“WHAT IS IT YOU WANT TO TELL ME, KATAMIDZE?”

“I know where they are,” he replied. “The bodies of the Romanovs.”

“Yes.” Pekkala nodded. “We have found them.” For the moment, he said nothing about Alexei.

“And did you find my camera?”

“Camera? No. There was no camera in the mine shaft.”

“Not in the mine shaft! In the basement of the Ipatiev house!”

Pekkala’s face went suddenly numb. “You were in the Ipatiev house?”

Katamidze nodded. “Oh, yes. I’m a photographer,” he said, as if that would explain everything. “I’m the only one in town.”

“But how did you come to be in the basement?” According to Anton, that was where the bodies of the guards had been found. Pekkala tried to sound calm, even though his heart was racing.

“For the portrait!” said Katamidze. “They called me. I have a telephone. Not many people in town have one of those.”

“Who called you?”

“An officer of the Internal Security, the Cheka. They were the ones guarding the Tsar and the family. The officer said they wanted me to take a formal portrait, to prove to the rest of the country that the Romanovs were being well treated. He said it was going to be published.”

“Did he give his name?”

“No. I didn’t ask. He just said he was Cheka.”

“Did you know the Tsar was staying at the Ipatiev house?”

“Of course! Nobody saw them, but everyone knew they were there. You can’t keep a secret like that. The Guards built a temporary fence around the house and painted the windows so that no one could look in. Afterwards, they tore the fence down, but when the Romanovs were there, if you so much as stopped and looked at the place, the soldiers would pull a gun on you. Only the Red Guards came and went. And I got the call! A portrait of the Tsar. Imagine it. One minute I am taking pictures of prize cows and farmers who have to pay me in apples because they don’t have the money for a picture, and then next minute I am photographing the Romanovs. It would have made my career. I planned on doubling my fees. The officer said to come right over, but it was already after dark. I asked if it couldn’t wait until morning. He said he had just received orders from Moscow. You know how those people are. You can’t get them to do anything but, when they want something, it all has to happen yesterday. He told me there was a room in the basement which had been cleared out and that this would be a good place for taking the family portrait. Fortunately, I knew that the Ipatievs had electricity in their house, so I would be able to use my studio lights. I barely had time to pack. There’s all sorts of things involved. Tripod. Film. I had just received a new camera. Ordered it from Moscow. Only had it for a month. I would like to have it back.”

“What happened when you arrived at the Ipatiev house?”

Katamidze puffed his cheeks and exhaled noisily. “Well, I almost got run over on the way there. One of their trucks went racing past me. They had two, you know. I was carrying all my photography equipment. I barely had time to get out of the way. It’s a miracle nothing got broken.”

“Where was the other truck?”

“It was in the courtyard behind the house. I couldn’t see it, because the courtyard has high walls, but I could hear the engine running. I smelled the smoke of its exhaust. When I knocked on the door, two Cheka guards came to answer it. Both had their guns drawn. They looked very nervous. They told me to go away, but when I explained about the photo, and that the order to take it had come from one of their own officers, they let me inside.”

“What did you see when you walked in?”

Katamidze shrugged. “I’d been in there before. I’d done portraits for the Ipatiev family. It looked about the same, except there was less furniture on the ground floor. I never made it upstairs. That’s where the Romanovs were staying. There’s a staircase to the right of the front door, and a big room to the left.”

“Did you see the Romanovs?”

“Not at first,” said Katamidze, and in the silence which followed his lips continued to shape the words. At first. At first. At first. “I could hear them upstairs. Muffled voices. There was music, too. It was playing on a gramophone. Mozart. Sonata number 331. I used to play that tune when I was studying piano.”

Mozart had been one of the Tsarina’s favorite composers. Pekkala remembered the way she tilted her head while she listened. She would hold the thumb and index finger of her right hand joined in an O, tracing seagulls in the air as if conducting the music herself.

“I carried my equipment down to the basement,” continued Katamidze. “Then I brought down some chairs from the dining room. I set up my light and the tripod. I was just checking the film in the camera when I heard a noise behind me and a woman appeared at the bottom of the stairs. It was the Princess Maria. I recognized her right away from pictures I had seen. I didn’t know what to do, so I got down on my knees! Then she laughed at me and said I should get to my feet. She said she had been told about the portrait and wanted to know if everything was ready. I told her it was. I said they should come right away. Then she went back up the stairs.”

“What did you do then?”

“What did I do? I checked the camera about twenty times to make sure it was working, and then I heard them coming down the stairs. Soft as mice. They filed into the room, and I bowed to each one and they nodded their heads at me. I thought my heart was going to stop!

“I arranged the Tsar and the Tsarina in the two middle chairs, then the two youngest, Anastasia and Alexei, on either side. Behind them stood the three eldest daughters.”

“How did they seem to you?” asked Pekkala. “Did they look nervous?”

“Not nervous. No. I wouldn’t say that.”

“Did they speak to you?”

Katamidze shook his head. “Only to ask if I wanted them to move or if the way they were standing was acceptable. I could barely answer them, I was so nervous.”

“Go on,” said Pekkala. “What happened then?”

“I had just taken the first picture. I was planning on several. Then I heard someone knocking on the front door of the house, the same one I’d used to come in. The guards opened the door. There was some sort of conversation. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then there was shouting. That’s the first time I saw the Tsar looking nervous. And the next thing I heard was a gun going off! Once! Twice! I lost count. There was a regular battle going on upstairs. One of the princesses screamed. I don’t know which one. I heard the Tsarevich Alexei ask his father if they were going to be rescued. The Tsar told them all to be quiet. He got out of the chair and walked past me to the door and closed it. I was frozen to the spot. He turned to me and asked if I knew what was happening. I couldn’t even speak. He must have known that I had no idea. The Tsar said to me-‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’”

“And then?”

“Footsteps. Coming down the stairs. Somebody stopped outside the closed door. Then the door flew open. Another Cheka guard came into the room.”

“A different one?”

“Yes. I hadn’t seen this man before. At first, I thought he had come to tell us that we were safe.”

“Just the one man? Can you describe him?”

Katamidze screwed up his face, trying to recall. “He was neither tall nor short. He had a thin chest. Narrow shoulders.”

“What about his face?”

“He had one of those caps which the officers wear, the kind where the brim comes down over their eyes. I couldn’t see him very well. He was holding a revolver in each hand.”

Pekkala nodded. “And then?”

“The Tsar told the man to let me go,” continued Katamidze. “At first, I didn’t think he would, but then the man just told me to get out. As I stumbled from the room, I heard the man talking to the Tsar.”