“No, Excellency. My sight is not impaired. I know what you are speaking of.” Pekkala reached one hand towards his eyes, as if to touch the light which seemed to emanate from them. “But I do not know why it is there.”

“Let us call it Fate,” said the Tsar. He rose from his chair and, taking the badge from its velvet cushion, pinned it to the cloth beneath the right lapel of Pekkala’s jacket. “You will be known from now on as the Emerald Eye. You shall have absolute authority in the fulfillment of your duties. No secrets may be withheld from you. There are no documents you cannot see upon request. There is no door you cannot walk through unannounced. You may requisition any mode of transport on the spot if you deem it necessary. You are free to come and go where you please and when you please. You may arrest anyone whom you suspect is guilty of a crime. Even me.”

“Excellency…” he began.

The Tsar held up a hand to silence him. “There can be no exceptions. Otherwise, it is all meaningless. I entrust you with the safety of this country and also with my life and the lives of my family, which brings us to the second box.”

Setting aside the now empty container in which the badge had rested, the Tsar opened the larger box.

Inside its fitted case lay a brass-handled Webley revolver.

“This was given to me by my cousin, George V.”

Pekkala had seen a picture of the two of them together hanging on the wall of the Tsar’s study-the King of England and the Tsar of Russia, two of the most powerful men in the world. The photo had been taken in England, with both men in formal boating clothes, after the Tsar had sailed there in his yacht, the Standart. The two men looked almost identical. Their expressions were the same, the shapes of their heads, their beards, their mouths, noses, and ears. Only their eyes showed any difference; the King’s more round than the Tsar’s.

“Go on,” the Tsar instructed. “Take it out.”

Pekkala lifted the gun gently from its box. It was heavy, but superbly balanced. The brass grips felt cold against his palm.

“The Empress won’t have it around,” the Tsar told him. “She says it is too sauvage for a man like me, whatever that means.”

Pekkala knew exactly what it meant, coming from a woman like the Empress, and he suspected the Tsar did as well.

“It was she who had the idea of presenting this to you. And do you know what I told her? I said that for a man like Pekkala, it might not be sauvage enough.” The Tsar laughed, but his face became abruptly serious. “The truth is, Pekkala, if my enemies came close enough to require that I use a gun like this, it would already be too late. That’s why it should belong to you.”

“It is very fine, Excellency, but you know how I feel about gifts.”

“Who said anything about a gift? That weapon and the badge are the tools of your trade, Pekkala. I am issuing them to you the same as any soldier in the army is issued what he needs for his work. I’ll have five thousand rounds of the correct ammunition delivered to your quarters tomorrow. That should keep you going for a while.”

Pekkala nodded once and was about to take his leave when the Tsar spoke to him again.

“This business with Grodek will make you famous, Pekkala. It cannot be avoided. There has been too much publicity since you brought him into custody. Some people thirst for fame. They will do anything to have it. They will betray anyone. They will humiliate themselves and those around them. To be hated or loved makes no difference to them. What they want is to be known. It is a sad addiction, and such people wallow in it all their lives, like pigs in filth. But if you are the man I think you are, you will not like the taste of it.”

“Yes, Excellency.”

The Tsar reached out and grasped Pekkala by the forearms. “And that is why I consider you a friend.”

THE OFFICER FLIPPED THROUGH THE ORDERS. “SPECIAL OPERATIONS,” he muttered.

“Did you see who signed those papers?” asked the second guard.

“Shut up,” said the officer. He folded the orders and thrust them back at Anton. “You may pass through.”

The second guard holstered his gun.

“Tell no one what you see beyond this barricade,” said the officer. “You must drive straight through. You may not stop. You may not speak to anyone. It is important that you give the appearance of normality. Once you have passed through the village, you will come to another roadblock. You must never speak of what you have seen here. Do you understand?”

“What on earth is out there?” asked Kirov. His face had turned pale.

“You will know that soon enough,” replied the officer, “but there is still time to change your mind.”

“We don’t have time,” said Anton.

“Very well,” said the guard, nodding. He turned to his partner. “Fetch some of the apples,” he said.

The second man disappeared inside the hut and reappeared carrying a wooden box, which he set on the hood of the car. Inside, nestled on a padded black cloth, were half a dozen perfect apples. He handed one to each of the men.

It was only when Pekkala felt the apple in his hand that he realized it was made of wood which had been carefully painted.

“What is going on?” asked Kirov.

“When you drive through the town,” said the guard, “you must hold these apples in your hands as if you are about to eat them. Make sure they are seen. The apple is a sign to those people in the town that you have been cleared to pass through. You will be shot if you do not do exactly as I say.”

“Why can’t we just talk to them?” Kirov tried again.

“No more questions,” said the officer. “Just make sure they see the apples in your hands.”

The two guards lifted the heavy beam blocking the road.

Kirov drove the Emka past the barricade.

Pekkala stared at the apple. There was even a little green leaf hand-painted beneath a wooden stem.

They passed fields dazzling yellow with sunflowers. Far out in green tides of barley, they could make out the white headscarves of women standing on carts and gathering baskets handed up to them by men down on the ground.

“Those baskets are empty,” muttered Kirov.

When they entered the village, they found it bustling with people. The place looked clean and prosperous. Women carried babies on their hips. Shop windows were piled with loaves of bread and fruit and slabs of meat. The village bore no resemblance at all to the muddy streets and miserable inhabitants of Oreshek.

As they were driving by, a cluster of men and women spilled out of the meeting hall. They were foreigners. Their clothes and hairstyles were those of Western Europeans and Americans. Some carried leather satchels and cameras. Others had notebooks open and were scribbling in them as they walked.

Leading the group was a small man with round glasses and a dark suit which, by the length of the jacket and the wide sweep of its lapel, was clearly Russian in origin. He smiled and laughed. He gestured first one way and then another, and the heads of the foreigners swayed back and forth, following his outstretched hands as if caught in a trance by the swing of a hypnotist’s watch.

“Journalists,” whispered Anton.

The man in the dark suit turned away from the flock he was leading and stared at the car as it drove by. Once his back turned to the journalists, the smile sheared off his face. It was replaced by a menacing glare.

Anton waved, the wooden apple clenched in his fist.

Raising a small camera to his eye, one journalist snapped a picture of the car as it sped past.

The other journalists bent forward, craning their necks like birds to get a glimpse inside the vehicle.

The man in the suit spun back to face the journalists. As he turned, the smile reappeared on his face like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.