘it can’t wait.’

At this, Rasputin’s resolve seemed to fail him. ‘You should not have come here,’ he whispered. ‘I told her to keep you away.’

‘She tried,’ answered Pekkala.

‘I asked her to keep it a secret!’

‘She knew I would find out eventually. That’s why she told me herself.’

With a sigh, Rasputin turned and stared at the empty space on the wall, marked only by a nail driven into the surface. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is the scene of the crime.’

‘When was the icon stolen, Grigori?’

‘It disappeared last night, while I was out.’

‘Out where?’

‘Here and there.’

‘Grigori,’ said Pekkala, his voice growing cold with impatience, ‘I need you to be specific.’

‘Well,’ began Rasputin, scratching his head with his long fingernails as he struggled to recall, ‘first I went to Yar, the gypsy restaurant in Petrovsky Park. The Lebedevs were playing. I stayed until they closed and then I went over to the Bear Café.’

‘I thought you were thrown out of there,’ said Pekkala.

‘Oh, I was,’ agreed Rasputin. ‘I am always thrown out of the Bear. I walked home from there and that’s when I noticed it was gone.’

Pekkala turned towards the door. Carefully, he brushed his fingers over the latch mechanism. ‘It shows no sign of being forced.’

‘I may not have locked it,’ answered Rasputin. ‘Sometimes I forget.’

Now Pekkala began to look around the room. He noticed the blue-and-white washbowl, decorated with scenes of pagodas and men fishing from spindly boats. It was half full of money. ‘Strange,’ he said, ‘that this should have been left by the thieves.’

‘Perhaps they just came for one thing,’ offered Rasputin. ‘They found it, they took it and that’s that.’

‘So what you are telling me,’ continued Pekkala, ‘is that whoever robbed you knew the icon was here.’

‘They must have.’

‘And which of your recent visitors expressed an interest in the icon?’

‘Don’t drag them into this!’ Rasputin began pacing about the room. ‘I assure you they had nothing to do with it.’

‘So let us say, for the sake of argument, that none of your guests were involved.’

‘That’s more like it!’ Rasputin clapped his hands. ‘Now we are seeing eye to eye.’

But Pekkala wasn’t finished with him yet. ‘And yet you maintain that the thieves came with only one object in mind. Or else, surely, they would have taken other things of value, such as this bowl of cash.’

‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying.’ Sensing that he was being led into a snare, Rasputin screwed up his face. ‘At least, I think I am,’ he added.

‘But whoever stole the icon knew that it had been moved from the Church of the Resurrection to your home. And if it wasn’t one of your guests, then who else besides the Romanovs knew it was here?’

Rasputin twisted a finger in his beard. ‘I didn’t tell anyone.’

‘Why not, Grigori?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Certainly, it would have been an interesting topic of conversation.’

‘You think I have nothing else to talk about?’ snapped Rasputin. ‘Besides, you know perfectly well what would happen if the wrong people found out. They hate me enough as it is.’

‘So you didn’t tell anyone.’

‘I just told you I didn’t!’

‘Then who is left?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Surely you don’t mean to implicate the Tsarina herself?’

Rasputin clasped the Inspector’s arms and shook him gently. ‘Stay away from those thoughts, my old friend!’ he hissed. ‘Don’t even dare to think them! Instead, just ask yourself what matters more – the things that give us peace or peace itself?’

‘Do you really believe that this icon can bring an end to the war?’

‘Perhaps.’ Rasputin nodded. ‘But if we are not careful it could be the end of us as well.’

‘I don’t see how,’ replied Pekkala. ‘I have seen that icon and it’s just a picture of a man and some sheep, which does not strike me as particularly worrisome.’

‘It’s what lies behind the picture that should worry you. You cannot see it, Pekkala, but this picture is dripping with blood.’ And when Rasputin next began to speak, quoting from the Gospel of St Matthew, his voice turned low and steady, like that of a man in a trance. ‘
And before him shall be gathered all nations, and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats. And he shall set his sheep on his right hand and his goats upon the left. Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand – Come ye who are blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world
.’

‘And what happens to the goats?’ Pekkala wondered aloud.

‘What do you think?’ demanded Rasputin. ‘They are slaughtered and their bodies are cast into the fire. There is nothing gentle about
The Shepherd
, Inspector. Quite the contrary. Contained within that image is all the fury of the Last Judgement. And as far as the rulers of this country were concerned, that is exactly what this icon could deliver – not just protection for themselves but oblivion for their enemies. Whoever possesses this image holds the key to Armageddon. That is why you must turn around now, Pekkala, and walk away from this while you still can.’

Pekkala slowly shook his head. ‘It’s too late now, Grigori.’

‘I see there’s no convincing you.’ Rasputin’s hands slipped away from their grasp upon Pekkala’s coat sleeves. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Maybe it is just a painting, and one day all that will be left are the ghosts who once adored it.’

After leaving Rasputin’s apartment, Pekkala descended the stairs and strode across the uneven cobblestones of the courtyard, boots crunching on shards of broken wine bottles. He emerged into the street, turned right, and began to make his way to the station, where a short train ride would bring him back to Tsarskoye Selo. He had travelled that route many times, and knew each sway of the carriages as they clattered towards their destination. Even at night, he could tell by the pitch of the engine exactly where they were upon the journey.

Pekkala paused to watch a car speeding down the street. It was a beautiful, open-topped Opel saloon car, belonging to the Grand Duke Pavel Alexandrovich, a career cavalry officer and commander of the Garde du Corps. Although his rank and position dictated that he should be driven by a chauffeur, the Grand Duke preferred to do his own driving and would often make his chauffeur sit in the back while Alexandrovich, with the chauffeur’s cap wedged on to his head, would steer the car at high speed through the busy streets of Petrograd. Pekkala recognised the stiff moustache of the Grand Duke, wearing the high-necked tunic of a Grodno Hussar. In the back, with arms folded and staring sullenly into space, sat the bare-headed chauffeur.