by Sam Eastland
Throughout his years of service, Pekkala answered only to the Tsar. In that time he learned the secrets of an empire, and when that empire fell, and those who shared those secrets had taken them to their graves, Pekkala was surprised to find himself still breathing.
Captured during the Revolution, he was sent to the Siberian labour camp of Borodok, the most notorious in the entire Gulag system, located deep in the forest of Krasnagolyana.
There, they took away his name. From then on, he was known only as prisoner 4745.
As soon as Pekkala arrived at the camp to begin his thirty-year sentence for Crimes Against the State, the camp commandant sent him into the wilderness as a tree marker for the Gulag’s logging crews, fearing that other inmates might learn his true identity. The average life of a tree-marker from Borodok was six months. Working alone, with no chance of escape and far from any human contact, these men died from exposure, starvation and loneliness. Those who became lost, or who fell and broke a leg, were usually eaten by wolves. Tree-marking was the only assignment at Borodok said to be worse than a death sentence.
Everyone assumed he would be dead before the end of winter, but nine years later, Prisoner 4745 had lasted longer than any other marker in the entire Gulag system.
Provisions were left for him three times a year at the end of a logging road. Paraffin. Cans of meat. Nails. For the rest, Pekkala had to fend for himself.
He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with a straight nose and strong, white teeth. His eyes were greenish-brown, the pupils marked by a strange silvery quality, which people noticed only when he was looking directly at them. Streaks of premature grey ran through his long, dark hair and his beard grew thickly over windburned cheeks.
He moved through the woods with the help of a large stick, whose gnarled head bristled with square-topped horseshoe nails. The only other thing he carried was a bucket of red paint for marking the trees which were to be cut. Instead of using a brush, Pekkala stirred his fingers in the scarlet paint and daubed his print upon the trunks. These ghostly handprints were, for most of the other convicts, the only trace of him they ever saw.
Only rarely was he seen by those logging crews who came to cut the timber. What they observed was a creature barely recognisable as a man. With the crust of red paint that covered his prison clothes and the long hair maned about his face, he resembled a beast stripped of its flesh and left to die which had somehow managed to survive. Wild rumours surrounded him — that he was an eater of human flesh, that he wore a breastplate made from the bones of those who had disappeared in the forest, that he wore scalps laced together as a cap.
They called him the Man with Bloody Hands. No one except the commandant of Borodok knew where this prisoner had come from or who he had been before he arrived. Those same men who feared to cross his path had no idea this was Pekkala, whose name they’d once invoked just as their ancestors had called upon the gods.
In the forest of Krasnagolyana, Pekkala had tried to forget the world he left behind.
But the world he left behind had not forgotten him.
On the orders of Stalin himself, Pekkala was brought back to Moscow to serve as an Investigator for the Bureau of Special Operations. Since that time, the Emerald Eye had maintained an uneasy truce with the man who had once condemned him to death, but after his last mission, which took him deep behind the German lines, Pekkala had disappeared and was now presumed to have been killed.
*
‘But you, Major Kirov, are convinced he’s still alive.’
‘Yes, Comrade Stalin,’ he replied, ‘until I see evidence that convinces me otherwise.’
‘The fact that his personal effects were removed from a body on a battlefield has done nothing to persuade you. Some might consider that as ample proof that Pekkala is no longer with us.’
Those effects consisted of the Inspector’s identity book, as well as his brass-handled Webley revolver, which had been a gift from Tsar Nicholas II. They had been recovered by a Soviet Rifleman named Stefanov, the last survivor of an anti-aircraft crew which had been whittled down to almost nothing by the fighting around Leningrad. After wandering for days in German-occupied territory, he had at last reached the safety of the Soviet lines, only to be ordered to accompany Pekkala as a guide back to Tsarskoye Selo, site of the Tsar’s summer residence and the very battleground from which he had recently escaped.
The purpose of Pekkala’s mission had been to determine the whereabouts of the priceless inlaid panels of the Amber Room, the greatest treasure of the Romanovs, last seen hanging on the walls of the Catherine Palace.
Initial attempts by palace curators to remove the panels and transport them to safety east of the Ural mountains had met with failure. The glue which held the amber fragments in place was over two centuries old and had become too fragile to be moved. In desperation, since the German army’s advance threatened to overrun Tsarskoye Selo at any moment, the curators resorted to hiding the panels under layers of wallpaper and muslin cloth. Their gamble that the Germans might believe the amber had already been evacuated was reinforced by a broadcast made on Soviet State Radio, whose signal was constantly monitored by the Germans, that the amber was now safely in Siberia.
But locating the panels was only a part of Stalin’s orders.
If the amber had indeed been discovered, Pekkala had been instructed to destroy the contents of the room with explosives, rather than allow the panels to be transported back to Germany.
According to Rifleman Stefanov, by the time they reached Tsarskoye Selo, the panels had not only been discovered but were already being loaded into a truck for transport to the rail junction at Wilno. From there, Pekkala learned, the amber was due to be transported to city of Königsberg, where Hitler had decreed that it should remain until such time as the panels could be installed as part of the permanent collection in a vast art museum he had planned for the Austrian city of Linz.
Hoping to intercept the truck before it reached the railhead, the two men travelled all night through the forest of Murom and rigged a dynamite charge at a bridge on the edge of the forest.
At dawn, two vehicles appeared, one of them an armoured car, which was destroyed in the ambush.
Rifleman Stefanov had described to Major Kirov how he and Pekkala then came under fire from several German soldiers travelling as armed escorts for the convoy. None of the soldiers survived the gunfight which followed and Pekkala ordered Stefanov to head back towards the Russian lines while he himself prepared to destroy the panels.
After reaching the shelter of a wooded slope, Stefanov stopped to wait for Pekkala to catch up. That was when, he reported to Kirov, he saw a huge explosion from the place where the truck had been stopped. After some time had passed, and Pekkala did not appear, Stefanov became worried and returned to the site of the explosion.
What he found was a man lying dead in the road, his body consumed by the explosion. From the charred remains, Stefanov retrieved Pekkala’s personal effects and presented them to Kirov upon his arrival in Moscow.
‘Comrade Stalin,’ said Kirov, ‘that corpse was too badly burned to be identified. There’s a chance that it might not have been the Inspector.’
‘Surely, if that were true,’ argued Stalin, ‘then Pekkala would have surfaced by now. And yet, in spite of your best efforts to locate him, the man is nowhere to be found.’
‘I might have had more success,’ Kirov replied frustratedly, ‘but for the fact that every case to which I’ve been assigned since he disappeared has kept me here in Moscow, the one place I’m certain he is not!’
‘What makes you sure of that?’
‘Why would he come back here, when doing so would put his life in danger?’
‘In danger from whom?’ demanded Stalin.
Kirov hesitated. ‘From you, Comrade Stalin.’
For a while, Stalin did not reply.
Kirov’s words seemed to sink into the red carpet, into the red velvet curtains, into the hollow walls, behin
d which hidden passages snaked from room to room inside the Kremlin.
In the long silence, Kirov felt an invisible noose tightening, the bunched fist of the knot pressing against the back of his skull.
Finally, Stalin spoke. ‘Why would you say such a thing, Major Kirov? Pekkala carried out his orders, even if he himself was unable to return to Moscow. Such conduct might be deserving of a medal, if I could ever have persuaded him to accept it.’
‘But you have left out one thing, Comrade Stalin.’
‘And what is that?’
‘In the radio broadcast which reported that the panels had been safely removed to Siberia, you also declared the Amber Room to be an irreplaceable State treasure.’
‘True,’ Stalin admitted quietly, ‘but what of it?’
‘As you are surely aware,’ explained Kirov, ‘such a decree meant that the Amber Room was not allowed to be destroyed under any circumstances. And having made such a declaration, Comrade Stalin. .’
It was Stalin who finished the sentence. ‘I would not want the world to know that I was also responsible for its destruction.’
Kirov knew he’d gone too far to turn back now. ‘Pekkala was to be sacrificed. He must have known that from the moment you gave him the order.’
To Kirov’s surprise, however, Stalin did not explode into a fit of rage, as he usually did when confronted. Instead, he only drummed his fingers on the desk, while searching for the words that might make sense of such a contradiction. ‘What you are saying may well have been the case when I sent Pekkala on the mission back in 1941. But things have changed since then. We no longer stand on the brink of destruction. After the defeat of the German 6th Army at Stalingrad, the tide began to turn. Since then, the Allies have taken North Africa and are making their way up through Italy. Soon, their forces will begin an advance through northern Europe. It is only a matter of time before the German army is crushed between the pincers of our advancing forces. What happened to the Amber Room has now been eclipsed by the victories of the Red Army. But what happened to Pekkala has not. It is he who has proved to be irreplaceable, not the amber which I sent him to destroy. Since he went away, I have watched cases grow cold, and criminals slip away into the darkness, because only Pekkala could have caught them. Nevertheless,’ Stalin leaned forward, sliding his hands across the desk, ‘the fact that we have seen no trace of Pekkala since he disappeared obliges any reasonable man to conclude that he has finally vanished for good.’
‘Then you are calling off the search?’
‘On the contrary,’ replied Stalin. ‘I never claimed to be a reasonable man.’
‘Then what are your orders, Comrade Stalin?’
‘Find Pekkala! Scour the earth if you have to! Bring me that shape-shifting troll! From this point on, until the Inspector is standing here in front of me or else his bones are heaped upon this desk, you are excused from all other assignments.’
Kirov smashed his heels together in salute, then made his way towards the outer room, where Stalin’s secretary Poskrebychev was busily stamping documents with a facsimile of his master’s signature.
‘Major!’ exclaimed Poskrebychev, as Kirov entered the room.
Lost in thought as to how he could possibly accomplish Stalin’s orders, Kirov only nodded and moved on. He had just reached the end of the hall, and was about to descend the staircase which would take him eventually to the exit where he had parked his car, when he heard someone calling his name.
It was Poskrebychev again.
The stout little man, with his wispy garland of hair clinging to an otherwise bald head, was shuffling urgently towards Kirov in his slipper-leather shoes, which he wore as he moved noiselessly around his office, in order not to disturb Comrade Stalin.
‘Wait!’ said Poskrebychev, as he came to a halt in front of Kirov, sweat beading on his forehead even after such a mild exertion. ‘I must have a word with you, Major.’
Kirov looked at him questioningly. He had never seen Poskrebychev outside of his office before. It was almost as if the secretary could not survive in any other atmosphere, like a goldfish scooped out of its bowl.
Hesitantly, Poskrebychev took another step towards Kirov, until the two men stood uncomfortably close. Slowly, Poskrebychev reached out and clasped the flap of Kirov’s chest pocket. As if hypnotised by the texture of the cloth, he began to smooth the material between his thumb and first two fingers.
‘What’s wrong with you, Poskrebychev?’ Kirov blurted out, pushing him away.
Poskrebychev glanced nervously around, as if worried that someone else might be listening. But the hall was otherwise empty and the doors nearest to them were closed. Behind them, the sound of clattering typewriters would have drowned out even a loud conversation in the hall. In spite of this, Poskrebychev now moved even closer, causing Kirov to lean precariously backwards. ‘You should pay a visit to Linsky,’ he whispered.
‘Linsky? You mean Pekkala’s old tailor?’
Poskrebychev nodded gravely. ‘Linsky can help you, Major, just as he helped Pekkala.’
‘Yes, I’m well acquainted with Pekkala’s choice of clothing and, trust me, Poskrebychev, he is the one who needs help in that department. So you see, even if I did want a new uniform, which I don’t, I can assure you that I wouldn’t go to Linsky!’ As Kirov spoke, he pressed the pocket flap back into place, as if worried that his wallet might be missing.
‘It’s just a little friendly advice.’ Poskrebychev smiled patiently. ‘Even the smallest detail should not be overlooked.’
He’s gone mad, Kirov thought to himself, as he watched Poskrebychev return to his office, slippered feet whispering across the polished stone. The man is completely insane.
(Postmark: Nizhni-Novgorod, October 14th, 1936.)
Passed by Censor, District Office 7 NKVD
Ford Motor Plant
Worker’s Residence Block 3, ‘Liberty House’
Nizhni-Novgorod, Soviet Union
To:
The United Brotherhood of Steelworkers, Branch 11,
Jackson St,
Newark, New Jersey, USA
Boys, you ought to see this place!
I am now working at the Ford Motor plant, just like the one in Rouge River back home, and run by an American who used to work there — Mr Victor Herman. The only difference is that here in Russia, I don’t have to worry all the time about being fired, or having the shift bosses give me the high hat and knowing I have no choice but to take it. I have a house, just like they promised, as well as hot water and a roof that doesn’t leak. My wife is happy in our new, rent-free home and my daughter and my son both go to the local school, where they speak English. We even have our own newspaper now. It’s called the Moscow News.
It’s everything I hoped it would be and then some. I work hard but I get paid on time and if I get sick, there are doctors who will treat me for free. On the weekends, we play ball or else there are clubs for us, where we can play cards and relax.
In case you think that all the good jobs have been snapped up already, I’m here to tell you that there are still plenty of spots to be filled. This whole country is on the move. They are building bridges, planes, railways, houses, everything you can think of, and they need skilled workers like yourselves. So come on over! Don’t wait another day. Armtorg, the Russian company that operates out of New York, can help get you all the emigration papers you need, or else there’s Intourist, who can get you over here on a tourist visa. Trust me, though, once you’ve set foot in the Soviet Union, you won’t want to go back.
Your new friends are waiting for you.
And so is your old pal,
Bill Vasko
After driving back across the city, Kirov climbed the five flights of stairs to his office. With movements made unconscious by years of repetition, he unlocked the door, strode across the room and slumped into his battered chair by the stove.
The silence seemed to close in around him as he stared at Pekkala’s empty desk.
The answer lay in a single detail, to which Kirov had been clinging since the day he heard that Pekkala was dead. It wasn’t what Rifleman Stefanov had found on the burned corpse. It was what he hadn’t found — the emerald eye.
Kirov felt certain that, even if Pekkala had been forced to leave behind all of his other belongings, he would never have parted with the eye. The gold badge had been the Inspector’s most prized possession; the symbol of everything he had accomplished since the Tsar first pinned it to his coat.
When questioned about it, the Rifleman had insisted that no such badge was on the body, leading Kirov to suspect that Pekkala might have faked his own death and gone into hiding.
Since the day Kirov had set eyes on the crumbled remains of Pekkala’s identity book, and the heat-buckled ruin of the Webley, the question of the missing badge had swung back and forth inside his brain with the relentless ticking of a metronome. But Kirov was no closer to answering it now than he had been at the beginning.
If it hadn’t been for Elizaveta, he would long since have gone out of his mind.
*
Kirov had first met Elizaveta Kapanina just before Pekkala departed on his last mission. She worked as a clerk in the Records Department at NKVD headquarters. Their office was located on the fourth floor, and required such a trudge to get there that most people simply left their requests for documents with the secretary on the ground floor and stopped back the following day to collect the files which had been brought down for them. But those flights of stairs were not the only reason people stayed clear of the fourth floor. The director of the Records Department, Comrade Sergeant Gatkina, was a woman of such legendary ferocity that, for many years, Kirov had heeded the advice of his NKVD colleagues and kept clear of the fourth floor.
