Red Moth

We’re too late

We’re too late, Pekkala thought to himself. The words pulsed like a migraine in his skull.

He stood beside Lieutenant Churikova in the doorway of the Amber Room. Strewn across the floor in front of them were long strips of paper which had been torn from the walls, revealing the amber beneath. Heaped beside these giant scrolls were shreds of muslin cloth which had been added as a protective layer over the panels.

For a moment, neither of them spoke or moved. They stared at the amber-filled panels‚ mesmerised by haloes of gold, brown and yellow which gleamed in the evening sun that streamed through the open windows.

Their trance was broken when a voice called out, harsh and questioning, demanding to know who they were.

Out of the cloud of honey-coloured light, a man strode up to Pekkala. He was tall, with brown hair greying at the temples and nervous brown eyes, whose gaze seemed to swarm over the two strangers like a cloud of tiny insects. ‘I gave orders to be left alone!’ he shouted.

Now that Pekkala’s eyes had grown accustomed to the glare, he could see that this man was the only occupant of the room.

‘Professor Engel,’ said Churikova.

There was a pause.

In an instant, the man’s expression transformed from anger to astonishment. ‘Polina? Polina Churikova?’

‘Yes, Professor.’

‘It is you!’ spluttered Engel. ‘I thought the war had separated us for good. As you can see for yourself‚ this is a day of many miracles!’

‘I came to find you,’ she said.

‘But how did you know I was here?’

‘I knew you would come to the palace as soon as you possibly could.’

‘Of course!’ he laughed, ‘and I could have guessed I’d find you here as well. Look at us now, in the service of two different masters. But that cannot stand between us. It was never our choice to make. We will never be enemies, because we are bound by an even greater purpose.’ The professor seemed completely overwhelmed. A tremor of ecstasy filled his voice. ‘Even a war could not keep us away,’ he called out, turning and raising his arms in supplication to the vast mosaic of amber before him, ‘from the thing we love most in this world. This is the happiest day of my life‚ and I thank God that you are here to share it with me.’

In the moment that Engel turned, Pekkala’s eyes met Churikova’s. It was only for an instant, but long enough for Pekkala to communicate to her that the task ahead of them might be easier than he’d thought.

‘But how did you manage it, Polina?’ Engel spun around to face her once again, grasping her hands in his. ‘How did you get away from them?’

As Churikova recounted her alibi of desertion from the ranks of the Red Army, Engel stared at her intently. The professor appeared so entranced by Churikova’s presence that he barely listened to her words. She was halfway through explaining about the artworks hidden on the estate, when Engel interrupted. ‘Forgive me, Polina! You must be cold. You must be hungry. How terrifying it must have been for you as you made your way alone to this place, surrounded by soldiers who might easily have taken your life instead of taking you prisoner. You are a brave woman, and such bravery will not go unrewarded. But I understand why you had to do it. The thought that these panels might be left to rot in their makeshift hiding place is not only unbearable, it shows the depth of ignorance of those who claim to be its guardians. There is nothing to worry about now. Hitler has taken a particular interest in the Amber Room. He considers it, as I do, to be a German work of art, and obscenely out of place in Stalin’s Russia. That is why he has given his chief architect, Albert Speer, instructions to include a special gallery in the Linz Museum where the Amber Room could be displayed. And, to me, he gave the order that I was to locate it at all costs, even if I had to travel the length and breadth of Siberia to find it. When I first heard the radio broadcasts about the panels having been moved to safety somewhere in the Ural mountains, I imagined I might spend the rest of my life hunting for the amber. That was why, when I was back in Konigsberg, I ordered the construction of special transport cases for each of the panels. They are lined in zinc, with built-in handles, shockproof and waterproof. I even had wheels attached to the cases in the event that suitable carrying devices couldn’t be found once I’d arrived at the palace. I planned everything out in such detail that I could dismantle the panels and transport them by myself if I had to. In spite of Stalin’s announcement, I knew that my search had to begin here. You see, I suspected that the radio broadcast might be a hoax, but I take little consolation in the fact that I was right. As your countrymen have discovered, the panels are too fragile to be moved in their present condition.’

Up until now, Engel had been oblivious to the grizzled military policeman standing beside the lieutenant.

Realising that the sooner he left Churikova alone with the professor, the more quickly she would be able to lure him out to the cottage, Pekkala cleared his throat noisily.

His attention momentarily diverted from Churikova, Engel shot Pekkala an irritated glance. ‘This woman is now in my charge,’ he snapped. ‘You are no longer needed.’ Then, as if his words had caused Pekkala to vanish into thin air, Engel took hold of Churikova’s arm and the two of them strolled away across the room. ‘Later we will go in search of these art works you say are hidden on the estate, but for now our first task must be to find you some new clothes!’

Having left the Amber Room, quietly closing the door behind him, Pekkala strode out of the palace. The crash of his steel-shod boots echoed off the once-pristine floors. The weight of the canister, packed with explosives, dragged against Pekkala’s spine. He was glad to know he’d never have to use it.

It was dark now.

As he had done so many times in the past, Pekkala made his way along the Dvortsovaya road, past the old Kitchen Pond and the Alexander Palace and from there along the path that would take him to his cottage by the Pensioners’ Stable. The view to his left stretched out across the Alexander Park and there were moments when it was almost possible to believe that the war had not touched Tsarskoye Selo.

This thought was wrenched from Pekkala’s mind by the thundering of hoof beats. In the next moment, he saw a dozen soldiers on horseback galloping past the arsenal monument down the long straight road towards the Parnas Gardens. He remembered what Leontev had said about the presence of an SS Cavalry Division in the area.

The breath stalled in Pekkala’s throat as he caught sight of the cottage where he had lived for more than a decade. The building did not seem to have suffered any damage, although the picket fence which once separated it from the path had been flattened by a vehicle that had veered off the road.

Rather than going in through the front door, he went around the back. The door leading into the mud room was open and past it he could see the familiar brick-red tiles of the kitchen floor. Before entering the cottage, Pekkala waited by the rain barrel, which stood beneath the gutter at the corner of the house, watching the road in case he had been followed. As he inhaled the musty smell of still water, which was both distant and familiar, Pekkala had to force himself to believe that any time at all had passed since he had last stood here.

Pekkala walked into the house. Through the closed shutters, a faint glimmer of moonlight painted zebra stripes of moonlight on the floor. He felt his way forward, fingertips skimming the walls, but had only taken a couple of steps before he felt the presence of someone standing right behind him. At the same moment, a gun appeared out of the shadows.

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.’