Red Moth

Kirov sat in his office

Kirov sat in his office, a stack of untouched field reports laid out in front of him. He had tried to keep busy, hoping that the drudgery of paperwork would keep him from focusing on Pekkala and his own helplessness. He expected, at any minute, to receive news of the Inspector’s death. Every time the door closed down in the lobby, adrenalin cut through his stomach as if he had been slashed with a razor. He kept checking the telephone to make sure it was working. His loud, frustrated sighs stirred the dust that pirouetted through the air in front of him.

His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs. As Kirov listened, each monotonous tread of those hobnailed boots became like a kick in the face.

He stared at the door, half hoping that the person would find himself mistaken, turn around and go back down the stairs, and the other half wanting to get it over with and hear the news now instead of later. The one certainty in Kirov’s mind was that the news would not be good.

The person stopped.

Seconds passed.

Kirov remained at his desk, his hands beginning to sweat. At the first knock, he launched himself out of his chair and strode across the room towards the door.

He had no sooner opened it when he felt himself shoved violently backwards into the room. Kirov tripped on the carpet and fell and by the time he realised that his visitor was Victor Bakhturin, he was already face to face with Bakhturin’s Tokarev automatic.

Bakhturin was breathing heavily from his walk up the five flights of stairs. ‘Why the hell do you have to live up in the clouds?’ he barked.

‘If you’re going to shoot,’ replied Kirov, ‘get on with it.’

‘I’m not going to shoot you!’

Kirov stared at the gun. ‘It looks that way to me.’

‘I’m protecting myself,’ Bakhturin explained gruffly, ‘so that I get a chance to talk to you before you pull a gun!’

‘Then may I get up off the floor?’

‘Yes.’ Bakhturin hesitated. ‘As long as you understand that I have not come here seeking vengeance for what happened to my brother.’

‘You haven’t?’ Kirov climbed to his feet, dusted off his elbows and kicked the carpet back into place.

‘The only thing that surprised me when I heard that Serge had died was that he’d managed to survive for as long as he did. Don’t misunderstand me‚ Major‚ I loved my brother very much‚ but the truth is I have been preparing myself for his untimely death for so long that it is almost a relief not to have to worry about it any more.’

‘Then why are you here, Bakhturin?’

‘I heard that Pekkala has been lost behind enemy lines.’

‘He is not lost!’ Kirov shot back. ‘He knows where he is! It’s just that we don’t. That’s all.’

‘Do you still think he might be alive?’

‘I am sure of it, and I have no interest in hearing otherwise until somebody shows me the proof!’

‘I admire your stubbornness, Major. Believe me, I do. But you and I both know that he is never coming back.’

‘If you came here to tell me that,’ snapped Kirov, ‘then you have wasted your time.’

‘That is not the reason for my visit.’ From his pocket, Bakhturin removed an envelope and laid it on the desk in front of Kirov. ‘This is.’

Unable to hide his curiosity, Kirov snatched up the envelope. Inside, he found papers signed by Chief Clerk Yuri Tomilin of the People’s Commissariat for Justice, commuting the sentence of Valery Semykin to time already served. The documents were countersigned by Anton Markovsky, Director of the Recording Office of Lubyanka Prison. ‘He is being released?’ asked Kirov.

‘Even as we speak,’ replied Bakhturin.

Kirov put down the document. ‘Why have you done this?’

‘Call it a peace offering. Now that the Emerald Eye is gone, you and I must look to the future.’

‘When I know that he is gone, I’ll look. In the meantime, I will wait.’

‘My friend,’ said Bakhturin, an unfamiliar tone of gentleness suddenly present in his voice, ‘only a miracle can save Pekkala, and you must resign yourself to that.’

When Bakhturin had gone, Kirov remained at his desk, arms folded resolutely across his chest, resigned only to the miracle he felt certain would occur.