Free Red Icon by Sam Eastland

of some arctic shaman.
    ‘You said something about a message.’ Pekkala wiped the polish from his fingers on to an old dish towel he carried as a handkerchief.
    ‘Ah, yes. The message is that you should come at once.’
    ‘Come where, Stefanov?’
    ‘To Madame Vyroubova’s house.’
    ‘Is she all right?’
    ‘Seemed so to me. I was passing by her house when she called to me out of a window. Said to fetch you right away.’
    Pekkala nodded. ‘Very well.’
    Stefanov replaced his cap and stepped back into the road, heels scuffing in the sandy yellow gravel. ‘That is all I have to say,’ he announced solemnly. Then he paused for a moment, as if to reconsider. ‘No,’ he reassured himself. ‘That’s all of it.’
    ‘Thank you, Stefanov.’
    ‘Thank you, sir!’ The gardener smiled, revealing the grey stumps of long-neglected teeth. He raised one finger in a farewell salute, like a man testing the direction of the wind, then set off down the road.
    Pekkala did not bother to change. Quickly, he reassembled the revolver, his movements so practised that they required no conscious thought. After loading the gun, he put on his leather shoulder holster, a pattern of his own invention which held the revolver almost horizontally across his chest. With the familiar weight of the Webley resting on his solar plexus, he put on his heavy, double-breasted coat, laced up his boots and set out towards Vyroubova’s.
    Her house stood at the opposite end of the Tsarskoye Selo estate. Pekkala neither rode a horse, nor owned a car or bicycle. He preferred, whenever possible, to travel on his own two feet. In spite of Vyroubova’s command to come at once, Pekkala did not hurry. He knew from experience that when Vyroubova wanted something, no matter how trivial, it was always a matter of urgency, requiring that everyone around her drop everything until the task had been completed to her satisfaction. So he took his time, strolling with his hands behind his back, while dust from the path settled on his freshly polished boots, and it was some time before he arrived at the squat stone building which Vyroubova called home.
    The door opened just as he was reaching for the brass ring that served as a knocker. Vyroubova, in a lavender-coloured dress with white ruffles at the throat, gazed down her nose at him, eyebrows crooked into chevrons of indignation. ‘I sent for you to come at once! If my house had been on fire . . .’
    ‘You would not have called on me, Vyroubova, nor sent the gardener to do it.’
    She flashed him a humourless smile and stood aside to let him pass. As Pekkala stepped inside, he smelled the cloying fragrance of perfume, mixed with the sharp odour of carbolic soap and cigarette smoke sunk into the curtains and upholstered chairs. Turning the corner into the sitting room, he realised that Vyroubova already had a guest.
    It was the Tsarina.
    Although Pekkala had not expected this, seeing the Tsarina here did not catch him entirely by surprise. She was often to be found in the company of Vyroubova. This cottage served as her refuge from life at the Alexander Palace, the Romanovs’ own residence on the Tsarskoye Selo estate, where the Tsarina could seldom find a moment to herself. Vyroubova’s house doubled as a meeting place for guests, such as Rasputin, whose presence at the palace might cause complications.
    Now Pekkala knew who had really called him to this rendezvous. The only thing he didn’t know was why.
    ‘Kind of you to join us, Inspector,’ said the Tsarina. She sat straight-backed in a chair by the window. Sunlight through the gauzy day curtains made it difficult to see her face. She wore the long grey dress of an army nurse, with a red cross emblazoned upon the off-white apron which covered her chest and extended the full length of the dress itself. On the Tsarina’s orders, a portion of the Catherine Palace, also located on the estate, had recently been converted into a hospital for wounded