“I am a vengeful God, saith the Lord.” His wild green eyes swung around to face Pyotr. “I tell you, this is the hand of God at work. His punishment for the evil here tonight.”
His long finger started to uncurl in Pyotr’s direction, and for one horrible moment Pyotr thought it was going to skewer right into the bones of his chest, but the slight figure of Sofia brushed it aside and hurried to the door of the stable. She looked out into the night and called, “Come here, Pyotr.”
Pyotr rushed to her side and gasped. The whole of the night sky was on fire. Flames scorching the stars. It sent Pyotr’s mind spinning. Once before, he’d seen an inferno like this and it had changed his life. He made a move to dash toward it, but Sofia’s hand descended on his shoulder.
“You’re needed here, Pyotr,” she said in a steady voice. “To help calm the horses.”
Pyotr saw the priest and the fugitive exchange a look.
“She’s right,” Priest Logvinov said. He flung out both arms in appeal. “I’ll need as much help as I can get with the horses tonight. Right now they have the stink of smoke in their nostrils.”
“But I want to find Papa.”
“No, Pyotr, stay here,” she ordered, but her eyes were on the flames and a worry crease was deepening on her forehead. “I’ll make sure your papa is safe.” Without another word she hurried away into the night.
TWENTY-ONE
GIGANTIC flames were ripping great holes in the belly of the night sky. Spitting and writhing, they leaped twenty meters into the air, so that even down at the river’s edge Mikhail Pashin could feel the sting of sparks in his eyes, the smoke in his lungs. He was on his knees, his trousers wet and his knuckles skinned, crouched over the water pump on the riverbank, struggling in the darkness to bring it to life, but so far it had resisted all his coaxing and cursing. In frustration he clouted his heftiest wrench against the pump’s metal casing, and instantly the engine spluttered, coughed, then racketed into action, sending gallons of river water racing up the rubber hose.
“The scientific approach, I see,” a voice said out of the darkness.
In the gloom he made out nothing at first, just the slithering shadows etched against the red glow of the sky, but then he saw a pale oval. A face close by.
“It’s Sofia,” she said.
“I thought you were at my house, you and Pyotr.”
“Don’t worry. Your son is safe in the stables with Zvezda and the priest.”
“Good. They’ll be out of harm’s way up there.”
She moved closer, and as she did so one side of her face was painted golden by the flames, highlighting the fine bones of her cheek, the other side an impenetrable mask in the blackness. Mikhail liked the way she walked, silent as a cat. She stood over him, looking down, and for a brief second he was startled because he thought she was going to touch his hair, but instead she crouched down on her haunches on the opposite side of the pump. Their faces were on a level and he could see the firelight reflected off the glassy surface of the river and into her eyes. He was surprised by the humor in them on a night like this. She looked as if the fire were burning inside her.
“The whole village is helping,” she said. Her words merged with the clanking of the engine.
“Yes, in an emergency the kolkhoz knows how to work together.” He glanced over his shoulder to the spot where a long line of men and women, clutching buckets, snaked up from the river all the way to the burning barn. Each face was grim and determined.
“A human pipeline,” Sofia muttered.
“Who the hell did this?” Mikhail felt a dull rage tighten his stomach. “Who would wish to burn down our barn?”
“Mikhail, look who’s in the line.”
“In the line? The villagers, you mean?”
“And?”
“The troops helping them.”
“Exactly.”
“What about them?”
He ran a hand over the engine to steady it, enjoying its heartbeat. The feel of machinery under his fingers always strengthened him in some strange indefinable way that he didn’t understand. Sofia’s hand reached out and lightly brushed his own.
“Look at them,” she said urgently.
He frowned. What did she mean? He studied the troops striving hard in the line to prevent the fire from spreading to a second barn. Their caps were smut-stained, their skin streaked with sweat; some wore kerchiefs tied over the lower half of their faces to protect their lungs, some cursing and shouting for more speed, uniformed men all fighting side by side with the villagers.
“Look hard,” she whispered.
He looked.
Nothing. He could see nothing. What on earth was she talking about? Just the blackness and the clawing flames. The effort of all those workers. Then suddenly it dawned. Damn it, she was right. His pulse raced as he realized that this was the moment when the troops’ attention was totally diverted from the grain. Why the hell hadn’t he seen it himself? He leaped to his feet, abandoning the water pump to its own steady rhythm, and raced up through the drooping willows toward the center of the village. Sofia matched him stride for stride.
WAIT here,” Mikhail ordered. "And make no sound.”
The small group of villagers nodded and huddled silent and invisible at the side of the blacksmith’s forge, where the night wrapped them in heavy shadows. Four women, one of them sick, and two old men. Their backs didn’t look strong enough to hoist the sacks, but they were all he could find inside the houses. Everyone else was up at the fire, so they’d have to do. Plus Sofia, of course. Just as he was about to edge away, she leaned close to him, her breath warm on his ear as she whispered, “Take care. I promised Pyotr I’d make sure you stayed safe.”
He couldn’t see her eyes, so he touched her hand in reassurance. It felt strong and swept away his doubts about the handling of the sacks.
“I’ll be back,” he promised and walked out into the main street.
It was dark and deserted now, except for the truck. Beside the truck stood a man with a long coat flapping at his ankles and a Mauser pistol in his fist. Mikhail glanced around but there were no other troops in sight. This one was leaning against the tailgate, cigarette in hand, waiting casually for his comrades to return and guarding the sacks on the flatbed, but there was nothing relaxed or casual about his face. His head turned constantly, eyes behind the thick spectacles scanning every point of access. He was no fool. He recognized the danger.
“Oy moroz, moroz, nye moroz menya, Nye moroz menya, moevo kon,” Mikhail began singing, loud and boisterous.
The words slipped and slid over each other in his mouth. He aimed himself in the general direction of the truck, but his feet wove from one side of the road to the other, stumbling and tripping, only just correcting themselves in time. He threw back his head and laughed.
“Hey, comrade, my friend, how about a drink?” His words came out slurred, and he brandished a bottle of vodka ahead of him while he looked around the dark street in a bewildered manner. “Where’sh everyone?”
The man pushed himself off the truck, threw the cigarette in the dirt, and ground his heel on it. He regarded Mikhail with caution.
“Who are you?”
“I’m your friend, your good friend.” Mikhail grinned lopsidedly and thrust out the bottle. “Here, have a drink.”
“No.”
“Why not?” Mikhail upended the bottle and took a slug of the vodka himself. He felt it burn the knots in his stomach. “Is good stuff,” he mumbled.
“You’re drunk, you stupid oaf.”
“Drunk but happy. You don’t look happy, tovarishch.”
“Neither would you if you had to deal with such—”
“Here.” Mikhail thrust the bottle at the man again. “Some left for you. You could be out here all night.”
The fire reflected in the man’s spectacles. His hesitation betrayed him, so Mikhail seized the hand that had discarded the cigarette and wrapped it around the bottle. “Put fire in your b
elly.” He rocked on his heels with laughter. “Fire in your belly instead of in our barn.”
The man’s mouth slackened. He almost smiled.
“Let’s have it.” He took a mouthful. Smacked his lips.
“Good?”
“It’s cat’s piss. It’s no wonder you peasants are mindless. This homemade brew rots your brains.”
“Come with me, Comrade Officer, and I will show you”— Mikhail lowered his voice in conspiratorial style—“the real stuff. The good stuff.”
“Where?” Another swig.
“In my house. It’s just over—”
“No. Piss off. I’m guarding this truck.”
Mikhail yawned, stretched, scratched himself, and stumbled on his feet.
“Come, Comrade Officer, there’s no one here. Your sacks are safe.” He draped an arm across the man’s shoulders, could smell cheap tobacco on his breath. “Come, friend, come and taste the good stuff.”
THE man was drunker than a mule. His eyes turned pink and his tongue seemed too large for his mouth, so that the words slid off it into his glass. But when Mikhail yanked him to his feet after an hour of pouring his best vodka down the bastard’s throat, it came as a surprise at the door to find he still had a few wits clinging to him.
“You come too,” the man said, his head lolling on his thick neck.
“No, my friend, I’m off to bed,” Mikhail grinned.
He started to close the door but the man put his shoulder to it. “You come, my Tivil comrade. To the truck.” With astonishing speed of hand for someone swilling with vodka, he produced the Mauser and pointed it at Mikhail. “You come. Bistro. Quickly.”
So they stumbled up the road together, their path lit by the flames in the night sky. The truck loomed ahead. Even in the darkness it was obvious that the flatbed now held no more than a handful of sacks. The man stared at them and swallowed hard.
“Where’s the grain?”
Shock was sobering him fast, and with a grunt of effort he swung the pistol at Mikhail’s jaw, but Mikhail sidestepped it with ease. He was tempted to seize the gun and break the bastard’s skull with it, but he knew any act of violence would lead to retribution for the whole village. Party officials were like cockroaches. You stamp on one, and ten more come out of the woodwork. He tried walking away, but the muzzle jammed against the back of his skull.
“Tell me where the fucking grain is, you thieving village bastard. Right now.”
Mikhail didn’t move. “Comrade,” he said with a slur, “you’ve got me all wrong. I am just—”
“I’ll count to three.”
“No, comrade . . .”
“Odeen.” One.
“I know nothing about the grain.”
“Dva.” Two.
Mikhail’s body tensed, ready to lash out, but a quiet voice from the side of the truck distracted them both.
“Comrade Officer, I think you have made a mistake.” It was Sofia. She and the gypsy approached out of the darkness together as if it were a cloak over their shoulders.
“Who are you?”
“I am Sofia Morozova. And this is my uncle, Rafik Ilyan, a member of the Red Arrow kolkhoz.”
“You know where my grain is?”
“Of course. It’s here.”
The gun released its pressure and Mikhail breathed. He swung around and saw Sofia waving what looked like a shawl in the officer’s face, her lips bone white in the torchlight. Then suddenly Rafik was so close to the man that their shapes seemed to merge into one. The gypsy’s black eyes were sunk like boreholes in his head and he was holding fiercely on to the man’s arm, pressing his fingers into the flesh beneath the sleeve, and staring fixedly up into the narrow bloodshot eyes. The odd thing was that the comrade made no word of complaint. What the hell was going on? The officer was gazing back at the gypsy with a slightly baffled expression, as though he’d forgotten where he’d left his cigarettes rather than more than a dozen sacks of grain.
“You made a mistake,” Rafik stated clearly, and as he said it his other hand whipped out and fixed on Mikhail’s arm. The gypsy’s voice was soft, but somehow it squirmed into Mikhail’s head and crawled through the coils of his brain until he heard nothing else. “There were only ever four sacks in the truck, and you have them all there,” Rafik said. “No grain is missing.”
Mikhail and the officer stared at the sacks. Away in the forest an owl screeched, or was it a fox barking? The sounds were tumbling around indistinctly in Mikhail’s head with the gypsy’s words, and behind them was a dull roaring noise. He couldn’t quite recall what that was.
Of course there had only ever been four sacks. What was he thinking of?
SOFIA watched in disbelief.
From nowhere the gypsy had appeared at her elbow when she was shifting another sack off the back of the truck, and he had helped her carry it to a small handcart. It was pushed away by an old woman with a crooked back and a mischievous grin that had more gaps than teeth to it. Hot cinders were floating down from the bloodred sky like fireflies that nipped at your skin, and Rafik draped a soft shawl over Sofia’s bare arms.
“Come,” he said and led her around to the front of the truck where they were hidden by the black shadow of the church. “You want to help Mikhail Pashin?”
“Yes.”
“He has done well, but now the danger will be great for him when the officer returns.”
Sofia could feel the skin of her face tighten and prickle. Like ants’ feet walking over it. “What can I do?”
“I will deal with the man in my own way. But I need you to distract his attention so that I can get close to him.”
It occurred to Sofia that the gypsy appeared so frail he didn’t look as if he could deal with a pack of cards right now, never mind an armed OGPU officer.
“Rafik,” she said with concern, “you’re not well.”
The sound of footsteps echoed up the shadowy street. Men’s voices were coming closer and one was Mikhail’s. She had no choice; she had to trust Rafik.
“Distract him, Sofia.”
The sight of the gun jammed against Mikhail’s skull nearly robbed her of control. But instead of hurling herself like a spitting wildcat onto the officer and probably triggering a shot from the gun, she managed to say calmly, “Comrade Officer, I think you have made a mistake.” And a moment later she was flapping her shawl at him, the edge of it just clipping his jaw and making his eyes flare with annoyance. But what Rafik did then was beyond anything she’d ever seen. It left her speechless. In some strange and impossible way he seemed to take hold of the men’s minds, first the OGPU officer’s and then Mikhail’s, and manipulate their thoughts the way a child shifts and shuffles a set of toy bricks. She stared in disbelief at Mikhail, at the boneless way his arms hung at his side and the confused expression in his eyes, as the glare from the blaze turned them red.
“Sofia!” Rafik had to repeat it. “Sofia!”
She blinked and saw the gypsy stumble in the darkness. Her hand shot out to steady him, and she could feel the tremors shaking his body under the light cotton of his shirt.
“Go,” he said and his voice was weak. “Run to the schoolhouse. Tell Elizaveta to bring the key to the chamber. Now. Run!”
THE schoolhouse stood at the start of the village street, a modern box of a building with a neat low fence around it and a central doorway that threw out a yellow stain of light on the shadows of the path. A red glaze shimmered like oil across the windows as the billows of smoke and sparks in the night sky were reflected in the glass.
Sofia banged on the door.
It flew open immediately, and Sofia was convinced the teacher had been standing on the other side of it, listening for footsteps. Something about the tall gray-haired woman with the bright hawkish eyes steadied Sofia’s racing heart.
She spoke quickly. “Rafik sent me.”
“What does he want?”
“The key.”
The teacher’s mouth opened, then shut abruptly
. “He told you about the key?”
“Yes, the key to the chamber, he said. He needs you to bring it to him.”
There was a pause. Even in the darkness Sofia could feel the spikes of the woman’s suspicion.
“Wait here.”
But the moment Elizaveta Lishnikova disappeared back into the hallway of her schoolhouse, Sofia followed her and shut the door. Standing outside on the path, spotlit by the lamp in the hall, was an open invitation to any troops that might decide they’d had enough of firefighting, but the door on her right was ajar and the temptation to look too great.
What she saw astonished her. The room was like something out of a St. Petersburg salon. The deep maroon carpet covering the floor was of intricate Indian design, while the table and cabinets were clearly French from the last century, with ornate curlicues, gilt handles, and exquisite inlay of ivory, burrwood, and a vivid green malachite that brought the room to life. The curtains were wine-red swathes of heavy silk, and a magnificent ormolu clock ticked loudly in pride of place.
Sofia caught her breath, and Elizaveta raised her head from what was obviously a secret drawer in the side of a fine satinwood desk. Her long back straightened and she faced Sofia with a sudden pulse of color high on her cheeks.
“So I was right,” Elizaveta said quietly. “You are a spy for Deputy Stirkhov, aren’t you?”
“No.”
The two women locked eyes, the older woman’s face growing ever more angular, but Sofia said nothing more. If she did, she might say too much and not know when to stop. That frightened her more than saying too little.
“No,” she repeated firmly.
The schoolteacher didn’t dispute it further. Instead she said in an imperious tone, “I did not invite you inside this room. Please leave.”
“I’ll wait in the hallway. Be quick.”
She left the beautiful room, and a moment later Elizaveta Lishnikova joined her in the hallway with two keys in her hand. One she used to lock her private room, and then she slid it inside the thick coil of gray hair at the back of her head. Sofia was impressed. No one would search there.
“You have the key to the chamber—whatever that is?”
The Red Scarf Page 14
