by Sam Eastland
The blue-ringed eye of Stefanov’s rifle barrel seemed to blink as he lowered the Mauser and stepped out of the gloom. ‘Inspector,’ he whispered. ‘I had to be sure it was you.’
‘Not again!’
‘Not again!’ Fabian Golyakovsky, Director of the Kremlin Art Museum, muttered under his breath as he watched Major Kirov stride into the building. ‘What have you come to borrow now? The last time Pekkala showed up here, half the pieces in the Byzantine wing ended up on the walls of Lubyanka!’
Kirov held up the piece of paper which had fallen out of Churikova’s book.
Golyakovsky had breathed in, ready to continue his tirade, but now he paused abruptly. Stepping cautiously forward, he peered at the document. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘Is that your signature?’
Removing the letter from Kirov’s hand‚ Golyakovsky studied it for a moment before replying. ‘Yes. The signature is mine. I gave Polina Churikova permission to work in our laboratory. She was a student at the Moscow Art Institute and came highly recommended by our mutual friend, Professor Semykin. Why is this letter damp?’
‘Never mind that‚’ answered Kirov. ‘What was Churikova doing here?’
Golyakovsky struggled to recall. ‘It was something to do with viscosity.’
‘Viscosity? What does that have to do with studying art?’
‘Well, I don’t know exactly. Polina was in a special programme devoted to art forensics. Finding out forgeries and so on. They often requested samples of paints and varnishes from works that arrived in our collection already damaged beyond repair. Sometimes, even though the paintings can’t be salvaged, we are able to reuse the frames.’
‘Why did they want paint samples?’
‘To determine their chemical composition. From that, they could often tell when a painting had been made. Some forgeries use colours that weren’t invented until centuries after the paintings were supposed to have been made. But that’s not always something you can tell just by looking at it. You have to be able to look at its chemical structure.’
‘This document also gives her permission to enter the archives.’
‘Yes. That means she was allowed to search in our inventory for particular samples on which to conduct scientific research. She couldn’t just walk out with it, you understand. It all had to be approved. I took charge of that personally.’
‘And what did she want for this experiment in viscosity?’
‘Well, it seemed very strange,’ he began, ‘but the whole business of forensics is strange to me.’
‘What did she want?’ repeated Kirov.
‘She asked for some samples of glue.’
‘What kind of samples?’
‘If I recall correctly, she wanted glue dating from several different time periods and from a number of different origins. A large part of our work here involves restoration, and glue is used extensively, not only in the repair but also in the creation of many original art works. If we don’t know what we’re dealing with, we might end up destroying the very things we’re trying to fix. Throughout history, glues have been made of different substances. These glues, in their original state, have different viscosities, or liquidity. If a glue used in the fabrication of a sixteenth-century cabinet turned out to be a modern synthetic compound, its lack of authenticity could be established.’
‘And what do the figures on the other side represent?’ asked Kirov.
Golyakovsky turned over the page. ‘These must be the results of her experiment. This refers to temperature.’ Golyakovsky pointed to a small circle at one end of the graph. ‘And this,’ he dragged his finger across to the backwards Latin U, ‘is the symbol for viscosity. It looks as if she was running an experiment with different kinds of glue to determine what effect heat would have on their liquidity. You see, once a glue has hardened, it forms a bond between two surfaces, but its original adhesive qualities are lost. It is no long sticky, if you see what I mean. Over time, the original compound can become brittle and the bond can fail if it is put under stress. The heat used here was to revive the glues.’
‘To see if they would become sticky again?’
‘Exactly. Now it looks as if most of these glues didn’t respond, but this one did.’ He touched one of the lines, which banked steadily upwards at the open end of the graph.
‘What was it made of? Can you tell?’
Golyakovsky shook his head. ‘Not entirely. Their chemical compounds are partially listed. It’s not a synthetic‚ I can tell you that much. My guess is that it’s quite old, containing something like beeswax and ichthyocolla.’
‘Ichthyo— What?’
‘Fish bladders. Makes you wonder how they figured that one out, doesn’t it, Major?’
‘Would there be any reason for her to keep this information secret?’
Golyakovsky shrugged. ‘Not that I can think of. Her findings were never restricted.’
Kirov explained how he came across the message. ‘Whatever this is, she didn’t want anyone else to know about it.’
Golyakovsky frowned in confusion. ‘But it’s just glue. It’s not as if there is a shortage of the stuff. If it had been something precious, I would understand, but . . .’
Golyakovsky continued to talk, but his words seemed to grow fainter and fainter as an idea crested like a wave in Kirov’s brain. ‘Thank you, Comrade Golyakovsky,’ he interrupted. Then, under the piercing gaze of saints whose bones had turned to dust five hundred years before, Kirov turned and sprinted for the exit.
With their nerves beginning to fray
With their nerves beginning to fray‚ Pekkala and Stefanov sat on the floor of the cold and empty cottage‚ waiting for Churikova to arrive with the professor. Outside‚ darkness crowded against shuttered windows.
For Pekkala, the absence of furniture made the interior seem much larger than he had remembered, and every breath seemed amplified without the dampening effect of carpets on the floors. Although the house was not dirty, or showing any signs of disrepair, the grey haze of spider webs in the windows told Pekkala that the place had not been lived in for some time. There was a stillness in the air which made him think the place had been abandoned since he’d left it more than twenty years before.
Reaching down his shirt, Stefanov retrieved the dirty cloth bag in which he kept his last few shreds of machorka and a small handful of matches. He began to roll himself a cigarette.
Pekkala reached out and touched his forearm. ‘They’ll smell the smoke. It will give us away.’
Stefanov sighed and nodded. ‘Of course. Forgive me, Inspector. To tell you the truth, what I really want now is a drink. I don’t mean water, either.’
Pekkala was silent for a while. ‘Perhaps,’ he said softly, ‘we can grant you that wish.’
‘You brought some with you?’ asked Stefanov.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘but there might be some treasure hidden here, after all.’
On Stalin’s desk
On Stalin’s desk lay the piece of paper which Kirov had removed from Lieutenant Churikova’s manual. As if the strange talons of the graph lines she had drawn might rise up from the page and claw his eyes, Stalin got up from his chair and walked over to the window. Out of habit, he did not stand directly in front of the glass, but moved to the side and leaned into the velvet curtains, so as not to be seen by anyone below. ‘You told me it was Serge Bakhturin who killed Kovalevsky.’
‘It was Bakhturin,’ confirmed Kirov. ‘He did commit the murder, but I now believe it was a separate crime from the one you sent me to investigate.’
Stalin wheeled about, sending a ripple up the heavy curtain fabric. ‘You also said that he threatened to kill Engel. It’s right there in your report!’
‘And the report is correct, Comrade Stalin. He did threaten to kill Engel, but after finding this letter, I began to wonder what Serge really meant by what he said.’
‘Meant?’ Stalin echoed angrily. ‘His intention was to kill Gustav Engel. What
else could he possibly mean?’
‘When I told Serge Bakhturin that Pekkala was still alive, he refused to believe it. He was sure the man he had shot outside the Café Tilsit was the Inspector. Serge never knew the name of Kovalevsky. I now believe that when I said the name Engel, Serge thought I was referring to the other man he saw outside the café that night. I don’t think Serge Bakhturin knew anything about that painting or the Amber Room.’
‘Then what was his motive for trying to murder Pekkala?’
‘Vengeance,’ replied Kirov, ‘for having him sent to jail‚ which cost him two years of his life. Serge Bakhturin failed at every legitimate occupation he took up. If it hadn’t been for his brother’s help, Serge would never have received that job with the State Railways. The fact that he was caught committing a crime was no surprise to anyone. Not even his brother, I think. But that conviction proved Serge Bakhturin to be a failure, even as a criminal. And for that, he blamed Pekkala.’
‘Enough to want him dead,’ said Stalin. ‘I grant you that.’
‘And he had made up his mind to see it through to the end, on his own, without his brother’s assistance.’
Stalin returned to his desk. ‘Are you telling me that, based on this letter, you believe that Polina Churikova is the person we’ve been looking for all along?’
‘I cannot say for certain, Comrade Stalin, but I think so.’
‘But she has proved her worth to us! She broke the Ferdinand code! Why would she do that if she was working for the Germans?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And so what if she kept her findings secret?’ Stalin continued. ‘Perhaps she didn’t want one of her colleagues to see the results before she was finished. These academics are constantly pilfering each other’s work. And it’s about glue, Kirov! What does that have to do with amber?’
‘As you know, Comrade Stalin, those thousands of fragments of amber were mounted on panels. For that, they must have used glue, which is now over two hundred years old. In that time, it has grown too fragile to survive the journey to Siberia. That’s why they had to leave behind the panels. Lieutenant Churikova must have found out about this, probably from Valery Semykin when she went to visit him in prison.’
‘And you think she found the solution for transporting the panels after all? If that’s true, then why wouldn’t she have shared it with us?’
‘Because I think she planned to share it with the Germans,’ replied Kirov. ‘The painting was a message to Professor Engel, warning him that the amber was still hidden in the walls of the Catherine Palace. She must have been working on a way to transmit the results of her experiment. As a cryptographer, she could just as easily have sent a coded message to the enemy as she could decipher one we’d intercepted. But it had to be a message which Engel‚ and Engel alone‚ could understand‚ even though he has no background in cryptography. When the Inspector and I met her at the Ostankinsky station and she learned that the painting had been captured she had to find another way to get the information to Engel. That’s why she volunteered to go across the lines, so she could deliver the message in person.’
‘And now‚’ said Stalin‚ ‘thanks to us‚ that is exactly what she’ll do.’
‘Is there any way we can get word to the Inspector?’ asked Kirov.
Stalin shook his head. ‘Out of the question. The best we can hope for is that he figures it out on his own, and kills the lieutenant before she gets to Engel.’
‘He won’t hurt Churikova,’ replied Kirov. ‘I don’t think he can.’
With a gravelly sigh, Stalin reached into his pocket for his crumpled box of cigarettes. Opening its dented cardboard lid, he fitted one of the white sticks between his lips and lit it with the gold lighter he always carried with him. ‘Let us hope you’re mistaken,’ Stalin whispered as he exhaled a jet of smoke towards the ceiling, ‘but you aren’t, and we both know it.’
‘What treasure?’
‘What treasure?’ asked Stefanov. ‘Where could it possibly be hidden?’
‘There is a secret room under this house‚’ replied Pekkala. ‘On the recommendation of his head of security, the Tsar ordered hiding places built into every residence on the estate.’
‘Hiding places?’
‘He called them “priest holes”, after the ones that were built for Catholics in England during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. The hiding place in this cottage was based on a design used at Rangeley Manor, a house visited by the Tsar during a trip to see his cousin, King George V. The original was built by a Jesuit carpenter named Nicholas Owen, who was later tortured to death on the rack at the Tower of London.’ Pekkala nodded towards the hearth. ‘The entrance is right over there.’
Stefanov stared at the empty stone fireplace. ‘But there’s nowhere to put a hiding place.’
‘So it was made to appear,’ Pekkala replied, ‘but in fact the wall there is twice as thick as any other wall in the house. It contains a narrow stairway that leads down to the hidden room.’
‘What’s it like, this room?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Pekkala. ‘I never went down there, but the Tsar did. He knew I did not like to be confined so, as a challenge, he left behind a bottle of his finest slivovitz, hoping the reward of one of his precious bottles of brandy might lure me down into that tomb.’ Climbing to his feet, Pekkala walked over to the fireplace. Dropping to one knee, he reached up into the chimney. Tucked into a recess in the masonry, he found a metal ring attached to a chain. Pekkala grasped the ring and pulled, hearing the chain rattle somewhere deep inside the chimney. There was a dull clunk in the brickwork at the back of the hearth. He brushed his hand along the bricks until he came to the place where the bricks did not join evenly. With the tips of his fingers, he prised back a small doorway faced with brick‚ which had been set into an iron frame.
Behind him, Stefanov looked on in amazement. ‘Do you think the slivovitz might still be down there?’
‘Find out for yourself‚’ replied Pekkala. ‘But be quick. They could be here any minute.’
Stefanov struck a match and‚ holding it out in front of him‚ made his way down into the blackness of the priest hole. The wavering flame illuminated a flight of ten steps hewn into the khaki-coloured rock. At the base of the steps, a chamber opened out into the darkness.
At the sight of it, Pekkala felt his throat tighten. The blood began pulsing in his temples.
Moving away from the priest hole, Pekkala walked over to the window and peered through the gaps in the wooden shutters. As he looked out at the pathway which ran beside the cottage, a movement outside caught his eye. A figure walked slowly down the path. From the silhouette, he could tell it was a German soldier, his rifle unshouldered and held at the ready.
Pekkala’s heart slammed into his chest. Guessing that the soldier was likely part of a patrol and that they might decide to take a look inside the cottage, he ducked into the fireplace and slithered into the entrance of the priest hole‚ struggling against the claustrophobia which sent bile climbing into the back of his throat.
The glow of Stefanov’s match flickered at the bottom of the stairs. As Pekkala reached out to close the door of the priest hole, he could hear someone in hobnailed boots stepping into the house by the same entrance he had used. At that same moment Stefanov appeared from the shadows below, a dusty bottle gripped in his hand. He was smiling, but one look at the expression on Pekkala’s face told him that something had gone very wrong. With one sharp breath he extinguished the match and the priest hole was plunged into darkness.
Lying on his stomach, with his legs braced against the stone steps, Pekkala drew the Webley revolver from its holster. Although the door was closed, a tiny gap left between the brickwork and the floor, presumably for ventilation, showed as a faint, velvety blue line of half-light. Even with his head pressed to the floor, Pekkala could barely see out from under the gap, but he could make out the shadowy form of a man moving around the room. He heard the cautious paci
ng of boots upon the wooden floor. Then a second shadow appeared and after that a third.
Without a word spoken between them, the men searched the cottage, moving like ghosts from room to room. Then they met back in front of the fireplace.
‘Empty,’ said one of the soldiers.
One man paused to light a cigarette‚ flicking the dead match into the fireplace.
Pekkala let his breath trail out with relief, knowing that the patrol would now be moving on. A second later, however, he heard the voice of Gustav Engel.
‘Have you searched the entire building?’ snapped the professor.
And then he heard another voice. It was Polina Churikova‚ and the words she spoke made Pekkala’s blood run cold.
‘Pekkala told me they’d be waiting here,’ she said. ‘They have to be here.’
‘Maybe they were,’ said a soldier, ‘but there’s no sign of them now.’
‘You must find them, Professor,’ Churikova pleaded. ‘You can’t allow them to get back behind the Russian lines.’
As the words sank in, Pekkala realised that he had been betrayed.
‘Don’t worry,’ Engel reassured her. ‘They can’t have gone far. You’ll see. We’ll have them soon enough.’
‘The amber won’t be safe until Pekkala is dead.’
‘You worry too much, Polina,’ Engel tried to soothe her. ‘He is only one man, after all, with a single Russian soldier to command. We have killed a million of them already and we will kill ten million more before this war is done. Put your mind at rest. The amber is safe, thanks to you. To have come up with the solution for reattaching the glue in the panels was nothing short of brilliant.’
‘As soon as I heard about the problem from Semykin,’ she explained, ‘I felt certain that it could be solved. I began running my own experiments in the laboratory of the Kremlin Museum.’
‘Right under their noses!’ laughed Engel. ‘You still haven’t told me how you managed that.’
