Red Icon (8 page)

It was late in the day now and even though the sun had not yet set, shadows filled the streets and the horse-drawn droshky carriages making their way along the road had already lit their lanterns.

At that moment, from the corner of his eye, Pekkala caught a glimpse of somebody following behind him in the exact spot where a person would be if they wanted to remain unnoticed. It could simply have been a coincidence. The streets were busy, after all, but Pekkala had an inkling that something was not right. To make sure, one way or the other, he slowed and then knelt down, pretending to tie one of his bootlaces. If the man walked past, the chances were that Pekkala was not being followed. But the man hung back, and Pekkala’s suspicions grew. Standing, he crossed the street and as he stepped from the pavement, he glanced casually to his left. He saw a tall, heavyset man with a lumbering gait, his face almost hidden beneath a long-brimmed wool cap of the type worn by newsboys who sold late editions of the
Ryetch
newspaper at street corners during the evening rush hour. His long coat was unbuttoned and the hem flapped around his calves as he walked. He also wore a pair of greyish-white suede gloves, which struck Pekkala as unusual for the time of year.

The man did not appear to be carrying a gun. Certainly, there was no shoulder holster and the open coat revealed no weapon tucked into his belt.

Pekkala made no effort to confront the stranger, or to lose him in the crowds of commuters who had begun to fill the streets. Instead, he allowed the man to track him. Every few minutes, he paused at a shop window, pretending to examine things for sale. In fact, he was studying the man’s reflection in the glass.

Each time, the man would slow his pace, lower his head and turn, seemingly preoccupied, like someone who has just remembered something he forgot at home.

From his observations, Pekkala concluded that the man’s clothing was of Russian make, but not that of a city dweller. By the way he carefully hid his face, as well as maintaining a precise distance, not too close but never so far as to risk losing sight of his target, it was clear to Pekkala that the man did not desire an immediate confrontation.

Pekkala guessed that this man was not on his own errand, but was likely working for somebody else, and that this probably had less to do with him than it did with some transgression of Rasputin. Having no wish to become involved in one of Rasputin’s intrigues, Pekkala might normally have waited until he reached the station, busy at this time of day, before losing the man in the crowd.

But the conversation with Rasputin, combined with the theft of the icon, had unsettled him. Rasputin had been hiding something, and Pekkala knew that there would be much work ahead if he was to unravel the reason for the icon’s disappearance, let alone restore it to its rightful place in the cathedral. And there was a chance, however slim, that this man had something to do with it.

Pekkala decided to double back on the man. If he had to, he would make an arrest, but he hoped it would not come to that. If this lumbering giant was simply doing his job, as Pekkala suspected, it might be possible to learn all he needed to know with a few whispered words and a glimpse of the Emerald Eye.

There was an alleyway that ran parallel to the Gosciny Dvor, the main road to the station. The alley, known as St Christopher’s Way, was used primarily by tradesmen delivering goods to shops whose storefronts opened out on to the Gosciny. It was also where rubbish was placed, sometimes in large galvanised bins, but just as often dumped in the narrow thoroughfare, blocking the way for anyone who did not feel like kicking his way through the heaps of cardboard boxes and prickly bundles of hay used to cushion fragile objects on their journey from factory to store.

Pekkala ducked into the Watkins Bookshop, which had for many years kept Petrograd supplied with French and English and, until recently, German editions of novels not yet available in translation. He strode through the store, breathing in the dry and comforting smell of new books, and passing the alcoves where customers lounged in comfortable chairs, sometimes reading entire books in one sitting, or else falling completely asleep. Rather than evicting them, the staff would coax the sleepers back to consciousness with cups of sweet Kusmichov tea, and, whether from embarrassment or gratitude, they would usually end up buying more than they had planned to when they came in.

Pekkala exited the book shop into St Christopher’s Way, pushing past several splintery shipping crates. His plan was to run the length of the alley, turn back on to the Gosciny Dvor and catch the man as he waited outside the shop for Pekkala to emerge. He knew there was little danger of the man actually going inside. Even an untrained tracker knew better than to follow his quarry into a confined space where he would immediately give up the advantage of his anonymity.

Pekkala set off at a sprint down the alleyway, dodging past rubbish bins, bundled stacks of old newspapers and broken pieces of furniture. The sun had angled to the west and only at the very top of the alley could its coppery light be seen upon the brickwork and the windows of the garrets where bachelors and students lived in attic rooms whose angled ceilings made life miserable for anyone who dared to stand up straight.

He was just rounding the corner on to a side street, which would take him, with a dozen steps, to the crowded thoroughfare of the Gosciny, when he ploughed into someone coming from the other way.

As Pekkala staggered back, a muttered apology on his lips, he realised it was the man who had been following him. He had no time to contemplate the fact that he had misjudged both the man’s skill as a tracker and also his speed. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash, as if the light from a lantern on a passing droshky had winked off a shop window out on the main street. Then he felt something brush across his chest. He heard a dull click and one of his coat buttons went flying off over his shoulder. Now he understood that the flash had come from a blade, and that the man’s first swing with the cutting edge had sliced through the wool of his coat, glancing off the Webley in its holster on his chest.

The man brought his arm back, a long, strange knife gripped in his hand. It was about the same length as from the tip of a man’s fingers to his elbow, the end squared off and the back edge of the blade unusually thick, as if the knife was meant for wielding like an axe.

Pekkala saw that the man’s greyish-white suede gloves were not gloves at all but the actual colour of his skin. The man’s face, too, was pale and waxy, his features abnormally rounded and his eyes little more than slits in the puffy skin. He appeared, at first glance, to have no eyebrows, nor any facial hair at all and what there might have been on his head was hidden by the newsboy’s cap. He reminded Pekkala of a drowned fisherman he had once found washed up on the beach as a child, on the tiny Finnish island of Kovasin.

The man reached out to grab Pekkala’s coat. In his other hand, he held the knife.

Pekkala knew that if the man succeeded in getting a hold on his lapel, he would be knocked off balance, in which case he was as good as dead. There was no time, nor room enough to draw his gun. He jumped back, just as the man swung again with the knife and this time Pekkala felt a sharp stinging pain on the left side of his forehead. He stepped to the side as the man was carried forward by the momentum of his swing. Pekkala lunged, grabbing the wrist of the hand which held the knife. He twisted the man’s arm straight, forcing his shoulder to drop. Then, Pekkala smashed the heel of his left hand into the man’s elbow. He heard a faint crunch as one of the man’s tendons gave way. The man cried out through clenched teeth as the knife fell from his grasp and fell with a clatter into the alley.

By now, blood was pouring from the gash on Pekkala’s forehead. He could see nothing at all from his left eye. As yet, there was no pain, and he had no idea how badly he’d been cut.

With both hands still gripping the man’s arm, Pekkala swung him head first into the brick wall, then stepped back, giving himself enough space to finally reach for his gun. But his hand slipped instead into the lining of the coat, which had been torn open by the first swipe of the blade. By the time he had withdrawn his hand, ready to try again, it was too late.

The man had turned to face him. He was breathing heavily. His right hand hung useless at his side and his skin was scored with bloody creases where it had scraped against the wall.

For a moment, the two men remained motionless, only an arm’s length apart.

Pekkala had no idea where the knife had fallen. The alley was in darkness now and he knew it must have come to rest somewhere behind him. Perhaps the man could see it from where he stood. Pekkala wasn’t certain he could get to his revolver, or if his hand would once more become tangled in the lining of his coat. At this distance, it would have been foolish even to try.

For the first time, the man spoke. ‘Stay away,’ he whispered. Then he lunged at Pekkala, knocking him off balance.

Pekkala tripped backwards, his back striking hard against the ground. He gasped from the pain of his landing. With his consciousness flickering, he reached once more for his gun and this time his hand closed around the brass handle of the Webley. But it was no use. By the time he had drawn the weapon, the man was already gone.

Dazed by loss of blood, Pekkala lay there in the alley, his gaze fixed upon the silhouettes of pedestrians strolling past out on the Gosciny Dvor, completely unaware of what had happened only a few feet away. Then he slowly clambered to his feet. Half blind and groping about in the dirt, he searched for the knife until he found it lodged beneath a drainpipe. He tore a page from a stack of old newspapers, rolled it around the weapon and used another page to wipe some of the blood from his face. With gritted teeth, he touched his fingertips to the puckered wound. It wasn’t as bad as he had thought. The cut was deep but it hadn’t gone down to the bone.

An hour later, he was sitting in the office of Chief Inspector Vassileyev, head of the Petrograd Okhrana, wincing while a medic named Isaac Blaustein, hastily summoned from his dental practice across the street, stitched up the cut on Pekkala’s forehead.

‘This isn’t my line of work!’ protested the dentist.

‘Well, it was either you or me,’ replied Vassileyev. ‘We have a doctor on our staff, but he went home early today.’

‘Believe me,’ Pekkala said to Blaustein, ‘between you and Chief Inspector Vassileyev is no choice at all.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ answered the dentist, ‘but now will you please hold steady, Inspector!’

Vassileyev paced about the room, steadily making his way through several of the sixty Markov cigarettes he smoked each day. Stacks of red boxes, each one emblazoned in gold with the brand name, lined the Chief Inspector’s windowsill.

He had one wooden leg, having lost his right limb in an assassination attempt several years before. The prosthetic was heavy and caused him a great deal of pain and he could often be found with the leg laid out on his desk while he hollowed it out with a chisel, trying to reduce its weight. Now his footsteps marked uneven time upon the creaking floorboards.

It was Vassileyev himself who had trained Pekkala for his work as the Tsar’s personal investigator. As soon as he learned that Pekkala’s attacker had been tailing him before the fight in the alley, he immediately began to quiz his former student. ‘Did you stop to tie your shoes in order to see if he would pass you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you cross the road and glance back?’

‘Yes,’ answered Pekkala.

‘And did you stop in front of shop windows to study him in the reflection?’

‘Yes!’

Vassileyev patted Pekkala on the shoulder. ‘Good boy,’ he said quietly. ‘And don’t you worry. We’ll get him. This man was just a common crook.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ replied Pekkala. ‘Take a look at this.’ He held out the blood-stained scroll of newspaper, in which he had bundled the knife.

The Chief Inspector carefully unrolled the paper, then lifted up the weapon. He gave a low whistle. ‘The bastard went after you with this? What is it, anyway? I’ve never seen a blade like this before.’

‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ said the dentist. He had finished the stitches, sixteen of them in all, and now he was pouring rubbing alcohol over his hands, which he then dried with a handkerchief. ‘It’s a halal knife.’

‘A what?’ Vassileyev and Pekkala chimed in unison.

‘Halal,’ repeated Blaustein. ‘For the ritual slaughter of animals. That’s why it is so sharp.’

Vassileyev lifted a piece of writing paper from his desk and drew the knife vertically down the page. With a faint rustle, the blade cleaved it neatly in half. ‘My word, Pekkala,’ he muttered, ‘you don’t have many enemies, but those you do have certainly mean business!’

‘He told me to stay away,’ remarked Pekkala. ‘Those were the only words he spoke.’

‘If I were you,’ said the dentist, ‘I’d be tempted to take his advice.’

‘But stay away from what?’ Pekkala wondered out loud. ‘He was the one following me!’

‘Well, obviously,’ remarked Vassileyev, ‘he thought you’d understand.’

‘How do you know about this knife?’ Pekkala asked the dentist.

‘My father was a kosher butcher,’ answered Blaustein, ‘and a halal is the only blade that can be used to kill an animal for food. May I see it, please?’

Vassileyev turned the weapon and held it out, handle first, to the doctor.

Blaustein gripped the halal with the ease of someone who was used to handling knives. He studied the metal, lifting his small round glasses and placing them on top of his head.

‘What are you looking for?’ asked Vassileyev.

‘A maker’s mark,’ replied Blaustein. ‘Here.’ With the tip of his little finger, he indicated a small square, over-stamped with a cross. ‘This is the mark of the knife-smith Adi Melzer. His shop is on the Savodskaya Prospekt. My father used to buy from him.’

‘That’s a start,’ said Vassileyev. ‘I’ll send over one of my men, first thing in the morning.’

‘I’d rather handle this myself, Chief Inspector,’ replied Pekkala. ‘There is more to this than just a knife attack.’ He went on to explain about the missing icon.