by Sam Eastland
‘On the runway at Obarov, but if you want to get on board, you’d better hurry. The pilot said that as soon as his plane has been refuelled, he’s going straight back where he came from.’
The words had barely left Chaplinsky’s mouth before Pekkala dashed back to the vehicle, started the engine and set out towards Obarov.
‘By all means, take my Jeep!’ Chaplinsky shouted after him. ‘You’ve already stolen my driver.’
But Pekkala was already gone.
*
Vasko had been running flat out for half an hour, following the dim outline of the forest path, before he finally allowed his pace to slacken. By now, he was deep in the woods and unsure of his location. Not until the moon had climbed above the trees did Vasko even know in which direction he was headed. His only thought had been to get away. To have had his life spared by the man he’d sworn to kill had turned Vasko’s mind into a hornet’s nest of confusion. But the anger was still there, coiled like a snake in his guts and whispering to him that everything Pekkala had said was a lie. Vasko listened to its patient and familiar voice, demanding blood for blood.
In the strange, gunmetal-blue light of the full moon, Vasko headed west towards the German lines, passing within a stone’s throw of the place where the farrier Hudzik lay naked and frozen among the bones of former customers.
*
The Lavochkin aircraft in which Pekkala travelled, being faster than the fully-loaded cargo plane transporting Barabanschikov, arrived in Moscow only half an hour after the others had touched down.
Scrambling into the air controller’s car, Pekkala raced towards the Kremlin, punching the horn as he sped through every intersection.
‘Inspector!’ Poskrebychev leapt to his feet as Pekkala entered the office. ‘I knew you would come back to us!’
Out of breath and wild-eyed with fatigue, Pekkala swiped a finger across his throat, instantly silencing Poskrebychev. With his other hand, he drew the Webley from his coat.
At the sight of the gun, Poskrebychev’s expression transformed from one of joy to utter confusion. ‘Why have you drawn your weapon?’ he gasped. ‘You know you cannot do that here!’
Pekkala pointed at the doors to Stalin’s study. ‘Who is in that room now?’ he demanded.
‘Why, Major Kirov! And that partisan leader, Barabanschikov. And Comrade Stalin, too, of course. The partisan requested a private audience with Stalin, which has been granted. Major Kirov is just finishing up his report and then he will leave them alone to carry out their business.’
‘What about Zolkin?’
‘The driver?’ Poskrebychev shrugged. ‘He came and went. Kirov introduced him to Comrade Stalin. They shook hands, Stalin autographed the back of his pass book and then Zolkin excused himself.’
‘He’s gone?’ Pekkala looked stunned.
‘Yes!’ insisted Poskrebychev. ‘The last I saw of Sergeant Zolkin, he was on his way down to the motor pool, where your Emka has been stored since Major Kirov’s departure. I gather that the sergeant is to be your new driver.’
Pekkala slumped back against the door frame. ‘I thought. .’ he began, but his words trailed off into silence.
‘Inspector, do not throw away your life,’ pleaded the secretary. ‘I know how you must feel, but all the good you have done for this country will be squandered in a heartbeat if you shed his blood like this.’
As those words echoed in Pekkala’s mind, he thought back to a promise he had made, on a winter’s day long ago, as he sat with his friend by the ashes of a still-glowing fire. Then suddenly he knew who he’d been chasing all along.
The double doors flew open as Pekkala stepped into the room.
The three men turned to stare at him.
Stalin was on his feet, sitting on the front edge of his desk with his arms folded and his legs stretched out and crossed, so that only his heels touched the ground. At the sight of the Inspector brandishing a gun, Stalin’s eyes grew wide with amazement.
In front of him stood Kirov and Barabanschikov.
At the moment Pekkala entered, Kirov’s hands had been raised as he described some event in their journey. Now he froze, his hands stilled in the air, as if holding an invisible ball.
The only one who moved was Barabanschikov. ‘Hello, old friend,’ he said to Pekkala, and as he spoke, he pulled a small Mauser automatic pistol from the pocket of his tattered coat. But rather than pointing the gun at Pekkala, he aimed it at Stalin instead.
‘Barabanschikov,’ whispered Kirov, ‘have you completely lost your mind?’
‘What is the meaning of this?’ roared Stalin, his eyes fixed on Barabanschikov’s gun. ‘Put that weapon down! This is not some muddy crossroads in the forest, where you can rob and murder to your heart’s content. This is the Kremlin! How do you expect to get out of here alive?’
‘That was never my intention,’ replied Barabanschikov.
‘I offered you peace!’ roared Stalin.
‘I have seen what you call peace. All you gave us was a different way to die. Nothing will change for us while you are still alive.’
Pekkala slowly raised the Webley until its sights were locked on Barabanschikov. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked.
‘That day I was stopped at the roadblock in Rovno‚ at the same time as you were arrested on the other side of town, things did not go exactly as I told you. One of my former students, who had joined the Ukrainian police, was manning the roadblock. He recognised me immediately and I was brought to the German Field Police Headquarters. The commander’s name was Krug, and he explained that he knew where we were and that they had already made plans to wipe us out. But then he offered me the chance to work with them, in exchange for which he would spare my life, and the lives of everyone in our group. I had no choice, so I agreed. From that day on, I kept him informed about everything that happened in the Red Forest. And when I told the enemy you had joined us, they gambled that you might one day lead me into the presence of Stalin himself. As you can see, they were right. You once asked me how we managed to survive. Well, there is your answer.’
‘Do you remember the oath we took?’ asked Pekkala.
‘To do whatever good we can,’ replied the partisan.
‘And to stay alive!’ shouted Pekkala. ‘Do you remember that?’
‘I do, old friend,’ said Barabanschikov, ‘but I’m tired of treading softly through this world.’
A gunshot clapped the air, deafening in the confined space of the room.
But it wasn’t Pekkala who fired.
In the second when Barabanschikov turned his head towards the Inspector, Kirov had reached for his gun. He shot the partisan almost point-blank in the side, so close that the cloth of Barabanschikov’s jacket was smouldering as the partisan slipped to the floor.
At the moment of the gunshot, Stalin cried out and shrank away, hands covering his face. Now he slowly lowered his hands and looked down at his chest, searching for the wound which he felt sure he must have suffered. Frantically, he swept his fingers up and down his arms and dabbed his fingertips against his cheeks in search of blood. Finding nothing, Stalin began to laugh. He stepped over to the dying Barabanschikov and began to kick at him savagely.
The partisan was still alive, but he was barely breathing. He kept blinking his eyes, as if to clear the darkness that was closing in on him.
‘Comrade Stalin. .’ Kirov said gently.
Cackling obscenely, Stalin continued to jab his foot into the man’s stomach where the bullet had gone in, until the toe of his calfskin boot was slick with red.
‘Enough!’ Pekkala’s voice exploded.
Only now did Stalin pause. He whipped his head around and stared at the Inspector, madness in his yellow-green eyes. ‘Filthy partisans!’ he snarled. ‘I’ll wipe them all off the face of the earth.’
‘The partisans were not behind this,’ said Pekkala.
‘Then who was?’ Stalin demanded.
‘Admiral Canaris.’
At
the sound of that name, Stalin froze. ‘Canaris,’ he whispered, and a look of terror passed across his face. He stepped away from Barabanschikov, walked around behind the desk and sat down in his chair. With trembling hands, Stalin lit a cigarette, the burning end crackling as he sucked the smoke into his lungs. Slowly, the madness faded from his eyes. ‘You took your damned time getting here,’ he said.
Two guards skidded into the room, sub-machine guns at the ready. They looked around in confusion, until their gazes came to rest upon the partisan.
Barabanschikov was dead now, his clawed hands still clutching the wound.
Shouting echoed through the hallway as more guards rushed up the stairs, scrambling in their hobnailed boots.
‘Send all the others away,’ ordered Stalin, ‘and you two can clean up this mess.’ He gestured towards the body of the partisan, trailing smoke through the air with his cigarette.
The guards dragged Barabanschikov out by his feet, smearing the red carpet with the darker shade of blood.
‘Poskrebychev!’ Stalin called into the outer office.
A moment later, the secretary peeked around the corner. As soon as he had heard the shot, he crawled under his desk and stayed there. Only when the guards ran into Stalin’s room did he feel it was safe to come out. ‘Yes, Comrade Stalin?’ he asked in a quavering voice.
‘Send a message to Akhatov. Tell him that his services are no longer required.’ Stalin took one last drag on his cigarette, before stubbing it out in his already crowded ashtray. ‘Major Kirov,’ he said, as casually as he could manage, ‘I owe you my thanks.’
‘You owe him more than that,’ said Pekkala, before Kirov had a chance to reply.
Through gritted teeth, Stalin managed to smile. ‘I see that your time among the savages has done nothing to improve your manners.’
‘Inspector,’ Kirov said hastily, ‘the car is waiting.’
‘By all means go, Pekkala.’ Stalin waved him away. ‘Just not so far this time.’
*
That evening, after a visit to his apartment, where he took his first hot bath in more than a year, Pekkala returned to his office. As he climbed the stairs to the office on the fifth floor, a wintry sunset cast its brassy light upon the dusty window panes, illuminating the chipped paint on the banisters and the scuffed wooden steps beneath his feet. It was so familiar to him that, for a moment, all the time since he had last set foot in here held no more substance than the gauzy fabric of a dream.
As Pekkala reached the fourth floor, he smelled food. ‘Shashlik,’ he muttered to himself. The grilled lamb, marinated in pomegranate juice and served with green peppers over rice, was one of his favourite dishes. Then he remembered that it was Friday.
Kirov had not forgotten their old ritual of a dinner cooked on the wood-fired stove in their office at the end of every week.
Pekkala smiled as he opened the door, turning the old brass knob with the tips of his fingers in a movement so practised that it required no conscious thought.
Inside, Kirov was waiting. ‘You’re just in time,’ he said. He had cleared off their desks and dragged them together to make a table. Laid out on the desks, whose bare wood surfaces were stained with overlapping rings from countless glasses of tea, lay heavy white plates loaded with food.
Elizaveta was there, too, clutching a platter of jam-filled pelmeny pastries — a gift from Sergeant Gatkina.
‘Tell the Emerald Eye,’ Gatkina had whispered in Elizaveta’s ear, ‘that there’s more where those came from!’
‘I hope you’re not surprised to see me here, Inspector,’ Elizaveta said nervously, as she laid the platter on the table.
‘I would have been surprised if you weren’t,’ replied Pekkala.
‘Before we sit down,’ said Kirov, rubbing his hands together, ‘I have an announcement to make.’
‘You two are getting married.’
Kirov rolled his eyes. ‘You could at least pretend you hadn’t guessed.’
‘You wouldn’t have believed me if I tried,’ remarked Pekkala. ‘Besides,’ he nodded at Elizaveta, ‘she is wearing a ring.’
‘I wondered if you’d notice,’ she said, holding out her hand for him to see.
‘It’s only a small diamond,’ muttered Kirov, ‘but the way things are. .’
‘Small!’ Taking Elizaveta’s hand, Pekkala studied the ring. ‘I can barely see it.’
Elizaveta snatched her hand away. ‘Why would you say such a thing?’ she demanded, anger rising in her voice.
‘Because I think you can do better,’ said Pekkala. As he spoke, he produced a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and tossed it on to the table.
‘What are we supposed to do with that?’
‘Consider it as a gift.’
‘You are crazy!’ said Elizaveta. ‘I’ve always said you were.’ She snatched up the handkerchief and threw it at Kirov. ‘Get rid of that filthy thing!’
‘Now then,’ said Kirov, as he caught the handkerchief. ‘I’m sure there is a logical explanation for this,’ adding in a quieter voice, ‘although what it could possibly be. .’ He lifted one of the round iron plates from the stove and was just about to toss the handkerchief into the fire when he noticed a knot tied in one of the corners. Returning the iron plate to its place on the stove, he began picking away at the knotted cloth until something fell out and rattled on to the floor.
‘What’s that?’ asked Elizaveta.
Kirov bent down and peered at the object. ‘It looks like a diamond,’ he whispered.
Now Elizaveta came to look. ‘It is a diamond. It’s the biggest diamond I have ever seen!’
Grinning with satisfaction, Pekkala regarded their astonishment.
Kirov bent down and picked up the gem. ‘Where on earth did you get this, Inspector?’ he asked, holding up the diamond between his thumb and first two fingers.
‘From an old acquaintance,’ replied Pekkala and, as he spoke, he thought of Maximov, heading out alone across the frozen lake. ‘I think he would have wanted you to have it.’
Elizaveta placed a hand to her forehead. ‘And I just called you crazy, didn’t I?’
‘From what I hear,’ replied Pekkala, ‘you’ve called me worse than that.’
Elizaveta turned to glare at Kirov.
Kirov opened his mouth, but the phone rang before he could speak.
Its jarring clatter startled everyone in the room.
Pekkala picked up the receiver.
‘Hold for Comrade Stalin!’ Poskrebychev’s shrill command drilled into his ear.
Pekkala waited patiently.
A moment later, a quiet voice rustled through the static, like a whisper in the dark. ‘Is that you, Pekkala?’
‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’
‘I thought you might like to know,’ said Stalin, ‘that Commander Chaplinsky was able to negotiate a ceasefire with the partisans. They have laid down their arms. Those men may not realise it, Pekkala, but they owe you their lives.’
‘It’s Barabanschikov who deserves the credit,’ replied Pekkala.
‘Barabanschikov!’ Stalin spluttered into the telephone receiver. ‘That traitor got exactly what he deserved and I intend to let those partisans know what kind of man was leading them.’
‘What makes you think they will believe you?’
‘They have to! It’s the truth.’
‘And when you tell them he was shot in the Kremlin, by a commissar of the Red Army, while under your personal protection — all of which is true — how long do you think it will take before they pick up their weapons again?’
There was a pause. ‘You may have a point,’ Stalin conceded. ‘What do you suggest I do about it?’
‘Give Barabanschikov a medal,’ said Pekkala. ‘The highest one you’ve got.’
‘What?’ growled Stalin. ‘Have you forgotten that he just tried to kill me?’
‘Would you rather that Admiral Canaris knew exactly how close he came to liquidating you,’ asked Pekkala, ‘or
would you prefer to have him think that he was betrayed by a man who had been loyal to you all along?’
In the silence that followed, Pekkala could hear a rustling sound as Stalin raked his fingernails through the stubble on his chin. ‘Very well,’ he muttered at last. ‘As of this moment, I declare comrade Barabanschikov to be a hero of the Soviet Union.’
‘Will that be all, Comrade Stalin?’ Pekkala glanced at the steam curling up from the food on the table.
‘As a matter of fact, it will not. There is something that I need to know.’
‘Yes?’
‘If you had walked into this room fifteen seconds later, I would be dead now. You knew that, but you walked in anyway.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you let me live, Pekkala, after all I’ve done to you?’
‘Do you really want the answer, Comrade Stalin?’
There was a long pause. ‘No,’ said Stalin. ‘On second thought, maybe I don’t.’ Without another word, he hung up the phone. For a moment, Stalin looked around his study, at the red velvet curtains, the picture of Lenin on the wall and the old grandfather clock standing silent in the corner, as if to reassure himself that everything was as it should be. Then he opened a drawer in his desk, removed a can of sardines in tomato sauce and peeled back the top with a small metal key. He took off his jacket‚ rolled up his sleeves and tucked a large grey handkerchief into his collar. But before he began his meal, Stalin lifted the headset, with which he had been listening to the conversation in Pekkala’s office. He had waited for the precise moment when they were sitting down to eat before ordering Poskrebychev to place the call. Now, as Stalin heard the sound of cutlery on plates, he slipped one of the greasy, headless sardines into his mouth. While he chewed, he felt the soft bones crush between his teeth. Pausing to lick the tiny, glistening fish scales from his fingertips, Stalin imagined he was there among them in that cosy little room, sharing the warmth and the laughter.
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Document ID: fbd-730c9f-0fe6-3343-a0a2-9c9a-c13b-5a914f
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Document creation date: 22.01.2014
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