by Sam Eastland
Pekkala waved his hand over the bodies. ‘Then something else happened here. Whatever the answer, it points towards a weakness in his character.’
‘If you call compassion a weakness.’
‘In his line of work,’ replied Pekkala, ‘that’s exactly what it is.’
Just then, they heard a sound, a scuffling which seemed to be coming from inside a chest of drawers set against the wall.
Both men lunged for their weapons. In an instant, Pekkala’s Webley and Kirov’s Tokarev were aimed at the bulky wooden structure.
Without a word, Kirov stepped over to the chest of drawers. He knelt down, knees cracking, and set his ear against the side panel. For a moment, he remained there, motionless and listening.
Then both men heard a strange and high-pitched sound, like that of a trapped bird, coming from the same location.
Caught off guard by the noise, Kirov tipped backwards, landing heavily upon the floor. He scrambled backwards, then jumped once again to his feet. ‘What was that?’ he whispered to Pekkala.
‘I think it was the sound of someone crying,’ replied Pekkala. Stepping over to the chest of drawers, he gently tapped the barrel of the Webley against the wood. ‘Come out,’ he said gently. ‘No one is here to hurt you.’
‘I can’t,’ replied a voice, so faint that they could barely make it out.
‘Why not?’ asked Pekkala.
‘You have to move the chest,’ replied the voice.
‘It’s a child!’ gasped Kirov. Setting his weight against the chest of drawers, he moved the structure aside, revealing a hole in the wall behind. It had been crudely excavated, the sides hacked from the plaster. The stumps of wooden laths protruded like the ends of broken ribs. The hole itself was narrow, far too small for anyone to stand inside and too short to lie down in. Curled in a foetal position, with her knees drawn up to her chin, was a young girl, no more than ten years old. She wore a tattered blue coat and worn-out shoes, fastened by a strap with flower-shaped buckles, which must once have been saved only for special occasions.
Immediately, Pekkala put away his gun and knelt down beside the hole. ‘What is your name?’ he asked gently.
‘Shura.’
‘It’s safe to come out now, Shura.’ He beckoned to her with his blood-stained fingers.
The girl stared at him, her eyes reddened from hours of weeping.
‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Why was there shooting? Why is the table tipped over? Who is that lying on the floor? Is that the general?’
‘We are trying to answer those questions,’ Pekkala shifted his stance to block the girl’s view of the carnage, while Kirov removed his tunic and laid it over the dead woman’s face. Then he gathered up the once-cheerful white and yellow table cloth and heaped it on the shattered ruination of the general’s skull. Pekkala kept talking to the girl. ‘And I think you might be able to help us, but first tell me, Shura, who put you in this place?’
‘My mother.’
‘And your mother’s name is Antonina?’
‘Yes,’ she told them. ‘When the general comes to visit, my mother takes me to my grandmother’s house. But if there isn’t time, she makes me hide in here.’
‘Why? Did she think that the general would hurt you?’
‘No, that’s not it,’ she replied. ‘She said that if the general knew about me, he might not come at all. She didn’t want him to know that she had a child. He brought food with him, you see. My mother always saved some for me. But then, last night, someone came up the stairs.’
‘How many of them were there?’
‘Only one.’
Pekkala narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you certain, Shura? Only one?’
‘I heard his footsteps. If there were more, I would have heard them, too. I thought it was the general’s helper, Molodin. He knows I live here, but he promised not to tell. Sometimes he would come by with gifts for me.’
‘How do you know it wasn’t him?’ said Pekkala.
‘I heard a voice and I knew it wasn’t Molodin. And I heard my mother’s voice, too. But softly. I couldn’t tell what they were saying. After that, the gun went off again.’
Pekkala nodded, trying to conceal his emotions. Just then, he noticed the blood on his fingers, tucked his hand behind him and wiped it on the back of his coat.
‘Are you hurt?’ asked the girl.
‘No,’ replied Pekkala. ‘I’m fine, Shura. Won’t you come out now? It’s safe. No one is going to hurt you.’
The girl crawled out of the space and Pekkala swept her up in his arms.
‘Is that my mother lying there?’ From the flat tone of her voice, it was clear that she already knew. In the hours she’d spent huddled in the blindness of that hiding place, the girl had pieced together images from what she’d only heard.
‘Look at me,’ said Pekkala.
As if lost in a trance, Shura continued to stare at the hulk of the dead general, his stiffened body like an island on the blood-daubed floor, and the granite pallor of her mother’s legs protruding from her skirt.
‘Look at me, Shura,’ he repeated.
This time, the girl obeyed.
‘I want you to do something for me,’ Pekkala told her. ‘I want you to close your eyes and let me carry you downstairs. It is better not to see what’s here. Do you understand?’
The girl’s eyes slid shut like those of a doll tilted on to its back.
Pekkala carried her down, stepping over the body of the guard, and out into the street.
‘My God,’ said Malashenko, his gaze fastening upon the little girl. ‘What is she doing here?’
Hearing a familiar voice, Shura opened her eyes and looked around, squinting in the harsh daylight.
‘You know this girl?’ Pekkala asked Malashenko.
‘I do,’ he replied.
Pekkala set her down and she walked over to Malashenko, who crouched down and placed her on his knee.
‘Shura,’ said the partisan, ‘do you recognise me? I was a friend of your mother’s.’
‘I know who you are,’ replied Shura.
‘Do you know where her grandmother lives?’ Pekkala asked Malashenko. ‘Can you take her there?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but I am supposed to be guarding you.’
‘Meet us at the safe house when you’re done. We’ll manage until you get back.’
‘Yes, Inspector. I promise to return right away.’
‘Move fast, Malashenko,’ said Kirov. ‘Here come Yakushkin’s men.’
They all heard it now, the sound of a vehicle fast approaching from the direction of the hospital.
‘You had better leave with me, Inspector,’ said Malashenko. He shifted the little girl off his knee and rose to his feet. ‘Your friend might be safe in that uniform of his, but you won’t be safe among the soldiers.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Kirov assured him. ‘I guarantee Pekkala’s safety.’
‘Your guarantee?’ asked Malashenko. ‘What use is that? The promise of a commissar is no better than the oath of a whore.’
The words were not even out of Malashenko’s mouth, before Kirov’s gun was levelled at his face.
The speed of Kirov’s draw left Malashenko wide-eyed with astonishment. ‘You see?’ spluttered the partisan, not taking his eyes off the weapon. ‘You see who these men really are?’
‘Major,’ said Pekkala, ‘you will put the gun away. And you!’ he turned to Malashenko. ‘Go now, before that mouth of yours gets you in more trouble than I can get you out of.’
Fascinated, the little girl had watched all this. Now she reached out her arms to be carried as Malashenko slung the sub-machine gun on his back, and he lifted her up and vanished down an alley just as a Red Army truck appeared around the corner, and began speeding towards the yellow house.
‘What was that just now?’ demanded Pekkala. ‘Have you completely lost your mind!’
‘No,’ Kirov said through clenched teeth, ‘but that’s what I’d like him to thi
nk.’
Internal Memo, Office of Immigration and Naturalisation, US Embassy, Moscow. December 28th, 1937
Application for replacement of US passports for Mrs William H. Vasko, aged 42, her son Peter Vasko aged 16 and daughter Rachel Vasko, aged 9.
Filing of application delayed pending payment of $2 US Dollars per passport. Applicant did not have required US Dollars and will return shortly.
*
Police Report, Kremlin District, December 29th, 1937
Arrest of Betty Jean Vasko and two children, charged with illegal possession of foreign currency pursuant to NKVD directive 3/A 1933.
*
Minutes of Central Court, Moscow, March 4th, 1938
Prisoners G-29-K Betty Jean Vasko, G-30-K Peter Vasko, and G-31-K, Rachel Vasko convicted of currency manipulation and illegal possession of foreign currency. Sentenced to 10, 5 and 2 years respectively. Transport to Kolyma.
One hour later, Kirov and Pekkala were standing in the office of Captain Igor Chaplinksy, a slight man with thinning hair and a sharply angled face who had, until Yakushkin’s death, been second-in-command of the garrison.
Only days before, this building had been the central headquarters of the German Secret Field Police for the entire Western Ukraine. They had left in a hurry, abandoning most of their equipment – typewriters, radios and drawers full of documents, some of which had been burned in the courtyard below, while the rest had either been torn to shreds or else smashed into uselessness by the rifle butts of the departing soldiers.
Commander Yakushkin’s staff had moved into the building less than twenty-four hours after the previous tenants had taken to their heels. In their rush to establish a headquarters, there had been no time to remove the broken equipment and it remained as it had been left by its owners, in tangles of ripped-out wiring, broken glass tubes and a confetti of multicoloured requisition slips. There was even a large and mysterious splash of dried blood, fanned out like the feathers of a peacock on the wall behind Chaplinsky’s desk.
Chaplinsky’s first thought, after the Inspector and his assistant had identified themselves, was that he would somehow be held accountable for Yakushkin’s death, about which he had been notified even as Pekkala was climbing the stairs to his office. The fact that Pekkala had arrived in the company of a major of Special Operations convinced him that his fate was already decided.
‘I had no idea where the commander was last night,’ said Chaplinksy, clasping his hands together in front of his chest like a man wringing water from a rag. Although the gesture was intended to reinforce the sincerity of his defence, it gave instead the impression of a man begging for mercy which, as far as Chaplinsky was concerned, was not far from the truth. ‘He did not tell me where he was going. And I ask you, comrades, was it even my duty to ask? Commander Yakushkin was often absent, particularly at night. Am I responsible for his private life! No! I am a simple soldier in the service of his country. That is all. I serve the Soviet people. I . . .’
Pekkala leaned forward. ‘Captain Chaplinsky,’ he said softly.
Chaplinsky cut short his monologue. ‘Yes?’ he almost sobbed.
‘We are not here to charge you with his murder.’
‘You aren’t?’ Chaplinsky settled back in his chair as if he were deflating. ‘Then why are you here, gentlemen?’
‘We were investigating the murder of Colonel Andrich,’ explained Pekkala. ‘Now, unfortunately, that investigation has expanded to include Commander Yakushkin.’
‘And one more, as well, I’m afraid,’ said Chaplinsky, ‘although I’m not certain it is related to your case.’
‘Who else has been killed?’ asked Pekkala.
‘A hospital orderly by the name of Anatoli Tutko. He was knifed to death last night at about the same time as Commander Yakushkin was murdered. Tutko worked on the same floor as the nurse with whom Yakushkin was involved. As I say, it may not be related, but you can be certain of one thing, Inspector.’
‘And what is that?’ asked Pekkala.
‘That the partisans are behind all these killings.’
‘They seem equally convinced that you are to blame.’
‘Andrich was working for us!’ Chaplinsky said indignantly. ‘And no one in the Red Army would dare lift a hand against Commander Yakushkin. The partisans must have found out what was coming to them and decided to take vengeance before we had even begun.’
‘What is coming?’ asked Kirov. ‘What are you talking about?’
Chaplinsky snatched a piece of paper off his desk. ‘These are my orders to prepare for an all-out assault against the partisans. The message just came through from Moscow, and we are now on full alert until the command comes through to commence the attack.’
‘Comrade Chaplinsky,’ said Pekkala, ‘you must do everything you can to delay taking action, at least until I can find out who is really behind the murders of Colonel Andrich and Commander Yakushkin, or the result will be a needless slaughter.’
‘I am well aware of what the cost will be in blood, Inspector, but what would you have me do? An order is an order, especially one from the Kremlin.’
‘A commander in the field,’ said Kirov, ‘is always afforded some discretion.’
‘Commander?’ echoed Chaplinsky.
‘Of course,’ Kirov told him. ‘You are in charge now, after all.’
Everything had happened so suddenly that this fact had not yet dawned upon Chaplinsky. Yes, he thought to himself. I am the commander. And his face assumed a solemn gravity.
‘So you will do what you can?’
‘As commander,’ said Chaplinsky, ‘I assure you that I will.’
‘There is one other matter,’ said Kirov.
‘Anything to assist the men of Special Operations,’ Chaplinsky answered grandly.
‘We would be grateful for some kind of transport while we carry out our investigation.’
‘Of course. You may have Sergeant Zolkin for as long as you need him.’
‘Zolkin?’ asked Kirov, remembering the man who had met him at the airstrip upon his arrival in Rovno. ‘I thought he was killed in the air raid the other night.’
‘He is very much alive, I assure you,’ said Chaplinsky. ‘You can find him at the motor pool, down in the courtyard of this building. Sergeant Zolkin will drive you wherever you need to go. Just don’t go too far. I have just received word that the Germans might be mounting an attack to retake Rovno. There is heavy fighting west of here. Our troops are holding them for now, but there is a chance, a good chance, that the Fascists might break through as early as tomorrow. If that happens, we have been ordered to defend this town, no matter what the cost.’
*
‘The death of that orderly was no coincidence,’ remarked Pekkala, as they made their way downstairs.
‘I agree,’ replied Kirov. ‘The gunman went to find the nurse, hoping she could lead him to Yakushkin. It was the orderly who told him where to go.’
‘There is one other possibility,’ said Pekkala.
‘And what is that, Inspector?’
‘He might have been looking for you.’
Emerging into the courtyard, they found it crowded with vehicles in various states of disrepair. A heap of bullet-shredded tyres lay in one corner and mangled pieces of exhaust pipe clattered with a ring of metal on stone as they were tossed by grease-blackened mechanics on to the tiles of what had once been the summer dining area of the hotel.
In the centre of the courtyard, Pekkala and Kirov discovered Yakushkin’s jeep. Its olive-drab paint had been gashed down to the bare metal in places where shrapnel had torn through the bonnet and cowlings. Two men in blue overalls huddled over the engine.
‘Zolkin?’ asked Kirov, unsure which one he should be talking to.
Both men turned and squinted at the new arrivals. Neither was the Sergeant. One man aimed a greasy spanner at the other side of the courtyard to where Zolkin was sorting through a heap of punctured radiator hoses. His unbuttoned telogreika re
vealed a sweat-stained undershirt beneath. ‘I thought you were dead!’ he exclaimed, when he caught sight of Kirov.
‘I thought the same of you,’ replied the major. ‘What happened to you when the bombing started?’
‘I was on the other side of the street, buying a mug of tea from some old woman when the bombs started falling. She and I ended up down in her basement. A bomb fell so close by that the house collapsed on top of us. We weren’t hurt, but it took me several hours to dig our way through the rubble. By the time I got us out of there, the locals told me that a number of bodies had been removed from the bunker. They said everyone down there had been killed.’
‘I was only wounded,’ Kirov explained. ‘It seems that we have both been lucky.’
‘I thought so, too, until I heard about the death of Commander Yakushkin.’
‘That news has travelled fast.’
‘Everyone in the garrison knows about it,’ replied Zolkin.
‘You were supposed to go with him to Moscow, weren’t you?’
Zolkin sighed and nodded. ‘So much for the chance of a lifetime.’ But then he raised his head. ‘Unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’ asked Kirov.
‘You could take me with you when you return,’ suggested Zolkin. ‘I would gladly serve as your driver in Moscow, if you don’t already have one.’
‘Sergeant,’ Kirov began, ‘I’m afraid . . .’
‘We don’t have a driver,’ said Pekkala.
Kirov glanced at him in confusion. ‘I drive us everywhere!’
‘If you want to call it driving.’
‘Are you going to compare my driving with yours? Because if you are . . .’
Zolkin had been watching this exchange like a spectator at a tennis match, but now he raised his voice. ‘Comrades!’
The two men turned to look at him.
‘I will be the best driver you have ever had,’ Zolkin assured them.
‘You would be the only driver we have ever had,’ said Pekkala, ‘and I see no reason why you should not come with us to Moscow.’
