Red Moth

An hour later

An hour later, having slipped out through the shattered iron railings which circled the Tsar’s estate, Pekkala and Stefanov were making their way through a tangle of bulrushes on the swampy ground which bordered the forest of Murom. Stefanov had discovered a trail, so narrow that it could only have been made by the deer or wild boar that roamed the forest.

Tattered clouds rode past beneath the waning gibbous moon. Beneath its silvery light, the tasselled heads of bulrushes weaved like the patterns of heat upon an iron stove.

Suddenly, Stefanov wheeled about and motioned for Pekkala to take cover.

The two men scattered into the rushes.

A moment later, Pekkala heard the hollow thump of hooves on the soft ground. Then he saw a man on horseback coming down the path, a rifle slung across his back. From the angles of his helmet, Pekkala could tell it was a German soldier. After him came another rider, and then another after that. Peering through the screen of rushes, Pekkala counted eight riders. The horses moved slowly, tired heads bowed low. After they had passed on, the smell of their sweat lingered in the air.

Without a word, Stefanov emerged from his hiding place.

Pekkala fell in behind him and they began to move again, their senses sharpened to the danger.

An owl glided past, just above the tops of the rushes, its silhouette like some grim coagulation of the darkness. As it came level with Pekkala, only an arm’s length away, it turned its flat, round head and blinked at him with dead man’s eyes.

They had not gone far when Stefanov halted once again. ‘What’s that sound?’ he asked.

Pekkala strained to hear above the rustling of the leaves. He thought it might be thunder or a gust of wind approaching. Then suddenly he felt a tremor from the ground beneath his feet. ‘They’re coming back!’ he hissed.

Once more, Pekkala dived off the path, pawing through the bulrushes, sweeping them aside to get away. He heard shouting as he ran, but it seemed to be coming from above, as if creatures were descending from the night sky. All around, the rushes thrashed and crackled. In the next instant, the huge, black shape of a horse swept past him, static electricity crackling across its flanks. Shreds of blue-green flame tangled in the animal’s tail, sparking up the rider’s legs until it reached his arms and, outlined in that fire, the two transformed into a single beast. With a ring of unsheathed metal, the curve of a sabre blade flashed and hung suspended in the air above their heads, as if it were the stalled path of a meteor.

Blindly, Pekkala stumbled forward through the reeds, feet sinking in the mud and the Mauser rifle, on its leather sling across his back, dragging through the rushes like an anchor. The same bright static swam around him; emeralds streaming through his fingers. He could not unshoulder the rifle without stopping, so struggled instead to draw the Webley from its holster. But it was too late.

The air filled with the terrible snorting breath of the horse and the high-pitched shriek of the rider as a burning stripe of pain flashed across Pekkala’s shoulder blades. The earth seemed to disappear from beneath him as he lost his footing. With a shout that emptied his lungs, he tumbled to the ground.

The horse passed over him, hooves trailing sparks and clods of dirt. In another second it was gone, ploughing through the rushes, the rider still howling in the darkness.

Sure that he had been cut down by the cavalryman’s sword, Pekkala had the sensation of being turned loose from the clumsy fastenings of his body. In what he did not doubt was the moment of his death, he seemed to leap into the sky unfolding wings from his back like those of a dragonfly from the papery husk of its larva.

From far above, Pekkala looked down upon the field of rushes, where the paths of the horses spread out green through the black. He saw the cowering figure of Stefanov, and of the other riders, all of them varnished with moonlight.

Then Pekkala tumbled back to earth and lay there‚ dazed‚ among the trampled rushes, in too much pain to be anything other than alive.

His rifle had gone. He had no idea where, and the leather Y-straps which had held his field equipment lay tangled in a heap beside him.

Rolling on to his back, Pekkala tore open the top buttons of his tunic and put his hand against his chest, searching for a puncture wound. But he felt only skin and sweat. Next, he reached down the back of his neck, dabbing at the bruise where, he now realised, the cavalryman had caught his blade against the Mauser, severing the rifle strap, together with the thick leather of his equipment harness.

A sub-machine gun roared, somewhere out there in the thicket. Then Pekkala heard the terrible shriek of a wounded horse and the thump of horse and rider going down together.

Shouts reached across the swaying rushes. The cavalrymen were calling to each other.

The machine gun fired once more in a long burst which was followed by silence. A moment later, he heard a rattle as someone removed a magazine and the dull clank as the person tapped a new magazine against their helmet to settle the rounds before inserting it into the weapon.

The voices of the riders grew fainter. A moment later, they were gone.

‘Pekkala!’ shouted Stefanov. ‘Pekkala, are you out there?’

‘Yes!’ he called back. ‘I just got knocked down. That’s all.’ Painfully, he clambered to his feet. Pekkala gathered up his rifle, which had a deep gash in the wooden stock, and slung the gas-mask canister over his shoulder. The rest of his equipment he left lying on the ground amongst the mangled leather straps of his combat harness.

Making his way out to the path, Pekkala found Stefanov standing over the body of a wounded horse. The animal lay on its side, its wide eyes glistening. The saddle had remained strapped to its back. Stirrups trailed upon the ground like the leg braces of a crippled child. Blood, as black as tar, pulsed from the horse’s neck, and the sound of its laboured breathing filled the air.

Stefanov still gripped the German gun with which he had brought down the animal, as if he meant to shoot it once again.

Pekkala rested his hand on Stefanov’s arm.

Slowly, he lowered the weapon, but his eyes were fixed on something other than the horse.

Pekkala followed Stefanov’s gaze to where the rider of the horse stood on the path, oblivious to the men who watched him. His own sword had gone through his chest as he came down from the horse. The blade protruded from his back. The cavalryman swayed back and forth, both hands gripping the hilt as if summoning his strength to draw the sword from its scabbard of flesh and bone. His legs, which looked unnaturally thin in his tall riding boots, trembled as he tried to remain on his feet.

Only now did the rider seem to become aware of the two men who were watching him. He spoke to them in a voice no louder than a whisper.

‘What is he saying?’ asked Stefanov.

‘He says his horse is suffering‚’ replied Pekkala.

Stefanov chambered a round in the Schmeisser, removed the magazine and set the barrel of the gun between the horse’s ears. There was a sharp crack as he fired and a tiny, musical ring as the smouldering brass cartridge ejected.

The horse trembled and then it was dead.

The rider was staring at them.

Pekkala walked up to the man and‚ gently prising back the fingers one by one, forced him to release his grip upon the hilt. Then Pekkala took hold of the sword and drew the blade from the rider’s chest.

The cavalryman gasped.

Pekkala dropped the weapon at his feet.

The rider sank to his knees.

The two men stepped past him and continued up the path.

Before the reeds closed up around them, Pekkala glanced back at the rider, who still knelt in the middle of the path, his hands wandering feebly over the place where the sword had gone in, as if by some miracle of touch he hoped to cure himself.

In the plunging red-black darkness before dawn, they reached the edge of the forest. A sweetness of pine replaced the sulphurous reek of the swamp. Once more, the earth was hard beneath their feet.

Here, they stopped to rest.

Stefanov pulled off his boots and poured from them a stream of oily water. Then he lay back on the mossy ground, the rifle lying heavy on his chest, and wiped the rough wool of his sleeve across his sweaty face.

Artillery fire coughed and rumbled on the horizon.

‘What will you do with the lieutenant when you find her?’ asked Stefanov.

‘I don’t know,’ Pekkala replied.

‘She reminds me of a teacher I once had in the school at Tsarskoye Selo.’

‘I think I know the one.’

‘I saw the way you looked at her, Inspector.’

Wearily, Pekkala turned and glanced at Stefanov. But he did not speak.

‘You can’t let Churikova go free,’ said Stefanov‚ ‘no matter what your feelings are for her.’

Still there was no reply from Pekkala.

‘I wish. . ’ began Stefanov.

‘What is it you wish‚ Rifleman?’

‘I wish we had something to eat.’

Pekkala pushed aside his rifle, stood and walked into the forest.

A short while later, he returned. From one hip pocket, he removed some baby fiddle-head ferns and from the other he produced a bunch of wood sorrel, with tiny stems and clover-shaped leaves. Lastly, from his chest pockets came a dozen chanterelle mushrooms, their apricot-coloured flesh as delicate as silk.

Kirov would have fried these in butter, Pekkala thought to himself as he dropped half of them into Stefanov’s outstretched hands.

If there had been more time, Pekkala would have gathered earthworms, dried them in the sun, then ground them to a powder before eating. He would have hunted snails, as well, plucking them like berries from their silver trails over downed trees and stones. They had been one of Pekkala’s favourite foods in Siberia. After baking the snails in hot ashes, he used to prise them out of blackened shells using one of his most prized possessions‚ a rusted safety pin.

The two men ate in silence as the first shades of dawn glimmered eel-green on the horizon.

When the tiny meal was done, Stefanov brushed his hands together and began to roll himself a cigarette. Just before he sprinkled the dried black crumbs of machorka into the shred of old newsprint that would serve as rolling paper, he paused and glanced across towards Pekkala.

Pekkala was watching him.

‘No?’ asked Stefanov.

Pekkala shook his head.

‘Even here?’ protested Stefanov. ‘There’s no one around. I told you these woods are empty!’

‘Not entirely.’ Pekkala nodded in the direction from which they had come.

There, at the edge of the swampy ground from which they had recently emerged, stood a wolf.

It had been following them for some time. Pekkala had heard the beast’s loping tread as it pursued them through the bulrush thickets. But even before he had heard the animal, he’d known that they were being followed. Pekkala could not name what sense had telegraphed the presence of that wolf into his brain, but he had long ago learned to trust it with his life.

The wolf’s head was lowered as it studied them, the black nostrils flexing. The front paws shifted uneasily. Then, unhurriedly, it turned and vanished back among the reeds.

For a moment longer, Stefanov stared at the place where the wolf had been, as if some shadow of its presence still remained. Then he tucked away the tobacco pouch under his shirt. With an agitated groan, he slumped back against the trunk of a pine tree, realising too late that he had leaned his shoulder into a trickle of sap. Stefanov swore under his breath and picked at the honey-coloured smear, which remained stubbornly glued to his tunic. ‘In a few million years,’ he muttered, ‘this would have been treasure, instead of just a pain in my backside.’

Throughout that morning, the two men advanced over the pine-needled ground, where insect-eating plants, with a smell like rotting meat, reared their sexually open mouths.

After months of being on the move, the stillness of these woods was overwhelming for Stefanov. It reached him from beyond the boundaries of his senses, threading through the air like the long stray filaments of spider webs which dangled from the leaves. It walked among the columns of white birch like shadows of people long since vanished from the earth. Only a man like Pekkala‚ he thought‚ could survive for long in such a place.

Late in the afternoon, the two men emerged from the woods into an ocean of tall grass, which trailed out over rolling ground as far as the horizon. After being in the forest, the glare of sky not fractured by a mesh of branches felt strangely threatening.

‘Where is the bridge?’ asked Pekkala.

Stefanov‚ his throat too dry to speak‚ only motioned for Pekkala to follow.

On hands and knees, guns slung across their backs, they crawled through the waist-high grass. Reddish brown seeds clung to their sweat-soaked skin. Grasshoppers with iridescent green eyes catapulted themselves into the air with an audible snap of their legs.

At last, they spotted the bridge, a crude wooden structure which seemed to have no purpose until Stefanov dropped down into a dry stream bed which appeared before them, hidden until they were almost upon it.

These stream beds, known as Rachels, were a common feature of the landscape. In the spring, during the rasputitsa, the gully would be flooded by snow melt. But that was months away and now the bed was powder-dry.

The heat had sapped their energy, but now the two men felt a sudden sense of urgency as they scrambled over the dusty ground until they stood beneath the bridge. Sheltered beneath the heavy planks, zebra stripes of shadow lined their faces.

‘This structure was never meant for heavy vehicles,’ said Stefanov, ‘but since it is the only road from Tsarskoye Selo to Wilno, Engel must bring his truck across it.’

The distance across the gully was no more than ten paces. To support the bridge, heavy pilings had been set at an angle into either bank. The planks above were widely spaced and the wood bleached out by sun and snow and rain. Huge nail-heads looked like dull coins against the pilings, the wood around them dented by the blows of hammer strikes.

A breeze passed over the Rachel and dust sifted between the bridge planks. They blinked as it peppered their eyes. Above them, the steppe grass rustled with a sound like running water.

‘The truck is bound to be carrying an escort of armed guards,’ said Stefanov. ‘If we can stop them here, when the vehicle slows down to cross the bridge, it might give us an advantage. It’s too bad we can’t destroy the bridge before they reach it, but that would give away any hope of surprise.’

Pekkala handed over the grey canister. ‘Would this be enough for what you had in mind?’

Stefanov opened the lid of the canister and peered inside. Then he raised his head and looked at Pekkala. ‘Inspector,’ he gasped, ‘there is enough dynamite here to destroy this bridge and a dozen others like it!’

Immediately, they set to work. Pekkala scooped out some of the thick, dough-like mixture and packed it against two of the four main bridge supports. The marzipan smell of the mine’s Amytol explosives sifted into their lungs. Meanwhile, Stefanov unravelled the coil of wire for the instant fuse, the ignition battery stored safely in his pocket.

Once the charges had been laid, they dug out a space in the tall grass about twenty paces from the bridge, which was as far as the wire would stretch.

The whole process took less than half an hour, by the end of which the two men crouched sweating in their hiding place.

‘When this goes up, assuming we even survive the blast, your eardrums will hurt for a month,’ said Stefanov, as he hooked one wire to the negative battery terminal, saving the other, its filaments splayed like a skeleton hand, for connecting with the positive terminal.

Pekkala opened the black leather ammunition pouches on his belt and found that he had only three clips of bullets, fifteen rounds in all.

Stefanov fared better, with four magazines for the Schmeisser, each one containing thirty rounds, but it was no cause for celebration. Even that amount would soon disappear if they found themselves in a running battle with a squad of heavily armed soldiers.

There was nothing to do now but wait.

With fear and hunger scuttling like crabs behind their ribs, the two men lay hidden in the tall grass.

It was not long before the sound of engines reached them on the breeze. A minute later‚ an armoured car lumbered around a bend in the road. It was a type the Germans called a Lola. Riding on four large, heavy-treaded tyres, its sides were shielded with angled metal plates so that it resembled a monster folded out of paper by some Japanese origami master. On top was a small turret, almost flat, with a small cannon sticking out the length of a man’s outstretched arm. A soldier stood in the Lola’s turret, hands gripping the sides of the hatch covers. He wore an old style officer’s cap, its soft crown flattened against his head and turned around so that the visor was facing backwards. A pair of goggles shielded his eyes. From the eagle on his arm, instead of his chest, Pekkala knew the man was SS and not regular army.

A Hanomag truck followed in the Lola’s path, its canvas roof battened down tight. Judging from the way the wheel cowlings hung down over the tyres, the vehicle was carrying a heavy load.

Both machines rumbled slowly towards the bridge, diesel engines rattling in low gear.

While Pekkala drew back the bolt on his rifle to make sure that a round had been chambered, Stefanov took up the battery in one hand and gripped the loose wire in the other, ready to connect the circuit and detonate the explosives.

Pekkala had planned to destroy the bridge before the truck had a chance to cross it but the presence of the armoured car demanded more drastic action. Even though it would increase the risk, not only to Stefanov and himself, but also to the amber in the truck, Pekkala knew he had no choice.

Just short of the bridge, the armoured car slowed and then stopped. The trucks bunched up behind it, engines puttering in neutral.

The officer in the turret of the armoured car jumped down to the road and started walking towards the bridge.

Now the driver climbed out of the Hanomag. It was Gustav Engel wearing a knee-length double-breasted coat of the type normally issued to motorcycle drivers. Strapped to his waist on a black leather belt was a Luger holster. ‘This is the fourth time we’ve halted in the last hour!’ Engel raised his voice above the patient rumble of the engines. ‘We are running out of time!’

The SS officer spun around, one hand raised as if to cast a spell on the man who had broken his stride. ‘And this is the fourth time you have brought it to my attention, Professor!’

‘The train departs from Wilno at 4 p.m.,’ Engel told him. ‘Everything has to be loaded aboard by then. They will not wait for us. We must remain on schedule!’

‘I must inspect the bridge before we try to cross it,’ explained the officer. ‘I have to be certain that it will hold our weight.’

‘We don’t have time,’ said Engel. ‘The other bridges held us fine. I am ordering you to proceed immediately.’

The officer paused, ready to continue his protest, but then he seemed to think better of it, turned and strode back to the armoured car, footsteps soft as heartbeats on the dirt road. He climbed aboard, hobnails scraping on the metal plates. A moment later, the armoured car ground into gear and trundled forward.

Pekkala’s heart began flailing in his chest as he watched the armoured car move forward. The instant that its front wheels rolled on to the bridge, he whispered, ‘Now!’

Tyres thudded over the planks.

‘Now!’ he said again, staring helplessly as the Lola continued across the bridge.

‘I’ve already connected the battery,’ Stefanov replied frantically. ‘It should have gone off by now.’

In that moment, the mine exploded. A flash jumped from under the armoured car and a deafening boom shuddered through the air.

A wall of concussion swept past the two men in their hiding place as the Lola reared up and a blue flame, like the fire from a gas oven, swept around the metal. For a moment the whole machine was encased in this strange glow. Then the Lola exploded with a sound like the slamming of a huge metal door. Pieces of armour plating trailed sparks as they were torn loose by the blast. A wheel spun off, clattering and smoking, through the grass. Then the bridge collapsed. The Lola crashed into the gully. Dust and smoke unfurled into the sky.

At first, it looked as if Engel’s truck was going to follow the Lola into the Rachel. Then, with a shriek of brakes the vehicle came to a stop.

A man crawled out of the gully. It was the officer. His clothes were smouldering. One hand was held to his face. The other hand groped the air in front of him, as if he were pawing his way through cobwebs.

At the same time, the gate of the truck clanked down and three soldiers tumbled out, carrying their rifles. The soldiers looked about wildly, then dived into a shallow ditch at the side of the road.

The officer stumbled towards them, trailing smoke from his burned clothes.

One of the soldiers, unable to recognise the wounded man, raised his gun and fired.

A cloud of blood appeared behind the officer, lit up like a ruby shadow in the sunlight. He went down so fast that the spray was still hanging in the air after his body hit the ground.

A shout came from the soldiers as they realised their mistake, but it was soon drowned out by the clatter of Stefanov’s sub-machine gun and the single pak-pak-pak of rifle shots as Pekkala fired the Mauser, ejected an empty cartridge, slammed in a new one and pulled the trigger once again. Bullets skipped off the road in puffs of orange dirt.

The soldiers in the ditch returned fire, but their aiming was wide and erratic. They seemed to have no idea where their enemies were concealed.

The same was true of Engel, who now steered his truck off the road. Tilting precariously, it crossed over the ditch and started out across the field, directly towards the place where Pekkala and Stefanov were hiding.

Stefanov fitted a new magazine into the sub-machine gun.

‘Don’t aim for the driver!’ shouted Pekkala, but Stefanov had already pulled the trigger, and his voice was drowned out by the hammer of the gun.

The truck’s front tyres blew out. Dull clunks sounded as bullets impacted against the tyre rims. Chips of paint flew off its bumper and then the windscreen exploded like a spray of water. The truck rolled to a stop, its punctured radiator sighing as one last wisp of steam escaped.

The door of the truck swung open and Engel jumped out. He ran back to the ditch, leaped in amongst the soldiers and, a moment later, the flinty snap of a pistol joined the barking of the German guns.

Stefanov’s gun fell silent as the magazine emptied. Smoke wafted from its barrel. A smell of raw gasoline filled the air from the Hanomeg’s ruptured fuel tank.

Now another figure climbed down from the back of the truck. Even though she was wearing a heavy German greatcoat several sizes too big, Pekkala could see at once that it was Lieutenant Churikova.

Stefanov raised his gun, ready to shoot her down.

Pekkala shoved the barrel aside, feeling the heel of his palm sizzle against the super-heated metal.

‘You want to let her live?’ Stefanov called out in disbelief. ‘After what she did to us?’

‘I want to know why,’ replied Pekkala.

Churikova reached the safety of the ditch, but no sooner had she taken cover than the soldiers made a run for it, sprinting down the road in the direction from which they had come. They hunched over as they moved, rifles gripped in one hand, leather slings trailing beneath.

Engel called to them, ordering the soldiers to return.

One of the soldiers turned and beckoned to Engel, urging him to join in their retreat.

Once more, Engel ordered them back.

The soldier turned and ran after the others, leaving Engel and Churikova alone in the ditch.

Unable to get a clear shot from where he crouched, Stefanov stood and fired at the soldiers. The burst caught the lead man, suturing his chest with bullets. The other two tumbled into the line of fire and vanished as if the ground had swallowed them up.

Stefanov’s fire ceased sharply as a spent cartridge jammed in the receiver. He ducked back into the cover of the grass and immediately set to work clearing the crumpled stub of brass.

Pekkala loaded his last remaining bullets into the Mauser as a shot from the ditch passed close over his head and he felt the paralysing stun of the near miss. He raised his rifle, ready to fire, when suddenly he heard Churikova’s voice.

‘Pekkala!’ she called.

All firing had ceased and now the silence was overwhelming.

‘Inspector, is that you?’ she called again.

Pekkala did not reply, but only watched and waited, refusing to give away his position.

Stefanov was still struggling to prise loose the jammed cartridge. Sweat and dust burned in his eyes and blood from his torn fingernails seeped across his fingers, banding them like rings of red glass. ‘It’s no use,’ he whispered as he set aside the gun.

‘Pekkala!’ shouted the lieutenant. ‘I know you’re out there. Let me talk to you. Let me explain.’

‘I could try to work my way around them,’ whispered Stefanov, ‘but for that I’ll need your rifle.’

Pekkala handed Stefanov the Mauser, then drew his revolver from its holster, feeling the brass handle smooth and cool against his palm.

After a nod from Pekkala, Stefanov vanished like a snake into the tall grass.

At the same moment‚ Churikova clambered from the ditch and stood in the road, staring out across the grass. ‘Where are you? Talk to me!’

Slowly, Pekkala climbed to his feet, the Webley clenched in his fist. ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked, his voice gravelly with the dust that lined his throat.

‘For the sake of the amber.’ As she spoke, she took a step towards him, then another. ‘This war left me with no choice.’

Pekkala watched her and said nothing, his face unreadable.

‘Russia is about to fall,’ she continued. ‘The Catherine Palace and everything left inside it will soon be nothing more than a heap of rubble. The Germans have made up their minds. Its fate has already been sealed. Nothing you or I can do will change that. But we can save the Amber Room.’ With an exasperated sigh, the lieutenant held out her hands, palm up, begging him to understand. ‘For now, we have no alternative but to allow our enemies to be the guardians of what we have left. You understand, don’t you, Pekkala?’

Whether it was fear or hope that creased her wind-burned face, Pekkala could not tell.

In that instant, a shot rang out. Churikova stumbled. For a moment, she righted herself, but then another bullet struck her and she fell hard to the ground.

Behind her, on the edge of the ditch, stood Gustav Engel, still holding the Luger which had brought down the lieutenant.

Pekkala raised his revolver. ‘Why did you do that?’ he asked.

‘Because she never understood,’ replied Engel. ‘Polina thought that she was saving Russian history, but what she failed to grasp was that, by the time we have finished with this country, it will have no history, because Russia will cease to exist. Fond as I was of her, I have only done what Hitler would have done eventually. You see, his love of Russian treasure does not extend to the Russian people themselves, no matter how helpful they have been. And Stalin would have done the same. But that’s not what he has in mind for me, is it, Inspector Pekkala? He wants me alive. He needs to know what I know. That’s why, now that you finally have me in your gunsight, you are forbidden to pull the trigger. Polina told me all about your plan to bring me to back to Moscow. And she explained how Stalin has ordered you to obliterate the Amber Room, but you and I both know that Stalin doesn’t really care about the room. What he cares about is that I have taken it from him. What he wants, even more than having it, is for Hitler not to have it. Polina told me what Stalin said that day you brought her to the Kremlin — that the only way Russia can survive is if you are prepared to sacrifice everything. But there is one thing Stalin will not sacrifice, and that is his vanity. To protect it, he would have you set fire to what he has called an irreplaceable treasure of the State. But who will get the blame for that, Pekkala? It won’t be me. It won’t be the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg. It would be you‚ because Stalin will deny that he ever gave you such an order. So where does that leave us, Pekkala? You can deliver me to Stalin and face a firing squad because you ruined the Eighth Wonder of the World, or you can do nothing and be shot for that, instead.’ Confidently, Engel put the Luger back in its holster. ‘Fortunately, I have a solution. Once you’ve heard it, you will see it is the only one that makes sense.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Pekkala.

‘Come with me. Let me protect you.’

‘Like you protected Churikova?’

‘What the lieutenant had to offer, she had already bartered away. But you are different, Pekkala. You are famous, far beyond the borders of the country you have called your home, and your skills are valuable, no matter where you go. Besides, you’re not a Russian. You are a Finn, and the Finns are now allies of ours. What I am offering you is a chance to start again.’

Suddenly, like a golem taking shape out of the earth, a figure rose up from the grass behind Engel. It was Stefanov. With two long strides, he crossed the ground between himself and Engel.

Too late, Engel turned, alerted by the sound of footsteps on the road.

There was a sharp crack as the butt of Stefanov’s rifle connected with the side of Engel’s head.

The professor collapsed in a heap into the ditch.

Leaning over the unconscious man, Stefanov removed Engel’s Luger from its holster and tucked it into his belt.

Pekkala, meanwhile, walked over to the place where Lieutenant Churikova had fallen. She lay on her back, returning his stare. A layer of dust had settled on her eyes.

‘I heard what he told you,’ said Stefanov. ‘What are you going to do‚ Inspector?’

‘Do you think you can carry the professor?’

‘Yes. I’m sure of it.’

‘Then you should set off now‚ back towards the Russian lines.’

‘But what about you, Inspector? Aren’t you coming with us?’

‘There is something I must do first‚’ replied Pekkala.

Stefanov pointed towards a hillside in the distance. ‘I’ll wait for you on the crest of that ridge.’

‘Go quickly,’ said Pekkala, ‘someone might have heard the shooting‚ and it’s only a matter of time before they come to investigate.’

Without another word, Stefanov set off towards the east, with the professor slung over his shoulders in the way a man carries a deer that he has hunted down and killed. The going was not hard. He weighed less than Barkat had done.

It took Stefanov about twenty minutes to reach the base of the hill. There, he stepped beneath the canopy of trees and began making his way up to the ridge. The ground was soft and strewn with fallen leaves, causing him to slip and lose his footing several times. The professor groaned as he slowly regained consciousness.

On the crest of the hill, Stefanov found a clearing that looked out over the valley below. Here he stopped to rest, rolling Engel off his shoulders and into a bank of dried moss.

Engel’s eyes fluttered. Lifting himself up on one elbow, he looked around blearily.

‘Do you speak Russian?’ asked Stefanov.

The professor turned to see a man in a tattered German uniform, sitting with his back against a tree, covering him with his own gun.

‘Yes,’ replied Engel. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Rifleman Stefanov, sole survivor of the 5th Anti-Aircraft Section of the Red Army’s 35th Rifle Division.’

‘You’re the one who came here with Pekkala.’

Before Stefanov could reply, a hollow boom sounded in the distance. Both men turned to see a ball of fire rising from the fields. The flames were capped with thick black smoke, which Stefanov knew must have come from a gasoline explosion. It took only a second’s calculation for Stefanov to realise that the location of the blaze was exactly where he had last seen the Inspector.

Engel had reached the same conclusion. ‘The amber!’ He leaped up from his bed of moss. ‘Does he realise what he’s done?’

‘You can ask him yourself when he gets here, which shouldn’t be long now. Now sit down before I shoot you in the leg. I don’t want to have to carry you all the way to Moscow.’

Stunned, Engel flopped down again on to the ground. The blood had drained out of his face. ‘He did it‚’ muttered the professor. ‘He actually did it.’

They waited.

Stefanov kept his eyes glued to the point on the horizon from which he knew Pekkala would be coming. He stared until his eyes dried out. As the minutes passed, and the Inspector did not appear, he began to worry that something might have gone wrong.

Engel no longer seemed to care what was happening to him. He sat with his face in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, mumbling to himself in words too soft to hear.

When half an hour had gone by and Pekkala had still not arrived, Stefanov climbed to his feet. ‘We have to go back.’

Slowly, Engel raised his head. ‘Back there? To the truck?’

‘I’m not leaving him.’

‘Are you insane?’ Engel demanded. ‘We can’t go back. It won’t be long before the whole countryside is crawling with German soldiers looking for that convoy.’

‘I thought you would be glad of that,’ replied Stefanov.

‘You don’t understand,’ Engel told him. ‘I already sent a telegram to Berlin, telling Hitler that the panels are now safely in our possession and on their way to Konigsberg, where they will wait until construction of the Linz museum has been completed. That amber was my responsibility. Hitler will kill me himself when he learns what has become of it. Take me to Moscow. I have all the information Stalin needs to know about art acquisitions by the German Army in the Soviet Union. Just get me out of here before those horsemen come looking for us!’

Stefanov pointed to the cloud of smoke, which now had almost disappeared into the sky. ‘Not without Pekkala.’

‘You’re out of your mind,’ snapped Engel.

‘But not out of bullets!’ replied Stefanov, waving the Luger in his face.

The two men clambered down the slope, the professor stumbling over roots and mud in his polished knee-high boots. Running the rest of the way to the place where Engel’s convoy had been halted, they covered the distance in less than twenty minutes.

By the time they reached the truck, the fire had almost burned out. The spilled fuel had ignited, wrenching the vehicle apart. The windscreen had melted out and only springs remained of what had been the seats. The doors had been blown off completely. One of them lay in the ditch and the other was nowhere to be seen. The rear section of the truck was only a skeleton now, its wooden floorboards and its canvas roof incinerated in the blaze. The grass on either side of the road had been scorched down to the bare earth. It continued to smoulder, smoke drifting across the ground.

‘Where are the remains of the amber?’ asked Stefanov.

‘Destroyed,’ Engel replied bitterly. ‘What did you expect?’

‘But there’s no trace of it, or the panels. Wouldn’t there be something left?’

‘Not after a fire like this,’ Engel told him. ‘The panels were made of wood which had been treated with linseed oil to make it weatherproof. Linseed oil is highly flammable and amber itself is a resin, with a melting point under 400 degrees Fahrenheit. This fire must have burned at twice that heat. And amber isn’t like glass or precious metals, which would leave a residue. It burns away to nothing. It’s gone, Rifleman Stefanov‚ along with your beloved Inspector Pekkala‚ who is probably on his way back to Moscow, intending to blame you for this.’

‘No.’ Stefanov was staring at something on the ground. ‘He’s lying over there.’

In front of the truck lay a body, which had been caught in the blast and consumed. Only a husk of flesh and bones remained, the legs shrivelled to sticks inside the carbonised leather of the boots. Soot covered the carcass like a layer of black velvet.

‘How do you know that’s him?’ asked Engel, unwilling to approach the incinerated corpse.

Stefanov bent down and rummaged in the brittle fans of what had been a rib cage.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Engel, his voice filled with revulsion.

Stefanov gasped, his fingers searing as they closed around the object of his search. Out of the ashes, he lifted the frame of a revolver. Its handle had remained intact due to the fact that the grips were made of solid brass, which had not melted. The cartridges contained in the cylinder had ruptured, skewing the barrel. But there was no mistaking Pekkala’s Webley. ‘The vapours from the gasoline must have exploded before he had a chance to get clear.’ Then he reached into the coat pocket and removed the scorched remnant of Pekkala’s NKVD pass book. ‘It is him,’ whispered Stefanov. ‘This proves it absolutely.’

‘There’s nothing you can do for him now,’ said Engel. ‘We have to go now, or you and I will both be wishing we had died in this fire.’

This time‚ the two men were in agreement.

Stefanov tucked the burned pass book into his chest pocket. Then he jammed the ruined Webley into his belt. He nodded towards the Russian lines, somewhere far to the east. ‘After you,’ he said.