Shadow Pass ip-2

by Sam Eastland

  The man behind the desk picked up a phone. “Pekkala is here,” he said.

  Now another guard took over from the first. He led them down a series of long, windowless, dimly illuminated corridors. Hundreds of gray metal doors lined the way. All were closed. The place stank of ammonia, sweat, and the dampness of old stone. The floors were covered with brown industrial carpeting. The guard even wore felt-soled boots, as if sound itself was a crime. Except for the padding of their feet upon the carpet, the place was absolutely silent. No matter how many times Pekkala came here, the silence always unnerved him.

  The guard stopped at one of the cells, rapped his knuckles on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply. He jerked his head, indicating that they could go inside.

  Pekkala and Kirov entered a room with a tall ceiling, roughly three paces long by four paces wide. The walls were painted brown up to chest height. Above that, everything was white. The light in the room came from a single bulb set back into the wall above the door and covered with a wire cage.

  In the center of the room was a table, on which lay a heap of old rags.

  Between Pekkala and this table, with her back to them, stood Major Lysenkova. She wore the NKVD dress uniform—an olive-colored tunic with polished brass buttons and dark blue trousers with a purplish-red stripe running down the side tucked into black knee-length boots.

  “I told you I was not to be disturbed!” she shouted as she turned around. Only then did she realize who had entered the room. “Pekkala!” Her eyes widened with surprise. “I was not expecting you.”

  “Evidently.” Pekkala glanced at a figure huddled in the corner of the cell. It was a man, wearing the thin beige cotton pajamas issued to all prisoners at Lubyanka. The man’s knees were drawn up to his chest and his head lay on his knees. One of his arms hung limply at his side. The shoulder had been dislocated. The other arm was wrapped around his shins, as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible. Now, at the sound of Pekkala’s voice, the man lifted his head.

  The side of his face was so puffed with bruises that at first Pekkala could not identify him.

  “Inspector,” croaked the man.

  Now Pekkala recognized the voice. “Ushinsky!” He gaped at the wreckage of the scientist.

  Major Lysenkova lifted a sheet of paper from the desk. “Here is his full confession, to the crime of murder and of intending to sell secrets to the enemy. He has signed it. The matter is closed.”

  “Major,” said Pekkala, “we agreed that you would take no action without informing me first.”

  “Don’t look so surprised, Inspector,” she replied. “I told you I had learned what it takes to survive. I saw a chance to get myself out of that mess and I took it. Whatever agreement you and I had has been canceled. Comrade Stalin does not care who solved this case, just that it has been solved. The only people who care are you”—she glanced at Kirov—“and your assistant.”

  Kirov did not reply. He stood against the wall, staring in disbelief at Lysenkova.

  “Since the case is officially closed,” Pekkala told Lysenkova, “you won’t mind if I have a few words with the prisoner.”

  She glanced at the man in the corner. “I suppose not.”

  Finally Kirov spoke. “I can’t believe you did this,” he said.

  Lysenkova fixed him with a stare. “I know you can’t,” she said. Then she walked past him and stepped out into the hall. “Take all the time you need, Inspectors,” she told them, before closing the door behind her.

  In the cell, nobody spoke or moved.

  It was Ushinsky who at last broke the silence. “It was Gorenko,” he whispered hoarsely. “He called her. He said I was planning to give the T-34 plans to the Germans.”

  Pekkala crouched down before the injured man. “And were you?”

  “Of course not! When I showed up for work and found out that the prototype had been picked up, I exploded. I told Gorenko it wasn’t ready yet. Those tanks might look all right. They will run. The guns will fire. They will perform adequately under controlled conditions like the ones we have at the facility. But once you put those machines to work out in the real world, it won’t be long before you’ll be looking at major failures in the engine and suspension systems. You must get in touch with the factory, Inspector. Tell them they cannot begin production. Too many pieces of the puzzle are missing!”

  “What did Gorenko say when you told him this?” asked Pekkala.

  “He said it was good enough. That’s what he always says! Then I told him we might as well hand over the design to the damn Germans, since they wouldn’t stop until they got it right. The next thing I knew, I was arrested by the NKVD.”

  “And what about Nagorski?” asked Kirov. “Did you have anything to do with his death?”

  The prisoner shook his head. “I would never have done anything to hurt him.”

  “That confession says you did,” Kirov reminded him.

  “Yes,” said Ushinsky, “and I signed it right after they dislocated my arm.”

  “Are you a member of the White Guild?” asked Pekkala.

  “No! I’ve never even heard of them before. What’s going to happen to me now, Inspector? The major says I’m being sent out to a special location in Siberia, a camp called Mamlin-3.”

  At the mention of that place Pekkala had to force himself to breathe. Suddenly he turned to Kirov. “Leave the room,” he said. “Go out to the car. Do not wait for me. I will join you at the office later.”

  Kirov watched him in confusion. “Why?” he asked.

  “Please,” Pekkala urged.

  “You are going to try to get him out of here?” Slowly Kirov raised his hands, open palms towards Pekkala, as if to fend off what was coming. “Oh, no, Inspector. You can’t—”

  “You have to go now, Kirov.”

  “But you mustn’t!” sputtered Kirov. “This is completely irregular.”

  Ushinsky no longer seemed aware of their presence. His one good hand wandered feebly over his body, as if by some miracle of touch he hoped to heal himself.

  “This man is innocent,” Pekkala told his assistant. “You know that as well as I do.”

  “But it’s too late,” protested Kirov, lifting the confession from the table. “He signed!”

  “You’d have signed, too, if they’d done the same thing to you.”

  “Inspector, please. This isn’t our problem anymore.”

  “I know where they’re sending him,” replied Pekkala. “I know what happens there.”

  “You can’t get him out of here,” Kirov pleaded. “Not even a Shadow Pass will allow you to do that.”

  “Leave now,” said Pekkala. “Go back to the office. When you get there, put in a call to Major Lysenkova. Put it through the main switchboard.”

  “Why would I want to speak to her?” asked Kirov.

  “You wouldn’t,” replied Pekkala. “But you need that switchboard operator to log in the time that you called. That way, it will show that you were not at Lubyanka. Just find some excuse, talk to her for a minute, then hang up and wait for me to come back.”

  “Do you really mean to go through with this?”

  “I will not stand by and let an innocent man be sent to Mamlin-3. Now, Kirov, my friend, do as I tell you and go.”

  Without another word, the young man turned towards the door.

  “Thank you,” whispered Pekkala.

  Then suddenly Kirov spun around, and this time he had a Tokarev aimed at Pekkala.

  “What are you doing?” asked Pekkala.

  “You will thank me later,” said Kirov, “when you have come to your senses.”

  Calmly, Pekkala stared down the barrel of the gun. “I see you brought your weapon this time. At least I have taught you that much.”

  “You also taught me that the law is the law,” said Kirov. “You cannot pick and choose what to obey. There was a time when it seemed to me you knew the difference between right and wrong.”

  “The
older I get, Kirov, the harder it becomes to tell one from the other.”

  For a long time, the two men stood there.

  The barrel of the gun began to tremble in Kirov’s hand. “You know I can’t shoot you,” he whispered.

  “I know,” replied Pekkala in a kindly voice.

  Kirov lowered the gun. Clumsily, he returned the pistol to its holster. Then he shook his head and left the room.

  Pekkala and Ushinsky were alone now.

  A hoarse rattling echoed from Ushinsky’s throat.

  It took Pekkala a moment to realize that Ushinsky was laughing.

  “Major Kirov is right, isn’t he? You can’t get me out of here.”

  “No, Ushinsky, I can’t.”

  “And the things that go on in this camp, are they as bad as you say?”

  “Worse than anything you can imagine.”

  A faint moan escaped his lips. “Please, Inspector. Please, don’t let them take me there.”

  “You understand what we are talking about?” asked Pekkala.

  “I do.” Ushinsky struggled to stand, but he could not manage on his own.

  “Help me up,” he pleaded.

  Pekkala hooked a hand under Ushinsky’s good arm and raised him to his feet.

  The scientist sagged back against the wall, breathing heavily. “Gorenko thinks I hate him, but the truth is he’s the only friend I’ve got. Don’t tell him what happened to me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Which tank did they take?” asked Ushinsky.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I always hoped it would be number 4.”

  “Professor, we don’t have much time.”

  Ushinsky nodded. “I understand. Good-bye, Inspector Pekkala.”

  “Good-bye, Professor Ushinsky.” Pekkala reached into his coat and drew the Webley from its holster.

  At the far end of the hallway, the guard on duty heard the shot. It sounded so muffled that at first he confused it with the clank of the vision slit plate moving back and forth as the guard in the next hallway inspected the other cells. But then, when the other guard stuck his head around the corner and asked, “What was that?” he realized what had happened.

  The guard ran to Ushinsky’s cell, feet padding on the carpeted floor, threw back the locking bolt, and flung open the door. The first thing he saw was a halo of blood on the wall.

  Ushinsky lay in the corner, one leg bent under him and the other stretched out across the floor.

  Pekkala stood in the center of the room. The Webley was still in his hand. Gun smoke swirled around the lightbulb and the air smelled of burnt cordite.

  “What the hell happened?” yelled the guard.

  “Take me to the prison commandant,” Pekkala replied.

  FIVE MINUTES LATER, PEKKALA STOOD IN THE OFFICE OF A BULL-NECKED man with a shaved head named Maltsev. He was in charge of the Kommendatura, a special branch within the Lubyanka prison system, responsible for carrying out executions. In the past three years, Maltsev himself had liquidated over a thousand people. Now Maltsev sat at his desk. He looked stunned, as if he couldn’t have stood up even if he’d wanted to.

  Behind Pekkala stood two armed guards.

  “Explain yourself.” Maltsev’s balled fists rested on the desktop like two fleshy hand grenades. “And you’d better make it good.”

  Pekkala took out his NKVD ID book. He handed it to Maltsev. “Read this,” he said quietly.

  Maltsev opened the red booklet. Immediately, his eyes fastened on the Classified Operations Permit. Maltsev looked up at the guards. “You two,” he said, “get out.”

  Hurriedly, the guards abandoned the room.

  Maltsev handed back the ID book. “I should have known you’d have a Shadow Pass,” he said. He looked even more annoyed than he had a minute before. “I can’t arrest you. I can’t even ask you why you did it, can I?”

  “No,” replied Pekkala.

  Maltsev sat back heavily in his chair and laced his fingers together. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. We have his confession. His transfer paper to Mamlin had already been made out. One way or another, he was not long for this world.”

  Fifteen minutes later, as the gates of the Lubyanka closed behind him, Pekkala glanced up and down the street. The Emka was gone. Kirov had followed his orders. Now Pekkala set off on foot towards the office.

  But that wasn’t where he ended up.

  Frozen in his mind was the image of Kirov, staring at him down the barrel of a gun. Kirov had done the right thing. He had simply followed regulations, and if he had continued to follow them, he would now be back at the office, writing up charges against Pekkala of professional misconduct.

  The more Pekkala thought about this, the louder he heard Kropotkin’s words from the last time they’d met—that the day would come when he would have to choose between what his job required him to do and what his conscience would allow.

  Perhaps the time has come at last to disappear, he told himself, and suddenly it no longer seemed impossible.

  He remembered the morning he had stood with the Tsar on the terrace of the Catherine Palace, watching Ilya lead her students on a walk to the Chinese Theater just across the park. “If you let her get away,” the Tsar said, “you’ll never forgive yourself. And neither will I, by the way.”

  The Tsar had been telling the truth. Pekkala had not forgiven himself. We did not separate by choice, he thought. We were driven apart by circumstances which neither of us caused or wanted. Even if she is with someone else now, even if she has a child, what order of the universe demands that I be satisfied with living out my days as a ghost in her heart?

  With his office building only two blocks away, Pekkala turned the corner and headed for the Cafe Tilsit. He didn’t know if he would find Kropotkin there, but when he came within sight of the place, he saw Kropotkin standing on the sidewalk next to the triangular, double-sided board on which Bruno, the owner, wrote the day’s menu. Kropotkin was smoking a cigarette. A short-brimmed cap obscured his face, but Pekkala recognized him by the way he stood—the legs slightly spread and firmly planted on the ground, one hand tucked behind the back. There was no mistaking the stance of a policeman, whether he had left the ranks or not.

  Kropotkin noticed him and smiled. “I wondered if I’d see you again,” he said, and flicked the cigarette into the street.

  In the cafe, the two men found a place away from the crowded benches, sitting at a small table tucked beneath the staircase to the second floor. Here they knew no one would overhear them.

  Bruno had made borscht. He ladled the soup like torrents of blood into the wooden bowls in which all meals were served.

  “I have thought a lot about our last conversation,” said Pekkala, as he spooned up the ruby-colored soup.

  “I hope you have forgiven me for speaking as bluntly as I did,” replied Kropotkin. “It is in my nature, and I cannot help it.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You mentioned the possibility of disappearing.”

  “Yes. And I realize I was wrong to have suggested it.”

  His words struck Pekkala as if they had been shards of glass. It was the last thing he had expected Kropotkin to say.

  “This is not a time for running,” continued Kropotkin. “What good can we do if we simply allow ourselves to fade away?”

  Pekkala gave no answer. His head was spinning.

  Kropotkin ate as he spoke, slurping his soup off the spoon. “The truth is, Pekkala, I had hoped we might find a way to work together, as we did back in Ekaterinburg.”

  It took Pekkala a moment to understand that Kropotkin was asking for a job. All that talk about disappearing had been nothing more than words. Pekkala did not blame Kropotkin. Instead, he blamed himself for believing it. At the time Kropotkin may have meant what he was saying. He might even have gone through with it, but that was then, and now he believed something else. The long days of driving back and forth across this country have caught up with him, decided Pekkala.
He is looking back on his days in the police and wishing things could be the way they used to be. But the world he is remembering has gone for good. It may never have existed in the first place. Besides, Pekkala told himself, the reason Kropotkin was dismissed from the force would prevent him from ever being reinstated, no matter how many strings I tried to pull. “I can’t,” said Pekkala. “I’m sorry. It is not possible.”

  When Kropotkin heard this, the light went out of his eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He glanced around the room. “I’ll be back in a minute, Pekkala. I am due to pick up some cargo on the other side of town and I need to find out if it is ready for loading onto my truck.”

  “Of course,” Pekkala assured him. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  While he waited for Kropotkin to return, Pekkala felt as if he were waking from a dream. Suddenly he felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, that he had even considered abandoning his post and leaving Kirov to face the consequences. He thought about Ilya, and as her face shimmered into focus in his mind, he experienced a strange hallucination.

  He was standing on the platform of the Imperial Station at Tsarskoye Selo. Ilya was with him. Winter sunlight on the plastered brickwork glowed like the flesh of apricots. It was her birthday. They were heading into Petrograd for dinner. He turned to speak to her and, suddenly, she disappeared.

  Next, Pekkala found himself at an iron gate, an ornate bronze wreath bolted to the railings, just outside the Alexander Palace. It was a place he knew well. He often met Ilya here, after she had finished her classes. Then they would walk out across the grounds together. The following year, the Tsarina and her daughters would stand at this gate and plead with the palace guards to remain loyal as soldiers of the Revolutionary Guard advanced upon Tsarskoye Selo. But that was still to come. Now Pekkala saw Ilya walking towards him, still carrying her textbooks, feet crunching on the pale carpet of gravel. Pekkala reached out to open the gate and this time it was he who disappeared.

  Now he stood at the dockside in Petrograd, watching the Tsar’s yacht, the Standart, pulling up to the quay. Sailors threw their mooring lines, the ropes weighted at the ends with huge monkey-fist knots. Dozens of signal flags hung from the halyard lines, so gaudy that together they looked like the laundry of court jesters hung out to dry. Again Ilya was with him, a breeze stirring her white summer dress about her knees. He wore his usual heavy black coat on the excuse that he’d heard some rumor of a cold front approaching. The truth was, he wore the coat because, even in this weather, he did not feel comfortable in anything else. They had been invited on board for dinner, the first time the Romanovs had asked them as a couple. Ilya was very happy. Pekkala felt uneasy. He did not care for dinner parties, especially in the confines of a boat, even if it was the Royal Yacht. She knew what he was thinking. He felt her arm across the back of his waist.