Free Red Icon by Sam Eastland Page B

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