Red Moth

It was after dark

It was after dark when Kirov returned to the office.

By then, Pekkala had been staring at the drawing for so long that when he closed his eyes, the outline of the moth’s wings remained imprinted on his sight as if he had been staring at the sun. Blearily, he focused on the major. ‘Any luck?’

Kirov removed his gun belt and hung it on the coat hook by the door. ‘NVKD believes that the painting may have been delivered to the German Embassy in Stockholm in a diplomatic pouch originating from the Swedish consulate in Turkey. Given its size the painting could easily have been smuggled through our borders. Agents of ours at the German Embassy in Stockholm report that something roughly the size of the painting arrived by diplomatic pouch about a week before the plane went down over our lines, although they were not able to view the contents and did not realise at the time that it was of any significance, since diplomatic pouches arrive there every day from all over the world.’

‘But what about the painting itself?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Have you determined whether anything was concealed inside the frame?’

‘I had the painting X-rayed at the Moscow Central Hospital, but there was nothing in the frame except the wood used to construct it. Then I brought it over to the School of Agriculture and exposed the canvas to the ultraviolet lights they use on some of their tropical plants.’

‘Nothing there either?’

Kirov shook his head. ‘It’s just a painting, Inspector, and if Comrade Stalin himself called right now and asked me what I thought, I’d tell him we were wasting our time.’

Pekkala took the sketch he had made and held it up to the light. For a moment, in the glow of the bulb through the paper, it looked as if the moth had come to life. ‘One thing I’ve learned about Stalin,’ he said, ‘is that his instincts are usually right, even if he doesn’t know why. Our job is to give him the answer, which, in this case,’ he crumpled up the sheet and threw it into the corner of the room, ‘may turn out to be impossible.’

‘Especially without the help of Polina Churikova.’

‘You couldn’t find her?’

‘NKVD are searching now,’ Kirov replied. ‘If anyone can locate her. .’

At that moment, the phone rang. The loud clattering of the bell startled both men.

Kirov picked up the receiver. ‘Yes, this is Major Kirov. You have?’ There was a long pause as he listened to the voice at the other end. ‘Where? When? I see. Never mind, then.’ He replaced the receiver in its cradle.

‘More bad news?’

‘I’m afraid so, Inspector. One hour ago, Lieutenant Polina Churikova boarded a train at the Ostankinsky District railyard, bound for the front, along with the rest of her signals battalion. We’ll never catch up with her now.’

‘You say she has boarded the train?’

‘That’s what they just told me, yes.’

‘But did they tell you that the train has actually departed?’

‘Well, no, but. .’

‘It takes them forever to load those transports,’ interrupted Pekkala. ‘Call the Ostankinsky station. Tell them who we’re looking for and order them to hold the train until we have arrived.’

For a moment, Kirov remained frozen, as if still searching for the words to reason with Pekkala.

‘Now!’ shouted Pekkala. ‘And as soon as you’ve done that, get down to the car as quickly as you can!’

The sound of Pekkala’s voice jolted Kirov into action. He snatched up the phone and dialled for the operator.

Pekkala, meanwhile, grabbed the keys for the Emka and tramped down the stairs. Before he disappeared into the street, one final command echoed up the battered staircase. ‘And bring that blasted painting with you!’