by Sam Eastland
Kirov reached up to the ceiling and plucked a strand of wire which had become embedded in the wood. ‘It looks to me as if he was preparing an explosive device and it went off by mistake. But who was it for?’
Malashenko shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter now, does it?’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Kirov, turning his attention to the dog tag still fastened around the dead man’s neck by a braided piece of string. Kirov removed the tag, scraped away the blood and examined the dull zinc oval.
‘SS,’ muttered Kirov. Only now did he understand who had been behind the attack on Colonel Andrich. He also understood why. The result of an all-out war between the Red Army and the partisans would have been chaos, giving the German army ample opportunity to retake the territory they had lost in this region. Kirov wondered if the agent had known how close he had come to succeeding.
As he paced nervously around the cabin, Malashenko caught sight of a Walther P38 pistol lying underneath the iron legs of the stove. It had belonged to Luther Benjamin and had been thrown there by the explosion. One of its reddish-black Bakelite grips had been cracked in the blast, but it was otherwise in good condition.
For men like Malashenko, weapons of that quality were hard to come by. When the major’s back was turned, he picked up the gun and stuck it in his belt.
By now, Kirov had turned his attention to the severed head, hoping to recognise the man from that night in the bunker, but much of the soft tissue — the ears, mouth and nose — had been blackened or burned away entirely by the explosion. This, combined with the fact that the man had been wearing a bandage on his face when he came to the bunker, forced Kirov to reach the conclusion that there was no chance of making a positive identification.
‘We should go,’ said Malashenko, peering out of the broken window into the maze of trees which lay beyond the cabin.
‘What is wrong with you?’ demanded Kirov. ‘If you can’t stand the sight of what’s in here, then go and wait outside until I have finished my search.’
‘You’ve seen enough,’ said Malashenko. ‘Now can’t we just get out of here?’
‘I’ll only be a few more minutes,’ said Kirov, trying to calm him down. ‘You can wait outside.’
Leaving Kirov to rummage through the gore, Malashenko stepped out of the cabin. Maybe Vasko has already gone, he thought to himself. Later, he knew, he would be miserable about the gold but, for now, all he wanted was to leave this place.
Then a figure appeared from the shadows, almost lost among the dark pillars of the trees.
It was Vasko. He gestured for Malashenko to join him.
Warily, the partisan approached, until the two stood face to face.
‘Where is Pekkala?’ Vasko whispered angrily.
‘He stayed behind in Rovno!’ Malashenko hissed in reply. ‘He sent that commissar instead. I swear there was nothing I could do.’
‘That’s not what we agreed. You still want that gold, don’t you?’
‘But how on earth can I persuade him?’
‘I leave that to you, Malashenko. Reason with Pekkala. Beg him. Bring him at gunpoint if you have to, or I swear it will be you that I come looking for.’ With those words, he stepped back into the forest and disappeared.
In the cabin, Kirov had turned out the dead man’s pockets, in which he found a German infantry compass, a wood-handled pocket knife and a cigarette lighter engraved with the word ‘Zagreb’.
Malashenko came and stood in the doorway. He looked pale and sick. ‘Satisfied?’ he asked.
‘All right.’ Kirov took one last look at the blood-spattered walls. ‘Let’s get back to Rovno and tell Pekkala what we’ve found.’
‘Gladly,’ replied Malashenko.
With feet freezing in their sodden boots, the men returned to where Zolkin waited with the Jeep. Soon they were on their way to Rovno, jolting along over the potholed road.
*
After a short search, Pekkala caught up with Barabanschikov at the wreckage of the Jagdpanzer, where the partisan leader was supervising the removal of a machine gun from the driver’s compartment. Through the open hatch in the front hull, one partisan handed out gleaming brass belts of ammunition to another man, who gathered them like a dead snake in his arms and carried them away to Barabanschikov’s truck.
‘I see that you’ve wasted no time in gathering the spoils of battle,’ said Pekkala.
‘With any luck,’ replied Barabanschikov, ‘we won’t need them for much longer.’
‘The commander of the garrison would like to offer you his thanks.’
‘All I ask in return,’ replied Barabanschikov, slinging the belt over his shoulder, ‘is that we be allowed to get on with our lives. For that, you can tell him, every partisan in this region is prepared to lay down his arms.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Pekkala. ‘You have spoken to the other bands?’
Barabanschikov nodded. ‘On one condition.’
‘Name it.’
‘That the promises made by Colonel Andrich will be kept.’
‘You will have those promises,’ said Pekkala.
‘Not from you, my friend,’ said Barabanschikov, resting his hand upon Pekkala’s shoulder, ‘although I do not doubt your good intentions. Let me stand before the leader of this country and hear him make those guarantees in person. Otherwise, they’re just the words of other men.’
‘Moscow is a long way from here,’ said Pekkala, ‘and do you really think that looking Stalin in the eye will make a difference?’
Barabanschikov swept his hand towards the crowd of partisans. ‘It makes a difference to them. To know that I have actually spoken with Stalin carries more weight than anything that you or I, or anyone sent here to speak for him, could ever say. You know these people, Pekkala. You have shared their suffering. You know they deserve nothing less.’
Pekkala nodded in agreement. ‘I will notify Moscow immediately.’
*
‘A telegram!’ shouted Poskrebychev. As he knocked on the door to Stalin’s study, he was already entering the room. ‘A message has arrived from Rovno!’
‘Finally,’ growled Stalin. Although it was a sunny day, he had drawn the curtains, shutting out all but a few stray bands of light which had worked their way in past the heavy sheets of red velvet. ‘And what does Kirov have to say?’
‘The message is not from Kirov, Comrade Stalin. This one is from Pekkala!’
‘Give it to me!’ Stalin held out his hand, snapping his fingers until Poskrebychev was close enough to have the message torn from his grasp. For a while, there was silence as he studied the telegram. Finally, Stalin spoke. ‘He says partisans have agreed to lay down their guns, on condition that I meet personally with their leader, Barabanschikov.’
‘And will you meet with him, Comrade Stalin?’
Stalin scratched thoughtfully at his neck, fingernails dragging across the scars of old pockmarks. ‘Send word to the garrison in Rovno. Tell them to call off the attack. And have a plane dispatched immediately to the nearest airfield so that Barabanschikov can be transported back to Moscow, along with Major Kirov and Pekkala. Tell the leader of these partisans that I will meet with him, if that is the price of their allegiance.’
‘At once, Comrade Stalin!’ Poskrebychev clicked his heels, then turned and left the room, closing the doors quietly behind him. No sooner had he returned to his desk than the intercom buzzed. Poskrebychev leaned over and pressed a well-worn button. ‘Yes, Comrade Stalin?’
‘Once the plane is in the air,’ Stalin told him, ‘have the pilot maintain strict radio silence until they reach Moscow. Air-to-ground messages can be intercepted by the enemy and I don’t want anyone shooting them down before they get here!’
*
Ten hours later an American-made DC9, on loan to the Red Air Force, landed at the Obarov airfield. The aircraft had been on its way from Kiev to the Arctic port of Arkhangelsk with a cargo of submarine propellers when, on emergency orders from the Kremlin,
it was diverted to the small airfield outside Rovno. The heavily loaded plane landed hard on the short runway, which drew gasps of morbid fascination from the onlookers, followed by wild applause when the aircraft, smoke pouring from its brakes and engines screaming in reverse, finally managed to stop, only a dozen paces from the tree line.
Earlier that day, Kirov had returned from the cabin and reported his findings to Pekkala, who agreed that the assassin, whoever he was, had been killed in the explosion. Now that the case was closed, they immediately turned their attention to the business of transporting Barabanschikov to Moscow.
The pilot of the cargo plane, wearing heavy brown overalls lined with sheepskin, climbed down from the cockpit. Warily, he looked out at the jumbled assortment of clothing, weapons and head gear of this ragged welcoming committee. Some appeared to be Red Army, while others, judging from their uniforms, could have laid claim to membership in half a dozen nations. ‘Well, I can’t take all of you!’ he shouted.
Kirov stepped forward. ‘There are only three passengers.’
‘Four!’ announced Sergeant Zolkin, as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd. ‘I’m coming too, on the orders of Inspector Pekkala.’
‘Your new driver,’ Kirov muttered to Pekkala.
‘But what about your Jeep, Zolkin?’ asked Pekkala.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Zolkin turned and tossed the keys to Malashenko. ‘Looks like we both get our wish,’ he told the partisan.
Ever since he’d returned to the cabin, Malashenko had been pleading with Zolkin to transport him to Kiev. He had overheard Pekkala telling Kirov that the case was officially closed and realized there was no hope of persuading Pekkala to revisit the cabin. His only hope now was to get as far away from Vasko as he could. When Zolkin refused to drive him, Malashenko revised his destination to anywhere at all, as long as it was somewhere out of Rovno. In exchange, Malashenko offered the sergeant a lifetime supply of salt, to which Zolkin only shrugged and shook his head.
‘Now you can drive yourself!’ said Zolkin.
Clutching the keys tightly in his fist, Malashenko bowed his head in solemn gratitude. There would be no gold, but at least he might escape with his life.
Barabanschikov waved farewell to his men and climbed aboard.
Zolkin went next, clambering into the aircraft without so much as a backward glance, as if afraid that his luck might give out before the plane’s wheels left the ground.
Now only Kirov and Pekkala remained.
‘Be quick!’ called the pilot, as he beckoned to them.
Pekkala bid farewell to Malashenko, but as he shook hands with the man, Pekkala noticed the gun which Malashenko had tucked into his belt. ‘That Walther,’ he said. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘At the cabin,’ replied Malashenko, not thinking fast enough to lie. ‘It belonged to the dead man. It was lying on the floor, so I took it.’
‘But the gun used to kill Colonel Andrich was 7.62 mm,’ said Pekkala. ‘A Walther P38 takes 9-mm ammunition.’
Malashenko was barely listening. His thoughts were focused on the idea that Pekkala might try to confiscate the gun as evidence for his investigation. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so,’ he said defiantly, ‘it’s the least that bastard could part with after blowing my cabin to bits.’
But Kirov understood. ‘Do you think there might have been two agents?’
Pekkala turned to Malashenko. ‘That bullet you gave to Major Kirov. Are you certain it came from the cabin?’
‘Of course I am certain!’ spluttered Malashenko, as panic swirled through his mind. Does he suspect? he wondered. Are they accusing me? ‘Maybe he had two guns. So what?’
Pekkala shook his head. ‘It is unlikely that he would have been carrying two pistols, of different calibres. If there is another agent, the fact that he abandoned his colleague without trying to conceal any of the evidence means that he left in a hurry. He may even have been wounded, in which case he might not have gone far. Whatever the answer, the cabin must be searched again for any sign that the dead agent might not have been there by himself.’
‘But, Inspector,’ Kirov protested, ‘Stalin himself has ordered us back to Moscow and the plane is about to depart!’
‘That is why you must be on it,’ Pekkala told him. ‘Deliver Barabanschikov to the Kremlin. Tell Stalin that I will head for Moscow as soon as I have some answers. In the meantime, Malashenko and I will return to the cabin to search for more evidence.’
Hearing this, Malashenko could scarcely believe his good fortune. ‘I will take us there at once!’ he said, holding up the keys to Zolkin’s Jeep.
Minutes later, with Kirov aboard, the plane taxied for take-off. Its engines roaring, the machine rolled slowly forward, gathering speed until the wheels lifted off the ground and folded upwards into the belly of the fuselage. It climbed and climbed, the sounds of the motors already fading, until it vanished completely in the clouds.
By then, Malashenko and Pekkala were already on their way to the cabin.
The crowd had begun to disperse, walking back along the road to Rovno. The celebration was over now, replaced by a sense of uncertainty about what lay ahead. Soldier and partisan alike knew that, with one message from Moscow, they might all become enemies again.
*
‘Another telegram, Comrade Stalin.’ Poskrebychev stepped into the office. ‘The pilot of the cargo plane has radioed to say that he has taken off and is now en route to Moscow.’
‘Good!’ said Stalin. ‘It’s time we had Pekkala back again.’
With a pained expression on his face, Poskrebychev stepped forward and placed a piece of paper on Stalin’s desk. ‘As you will see, Comrade Stalin, the passenger manifest does not include Pekkala’s name. It appears that he is not on the plane.’
‘What?’ gasped Stalin, snatching up the manifest.
‘I’m sure there is some logical explanation,’ Poskrebychev said hopefully.
Stalin crumpled up the message and bounced it off Poskrebychev’s chest. ‘Of course there is, you fool! He has defied me yet again!’
‘Surely not,’ muttered Poskrebychev.
‘Well, radio the plane and find out!’ bellowed Stalin.
Poskrebychev swallowed. ‘They will be out of radio contact until the plane arrives in Moscow. Those were your orders, Comrade Stalin.’
Stalin smashed both fists upon his desk, causing his brass ashtray to leap into the air, spilling dozens of cigarette butts and the grey dust of tobacco ash. ‘That Finnish bastard! That black-hearted troll!’
‘The flight is scheduled to take about twelve hours. Only twelve hours, Comrade Stalin.’
‘Only? That’s time enough for him to disappear again. No, Poskrebychev.’ Stalin wagged one stubby finger back and forth, like a miniature windscreen wiper. ‘I have no intention of waiting. Get me Akhatov.’
‘Akhatov? The Siberian? The. .’
‘You know who he is. Now just get him, and make sure to have a fast plane standing by, ready to transport him to Rovno.’
‘But. .’ Poskrebychev’s mouth opened and closed, like a fish pulled from the water.
‘Go!’ screamed Stalin.
Without another word, Poskrebychev scrambled from the room and shut the door.
Alone now, Stalin settled back into his chair. He rubbed his face, leaving red streaks in the pockmarked skin. The anger he felt was almost as great as his confusion. Pekkala’s refusal to return to Moscow was, for Stalin, not only baffling but personal. More than once, he had extended the hand of friendship to the Emerald Eye, but never with any success. Others would have killed for such an offer of comradeship.
That Stalin had tried several times to murder Pekkala was not, in his own mind, mutually exclusive to the friendship he had hoped to kindle. One of the reasons Stalin had remained in power was that he had always been prepared to liquidate anyone. Whether they were friends or family made no difference. For Stalin, power and friendship did not overlap and the mistak
en belief that they did had cost many people their lives. He had always thought that a man of Pekkala’s intelligence would understand such a thing. Apparently, thought Stalin, I have been mistaken.
Although Stalin could barely admit it, even to himself, he was jealous of Major Kirov and Pekkala, of the cramped office they shared and the banter of their conversations, to which he often listened through the bugging devices he had ordered to be installed. He envied the meals they cooked on Friday afternoons. With his mouth watering at the sound of the cutlery clinking on their plates he would fetch out one of several tins of sardines in olive oil and tomato sauce, which he always kept on hand in his desk drawer. Tucking a handkerchief into his collar, Stalin would eat the sardines with his bare hands, spitting the bones back into the tin. Now and then, he would pause to adjust the headphones with his greasy, fish-scaled fingers, all the while snuffling with laughter at the jokes which passed between Kirov and Pekkala.
In spite of everything, he had missed the Emerald Eye. Yes, it was true that, after the Amber Room incident, he had ordered Pekkala to be liquidated immediately. It was also true that he had commanded Special Operations to begin surveillance upon Major Kirov, in the futile hope that the great Inspector might make himself known to his assistant. But things were different now. Stalin’s rage had subsided and, until today, he had felt ready to purge this from the tally sheet that he kept inside his head of the many snubs, real or imagined, but both equally damning, which he had received over the years. In the case of Pekkala, it was a very long list, in fact unequalled by anyone still living. To forgo the satisfaction of punishment was a gift more valuable than any Stalin had given out before, which made Pekkala’s disappearance all the more wounding to his pride.
Now, with this most recent news, the anger had returned. Stalin would have his vengeance. Akhatov was coming. He had summoned the dragon from its lair.
A moment later, the door swung open and there stood Poskrebychev, his face a mask of bewilderment, as if his limbs had brought him there against his will.
