Red Moth

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 Cafe 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 cafe 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.’