The Red Coffin by Sam Eastland Page A

folded hands. With his soft blue eyes, the Tsar regarded Pekkala. ‘Are you sure you are all right?’
    ‘Yes, Majesty,’ replied Pekkala.
    ‘Well, I’m not, I don’t mind telling you,’ replied the Tsar. ‘What the hell happened, Pekkala? I heard some madman shot you in the chest, but the bullet vanished in mid-air. The police checked out the gun. Their report indicates that it is functioning perfectly. The whole city is talking about this. You should hear the absurdities they’re uttering. They believe you’re supernatural. By tomorrow, it will be all over the country. Any idea who this man was, or why he was trying to kill you?’
    ‘No, Majesty. He was carrying no identification. His body had no distinctive marks, no tattoos, scars or moles. All the labels had been removed from his clothes. Nor does he match the 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 grey 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 jeweller appraising a diamond.
    ‘Two bullets fused together,’ replied Pekkala.
    ‘Two?’ asked the Tsar. ‘And where did you get them?’
    ‘I removed them from the skull of the dead man.’
    The Tsar dropped the bullets back on to 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 mal functioned, 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 gun powder. 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?’
    ‘Not yet. It was late by the time I had finished my investiga tion. 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 desk top, 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.

‘You were there?’ asked Pekkala.
    ‘You were there?’ asked Pekkala.
    ‘I happened to be passing through the market place,’ replied Maximov. ‘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