by Sam Eastland
As Pekkala clambered out, he stared up at the shattered windows and the bullet-pocked walls. Here and there, he could see a rifle pointing from a room. Through an open doorway, he watched as wounded men, trailing the bloody pennants of hastily applied field bandages, were being carried down into the basement of the building.
‘They’ve hit us twice already,’ said Zolkin. ‘If it hadn’t been for the mortars, they would have made it past the barricade.’
‘Where did the mortars come from?’ asked Kirov. ‘I don’t see any in position here.’
Zolkin shook his head. ‘They weren’t ours. Those rounds came in from somewhere on the other side of town. We think it might be a Red Army relief column approaching on the road from Kolodenka. Commander Chaplinsky has been trying to make radio contact with them, but so far without success. With luck, they might get here before the next attack.’
He had barely finished speaking when they heard the clatter of enemy machine guns and the monstrous squeaking of tracked vehicles, somewhere out beyond the barricades. The Langemarck Division had returned.
‘So much for the relief column,’ muttered Zolkin. ‘It looks as if we’re on our own.’
Commander Chaplinsky met them in the doorway of the garrison. His face was blackened with gun smoke, making his teeth seem unnaturally white. Behind him, in what had once been a grand foyer, three exhausted soldiers sprawled on an ornately upholstered couch which had been dragged out into the open. Others lay around them on the floor, oblivious to the jigsaw puzzles of broken window glass beneath them. The worn-down hobnails on their boots gleamed as if pearls and not steel had been set into the dirty leather soles.
‘Find yourself a gun.’ Chaplinsky gestured towards a heap of rifles belonging to those who were now being treated in an improvised dressing station in the old luggage room of the hotel. ‘We’re going to need everyone who can pull a trigger.’ As he spoke, some of the more lightly wounded soldiers emerged from the dressing station, took up their weapons and returned to their posts.
Kirov and Pekkala each picked up an abandoned rifle and made their way along the hall until they found an empty room. The windows had been smashed out and furniture lay piled into the corner. Spent rifle cartridges and the grey cloth covers of Russian army field dressings littered the floor where a man had been wounded in the last assault.
‘From the look of things here,’ said Kirov, ‘this might not be the best place to make a stand.’
‘If you know of a better one, go to it,’ answered Pekkala.
With a grunt of resignation, Kirov sat down on the floor with his back against the wall.
Pekkala stared through the empty window frame, eyes fixed upon the horizon, where dust churned up by the fighting dirtied the pale blue sky. ‘He’s out there,’ Pekkala said quietly.
‘Who?’ asked Kirov as he checked his rifle’s magazine to see if it was loaded.
‘The assassin,’ replied Pekkala.
‘And so is half the German army, Inspector. Are you trying to tell me you’re still fixated on arresting a single man?’
Pekkala turned and studied him. ‘That is exactly what I’m telling you.’
‘You’re going to get us both killed,’ said Kirov. ‘Do you realise that, Inspector?’
‘If we worried about the risks every time we set out to find a criminal, we would never arrest anyone.’
Kirov laughed bitterly. ‘Elizaveta was telling the truth.’
‘The truth about what?’ asked Pekkala.
‘About you! About this!’ He kicked out with his heel, sending spent cartridges jangling across the floor. ‘Wherever you go, death follows in your path.’
‘She said that?’
‘Yes,’ answered Kirov.
‘And you believed her?’
‘I just told you I did.’
‘Then why the devil did you come out here to find me?’ demanded Pekkala. ‘To prove that she was right?’
‘I didn’t come here because of what she said!’ shouted Kirov. ‘I came here in spite of it.’
There was no time for Pekkala to reply. He ducked for cover as a stream of tracer fire arced towards them from a gap in a stone wall across the street. Bullets spattered against the walls, raising a cloud of plaster dust.
‘Here they come,’ muttered Kirov.
*
Malashenko approached his cabin in the woods. After finding the cabin deserted, Malashenko had returned to Rovno, intending to meet Pekkala at the safe house, as he had promised to do. But no sooner had he reached the outskirts of the town when an attack began from the west. With machine gunfire whip-cracking in the air above him and mortars falling in the nearby streets, Malashenko realised that the enemy must have broken through and that he had wandered right into the fighting. Leaving Pekkala and the commissar to fend for themselves, he ran for his life back towards the cabin, the only place he could think of where he might be safe.
He did not expect to find Vasko there. By now, Malashenko was convinced that the Abwehr agent had already gone, having accomplished what he came to do. The thought that he had been cheated out of his bar of gold filled Malashenko with barely containable rage.
But when Malashenko arrived at the little shack, with its mildewed log walls and crooked tar-paper roof, he was stunned to discover that, in the few hours he’d been gone, all the windows had been knocked out. ‘Vasko!’ he shouted. ‘Vasko, are you there?’
‘Yes,’ said a voice behind him.
Malashenko spun around as Vasko stepped out from behind a tree, a Tokarev pistol in his hand.
‘I didn’t think you were coming back,’ the partisan remarked nervously.
‘Then you were mistaken, Malashenko.’
‘What the hell happened to my cabin?’
‘Somebody touched something they shouldn’t have.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me!’
‘I know,’ Vasko said calmly. ‘Because if it had been, you would be the one lying in pieces on the floor instead of somebody else.’
‘Pieces?’ Malashenko glanced in through the cabin’s open door. A headless body slumped in a chair against the wall. The walls were painted with blood. With nausea rising in his throat, Malashenko backed away. ‘Listen,’ he told Vasko. ‘There is something you should know. Pekkala is looking for you. Pekkala, the Emerald—’
Vasko cut him off. ‘I know exactly who Pekkala is.’
‘Then you know it’s only a matter of time before he finds you.’
‘That is exactly what I intend for him to do.’
He’s gone mad, thought Malashenko. Maybe he was from the start. Malashenko would have shot Vasko by now, but his sub-machine gun was slung across his back and he knew he’d never get to it before Vasko pulled the trigger on his pistol. Instead, he tried to reason with the man. ‘And when he does catch you, after what you’ve done—’
‘Oh, he won’t catch me,’ Vasko assured him. ‘You and I will see to that.’
‘You can leave me out of it!’ snapped Malashenko. ‘I already helped you. I did everything you asked of me.’ He held out one dirty hand. ‘You owe me that bar of gold.’
‘And you will have it,’ said Vasko, ‘but I require one small additional favour from you.’
‘What kind of favour?’ demanded Malashenko.
‘I would like you to bring Pekkala here.’
‘So that you can add another to your list of murders? You don’t understand. I have orders to protect the Inspector, as well as his assistant Major Kirov.’
‘Orders from whom?’
‘From Barabanschikov himself,’ replied Malashenko. ‘If anything happens to them it will be on my shoulders! In the meantime, I’m supposed to be helping them catch you.’
Vasko smiled. ‘Then they will be pleased when you report to them that you found me lying dead in your cabin.’
For a moment, Malashenko just stared in confusion, but as the seconds passed, he began to understand Vasko’s thinking. ‘The body in the cabin,’ he whi
spered. ‘They’ll think it’s you.’
‘When they find the pieces of my radio, along with other evidence, they’ll have no reason to think otherwise.’
‘And then you can get away clean,’ said Malashenko, marvelling at the beautiful symmetry of Vasko’s plan, ‘because nobody looks for a man they think is lying dead in front of them. Barabanschikov will be pleased, Pekkala will thank me . . .’ then Malashenko paused. ‘But how will I convince them it is you?’
Vasko thought for a second, then he removed a spare Tokarev magazine from his pocket, pushed out one of the special soft-point rounds and tossed it to Malashenko. ‘Just show him this. He’ll know what it means. Go now, and the quicker you get back here with Pekkala, the sooner that gold will be yours.’
Malashenko needed no further encouragement. He turned and started walking down the trail to Rovno. Gradually, his walking pace picked up into a steady trot. Then, with thoughts of gold swimming in his brain, Malashenko broke into a run.
*
From somewhere beyond the barricade came the sound of a tank engine. A moment later, a German Jagdpanzer, normally used for destroying other armoured vehicles, appeared from around a corner.
Their faces masked with plaster dust, Kirov and Pekkala began firing at the vehicle, but the bullets bounced harmlessly off its front armour.
With no support, and no anti-tank weapons, the men in the garrison knew it was only a matter of time before the enemy made their final assault on the building. In the room-to-room combat that would follow, there would be no hope of surrender. It would be a fight to the death.
‘Why didn’t you marry Elizaveta?’ asked Pekkala.
‘You want to talk about that now?’ Kirov asked incredulously.
‘There may not be another time,’ said Pekkala.
‘How can I marry her,’ asked Kirov, ‘when the odds are I’d make her a widow long before we could grow old together?’
‘Do you love her?’
‘Yes! What of it?’
‘Then let her choose whether or not to take that risk. Your job is to stay alive. Hers is to trust that you will.’
‘That’s some advice, coming from a man who sent his own fiancée away to Paris as soon as the Revolution broke out! She wanted to stay and be near you, but you forced her to go.’
‘And I have regretted it every day since. Do not postpone happiness, Kirov. That has been the most costly lesson of my life.’
The building shuddered as a shell from the tank smashed into the upper storeys of the hotel. Soldiers accompanying the armoured vehicle crouched in the doorways of wrecked buildings, shooting at anything that moved in the hotel.
The Jagdpanzer backed up slowly as it manoeuvred for another shot.
With a sound like a whipcrack, a bullet passed just over Kirov’s head and smashed what was left of the light fixture hanging from the middle of the room.
Pekkala watched the barrel of the tank rising as it took aim. It seemed to be pointing straight at him. Slowly, he lowered his gun, knowing it was useless to keep fighting against such a machine. ‘I’m sorry, Kirov,’ he said. ‘I should never have brought you to this place.’
‘I would have come here anyway,’ answered Kirov.
Then came a deafening roar, following by the squeal of the tank’s engine and then another explosion, this one more muffled than the first.
The top hatch of the tank disappeared as a bolt of fire erupted from the turret. Black smoke poured from the engine grille and fire coughed out of the exhaust stacks.
At that same moment, Pekkala caught sight of a small grey cloud sifting upwards from the rubble of a building. A man emerged, still carrying the arm-length, sand-coloured tube of a Panzerfaust anti-tank weapon. At first, Pekkala could not understand why the vehicle had been destroyed by what appeared to be one of its own people, but then he realised that the man was a partisan. Just as he was wondering where the man had come from, and where he could have come by such a weapon, a terrible cry went up from the ruins, and more partisans began to pour into the street.
‘Where did they come from?’ asked Kirov, who had joined Pekkala at the window sill.
The soldiers, who had been ready to make their final assault on the garrison, began to pull back. But they were quickly overwhelmed by the mass of charging partisans, who seemed to number in their hundreds. In minutes, the SS men were running for their lives, leaving behind the smouldering hulk of their tank.
Deafened and coughing the dust from their lungs, Pekkala and Kirov stumbled their way out into the street. The air was filled with a metallic reek of broken flint from cobblestones crushed by the heavy iron tank tracks.
All around them, Red Army soldiers emerged from hiding places behind the coils of barbed wire which marked their last line of defence.
Partisans milled about in the road. Having driven off the attackers, they seemed unsure what to do next.
Among these men, Pekkala recognised members of the Barabanschikov Atrad. But there were others, many others, whom Pekkala had not seen before. Then he knew that Barabanschikov had somehow managed to do what might have seemed impossible only days before – he had gathered the Atrads together.
The soldiers approached, stepping carefully over the smashed bricks.
The partisans watched them come on, smoke still drifting from their weapons.
Warily, the two sides watched each other.
Just when it seemed as if they might start shooting at each other, one of the Red Army soldiers slung his rifle on his back. As seconds passed, others followed his example. Some even laid their guns upon the ground and, as if driven by a wordless command, walked forward with their arms held out in gratitude to the men who had just saved their lives.
*
When Malashenko arrived at the safe house, he found the doors open and the building empty. There seemed to be only two possibilities, neither of them good. Either Kirov and Pekkala had been killed or captured, or else they had escaped to the Red Army garrison. From what Malashenko could hear on his way into town, the Fascists were attacking the old hotel with everything they had, including, from the sound of it, a tank, against which the garrison had no defences. The shooting had stopped. Which means, thought Malashenko, that everyone inside that garrison is probably dead by now.
But even as these thoughts entered his mind, they were interrupted by the sound of cheering, which came from somewhere over by the garrison. Malashenko listened, mystified. Russian. There was no mistake, and it dawned on him that the Red Army must somehow have repelled the German attack. Malashenko set off towards the sound, his toes half-frozen in his soaked and worn-out boots as they splashed through the ankle-deep slush.
*
In the street outside the garrison, there was cheering, and even music. A soldier had brought out an accordion and was sitting on top of a large pile of bricks, serenading those who stood nearby. The barbed wire had been pulled aside and, in the place where the barricades had stood, soldiers and partisans danced shoulder to shoulder, their hobnailed boots kicking up sparks from the wet road.
The first person Pekkala and Kirov ran into was Sergeant Zolkin.
‘Not a scratch!’ he shouted, as he wrapped his arms around Pekkala.
‘Yes,’ remarked Pekkala, as he untangled himself from Zolkin’s embrace. ‘You were lucky.’
‘Not me!’ laughed Zolkin. ‘The Jeep! I thought it would be blown to bits, but it came through undamaged!’ Then he ran back towards the motor pool.
The next person they found was Commander Chaplinsky who, instead of enjoying his victory, was almost in hysterics.
‘What is wrong, Commander?’ asked Kirov. ‘Surely you have cause to celebrate!’
Chaplinsky held out a scrap of paper. ‘I just received this from Moscow.’
Gently, Kirov took the paper from his hands. ‘It’s an order from Headquarters in Moscow.’
‘What does it say?’ asked Pekkala.
‘The Rovno garrison is ordered to immediately co
mmence liquidating all partisans in the Rovno area.’ Helplessly, Chaplinsky raised his hands and let them fall again. ‘But if it wasn’t for these partisans, none of us would have survived. What am I supposed to do?’
‘Do nothing for now,’ answered Pekkala. ‘Just give me a little time to find out where we stand.’
‘Very well,’ agreed Chaplinsky, ‘but you must hurry, Inspector. They are expecting an acknowledgement of the order and I cannot delay them for long.’
At that moment, Malashenko arrived from the safe house, red-faced and out of breath. ‘I found him,’ he managed to say. ‘The man who killed Andrich and Yakushkin. He was holed up at my cabin in the woods. I went there when the fighting started and couldn’t get back until now.’
‘He was at the cabin?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Where is he now, Malashenko?’
‘Still there, Inspector and he’s not going anywhere. He blew himself up with some kind of explosive. It must have been an accident.’
Pekkala paused. ‘Then how do you know it is him?’
From his pocket, Malashenko brought out the soft-pointed bullet Vasko had given him and held it out towards Pekkala. ‘I found this.’
Pekkala examined the bullet. ‘The same kind that was used to kill Andrich and Yakushkin.’
‘But you must come now, Inspector,’ Malashenko said urgently, ‘before someone else stumbles across the body.’
‘For once,’ said Kirov, ‘I agree with Malashenko.’
‘You go instead, Kirov,’ ordered Pekkala. ‘Find Zolkin and his Jeep and get there as fast as you can. Malashenko, you will show them the way.’
‘Shouldn’t you come too?’ blurted Malashenko, afraid that Vasko’s plan had suddenly begun to unravel. ‘You are the Inspector, after all.’
‘You will find the major every bit as capable,’ Pekkala assured him. ‘I have to find Barabanschikov, before this victory celebration turns into another massacre.’
‘But, Inspector . . .’ Malashenko’s lips twitched as he hunted for the words which might change Pekkala’s mind.
‘Come along!’ Taking Malashenko by the arm, Kirov made his way back towards the motor pool, where Zolkin was still rejoicing at the survival of his beloved Jeep.
