Red Moth

‘Comrade Stalin,’ said Pekkala

‘Comrade Stalin,’ said Pekkala, ‘Valeri Kovalevsky was assassinated on the orders of Dzerzhinsky himself. You know that as well as I do.’

‘What I know,’ replied Stalin, ‘is that when Dzerzhinsky ordered the murder of an innocent Frenchman and had him liquidated in broad daylight on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, he made the biggest mistake of his career.’

‘You mean that waiter wasn’t Kovalevsky after all?’

‘He was not,’ Stalin confirmed. ‘The mistake almost cost Dzerzhinsky his career. If the truth had become known, it would have created such an uproar that Lenin would have been forced to replace him. In all probability, Dzerzhinsky himself would have been shot. The only thing he could do was to claim that Kovalevsky was actually dead. Dzerzhinsky couldn’t even take the chance of continuing to search for Kovalevsky in secret. The only thing Dzerzhinsky could do was to close the file on him. That’s how Kovalevsky got away!’

‘And how do you expect to find him now, after all these years?’ asked Pekkala.

‘He has already been found,’ replied Stalin, ‘hiding in the last place Dzerzhinsky would ever have looked for him.’

‘And where is that?’

But Stalin was enjoying Pekkala’s helplessness too much to give him the answer just yet. ‘If you had known that Dzerzhinsky would not rest until he tracked you down and killed you, where would you have gone?’

‘As far away from him as I could.’

Stalin raised one stubby finger. ‘Exactly! That is what you would do. It is what I would do, as well. It is also what Dzerzhinsky thought your friend would do. He used to pace up and down in my office, shaking his bony fist as he swore to track down Kovalevsky. He became consumed with the hunt. That is why, when that Cheka agent came to him with some theory that a man he hadn’t seen in twenty years was working in a cafe in Paris, Dzerzhinsky didn’t take the time to check the man’s story. Instead, Dzerzhinsky had his hand on the phone receiver, ready to dispatch every assassin in the Cheka to France, before the agent had even left the room. Kovalevsky’s genius was that he understood Dzerzhinsky even better than Dzerzhinsky understood himself. That is why Kovalevsky did not travel to Tahiti, or Easter Island or any of the other places where Dzerzhinsky had imagined he might be. This man, who could have vanished to the farthest corners of the world, did not even leave the country. Kovalevsky did the thing Dzerzhinsky never considered. He stayed right here in Moscow.’

‘Hide in plain sight,’ muttered Pekkala, recalling one of the maxims of their former teacher, Vassileyev.

‘Kovalevsky became a teacher of history at Moscow School No. 554. He coaches the cross-country running team. He sits on the boards of nutrition and community service. Three times, he has been awarded the Teacher of the Year Prize, as voted by the student body.’

‘All under the name of Alexander Shulepov,’ said Pekkala.

Stalin nodded. ‘And‚ as Alexander Shulepov, he would have lived out his life as a model Soviet citizen, except. .’

‘Except what, Comrade Stalin?’

‘Except that Professor Shulepov is accustomed to spending his lunch breaks asleep at his desk, a ritual he observes with impressive regularity, making sure to delegate a student to wake him up in time for the next class. Unfortunately for the Professor, he sometimes cries out in his sleep. And what he happened to cry out one day was the name of Myednikov. What he didn’t realise was that the student who had come to wake him was already standing in the room. The student said nothing to Professor Shulepov but, being curious, mentioned the name to his parents when he returned home that day. The father, now an executive at the Moscow City Gas Works, was a former member of the Cheka and had heard that name before. Suspecting that it might be valuable information, he reported it immediately to my office. Poskrebychev himself took down the details, including a request for promotion from his current place of work in the suburbs to the Central Office of Gasprom. The enterprising man had even picked out an apartment block, where he hoped that suitable lodgings would be made available to him as soon as he received his promotion.’

‘And did you grant this request?’

Stalin sat back and laughed. ‘Of course not! I had Poskrebychev look into the matter and, as soon as he returned to me with confirmation that this Professor Shulepov was not only a Myednikov agent but was, in fact, the very man Dzerzhinsky had spent the last years of his life trying to find, I had the informant and his wife convicted of an unrelated and fictitious crime, then sent to Mamlin-Three.’

‘And what about the child?’ demanded Pekkala.

‘He is in an orphanage. Do not concern yourself, Inspector. The young man is well fed. He is educated. He lacks for nothing.’

‘Except his family.’

‘My point, Pekkala, is that the best way to protect him was to hold on to the secret of his past, which means that the only people who know Kovalevsky’s true identity are you and me and Poskrebychev. I kept it that way because there are too many people who would want a man like Kovalevsky dead. Wherever this traitor is within our ranks, it’s safe to say that he is not aware of Kovalevsky’s existence.’

‘But why did you protect him, Comrade Stalin?’

‘Because, unlike Dzerzhinsky, I believe there is more to gain from studying a man like Kovalevsky than by simply erasing him from the earth. Kovalevsky is like an animal in the zoo, who does not understand he’s in a zoo. The ones who know they’re in captivity are not the same. It is always better to study creatures in their natural habitat.’

‘And what have you learned from your study of Kovalevsky?’

‘That Professor Shulepov has become a model Soviet citizen. The genius of the man is in the impeccable mundaneness of his daily life.’ Stalin slid a small piece of note paper across the desk towards Pekkala. ‘This is the address where you will find him. Now I leave it to you to persuade your old friend to emerge from the shadows and help us.’

‘It’s been years since he worked for the Myednikov section,’ said Pekkala, as he picked up the piece of paper and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. ‘What makes you think the skills he learned back then are any use to us now?’

‘Just because a man stops being an assassin does not mean he has forgotten how to kill.’

‘And what can I offer him in return for his help, Comrade Stalin?’

‘The chance to live out his days in peace, as Professor Shulepov, teacher of the year at Moscow School No. 554. You have forty-eight hours, Pekkala. Three days from now, you, Kirov and Churikova are leaving for the front, with Kovalevsky or without him.’