The guards themselves seemed to have no clear orders about how to treat the royal family. One day, they confiscated Alexei’s toy gun. Then they gave it back. Another day, they banned the Romanovs from swimming in the Lamski Pond. Then that order was rescinded. Without clear direction, their hostility towards the Romanovs grew more open. Once, as the Tsar was bicycling around the estate, one guard jammed a bayonet into the spokes and sent the Tsar sprawling in the dust.

When he heard about that, Pekkala realized it was only a matter of time before the lives of the Romanovs would be at risk. Soon, the family would not be any safer within the confines of the estate than they were on the outside. If they didn’t leave soon, they would never leave at all, and his own life would be swallowed up along with theirs.

“I HAVE ONE LAST QUESTION FOR YOU,” PEKKALA SAID.

Katamidze raised his eyebrows.

“Why speak up now? After all these years?”

“For a while,” said Katamidze, “I knew that the only way for me to stay alive was for people to think I was crazy. So no one would believe a word I said. The trouble is, Inspector, you stay here long enough, and you really do go crazy. I wanted to tell what happened, before even I stopped believing it.”

“Are you not afraid that the man who killed the Tsar might track you down?”

“I want him to find me,” Katamidze said softly. “I am tired of living in fear.”

IT WAS LATE WHEN THEY REACHED SVERDLOVSK.

The tires of the Emka popped and rumbled over the cobblestones which paved the main street running through the town. With the night mist glistening on them, the road looked like the cast-off skin of some giant snake.

Neatly planted trees formed a barrier between the part of the street intended for horses and cars and the part set aside for people going on foot. Beyond the pedestrian walkway stood large, well-maintained houses, with gardens closed off by white picket fences and shutters bolted for the night.

Anton’s orders were to present his papers to the local police chief as soon as they arrived, but the station had closed. They decided to wait until morning.

Only the tavern was open, a low-roofed place with benches set out in front of whitewashed walls. A line of old and bearded men sat with backs slumped against the wall. Large copper mugs, each with two handles, were being passed from one man to the next. Some of the men smoked pipes, cobras of smoke rising from the pipe bowls, their faces lit by the glow. They watched the Emka drive past, eyes sharpened with suspicion.

Following Anton’s directions, Kirov steered the car into a courtyard at the back of a large two-story house. High stone walls surrounded the courtyard, obscuring any view from the outside. Pekkala could tell at a glance that no one lived here now. Paint around the window frames had flaked away; weeds grew from the gutters. The courtyard walls had once been covered with mortar and painted, but chunks had fallen, revealing the bare stones beneath. The structure seemed to radiate a hostile emptiness.

“Where are we?” asked Kirov, as he climbed out of the car.

“The Ipatiev place,” replied Anton. “What we called the House of Special Purpose.”

With a key which he took from his pocket, Anton opened the kitchen door and the three men went inside. He found a switch for electric lights and flipped it on, but the dust-covered light fixtures above him stayed dark. Hanging from nails by the door were several storm lanterns, which Kirov filled from a can of kerosene they carried in the Emka. Each man carried a lantern as they passed through the kitchen avoiding a few rickety chairs tipped over on the floor. They emerged into a hallway, with narrow-planked wooden floors and a tall ceiling, from which hung the remains of a crystal chandelier. Their shadows loomed across the walls. Ahead of them was the front door, leading out into the street, and to the left, a staircase to the second floor, its bannister thick with dust. On the right, a stone fireplace dominated the front room.

Pekkala breathed the stagnant air. “Why isn’t anyone living here now?”

“The house was closed down as soon as the Romanovs disappeared. Nikolai Ipatiev, the man who owned it, left for Vienna and never came back.”

“Look.” Kirov pointed to bullet gashes in the wallpaper. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s go to the hotel.”

“What hotel?” asked Anton.

Kirov blinked at him. “The one where we are staying while we conduct the investigation.”

“We’re staying here,” replied Anton.

Kirov ’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. Not here.”

Anton shrugged.

“But this place is empty!” protested Kirov.

“It won’t be when we’re in it.”

“I mean there’s no furniture!” Kirov pointed into the front room. “Look!”

Along one wall of the empty room, tall windows looked out into the street. Curtains made of heavy dark green velvet had not only been closed, they had also been stitched together so that there was no way to open them.

Kirov pleaded with them. “There’s got to be a hotel in town, one with a decent bed.”

“There is,” said Anton, “but it’s not in the budget.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kirov demanded. “Can’t you just wave those orders around and get us whatever we want?”

“The orders say that this is where we are to make our headquarters.”

“Maybe there are beds on the second floor,” suggested Pekkala.

“Yes,” said Kirov. “I’ll check.” He raced up the stairs, the lantern swinging in his hand, long shadows trailing after him like snakes.

“There are no beds,” muttered Anton.

“What happened to them?” Pekkala asked.

“Stolen,” Anton replied, “along with everything else. When the Ipatiev family moved out, they were allowed to bring some of their possessions-pictures and so on. By the time the Romanovs arrived, only the essentials remained. When we left town, the good people of Sverdlovsk came in before the Whites arrived and stripped the place bare. By the time they got here, there was probably nothing left worth stealing.”

Kirov stomped around upstairs. As he moved from room to room, the floorboards creaked under his weight. His curses echoed through the house.

“Where is the basement?” asked Pekkala.

“This way,” said Anton. Carrying a lantern, he led Pekkala through the kitchen to a pale yellow door, greasy fingerprints smudged around its old brass handle.

Anton opened the door.

A plain wooden staircase led down into the dark.

“Down there,” Anton told him, “is where we found the guards.”

The two men descended to the basement. On their left, at the bottom of the stairs, they came upon a coal storage chamber. A trapdoor in the ceiling opened to allow the coal to be poured in from ground level. What remained in the chamber was mostly dust, heaped in the corners. Only a few nuggets of coal lay strewn around the floor. It seemed as if even the coal had been stolen. To their right was a room which would normally have been closed off with a double set of doors, but the doors were open, revealing a space four paces wide by ten paces long, with a low, arched ceiling. Stripes of white and pinkish red papered the walls. On the pink stripes, Pekkala saw a repeating image which reminded him of a stylized design of a small tortoise. Rooms like this were used for the storage of clothing during the seasons when it was not being used.

Tidy as the place must once have been, it was now destroyed. Huge chunks of the wallpaper were missing, revealing a latticework of plaster, earth, and stone, much of which was now strewn across the floor. Bullet holes pocked the walls. Large stains of dried blood patched the ground, mixing with crumbs of mortar to form crusts like dark brown shields lying scattered on an ancient battlefield. Streaks of blood appeared to hang suspended in the air, and only by focusing hard could Pekkala see that they had, in fact, been splashed across the walls.