by Sam Eastland
The last time Kirov had seen Lazarev was to hand over the fire-damaged Webley belonging to Pekkala, and which had been brought back from the front line by Rifleman Stefanov as proof of the Inspector’s death. The once lustrous bluing on its barrel had been peeled away by the intensity of the blaze that had devoured the body on which it had been found. The trigger spring no longer functioned. Empty bullet cases appeared to have fused in place inside the cylinder. It was lucky that Pekkala had fired all the rounds. If the cartridges had been loaded, they would almost certainly have exploded in the fire, destroying the weapon completely. Only the brass grips, peculiar to this weapon, seemed to have been unaffected by the blaze and the metal still glowed softly as it had done when Pekkala carried the weapon with him, everywhere he went.
Even though the weapon was so damaged as to be inoperable, regulations dictated that it still had to be delivered to the NKVD armoury for processing.
‘Major!’ exclaimed Lazarev, as Kirov reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘What brings you down here to the bowels of the earth? From what I hear these days, your visits are usually,’ he grinned and aimed a dirty finger at the ceiling, ‘to the lair of Sergeant Gatkina.’
Kirov sighed, wondering if there was anyone in this building who did not know every detail of his romance with Elizaveta. ‘I’m here,’ he said, ‘because I need some advice.’
‘If it’s anything to do with that charming young lady on the fourth floor,’ remarked Lazarev, allowing his hands to settle gently upon the counter top which separated the two men, its surface strewn with gun parts, oil cans, pull-through cloths and brass bristled brushes, coiled like the tails of newborn puppies, ‘then I’m afraid you have come to the wrong place.’
‘I want to know why someone would have certain modifications made to an overcoat.’
‘An overcoat?’ Lazarev screwed up his face in confusion, sending wrinkles like branches of lightning from the corners of his eyes. ‘I’m a weapons man, Major. Not a follower of haute couture.’
‘That much I know already,’ Kirov told him, and he went on to describe the loops and straps which Linsky had built into the coat.
Lazarev nodded slowly as he listened. ‘And you think this has something to do with weaponry?’
‘I believe it might.’
‘What leads you to this conclusion?’
‘The coat in question was made for Inspector Pekkala.’
‘Ah, yes,’ muttered Lazarev, ‘the famous Webley.’
‘But even I can tell that those straps weren’t made for a revolver. I was hoping you could tell me what they are.’
‘Does it really matter now?’ Lazarev drew in a slow, rustling breath. ‘Why can’t you let a dead man rest in peace?’
‘I would,’ replied Kirov, ‘if I believed that he was truly dead.’
Lazarev touched his fingertips to his lips, momentarily lost in thought. ‘I always wondered if they’d really got to him. Since he disappeared, rumours have trickled down to me here in the basement, but it’s hard to know which ones you can believe.’
‘I must follow them all,’ replied Kirov. ‘There is no other way.’
‘Well, I don’t know if this will help you or not, Major, but I know exactly what those straps were made for.’
‘You do?’
‘A shotgun.’
Kirov shook his head. ‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. You couldn’t hide a whole shotgun under that coat. It’s too short.’
‘You could,’ insisted Lazarev, ‘if the gun had also been modified.’
‘But how?’
‘It’s an old poacher’s trick. Cut down the stock, saw off the end of the barrel. Rework the hinge so that barrel and stock can be quickly pulled apart and fitted back together. Hang the separate pieces in your jacket, gun on one side, ammunition on the other.’
‘Shotgun shells,’ exclaimed Kirov. ‘Of course! That’s what those loops would hold, but I doubt that Pekkala would have turned his talents to poaching ducks.’
‘Not ducks, Major. My guess is that he’s after bigger prey. Few weapons can do more damage at close range than a shotgun. It is hardly a weapon of precision, but as a blunt and lethal instrument, you’d be hard pressed to find something better.’
‘That still doesn’t explain what he’d be doing with it. We’re in the middle of a war of rifles and machine guns and cannons and tanks. Who would choose a shotgun to fight against weapons like those?’
Lazarev did not hesitate. ‘The answer is partisans. Think about it, Major. The coat you have described to me is not a piece of military uniform.’
Kirov agreed. ‘Except for those modifications, it’s the same kind of coat he always wore.’
‘Now who wears civilian clothes and still carries weapons?’
‘Some members of Special Operations. Pekkala for one.’
‘And except for him, they all carry Tokarev automatics. But the only people out of uniform who are involved in the kind of close-quarter fighting where shotguns are turned into an anti-personnel weapon are partisans. Shotgun ammunition isn’t regulated the way military ammunition is, because people still use it for hunting and the more they can hunt, the less they have to rely on the authorities to feed them. If you’re looking for him, Major, you should begin your search among the partisans.’
‘But there must be hundreds of groups scattered behind the German lines.’
‘Thousands, more likely, and most of them in western Ukraine. Some groups have only a few dozen members. Others are almost as large as divisions in the army. There are bands of Ukrainian Nationalists, Poles, Jews, Communists, and escaped POW’s. And they aren’t all fighting the Germans. Some of these people are so busy fighting each other that they barely have time for the Fascists. And as far as the Germans are concerned, the whole lot of them should be finished off. They give out awards to their soldiers who fight against the partisans. The medal shows a skull with snakes coiled around it. That’s how they think of the partisans; as nothing more than reptiles to be wiped off the face of the earth.’
‘Stalin has ordered me to track down Pekkala, no matter where the journey takes me, but if you’re right, Lazarev, then how on earth do I even begin searching for him?’
‘For that, you’ll need more clues than the one you have found in this coat, but if you do locate the Inspector, you may as well give this to him.’ As Lazarev spoke, he opened a battered metal cabinet, removed an object wrapped in a dirty, oily rag and handed the bundle to Kirov.
Inside, Kirov was astonished to find Pekkala’s Webley. The last time Kirov had seen this gun, it was little more than a charred relic. Now, with its fresh coat of bluing, the Webley appeared almost new. While Lazarev folded his arms and gazed on with satisfaction at his work, Kirov squinted down the barrel, then opened the gun, which folded forward on a hinge. He spun the well-oiled cylinder, and examined with approval the almost gilded finish of the solid brass handles.
‘How did you do it, Lazarev?’ gasped Kirov.
‘For many months now, it has been my secret project.’
‘And what did you plan on doing with it when you finished?’
‘Exactly what I’m doing now,’ he answered. ‘Making sure that the Webley is returned to its proper owner.’
‘So you didn’t believe the stories, either?’
‘About Pekkala’s death?’ Lazarev waved a hand through the air, as if to brush away the words he had just spoken. ‘The day they can find a way to kill the Inspector, I’ll hang up this coat and go home.’
‘I will hand this to him personally,’ said Kirov, tucking the gun inside his tunic, ‘and it won’t leave my sight until then.’ He turned to leave.
‘You are forgetting something, Major.’
Kirov spun around. ‘I am?’
Lazarev slid a fist-sized cardboard box across the counter. A dog-eared paper label, written in English, listed the contents as fifty rounds of Mark VI .455 Revolver ammunition, dated 1939 and manufactured by the Birmingham Sma
ll Arms factory. ‘Bullets for the Webley,’ he explained.
‘Where on earth did you find these?’ asked Kirov.
‘The British Ambassador here in Moscow had a rather expensive shotgun made by James Woodward on which the side-lock ejector had broken. Stalin himself referred the Ambassador to me, in order to see if the gun could be repaired. When I had completed the work, the Ambassador offered to pay me, but this,’ he tapped the box of bullets, ‘is what I asked for instead. You can tell Pekkala that there are plenty more where these came from. Now,’ Lazarev held out his hand, palm up, like a man looking to be paid, ‘before you leave, let’s have a look at your own gun, Major Kirov.’
Kirov did as he was told, removing the Tokarev from its leather holster and handing it to Lazarev.
With none of the reverence he had shown to Pekkala’s Webley, Lazarev took hold of the weapon. With movements so fast that they were hard to follow, he disassembled the Tokarev and laid it out in front of him. Over the next few minutes, Lazarev inspected the barrel to check for pitting, tested the recoil spring, the trigger and the magazine. Satisfied, he reassembled the gun and returned it to Kirov. ‘Good,’ said Lazarev.
‘I’m glad you approve,’ replied Kirov.
‘I expect you’ll need that where you’re going. And I hope for your sake that you’re right about one thing if you do ever find Pekkala.’
‘What is that, Lazarev?’
‘That the Emerald Eye wants to be found.’
Letter forwarded July 16th, 1937 by Samuel Hayes, clerk at US Embassy Moscow, to poste-restante Gotland, Sweden, awaiting arrival of yacht ‘Sea Cloud’ on extended tour of Baltic region.
Letter arrived Gotland August 2nd, 1937.
Forwarded to Grand Hotel, Oslo, August 10th.
Forwarded to Hotel Rondane, Bergen, September 1st.
September 30th, 1937, Hirtshals, Denmark. Yacht ‘Sea Cloud’. Memo from Joseph Davies, US Ambassador to Moscow, to Secretary Samuel Hayes, Moscow.
The Ambassador has no comment on the matter of the arrest of William Vasko or on the numerous other arrests of American citizens which have allegedly taken place in recent weeks. He is confident that any arrests are the result of crimes committed and confident, also, that the Soviet authorities were acting within their legal jurisdiction in these cases. Said authorities will process these criminals according to their own judicial system, at which time said authorities will notify the Embassy. Until such time, no action should be taken that could impede the forward momentum of US–Soviet relations.
Signed, p/p for Joseph Davies, Ambassador
Before leaving NKVD headquarters, Kirov climbed up to the fourth floor, where he found Elizaveta, Sergeant Gatkina and Corporal Korolenko in the fire-bucket room, just sitting down to tea.
Sergeant Gatkina slapped her hand upon the empty crate beside her. ‘Perfect timing, Major,’
‘I have some good news,’ announced Kirov, as he took his place upon the rough wooden seat.
‘A promotion, I hope,’ said Gatkina. ‘It’s about time they made you a colonel.’
‘About time!’ echoed Corporal Korolenko.
Gatkina turned and stared at her. ‘Must you repeat everything I say?’
Korolenko did her best to look offended, turning up her nose and looking the other way, as if suddenly fascinated by the wall.
‘Well, no,’ began Kirov, ‘it’s not a promotion. Not that, exactly.’
‘Is it scandal?’ asked Corporal Korolenko, unable to sustain her indignation. ‘Because I love scandal.’
‘Then find yourself some general to seduce!’ grumbled Sergeant Gatkina.
‘I might,’ replied Korolenko, sipping at the scalding tea. ‘I just might.’
‘Spit it out, Major!’ commanded Gatkina, oblivious to their difference in rank.
‘It’s about Pekkala,’ explained Kirov.
At the mention of the Inspector, a tremor seemed to pass through the room.
‘What about him?’ asked Elizaveta.
‘I’ve been given new orders by Comrade Stalin. I’m no longer tied down here in Moscow. I am to search for the Inspector, no matter where it takes me. He told me to scour the earth if I had to! And that is exactly what I intend to do. New evidence has surfaced. I can’t talk about it. Not yet. But I can tell you that there’s a chance, a good chance, that Pekkala might still be alive.’
For a while, there was nothing but silence.
‘Tea break is over!’ announced Sergeant Gatkina. ‘Back to work, Korolenko.’
‘But I’ve just sat down!’ protested the corporal.
‘Then you can just stand up again!’
Muttering, Korolenko left the room, followed by Sergeant Gatkina, who rested her gnarled hand gently on Elizaveta’s shoulder. ‘Not you, dear,’ she said.
And then it was just Kirov and Elizaveta.
‘What did I say?’ asked Kirov. ‘Why did they leave like that?’
Elizaveta breathed in slowly. ‘Because they know I have been dreading the day that you would bring me news like this.’
‘News that Pekkala . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ she told him flatly.
‘But I thought you would be pleased!’
‘Did it never occur to you that I might wish he would never come back?’
‘Of course not!’ replied Kirov. ‘I don’t understand you, Elizaveta.’
‘Do you know that when Sergeant Gatkina heard you were working with Pekkala, she gave you six months to live?’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Because of something everyone can see. Except you, apparently.’
‘And what would this be?’ he demanded.
‘Death travels with that man,’ she said. ‘He is drawn to it and it is drawn to him.’
‘And yet he has survived!’
‘But those around him have not. Don’t you see? He is like the lamb that leads other sheep to the slaughter.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ laughed Kirov. ‘Listen to yourself.’
But Elizaveta was not smiling. ‘The first time I looked in Pekkala’s eyes, I knew exactly why the Tsar had chosen him.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because of what he is.’
‘Because of who he is, you mean.’
‘No, that is not what I mean. If you go out there,’ Elizaveta aimed a finger through the wall, ‘in search of that man, I’m afraid you will never come back.’
‘Even if that were true, what choice do I have? Stalin has given me orders!’
‘To look for him, yes, but how hard you look is up to you.’
A look of confused disappointment passed like a shadow across Kirov’s face. ‘Even if I had no orders, you know what I would do.’
She nodded. ‘And that is why I am afraid.’
*
With Elizaveta’s words still echoing in his head, Kirov returned to the office.
Immediately, he set to work. After clearing everything off his desk, he laid out a map of Ukraine. Kirov’s lips moved silently as he whispered the names of places he’d never heard of before. Bolshoi Dvor, Dubovaya, Mintsevo. The vastness of it overwhelmed him.
If Pekkala really is out there, thought Kirov, somewhere in that wilderness of unfamiliar names, then why did he come all this way to Moscow, only to vanish again without ever getting in touch?
Lost in his own mind, Kirov reached instinctively for his pipe and the dwindling supply of good tobacco which he kept in the drawer of his desk. The tobacco was stored in an old leather pouch, so old and frayed that blond crumbs sifted through its broken seams every time he picked it up. Remembering the new pouch given to him by Linsky, Kirov fished it out of his pocket. For a moment, he studied the leather, turning it over in his hand as if the wrinkles of its grain, which curved and wandered like the roads upon the map which lay beneath it, might offer him some clue as to its original owner. Finding nothing, he untied the cord which held the pouch together and turned it inside out, to make sure it was free
of dust and grit before loading the pouch with tobacco.
That was when he noticed a small black symbol burned into the hide. It showed what looked like two commas, facing each other. Beneath the commas was a triangle, the tip of which nudged up between the brackets. Under the triangle were the numbers 243.
It was just a tanner’s mark, the likes of which he had seen branded on leather saddles when his parents had run a tavern in a village called Torjuk on the road between Moscow and Petrograd.
Travellers arrived at all times of day or night, and it had been Kirov’s duty to see to their horses, removing the saddles, brushing them down and feeding them before the travellers departed. Almost every saddle had some kind of stamp in the leather, and sometimes several, placed there not only by the craftsmen who had manufactured the saddle but also by their owners. It had always seemed to Kirov that there were as many different stamps as there were saddles which he lifted from the backs of tired horses.
There was only one person he knew of who might have any idea how to trace such a symbol – a cobbler named Podolski. After the disappointment of his meeting with Lazarev, Kirov held out little hope that this tiny symbol might bring him any closer to Pekkala. But he knew he had to try, if only for the sake of thoroughness. With a groan, he rose to his feet and made his way back downstairs.
This time, Kirov did not take the car, but walked instead, striding across the city with his particular loping gait, the heel irons of his boots sparking off the cobblestones.
Podolski ran a shoe-repair business in a side street across from Lubyanka Square. His proximity to NKVD headquarters, and the fact that he specialised in military boots, meant that the personnel of Internal Security comprised almost all of his customers.
Unlike Linsky’s front window, which at least contained the products of his trade, festooned though they were upon some of the ugliest mannequins Kirov had ever seen, Podolski’s window display had nothing to do with shoes. The dusty space was strewn with old books, hats and odd gloves which Podolski had picked up off the street. This collection of orphaned relics was presided over by an old Manx cat who never seemed to move from its fur-matted cushion.
