The Red Coffin

by Sam Eastland

  As they reached the door to the waiting room, two guards, each armed with a sub machine gun, crashed their heels together. One guard opened the door with a flick of his hand so that Stalin passed through into his study without even breaking his stride.

  The three clerks, including Poskrebyshev, rose sharply from their chairs as Stalin entered. Poskrebyshev moved towards the study door, in an attempt to open it for Stalin.

  ‘Get out of the way,’ barked Stalin.

  Without any change of expression, Poskrebyshev stopped in mid stride, turned and went back to his desk.

  Inside the study, Stalin closed the door and broke into a smile. ‘I must say, Pekkala, I am taking some pleasure in the fact that this was one case you were unable to solve.’

  ‘How did you catch this man?’ asked Pekkala.

  ‘That woman brought him in, that NKVD Major you thought might prove useful.’

  ‘Lysenkova?’

  ‘That’s her. She got a call from someone at the Nagorski facility who was able to identify the killer.’

  ‘I knew nothing about this,’ said Pekkala. ‘We had agreed that Major Lysenkova would keep me informed.’

  Stalin made a vague grumble of surprise. ‘None of that matters now, Pekkala. What matters is that we have the man who did it.’

  ‘What about the White Guild and those agents who were killed?’

  ‘It looks as if that might be a separate matter,’ replied Stalin.

  ‘May I speak to this man?’ asked Pekkala.

  Stalin shrugged. ‘Of course. I don’t know what kind of shape he is in, but I assume he can still talk.’

  ‘Where is he being held?’

  ‘At the Lubyanka, in one of the isolation cells. Come now,’ Stalin rested his hand on Pekkala’s shoulder and steered him towards the tall windows, which looked out over the empty parade ground below. Stalin stopped a few paces short of the window itself. He never took the risk of being seen by someone outside. ‘Within a matter of months,’ he said, ‘you will see T-34 tanks parked end to end down there and it won’t be a minute too soon. Germany is now openly preparing for war. I am doing everything I can to buy us time. Yesterday, I halted all patrols along the Polish border, in case of accidental incursions into their territory. Any movement by us beyond our own national boundaries will be interpreted by Germany as an act of aggression and Hitler is looking for any excuse to begin hostilities. These measures cannot prevent what is inevitable. They can only delay it, hopefully long enough that the T-34s will be waiting when our enemies decide to attack.’

  Pekkala left Stalin staring out the window at the imaginary procession of armour.

  Down on the street, Kirov was pacing back and forth beside the Emka.

  Pekkala came running out of the building. ‘Get us over to the Lubyanka as quickly as you can.’

  *

  Minutes later, the Emka roared around the corner of Dzerzhinsky square and into the main courtyard of the Lubyanka prison. Even though it had not snowed in weeks, piles of filthy snow left over from the winter were still ploughed up into the corners where the sunlight failed to reach. On three sides of the courtyard, walls rose up several storeys high. Windows stretched along the ground floor, but above that were rows of strange metal sheets, each one anchored with iron pins a hand’s width from the wall, hiding whatever lay behind them.

  A guard escorted them inside the prison. He wore a bulky greatcoat made of poor-quality wool dyed an irregular shade of purplish brown, and a bulky, fur-lined hat known as an ushanka. Pekkala and Kirov signed in at the front desk. They scrawled their names in a huge book containing thousands of pages. The book had a steel plate, covering everything except the space for them to write their names.

  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 and dimly illuminated corridors. Hundreds of grey 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 iron, and opened it without waiting for a reply. He jerked his head, indicating that they were to 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 centre 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-coloured tunic with polished brass buttons, and black knee-length boots tucked into dark blue trousers with a purplish-red stripe running down the side.

  ‘I told you I was not to be disturbed!’ she shouted as she turned around. Only then did she realise 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 pyjamas 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 recognised 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 cancelled. 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,’ said Pekkala, ‘you won’t mind if I have a few words with the prisoner.’

  Lysenkova 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 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 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-Three.’

  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!’ spluttered 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,’ said Pekkala. ‘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 any more.’

  ‘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 don’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 in the 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-Three. 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 realise 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. Goodbye, Inspector Pekkala.’

  ‘Goodbye, 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 realised 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 centre of the room. The Webley was still in his hand. Gunsmoke swirled around the light bulb 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 desk top like two fleshy hand grenades. ‘And you’d better make it good.’

  Pekkala took out his NKVD ID book and 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. I can’t arrest you. I can’t even ask why you did it, can I?’ he said, looking even more annoyed than he had done a minute before.

  ‘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, Kirov 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 had 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 Theatre 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 Café Tilsit. He didn’t know if he would find Kropotkin there, but when Pekkala came within sight of the café, he saw Kropotkin standing on the pavement next to the triangular, double-sided board on which Bruno, the owner, wrote down the menu for the day. Kropotkin was smoking a cigarette. A short-brimmed cap obscured Kropotkin’s face, but Pekkala recognised 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.