description of anyone currently wanted by the police. It is likely we will never know who he was, or why he attempted to kill me.”
“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
.
“Y OU WERE THERE ?” ASKED P EKKALA .
“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
“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
.
“Y OU WERE THERE ?” ASKED P EKKALA .
“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
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