Red Moth

One week later

One week later, Obersturmbannfuhrer Gustav Engel passed safely through the Russian lines in the company of Rifleman Stefanov, who immediately exchanged his German uniform for the clothes of a Red Army soldier.

Within hours, they were on a transport plane to Moscow, where Engel was delivered to NKVD Headquarters. They had not even entered the building before an unmarked car pulled up to the kerb and two men wearing the dark brown, knee-length double-breasted jackets popular with Special Operations commissars emerged. One of the men flashed a Kremlin Security pass at the NKVD escorts, who immediately relinquished their prisoner. Engel’s demand to know where he was being taken was met only with silence as the two men handcuffed him, put him in the back seat of the car and sped away.

By the time Stefanov fully grasped what had just taken place, the NKVD escorts had disappeared into the building and he found himself alone on the sidewalk. Not knowing what else to do, he entered the headquarters and cautiously approached the duty sergeant at his desk in the main hallway.

‘Name?’ asked the sergeant, tapping a pencil against his thumbnail while he awaited the reply.

‘Stefanov, Rifleman.’

‘Ste. . fa. . nov.’ The sergeant scrawled the name into his book. Then he glanced up at the rifleman’s dirty and ill-fitting uniform, whose various components had been scrounged from the battlefield when Stefanov crossed through the German lines. ‘Are you delivering a message?’

‘I was delivering a prisoner,’ replied Stefanov.

The sergeant tilted his head to one side, looking past Stefanov towards the entrance. ‘And where is this prisoner? Have you lost him?’

Stefanov explained what had happened.

‘Wait a minute!’ said the sergeant. ‘You’re the one who captured that German general.’

‘I believe he is a colonel, not a general. His name is Gustav Engel.’

‘That’s the one! Here, I have something for you.’ The sergeant lifted a crisp white envelope from a tray on his desk and handed it to Stefanov. ‘These are your reassignment papers, and take a look at whose signature is on them.’

Stefanov opened the envelope and peered at the scribble. ‘I can’t read it.’

The sergeant leaned forward across his desk. ‘Stalin,’ he whispered. ‘You’re some kind of hero now, let me tell you.’ Slowly, the sergeant settled back into his chair.

‘Then I had better leave now,’ replied Stefanov. ‘According to these papers, my train leaves in two hours.’

‘Before you leave the city,’ said the sergeant, ‘you must report to Major Kirov.’

‘Who?’

‘Assistant to Inspector Pekkala.’

‘Does the major know what happened?’

‘Everybody does,’ replied the sergeant, ‘but Kirov wants to hear first hand from the last man who saw Pekkala alive.’

Some time later, having climbed the five flights of stairs to Kirov’s office, Stefanov wiped the sweat from his forehead and raised his fist to knock upon the door. But before his knuckles even struck the wood, the door swung open and Major Kirov, his face pale and eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, loomed over him.

‘You must be Stefanov‚’ he said.

Stefanov breathed in deeply, ready to give his report. But he never got the chance.

‘Are you certain it was him?’ demanded Kirov, his fingers trembling as he picked at the buttons of his tunic.

‘I saw his body with my own eyes, Comrade Major.’

‘I heard there was a fire.’

‘Yes, Comrade Major.’

‘The body was burned.’

‘Correct.’

‘Then how do you know it was Pekkala?’

Stefanov reached into the pocket of his breeches and drew out the Webley revolver, its barrel bent by the force of rounds exploding in the cylinder. The Webley’s bluing had been burnt away, leaving the grey dullness of raw steel. Only the brass grips seemed unaffected by the fire. He handed the weapon to Kirov.

Kirov stared at the gun in amazement, as if he could not comprehend what force on earth could have reduced Pekkala’s gun to such a state.

‘There was also this,’ said Stefanov, as he held out the remains of Pekkala’s pass book.

Setting the Webley aside, Kirov took hold of the identity book. As he opened it to look inside, the ashes of Pekkala’s Shadow Pass flickered down on to the floor. ‘There was nothing else?’

‘Nothing but bones. I’m sorry, Comrade Major.’

Kirov sighed and nodded.

‘With your permission, Comrade Major, I have a train to catch. I’ve been reassigned to the 45th Anti-Aircraft Battalion and my transport leaves in half an hour.’

‘Where are they sending you?’ asked Kirov.

‘To the city of Stalingrad, Comrade Major.’

‘You should be safe there. After what you have been through, no one could grudge you that.’

‘The same thought had occurred to me,’ admitted Stefanov.

‘Go now,’ said Kirov, ‘and thank you.’

Stefanov saluted smartly, spun on his heel and departed.

On his way down the stairs, he passed a woman going up. She was carrying a folded paper bag and a thermos.

She was already on the fourth floor and slightly out of breath.

As the woman stood aside to let him pass, Stefanov caught her eye and he felt his heart stumble in his chest. He could smell the fresh piroshky she was carrying in the bag. Onions. Mushrooms. Pastry. At the third floor landing, Stefanov paused and looked at her again, before he set off down another flight of stairs.

She was still standing in the same spot where he had passed her. She had unfolded the top of the paper bag and was peering inside it, as if worried that she might have forgotten something.

Either she felt Stefanov’s stare, or else she wondered why the heavy tread of his boots had suddenly come to a halt, because she glanced down at him. She blushed and smiled and carried on up the stairs.

In that moment, Stefanov thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He wondered if he’d ever meet a girl who would bring him fresh piroshky that she’d made with her own hands. Maybe, he thought, there is one waiting for me somewhere in the streets of Stalingrad.

Arriving at the fifth floor, Elizaveta saw that the door to Kirov’s office was already open. She knocked on the door frame instead and stepped into the room.

Kirov was standing at his desk, shoulders hunched and his knuckles resting on the wooden surface. Between his fists lay Pekkala’s gun and remnants of the burned identity book.

‘I heard about what happened to Pekkala,’ she said quietly.

Kirov breathed in sharply and raised his head. He had been so lost in thought that he hadn’t realised she was there.

‘The news is all over the city,’ she continued. ‘Is Pekkala really dead?’

‘They found his gun, and they found his papers.’ He picked up the identity book and let it fall, shedding a trail of ashes, back on to the desk. ‘But a piece is missing, a very important piece.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘They didn’t find the eye. The gold and enamel insignia presented to him by the Tsar on the day he became the Emerald Eye. I never saw him without it. The gun, yes, and the pass book didn’t matter to him, but the emerald eye was something sacred to Pekkala. He would never have chosen to part with the eye.’ He looked at her helplessly. ‘I can’t understand it.’

Elizaveta raised the paper bag. ‘I brought you some lunch, but I can’t stay. Sergeant Gatkina. .’ Before she could continue, the phone rang.

‘I have to answer that,’ said Kirov.

‘I should be going, anyway,’ she told him, as she set the paper bag and the thermos on his desk.

‘No,’ Kirov told her. ‘Stay. Please stay. To hell with Sergeant Gatkina. Have lunch with me. I’m sure this call will only take a minute.’ He lifted the receiver and pressed it to his ear.

‘Hold for Comrade Stalin!’ Poskrebychev’s shrill command drilled into Kirov’s head.

There was a rattling at the other end. ‘Do you think it’s true?’ Stalin’s voice echoed down the line. ‘Do you really believe he is dead?’

‘No, Comrade Stalin.’

‘Neither do I,’ replied Stalin.

‘But if Pekkala’s still alive,’ Kirov countered, ‘then where could he possibly be?’

‘As of this moment, Major Kirov, it’s your job to answer that question. Find Pekkala. Bring him back to Moscow.’ Then the lines went silent as Stalin slammed down the receiver.

With Stalin’s voice still ringing in his ears, Kirov hung up the phone.

‘What did he want?’ asked Elizaveta.

‘He has ordered me to find Pekkala.’

‘But he’s dead! They already found his body!’

‘They found a body‚ yes‚ but the corpse was badly burned.’

‘Then how do you explain the gun? Or his passbook?’

‘I can’t. I just don’t believe he is dead.’

‘What are you saying? That he faked his own death? Why would he do that?’

‘I don’t know.’ Kirov stared out across the rooftops of the city, to where the golden spires of the Kremlin gleamed in the afternoon sun. ‘But if he is alive out there‚ I’ll find him.’