The tsar turns and shoves me with both of his large hands. Sensing a test, I choose not to move. My feet are planted, hand clasped around my saber, and although the tsar is large and he hits me hard, the force is insufficient.
“He may even be stronger than me,” says the tsar, face dark with exertion and a hint of anger. “Let us see how smart he is.”
Peter steps a few feet away and clasps his hands behind his back.
“Avtomat,” he asks. “A boyar noble demands fifty men of the Preobrazhensky Regiment to protect his border. Do I accept his request?”
“No, my Tsar.”
“Why not?”
“Members of the tsar’s own regiment are sworn to protect their father. To send them into battle for anyone of lower rank is a dishonor.”
“So, it can think as well.”
The tsar takes a last bite of the apple and tosses the core across the room.
“Strike me,” he says.
I do not respond.
“I am your tsar, avtomat,” he says. “I am giving you a command that you are honor bound to follow. Swing your saber. Strike me.”
“My Tsar,” stutters Favorini. “He is very strong. Please do not underestimate—”
“Now,” says Peter.
The impulse to obey my leader pulls at my joints with the certainty of gravity. Drawing my arm back, I let the sword tip rise. But to injure the tsar would bring dishonor. The Word blazes in my mind: pravda.
Truth. Justice. Honor.
“Do it!” shouts the tsar.
My vision is blurring. The saber point wavers. I am compelled to obey and to disobey at the same time. The dissonance of it rings in my ears. I cannot refuse and I cannot strike. I am drowning, my mind swallowing itself.
It is the only pain I have ever felt—the agony of breaking my Word.
But there is a solution. It resolves itself as the only route of action. If I cannot act, and I cannot not act, then I will cease to be.
I lift the saber higher, pointing the tip at the tsar. Then, I rotate the flashing blade all the way around until the point dimples the fabric of my kaftan. With both hands I tense my shoulders and I pull the blade against my chest— “Stop!” says the tsar, placing a hand on my arm.
I silently return the sword to its first position.
“Welcome home…Peter,” the tsar says, clapping an arm around my shoulders. “A pity you can’t have a drink to celebrate.”
“My Tsar,” asks Favo quietly, “you choose to call it Peter?”
“I call it by its name: Pyotr Alexeyevich,” he says.
“But why would—” says Favo.
“Peter is my name while I am on this earth. But with reason and patience, you have built a ruler who can live forever. As leader of the Russian Empire, our Peter will carry my name like a banner through the ages, immune to the physical ruin of time…always faithful to pravda. A ruler worthy of my empire.”
Peter the Great stands, smiling broadly.
“Our Peter has a great destiny. That of an eternal tsar.”
7
OREGON, PRESENT
“Oleg?” I ask, backing away from him, deeper into the motel room. “What the hell are you doing?”
The Ukrainian is standing too near, his eyes gone hard. I don’t like how his hands hang by his sides, nicotine-stained fingers curled into claws. His posture changed the second I mentioned my grandfather’s relic.
“It is not your fault, June,” he says. “But I must see this relic. Tell me where it is.”
“Get out,” I say, reaching behind me. “Please. I’m telling you to leave now.”
Oleg’s eyes seem blind. He swallows, his Adam’s apple jumping. We’re both slightly drunk, but I’m coordinated enough to feel for the hard plastic of the hotel telephone on the bedside table behind me.
Hands behind my back, I lift the receiver.
“We will buy it from you, yes? How much?” he asks, frightened desperation in his voice.
“Oleg. I’m not kidding.”
“They told me…I know I must,” he says, turning, almost speaking to himself.
In a blink, Oleg sweeps my half-open suitcase off the bed with both hands. Clothes and papers fly across the room, a book thumping against the wall. He snatches my big black Kunlun duffel bag and upends it, sending a waterfall of heavy tools dimpling onto the bedspread. Oleg eyes the mess, scanning for the relic.
Looking up, he moves to block my path to the door.
“They hear everything. They will know,” he says, voice breaking.
Clutching the hotel phone, I do my best to jam the buttons for 9-1-1 without looking. I leave the receiver lying on the table as I take two running steps for the open door.
“Help—” I’m shouting when Oleg hooks me with one arm and pushes me onto the bed. I scratch at his face as I fall and scramble right back to my feet, screaming and diving for the door. This time his arm catches me in the ribs, knocking my breath out. I fall onto the bed, thrown onto my stomach, face lost in my hair as I keep thrashing.
“Please,” he’s saying. “You can’t leave.”
A knee jams into my side. Oleg rolls me onto my back and drops his knees on my arms, pinning me. Face beaded with sweat, he leans on me with all his weight. I’m wheezing, grunting for breath.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, the smell of alcohol radiating from him. His eyes still aren’t focusing. He won’t look at me. I’m trying to scream, but nothing is coming out of my mouth except coughing and retching.
Lights flash behind my eyes as I send my fingers clawing over the bedspread.
“Forgive me,” he says, voice shaking.
My fingers slide over something hard and smooth. The variable speed drill. Scratching at the hard plastic, I manage to get hold of the heavy tool.
With all my strength, I swing it in a wobbling arc.
Oleg shrugs as the drill bounces off his shoulder. I drag the tool over his shoulder blades, trying to hit him in the back of the head. He leans a forearm across my upper chest and presses harder, the drill resting uselessly against his head.
“I cannot let you leave,” he says. “They will be here soon. They will come for what was lost in Stalingrad.”
I pull the trigger.
The drill bucks in my hand and grinds, the bit tangling itself instantly in Oleg’s hair. As it wraps the greasy locks into a clump, his head snaps back and his mouth opens wide in surprise. The groaning drill bit keeps turning as Oleg gasps for air, a moan building deep in his chest. He reaches for his head with both hands.
The drill roars—warm jets of air venting over my fingers.
“Stop! Stop!” shouts Oleg. His head is yanked to the side, eyes squeezed closed and his yellowing teeth exposed in a rictus. Clumps of hair are ripping from his scalp, turning in bloody circles on the end of the drill. I close my eyes and turn my head, continuing to squeeze the trigger as he tries desperately to grab the drill.
The Saint Christopher chain he wears around his neck makes a clink as it is caught in the bit. Oleg’s shouts are cut off mechanically as the chain closes over his throat. Now, I only hear the clicking of the drill as it maxes out its torque.
After a few seconds, I let go. Oleg falls face-first onto the mattress, barely conscious.